Sonic Boom by John Updike

I’m sitting in the living room,
When, up above, the Thump of Doom
Resounds. Relax. It’s sonic boom.

The ceiling shudders at the clap,
The mirrors tilt, the rafters snap,
And Baby wakens from his nap.

“Hush, babe. Some pilot we equip,
Giving the speed of sound the slip,
Has cracked the air like a penny whip.”

Our world is far from frightening; I
No longer strain to read the sky
Where moving fingers (jet planes) fly,
Our world seems much too tame to die.

And if it does, with one more pop,
I shan’t look up to see it drop.

Apartment House By Gerald Raftery

A filing-cabinet of human lives
Where people swarm like bees in tunneled hives,
Each to his own cell in the towered comb,
Identical and cramped—we call it home.

Pastoral by Wendy Cope

I wish I was a provincial poet,
Writing a lot about nature.
Whenever I thought about London poets,
I'd mutter darkly, ' I hate yer.'

And off I'd stomp down the wild, wild lanes
In my jeans and my Wellington boots.
A provincial poet doesn't need lipstick
Or tights or respectable suits —

The clutter of urban life. How wonderful
Just to discard it all
And spend one's time communing with everything,
Perched on a dry-stone wall.

And after a busy day communing
To amble back home for a bite,
Then go to the pub with some real people.
Who manage twelve pints in a night.

Which helps them get through the provincial evenings
Without too much boredom or pain.
Real people, as solid and ruddy and calm
As a London bus in the rain!

Some day I'll go and live in the country
And many a notebook I'll fill
With keen observations of animals (mostly
The dead ones because they keep still).
Dead sheep and squashed rabbits. Oh how I shall love it,
My face will be peaceful and brown
And shining with love for all of creation.

Excepting those poets in town.