Sorry about that.

That was my hustings poem. Somehow, in spite of rhyming "Laureate" with "sorry it", I got the job - so here I am, trying to work out how blogs work.

My first poem of the year was fueled by a broken radiator and a window that wouldn't close properly, so that all I could think about was that halcyon future when it might - might - be warm again. It was sent round under the title "A Message of Hope", although I couldn't keep a bit of misery out of the final stanza.

Here it is.

The snow has settled on the meadow,

The snow has settled on the Bod.

The pelican is shivering, gently,

Waiting for spring to wake her quad.

Over the city the blanket is itching,

Plumping its feathers, looking to fly;

Just below, the chimneys, smoking,

Long for winter's hearth to die.

Where are picnics by the river?

Where has welfare football gone?

Merton Street is stretching, gasping,

Too depressed to struggle on.

Still, the JCR stays lively:

Weekly pizza, daily tea

Drags the Corpuscles from their vigils

Deep in the tombs of the library.

The times give birth to hopeful babble:

Corpus quivers with the sound.

Soon the frost will be forgiven,

When it shrinks back underground.

Yet we know that when the sunshine

Finally brings crimson joy,

Then the worming essay crisis

Will our newborn lives destroy.

Is this thing switched on?

Um...

Um...

Um. Hi. My name's Tom White, and I'm

The guy who wrote that thing that time.

I figured that its lyric sweet

And thriving verse would make it meet

That I should be your Poet Laureate.

You didn't read it? Oh. I'm sorry: it

Wasn't that good anyway.

I haven't got it here today,

So looks like I'll have to resort

To Plan B (so I'll keep it short).

I wanted to present to you

(If you would kindly hear me through)

Ten reasons you should vote for me –

But I could only think of three.

The first one is my sense of beat,

Or rhythm, or poetic feet;

Though sometimes I might add a foot, and cheat.

The second is my love of rhyme,

Which I might rhyme with “breakfast time”,

Or “anti-crime”, or “caustic lime”.

But never would I rhyme it with my third,

Which is, because my heart-strings have been stirred

And strung to music by Corpuscular love.

What matters the odd half-rhyme, if I strove

To forge a poem fashioned from affection

For every voter voting this election?

With this in mind, I hope to soon extend,

Through verse, the virtues of a well-versed friend –

On which quite sentimental note, I'll end.

And it's goodbye from me...

My final poem as Laureate was a tear-jerking affair. Finalists were said to have abandoned their books to bid me a weeping farewell, maidens tore at their hair and throughout the JCR there was a great wailing and gnashing* of teeth. As I solemnly intoned my final words in office, the entire room sat silent and grave, not daring to believe that the halcyon days of my Laureateship were over. But over they were, and as I walked quietly from the JCR that fateful summer's evening, it's said that a single tear ran down the golden cheek of the Pelican. In such a spirit of solemnity, I entrust this blog to Tom, its new incumbent. He does English, which should help with the words and shit, and seems a jolly nice chap. So here goes.

atque in perpetuum, JCR, ave atque vale


When Presidents pillage the Peli Post’s presses
When students succumb to their scholarly stresses
The JCR Member who seeks their redress is
The Poet.

When moulding the motions for JCR meetings
And beating the time with his lyrical bleatings
Who sends out the summons, who starts off the meetings?
The Poet.

When clustered in hustings to elect the ‘Committee’
What role was contested with verbal dexterity -
Who did Corpucles elect to replace me
As Poet?

As Catullus to Virgil, Propertius to Ovid
From lyrical nonsense to something more solid
Beestone’s succeeded by Anthony Collins
As Poet.

So Anthony now holds the lyrical reigns
And takes on this job – and in the same vein
May his lyrics be lauded! Long may he reign
As Poet

So I bid you adieu, I sign off at last
My year in this office thus swiftly is past
But I’m writing the Corpiad – this isn’t my last
As Poet.

*gnashing is that sound the coffee machine makes when it's out of beans

Poeming through the Pain

My penultimate extant poem saw me in considerable distress. Struck with a vicious migraine which left me with 50% vision, our then glorious JCR President, Jack Evans, accosted me for not having written a poem for him. Informed that I was going to bed as I had a migraine, he came up with a wonderful solution.

"Write one about your migraine, then".

Ignoring the desire to beat him with something blunt and heavy (I probably wouldn't have been able to see him properly to aim, in truth), I staggered to my desk, opened one eye, and wrote this short ode to my agony.


With apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan:

When you’re lying awake with a dismal headache
That feels like a nuclear explosion
I conceive you may use this most valid excuse
To avoid dreary JCR motions.

Though your head may be sore, and your vision is more
Disturbed than a finalist’s nightmares
It appears, my friends, that the sympathy ends
(so much for Corpuscular welfare!)

