[John Whitworth]

Where Are the Negligees of Anthony?

My closet once held forty pin-striped suits
arranged in shades and grades of blue and gray -
each morning I compared their attributes:
The peaked lapels to see the bank, today?
That muted chalk from Nathan Road should play
well there - the Saville Row’s too rich, I fear.
But bright new days now only bring dismay:
where are the clothes of yesteryear?

A businessman must have his absolutes,
those vested interests he will not betray:
I flaunt my Turnbull ties and Magli boots;
this banker favors skin-snug jeans that sway
each time she moves, and whispers, “Call me Kay”.
But when I squeeze her knee, and call her “dear”,
she calls the loan - and knocks my hand away.
Where are the suits of yesteryear?

They’re gone, all gone, on golden parachutes,
to seek the sun and gargle chardonnay;
and what they’ve left behind as substitutes
are brutes, in wrinkled chino disarray,
who think that style’s a Harvard MBA,
a T-shirt that’ promotes a Belgian beer,
and memos on the rules for Casual Day.
Where are the clothes of yesteryear?

Bespoken yet unspoken for, I stay,
aware that reinforcements won’t appear,
but pray that when they speak of me they’ll say:
He wore the clothes of yesteryear.

[John Whitworth]

My first reaction to this suave ballade was that it was quite impossible. Forty suits? Nobody has forty suits. Or, thinking of my daughters, no man has forty suits. But it appears I am in error and I should have considered that Lord Peter Wimsey and Bertie Wooster have their avatars out there in the real world. I bet Tony Blair has forty suits. Of course it follows that Nathan Road, Turnbull ties and Magli boots are all lost on me. But it is curious how little this matters, though I should like the sort of notes that illuminate the works of Alexander Pope.

Pope is very much to the point. The success of this sort of thing depends on Pope’s virtues of poise and eclat – and the ability to slip in and out of foreign languages (though this does not in fact do that) and refer to other works of fictional and/or poetic nature. It seems to me this scores high everywhere, or it does with me, which is why it turns up here. I wish I could place more exactly the provenance of the title, though other Spherians will doubtless be able to do so.

Essentially a civilised and civilising piece.

[Petra Norr]

This rides on Villon's refrain, "Where are the snows of yesteryear". Villon's poem is an easy and enjoyable read (in English, that is). I think I woke up dumb today because I'm having problems here & there grasping some Erato poems, including this one; it's not an easy read for me. It's very skillfully done, though. The details add so much to it, and I don't have to visualize exactly how the clothes look (the brand names) in order for them to work.

What I'm wondering about, overall, is: is there progression here? Am I supposed to think of the guy as going from rich to poor? That would make sense, but I'm not sure it's here in the poem. Or should I assume that the "from riches to rags" story is here simply because he once had 40 suits and is now asking for a loan at the bank, or is having problems with a loan he took -- implying that he's in economical trouble? But in that case, how can he still wear Turnbull ties and those expensive-sounding boots?
On a side note, the part that starts with the words "this banker", and then goes on to Kay, confused me; naturally I thought "this banker" referred to the narrator (the narrator speaking of himself) so it threw me when I realized Kay was the banker (I think). And I think I need to think more about this poem before I say more. I'll probably be back.
* * * *
Okay, I'll wrap things up for my part, now. I know what "Casual Friday" is: at least I think it means you can wear what you want on the job on one day out of the work-week -- Friday. So, if this isn't a man who's gone from riches to rags, then it simply means he wishes he could wear suits every day of the week. But then why doesn't he do so -- nobody's stopping him, and as far as I know suits have not gone out of fashion.
My conclusion is, this poem is too sophisticated for me; it resides in a completely different world from my own, one which I only glimpse when turning the pages of a glossy magaziine. So it's probably why I'm having trouble with the poem. It's no doubt a delightful light poem for some, but a different matter for backwoods babes like me who wake up dumb.

[Tim Murphy]

Ou sont les neiges d'hiver. As Petra noted, Villon. This is wickedly good. Ineffably sad, with its bespoken yet unspoken. I've never had more than two pinstripe suits, favoring instead Jack Nicklaus blazers. If I guess this author aright, he once said to me "It was raining, and you wore green." To which I could only reply, "We'll always have Paris." I suspect he could make a ballade out of that. Wonderful poem, this.

[John Whitworth]

Petra, the reference to Antony makes me think the guy once ruled the world and now he has dwindled ... to a poet perhaps. Poets don't have forty suits. Some poets (alackaday!) don't have any suits at all.

[Janet Kenny]

I remember when this poem first appeared and I do know who wrote it.
I laughed ruefully because I am close to someone who used to have to wear the trappings and who now laughs at some of the old sartorial follies in the back of the wardrobe. Nice play on Villon who after all will never be out of date— which is more than you can say for most suits.

[Petra Norr]

Hey John, that idea tickles me -- dwindling from a powerful businessman to a poet. But I can't really see it here, and I'm wondering about these lines (below); does the "parachute" allude to parachute contracts, and could it mean that the narrator has retired and there isn't enough reason to wear suits anymore?

They’re gone, all gone, on golden parachutes,
to seek the sun and gargle chardonnay;

[Lance Levens]

The title itself is a cheeky play on the actual Old French version of the refrain: "ou sont les neiges d'antan?" The Negligees of Anthony. The bankeress whose clothes allure before she calls in the line of credit is wit at the behest of clear-eyed observation. For me this is the best so far, although the first is very well-done.

[T.S. Kerrigan]

Lovely and subtle. I've dwindled down to 33 suits from having had more than 40 in my prime. A lawyer in a long trial cannot be seen in the same suit on consecutive days. A former partner of mine had more than fifty, with a separate blazer for every day of the week. But I digress.

[Marybeth Rua-Larsen]

I admire the use of form here, the effortless way this breezes along. Very skillful.

I wish I liked the message. Perhaps I'm misinterpreting, but this seems to be a poem bemoaning change...bring back the days when men wore suits, people dressed for success and therefore acted...professionally? Did everyone act professionally "back then?" Where women (Kay) didn't play games? tease you with tight jeans and then turn down your advances? Do wearing snug jeans and saying "Call me Kay" invite sexual advances? And those Harvard brutes in chino... Maybe I'm in bad humour this morning...but I'm not feeling the nostalgia. And maybe I'm just taking this too seriously...it is the Light Verse Bakeoff after all. But this pushes a number of unpleasant buttons for me personally...despite the flawless technique.