Wendy Cope is a household name, a force in light but cutting verse to match Betjeman and Larkin. So it’s somewhat surprising that she has produced so little since in a career spanning 30 years. Anyway, I wish she’d write more because few things give such simple and sustained pleasure as her rueful stanzas:
Bloody Christmas, here again, Let us raise a loving cup, Peace on earth, goodwill to men, And make them do the washing up.
Or curt two-liners:
1. Don’t see him. Don’t phone or write a letter. 2. The easy way: get to know him better.
Her poetry has an understated wit and barely worn insight, skipping to gentle rhymes. Cope’s trademark short poems mask what, for me, is her real skill: pastiche. Take this send-up of T S. Eliot’s self-consciously deathless lines, taken from So Full of Noise and Riot:
I In April one seldom feels cheerful; Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful; Clairvoyants distress me, Commuters depress me– Met Stetson and gave him an earful. II She sat on a mighty fine chair, Sparks flew as she tidied her hair; She asks many questions, I make few suggestions– Bad as Albert and Lil–what a pair! III The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep; Tiresias fancies a peep– A typist is laid, A record is played– Wei la la. After this it gets deep.
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