detail from The Bower Meadow by Dante Rossetti, Apple Blossoms by John Millais, Hylas & The Nymphs by John Waterhouse, Laus Veneris by Edward Burne-Jones and The School of Nature by William Holman-Hunt
The Clone of Beauty
So why did the Pre-Raphaelites have just the single face to paint ? Did they all maybe share a model, or ideal, or a joke ? Or were they merely moral allegories, underneath the quaint, The playthings of a puritanic club of touched and airy folk ? Their lounging nymphs of languid myth are diaphanous deities, Sometimes naked, always perfect, from Pompeii to Camelot – But rousing such lacklustre lust, or any spontaneities, These strangely-sexless sextuplets are gazed upon to be forgot.
These muses with the single face, And even fewer flickers of emotion in their artful grace, Demanding our devotion as they pose from Albion to Thrace. Androgynous, without a trace of cleavage, Under wafting folds of lace, But then again, their cold embrace has little use for heavage. At least their hair is big and wild, Those flowing waves and ringlets piled in unexpected verve, Quite out of place around a mask so English in reserve. This Sisterhood of sylvan sylphs – In pastels, spotless-clean and bright, All bathed within a golden light – Are quite the finer sort of elves, Perhaps the fairest of the fay, Just waiting for a errant knight or shepherd boy to pass their way.
Or maybe just ourselves, The gawpers in the gallery – The hoi-polloi who shrug and stare, And wonder why they have to share A single personality.
I wrote this some years ago but dug it out after visiting the Pre-Raphaelite Sisterhood exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. I had always assumed that the painters made all the faces the same in search of an shared ideal of beauty, but I now suspect that the similarities were in the flesh rather than the paint – the women they chose as models already looked alike. They also shared their models around, in every sense, and I don’t think these women did any modelling for more establishment artists. That said, they don’t seem to have gone out of their way to show much nuance.
Now, we just need a good investigation about the male models they used…
Pass another mince pie, then, And oh, another tot ? Why not ! Now don’t hold back, I’ll tell you ‘when’, Is this the only one we’ve got ? I’ve plenty others, I could swear, At least a dozen…Gone, you say ? Ah well, I’m sure I had my share When you came round the other day… But no, of late I haven’t written much, Who wants that slog ? I’m not concerned I’ve lost my touch – They’ll flow again, just like this grog… I say, this is a cosy time, A cosy time, I always say, Who cares about the bloody rhyme ? I’ll write some verse another day. Def’nitely, though, come next year, Give or take a month or two, But well before the Spring is here I’ll knuckle down to something new: Sonnets, ballads, villanelles I’ll drink to that ! Hang on, I’m dry – Here, fill me up, a double Bells, And ooh, is that a mincemeat pie…?
The Angel Appearing to the Shepherds by Govert Flinck
The Annunciation to the Shepherds
An angel found some shepherds In the lambing pastures, not too far, All keeping one eye out for wolves, And one eye on that bright new star.
And the angel said: “Behold ! Upon this night so cold, I bring you tidings great with joy ! In David’s royal city, a saviour-son is born ! Go see – for swaddled and mangered, Is a strangered, innocent boy, A cheat of death, Who takes his breath So calmly on this bold, still morn.”
Some shepherds found an angel In the lambing pastures, glowing gold, And after all its urgings, They sat and thought on what it told.
And the shepherds said: “That’s nice, But we must watch our precious ewes. For all your holy light, We cannot leave and risk to lose A single suckling sheep tonight. So go tell folk in Bethlehem – Those townies love to be beguiled… But we must keep our trusting lambs As safe as any child.”
Christmas morning, along the canal, As we strolled passed the swans who had lost all their grey, Between the old works and the back of the mall, We watched as the swans chased their cygnets away.
The cob and the pen were a pair of old thugs, On Christmas morning along the canal – They drove out their rivals for duckweed and slugs, And sent their kin flying off over the mall.
Frozen or starving or prey to a fox – Their parents don’t care, but then that’s nature’s way. We watched as the swans taught their children hard knocks, Along the canal on a cold Christmas Day.
I would just point out that ‘canal’ and ‘mall’ do rhyme, despite the current trend to ape the Americans.
I don’t remember being told About old Father Christmas – He’s just someone I’ve always known. Popping down the chimney That we didn’t even have, With a candy cane or xylophone. It somehow seemed so rational, To fly from Perth to Honolulu, Via Cape Town and Cologne – But strangest yet, I never even Thought of how he was a stranger, All the year alone.
So when my parents placed An empty chair upto the turkey, I assumed it was for him. And when a neighbour came instead, Or refugee, or homeless man – I didn’t find it grim. As long as he possessed a beard, Then I believed in Father Christmas – Even with a pseudonym. He wore a diff’rent face, each year – But so did Mother Goose, And Peter Pan, and Tiny Tim.
For all the gifts he gave, Did he ever get one in return, From Moscow to the Amazon ? Each year, I’d long to thank him, But the meal would soon be over And my moment never seized upon. Yet in my mind, he’d wink, and say, “Don’t worry, I already know.” And then he would be gone. We never get to give a gift to him, But ev’ry year, Instead we pay it forward, pass it on.
I’m sorry, kids, I cannot lie, That flash you see across the sky On this, the night of Christmas Eve, Is not a magic flying sleigh, However much you may believe. I’m sorry, kids, I cannot lie, The laws of physics still hold sway.