For the president he, in capacity
As the resident head of our meetings
Sadly implied that I’d turned quite aside
From my usual lyrical bleatings

When informed of my pain, he shrugged yet again
And suggested I seek inspiration
From my migraine’s disquiet. (I near started a riot
Or at least sat in mild indignation)

So heroically, I battled, that he
Might rejoice in my lyric outpourings
So take this small thing; a poor offering
To cheer when the meeting gets boring.

Never let it be said that my courage is dead
Or claim that I’m lacking in pluck
But if ever again I must write in such pain
Then the whole JCR can get lost

Hilary 2011

The next piece I can find is my first from Hilary '11, a term of Mods, and a time of great suffering for the whole JCR. As such, I was largely excused my lyrical duties, but I did manage to produce this piece for hte first JCR meeting. It was read aloud to deafening applause by Gareth Langley, back before his name was synonymous with constitutional griping, and was simply synonymous with a more generic brand of griping. (Sorry, Taff). Enjoy, ponder and savour:


I’d like to extend a small lyrical greeting
(and offer most humble excuses)
At this, the first of the JCR’s meetings
(see, even our Gareth has uses)

You may not see me around quite so much
(which I know will upset and dismay you)
But this is my mods term, a bit of a bitch
(Cuz if you don’t pass ‘em, they flay you)

So expect a Welsh voice-piece for most of my work
(And read it again on your nexus)
And marvel, for even with mods I don’t shirk
Away from the strains of my lexis.

So get straight to work with the motions this week!
With customary stout resolution!
For the Tories have stuffed all our fees up the creek
And we’ve written a new constitution

Let’s deal with the budget, and let’s all discuss
Constitutional ratification,
A nine thousand limit on tuition fees
And ‘widening participation’

That’s it for this week, no more can be said
(I’ll let Jack and Soph have a turn!)
So let’s kick it off, let the motions be read
Welcome back folks, and have a good term!

Happy Birthday, JCR!

My next great work (by great I mean 'still surviving on my computer') was the only poem I was mandated to write: the annual birthday ode to the JCR, in celebration of its founder, George Leigh Cooke. At the time, the JCR was struck with a great deal of internal political dissent concerning inter alia (see, I do Classics) the Browne Review into Higher Education. The poem was intended to remind Corpuscles of the sense of healing, love, warmth and inebriation that makes Corpus such a fine, upstanding and homely institution. It reads thus:

Happy birthday JCR

Two hundred and thirteen years ago

(Give or take a week or so)

A sacred duty one man took:

(A gentleman named George Leigh Cooke,

Mathematician, Scholar, Priest

So says his wiki page at least)

To found a college JCR

Staggering-distance from the bar.

Still it stands, but something more

Than these four walls and tea stained floor

Make up this sacred meeting-place

(Even if the moose’s face

Is sadly missing from the wall;

The finest VP of them all).

It’s not the room, the comfy chairs

Or drunkards rolling down the stairs

That makes us call this place our home,

But a spirit of its very own

A unity that we must strive

To nurture, love and keep alive.

No politics, no points of view

(Especially on that Browne review)

Should ever make us lose the sight

Of what we love; for when we fight

Ourselves, we cannot hope to face

The dangers that are commonplace.

Corpuscles, when you’re drinking tea

In that same room, then think of he

Who set it up, and raise a toast

To the common room you love the most;

To Corpus, Pelican, Cloisters, Quad,

Auditorium, the Porters’ lodge;

The honeyed walls, the leaking roof

The ‘Big Three’; Jack, Franklin and Scoof;

The Committee, the elected few,

But most of all, to all of you.

And just as did our famous George

Corpuscles, ever onwards forge!

Show the snooping OxStu hacks

Corpus stands united. Fact.

A Blast From the Pelican's Poetic Past.

Corpuscles!

Sadly and inexcusably, my updating of this blog fell by the wayside as I fell into the abyss of despair that was my second year Mods exams. With this in mind, and now we have a new Laureate, I thought I would update you all with the remainder of the poems from my time as JCR Poet Laureate, before I hand the blog over to Tom, its current incumbent.

Michaelmas 2010, Week 1

My first general poem for a JCR meeting. It concerns a serious lack of kitchen appliances in college staircases, and a mythical French girl invented by Jack Evans. Those were the days. It reads thus:

I welcome you all to this JCR meeting;

(Although I’ll admit that my visit is fleeting;

No more than a chance to exhibit my metre,

Provide a quick prelude and pillage the pizza)

(I know that my departure may seem somewhat rude;

But the only discussions are the cooking of food

And mythical French girls, so I think I might pass

On this JCR meeting, and do prep for my class)

For those who do stay, these motions are grave

And serious, surely, should microwaves

Have grills or not? And what of the poor

Microwave deprivation in Staircase 4

And can OUSU do something to help with our fees?

Or funding for lecturers, questions like these

Are such to be asked, so let’s get stuck in,

Grab some pizza, let the meeting begin.

And one final question, which won’t go away

Just who the fuck is Lilou Jeunet?