This week’s choice is “Sex is Better Than Poetry” by Les Barker which I have chosen because it’s funny and I happen to agree!
Who here has been rendered ecstatic
Les Barker (1947—2023)
By Betjeman, Byron or Scott?
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it’s bloody well not!
Poem 395. Sex Is Better Than Poetry
Sometimes I wander down Memory Lane,
Some things spring to mind straight away—
Sex in a previous century’s
More vivid than poetry today.
I remember Helen, and Julie was fun
And evenings with Evelyn were ace
But Shakespeare and Milton and Wordsworth and Donne
Disappeared forever, no trace.
Who here has been rendered ecstatic
By Betjeman, Byron or Scott?
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it’s bloody well not.
Words it was not; it was women
Who took those sweet years of my time;
I never went down to the pub
To see if two sentences rhymed.
Nights down dark lanes in the back seats of cars;
Was it poetry that gave our hearts wings?
Was it poetry that steamed up the windows?
Was it poetry that tested the springs?
Did the thrill of iambic pentameter
Keep the fires of our passion red hot?
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it’s bloody well not.
Does my soul sing out for, say, Shelley?
No; his verses are just so much froth;
Should we have more sex on the telly?
Yes; though I keep falling off.
If you were alone in some far away place
And the evening was starting to drag;
If you had to choose, which would you refuse;
The Lady of Shalott or a shag?
By the latter, in clarification,
I did not mean a guillemot;
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it’s bloody well not.
If poetry was better than sex,
There’d be a torrent of spam sent upon it;
‘Make your limerick last half an hour’
‘Add an extra four lines to your sonnet’.
There’s no: “You are not Long, fellow;
The opposite sex will not like you;
They want a man with a big soliloquy
And you’ve only got a haiku.”
Are there emails perhaps from Nigerian chaps
Who would steal every poem you’ve got?
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it’s bloody well not.
Have I passed long years of pure pleasure
In pursuit of the most perfect rhyme?
Oh no; that to me is no treasure;
Procreation’s been the thief of my time.
And when I have something to say,
A passion I need to express,
Do I care overmuch about scansion and rhyme?
No.
What are words when two souls might be dancing
That sweet horizontal gavotte?
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it’s bloody well not.
The Odyssey, Iliad; in days far behind,
Did I seek out girls who could quote ‘em?
Is the way to my heart through the doors of my mind?
No, like most men, I’m led by the scrotum.
I get quite confused when I see a hand used
To write verse, whether rhyming or blank;
Some other employment would bring more enjoyment;
That’s what I think, to be frank.
The day that I’m cursed with a preference for verse
You can order my hearse on the spot
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it’s bloody well not.
This is the poem Les Barker wrote for a debate at Fairbridge Festival, near Perth in Western Australia. He was charged with defending the idea that “Sex is Better than Poetry” and wrote this brilliant poem as his argument, suggesting that while poetry in no way exceeds the attractions of sex, it’s still a part of life we should savour.
He begins his argument by asking himself which of his memories are sharpest and although he fondly recalls “Helen, and Julie…and evenings with Evelyn were ace”, he remembers nothing of “Shakespeare and Milton and Wordsworth and Donne”—well, who would? He suggests that “Betjeman, Byron and Scott” are not likely to raise anybody’s blood pressure and in a phrase that repeats throughout the poem, he rejects the proposition that poetry is better than sex.
He reflects that women rather than words occupied his time when he was young—he “never went down to the pub/To see if two sentences rhymed” and poetry wasn’t the focus of his attention in the back seats of cars on dark nights—it never “steamed up the windows” or “tested the springs.”
Repeating his assertion, he compares iambic pentameter with passionate encounters and it’s pretty obvious which is his preference. He’d rather have “more sex on the telly” than Shelley’s verses and this leads to one of his trademark throwaway lines. He makes another comparison between “The Lady of Shalott” and “a shag”—a British euphemism for sex that might be confused by the uninitiated with the guillemot (commonly known as the shag) though fortunately Barker resolves this potential confusion in the next stanza, fortuitously since guillemot provides the rhyme for the repeated assertion “No, it’s bloody well not.”
He goes on to suggest that if poetry did outrank sex in the most popular pursuits list, the Internet scammers and spammers would have leapt on it long before now, suggesting that you might be able to eke out your limericks or extend your sonnets, that you might suffer from comparison with a long fellow (an entertaining pun on the American poet’s name) and that girls will prefer a big soliloquy (Hamlet’s ruminations on existence, slings and arrows, and so on and on a good example here) to a haiku (the traditional Japanese stylised poem consisting of just seventeen syllables), while the legendary Nigerian princes are rarely, if ever, pursuing your collection of poems. These are all amusing sideswipes at the kind of emails and ads we may occasionally receive, whether we want to or not.
He asks rhetorically whether his “long years of pure pleasure” were spent in search of the perfect rhyme, and answers himself with a nice twist on the old maxim, “Procrastination is the thief of time”, altering it subtly with the word “procreation” and changing the meaning of the phrase completely. The next stanza amuses me, particularly when I watch him perform the poem—he asks whether, when he needs to express the depth of his passion, he considers the role of scansion (whether a line fits into the pattern of the poem) and rhyme (whether the line fits the rhythm of the poem) and simply concludes, “No”, a response that neither scans nor rhymes.
Words are lesser than actions “when two souls might be dancing/That sweet horizontal gavotte”, reinforcing his argument.
He builds to his final peroration: in his younger days, he never looked for girls who could quote the Odyssey or Iliad—his motivations for forming a romantic connection were simpler and more basic—“like most men, I’m led by the scrotum.” This leads on to a suggestive line where we’re pretty sure that what Barker means is not what he says—he muses that there is other, more enjoyable employment for a hand than writing verse; a one-handed activity that might possibly rhyme with “blank.”
He concludes that if he should ever express a preference for poetry, death will follow close behind since as he has continually said from the start, “Is poetry better than sex?/No, it’s bloody well not.”
If you watch the YouTube video linked below, you will see this most engaging poet introducing the poem:
I had to debate that sex is better than poetry, so I asked a few friends…“What’s poetry like?”
You can watch Les Barker performing his poem at Humph Hall in Sydney, Australia on his YouTube channel as part of a 90 minute performance which is well worth watching as an introduction to his verse. I covered his poem “Waste Not, Want Not” in February 2024 and that’s another example of his witty creativity.
I like this poem because it showcases Barker’s trademark wit and facility with words.