The painter, Turner,
Hid in a boat on the Thames
In 1851.
He’d moored it mid-stream
So those taking the Census
Couldn’t question him –
He slyly ducked state snoops
Determined to snaffle up
His life’s last detail
For anonymous
Government authorities.
He preferred to be
Known for dream landscapes;
For ‘The Fighting Temeraire’;
For his red-gold skies;
Stonehenge at sunset;
Salisbury Cathedral’s spire
Wreathed in brooding mist;
Wreckers’ rugged coasts;
Seascapes of Northumberland.
He’d stay out all night
To catch next day’s dawn
Then he’d paint it as timeless –
The light of the world.
He’d beat cold weather
With layers of silk handkerchiefs
Hanging from his hat –
This man in a boat,
J. Mallord William Turner,
Freeborn Englishman –
Choosing to live by
Ignoring the powers that be
And plying his oars,
Looking for beauty
In whatever caught his eye
As well as for truth.
In Turner’s painting
‘The Slave Ship’, bodies in chains
Are thrown overboard
By the slaves’ masters
To be set upon by sharks –
A routine practice
When the slave owners
Found their cargo troublesome,
Or too ill to treat;
Unprofitable to feed,
Or just pining to be free.
The snares of the State
Are now much subtler,
But slaves are still rounded up,
Farmed for their taxes,
Spied on by cameras,
Questioned by nosy strangers
Filling in dull forms
Such as the Census,
So the State may know who’s who
If there’s civil unrest.
Bobbing in his boat
And never to be enslaved,
Turner ruled the waves.
Heathcote Williams
The Fanatic 