Yesterday I was trying to convince my class of nascent philosophers that the phrase ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’ is total crap. So ingrained is this mantra (and so bad am I, evidently, at arguing the case) that I failed. But look, I said – weirdos aside – who goes to the local rubbish tip for a picnic? Do tourists flock to the grim housing estates of outer Paris? Why do models fall into two perfect halves when you split them down the middle? Why does nobody except architecture students like the Pompidou Centre? (seriously, there’s research!).

In fact, people everywhere like the same thing, once you get down to the nitty gritty. Nature (tamed or wild, depending on taste). Symmetry. Harmony. Fractals. Curved surfaces broken up by interesting things to look at. Probably even dogs like that stuff, could they but express their yearning for more Parthenon-like dog kennels…

Sure, some of us like prehistoric butts (stone-age instincts run hot), get tattoos in odd places, pull our earlobes down to our shoulders or wear dresses by avante-garde designers . Some of us like Mozart, others punk rock. Personally I think the Mona Lisa’s nice but a bit meh. But those are details. Nobody really likes recorder music and if they say they do they’re lying.

Anyway, during this class, someone asked a very pertinent question, which was, why ANALYSE beauty? Isn’t it enough just to appreciate it. My answer? This poem.

Rage, if you must, against the dying of the light,

But while you’re at it, spare a curse or two for urban blight…

No, more, for this is war, a war of taste and smell, of sound and sight –

Resist, resist the cancered concrete, the shadowed towers, architect’s delight

Against the gaping malls and golden arches wage the vain outnumbered fight.

And struggle, struggle for simple things, for beauty, not what they tell us we should like

For beauty feeds the soul but ugliness, step by heavy step, will call us all into the stinking night.