But do you know, kids, what you see ? That dashing light, what can it be ? The ISS is flying by – Or rather, falling, always falling, Falling through our Christmas sky. And far more magic than a sleigh, This shining star on Christmas Day.
Sketch of the bas relief on the Altar of Domitius, showing different stages of a census (the original is one long strip, here split in two. Judging from the armour, it likely dates from just before the Marian Reforms of 9894 HE.
The Counting Carol
[parts in italics are sung by all.]
The Romans go from house to house, Just counting – The Romans go from house to house To count each man and dog and mouse, And grub and flea and bug and louse, In city, plain and mountain. And when they knock upon our door To tally up our stock and store, Then what shall be our docket score ? But hark, [knock knock] But hark, [knock knock] But hark, I hear them knocking…
I count twelve notes that make a scale. So one last time, let us regale ! Twelve are the jurors, twelve are the scribes, Twelve are the inches and twelve are the tribes, And after a twelvemonth’s high society, Then twelve are the steps to dry sobriety.
Eleven players form a team, Be they ladies, be they gents.
Ten is the base of our number sense, Where digits get a neighbour.
Nine are the months of labour, From conception through to birth.
Eight the planets, like the Earth, Orbiting the Sun we are.
Seven diff’rent grades of star – Oh be a fine girl, kiss me ![/Oh be a fineguy, kiss me !]
Six domains of life we see – Do kings play chess on fine green silk ?
Five is the hour we harvest the milk, Five, five per day to thrive ! Five are my fingers, five are my toes, Five is the starfish and five is the rose. A hedgerow rose ? Well, I suppose. There’s always five on one of those. Five are the petals and the leaves she grows, Attracting the bees and attracting the nose.
Four are the forces, I propose, Forces nature shall have it be – Electromagnetic and gravity, And the strong and the weak attraction.
Three each science branch or faction – Bio, chemo and physio learning. Three the dimensions through which we’re turning, And three the hands on my watch tell time.
Two is the first and smallest prime, Two is the first of the even-kind. Two, oh two, you’re one behind, You’re second-best at bestest.
And then came one, and so we rest – We’ve counted each and ev’ry guest. For one is one, the last and first, The very best, the very worst. For one is one, is most perverse – The all-enclosing universe.
This is intended to be a cumulitive carol, like Green Grow The Rushes, Oh or that other one whose name I can’t recall. It starts from 1 and works its way upto 12, with cut-down verses to speed things along (they’re only sung in full when they’re introduced and on the final time). Thus the penultimate verse is like this:
The Romans go from house to house, Just counting – But hark, [knock knock] But hark, [knock knock] But hark, I hear them knocking…
Eleven players form a team, Be they ladies, be they gents.
Ten is the base of our number sense, Where digits get a neighbour.
Nine are the months of labour, From conception through to birth.
Eight the planets, like the Earth, Orbiting the Sun we are.
Seven diff’rent grades of star – Oh be a fine girl, kiss me ! [/Oh be a fineguy, kiss me !]
Six the kingdoms of life we see – Do kings play chess on fine green silk ?
Five is the hour we harvest the milk, Five, five per day to thrive !
Four are the forces, I propose, With the strong and the weak attraction.
Three each science branch or faction, And three the hands on my watch tell time.
Two is the first and smallest prime, Two is the first of the even-kind.
And then came one, and so we rest – We’ve counted each and ev’ry guest.
I am aware that although their are twelve notes in an octave (not counting the repeat of the root-note an octave higher), only seven or so will be used in any given scale – well, except the chromatic scale of course. Yes, that’s it, that’s what I really meant, I wasn’t being ignorant at all…
I’m also aware that current biology only recognises three domains of life (bacteria, archaea, and eukaryotes) though the latter is often further divided into four kingdoms (animal, fungus, plant, and protists), which of course totals six. But these days there are many competing schemes, and so I called them ‘domains’ here because a) it makes it clear not to take it too literally, and b) because it scans better.
Anyway, current thinking has it that eukaryotes were born from a combination of an asgard archaea with a mitochondria bacteria, meaning that the current living descendants are more closely related to humans and dandelions and baker’s yeast and kelp and slime moulds than they are to all other bacterias and archaeas. Well, sort of…
And yes, I know those are double plurals – but hey, it’s Christmas, the season of giving!
How can the Midwinter feast be here, So far from the middle of Winter ?, When Autumn’s leaves are barely down, And frost has yet to hit the town ? How can the shortest day be near So far from the chill of Winter ? We feast on pudding by the wedge Before we’ve eaten up our veg. But wait…the snowdrops soon appear In what was once still Winter – If Advent sees the last of Fall, Then Burns Night sees the Springtime call. The thaw before the freeze each year Will warm and squeeze the Winter – We’ve brandy butter on our snouts Before we’ve eaten up our sprouts.
The churches used to ring-in Christmas Day, With peels that rolled across the shires, And towns with out-competing spires. They may chime still, but who’s to say ? Amid our busy, noisy lives, The traffic and the nine-to-fives, We’ve little use for summonses to pray. For all the bells may toll the blues, We never come to fill the pews – But if we hear them chiming, that’s okay. And if we don’t, well, never fear, There’s plenty other bells to hear: On doors and tills and phones, they ring away. And even though we see no snow, And even though we see no deer, We cannot help but hear the ever-tinkle of the sleigh.
Rhyming Couplets 