New Zealand's demi-official poet laureate Victor Billot composes an ode to a public figure every Sunday. Today: Prince Philip
The artist formerly known as Prince
He is fallen, just short of one hundred.
An antique connection sundered
with an old and vanished world
over which the Union Jack unfurled.
Born in 1921, an age of Kings,
when Britannia was still clambering
from Passchendaele’s and Ypres mud
and a billion pints of guts and blood.
From then on in, mostly in reverse.
Depression, war, worse then worse.
All his life was one long, strange trip
as Empire foundered, a sinking ship.
His privilege was to speak his mind –
but no one could answer in kind.
Spearchuckers and the slitty eyed
did not receive a right of reply.
It’s not clear what role is left
for spare aristocrats now bereft.
Old fruit Charles fails to shine.
Andy stuck with dead pal Epstein.
Harry sent a tweet from LA.
Will’s waiting for his big day.
The strangest thing in all this murk
is how the Kiwi dodo bird lurks
and feels a part of all this stuff,
this pomp and parp and huff and puff.
Pragmatic in our no-nonsense hearts,
we tear up when a royal departs.
We find a sentimental streak.
It fills some need, something we seek.
It makes sense I guess. We threw out
the traditions we were once about:
a house, a job and a fair go –
those corny habits got the heave ho.
Yet we cling on to traditions that
should have been sent packing back
in 1921 or so.
Victor Billot has previously been moved to write odes for such New Zealand luminaries as Mike Hosking, Christopher Luxon, and Garrick Tremain.
