You gave me seeds to scatter In the ground beneath my plum – A lover’s gift for growing, And for shooing Winter glum. Just sow them and forget them, And with any-colour thumb, And these blue and tiny flowers Sprout a little straggly scrum – Yet year-on-year, these self-seed parts Make up a spreading sum – These almost-weeds, not worth the dig, Are no chrysanthemum ! You gave me some forget-me-nots – And later called me scum. I’ve tried so hard to wipe the slate – Yet ev’ry Spring, they come.
This poem was inspired by one by Dino Mahoney – I basically took his idea and added rhymes.
Saint George & The Dragon by the Salviati Workshop, Woolwich Garrison church
For England & St George
Up in Heaven-on-the-Clouds You works on our behalf, Pushing through the saintly crowds To bat for Halifax and Bath, And bring to Lynn and Dale of Borrow Sun today and jam tomorrow.
Working hard in Upper Eden, Pushing England’s cause. You wouldn’t get the saint of Sweden Cheering on so many wars. Rule Britannia, Hope & Glory – Welcome to the national story.
Tea and crumpets, trains and cricket, Stratford to South Shields. There you lurk, on moor and thicket, Anglicising foreign fields. Who needs Alban, Bede or Swithun ? Give us Bowie, Dench and Niven !
But wait, I hear the Genoese Have hired your service too – And Catalans, and Portuguese, And Greek and Germans join the queue – The Georgian and the Muscovite Are proud to sport your red and white.
And soldiers, archers, and the Scouts, Equestrians and knights, And farmers rearing sheep and sprouts Are likewise firmly in your sights. I do hope, George, with all this lot That England’s voice won’t be forgot.
And then there’s leprosy and plague, And syphilis to boot, But here your role is rather vague On how you earn your extra loot – Helping patients come to terms ? Or do you represent the germs ?
And back home in your country seat, Its lord is rarely seen – In ancient times, your sandalled feet Came nowhere near our mountains green. But hey, who cares from where you’ve strayed – For Englishmen aren’t born, but made.
You spend your days in Greater Blighty, Meeting with the Boss – Asking him to make us mighty, From Land’s End to Gerrard’s Cross You always done us proud, our George, When lobbying for Cheddar Gorge.
Along Acacia Drive, Through Elm Tree Road and Hollyside, And into Laurel Lane and Willow Mews, The civic cherries thrive – An orchard only one-tree wide, But threading through suburban avenues.
Before March has come, I see the cherry plums are out, Their branches full of flowers, keen to pop – I never see the plums – The pigeons scrump the lot, no doubt, Before they even get the chance to drop.
And just as those ones fade, The cherries-proper flush with pink, A very English taste of oriental. And yet, as they parade, I’ve never seen them fruit, I think – I guess that’s why they call them ornamental.
A burst of April snow, Confetti for an Easter bride, A blossoming before the leaves are built. They really make a show – They love to boast, all front and pride, Pretending like they’re never gonna wilt…
Of course, ere April’s out, They’re over for another year, And all that’s left are unimpressive trees. They are a Springtime shout, Before the moans and tuts appear To ask for dignified behaviour, please !
Which is a shame, I say, For here beneath each semi’s eaves They symbolise the middle-class at root – For all their youthful play, They settle down and spread their leaves And sire such oddly neat and waxy fruit.
“And, behold…the earth did quake, and the rocks rent; And the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, And came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many.”
– Matthew 27:51-53
And the very earth shook beneath us, And the sky came dark and the veil of the temple was rent – As the Son at last came to leave us, So the tombs where slept the saints were breached as He went. And there they sat, arisen yet still, Since so long dead, they patiently waited For a night and a day and a night until On Sunday morn, they arrived belated. Zombies on the loose, they come ! Zombies in Jerusalum !
And yet not a word was spoken, As He was interred by Joseph of Arimathea, Of other tombs that were broken – For surely he witnessed the quaking’s rough aftermath here ? For there they sat, arisen yet still, Awaiting the one who had yet to be buried – So lay Him within the sepulchre’s chill And roll up the stone, his soul long ferried. Zombies yet procrastinate, Zombies lurk and zombies wait.
And lo, not a word was spoken By the Marys on Sunday making their way to His tomb, As they passed all the saints newly woken, As another earth-tremor gave sanction to auto-exhume. No more they sat – unprisoned, unstill – Now great was their stagg’ring and groaning as any – As stumbling and jerking, they lurched down the hill To Jerusalem, to the marvel of many. Zombies, rotten of complexion ! Zombies join the Resurrection !
And never a word was spoken By the Twelve at the Pentecost, just a few weeks on, With their tongue-gabbling voices choken – Yet never to ask where now had the dead all gone ? Where now they sat ? Or risen they still ? Where went their mission, so silent of news ? What is the purpose they mean to fulfil ? Is this what is meant by Wandering Jews ? Zombies, born again through Christ ! Zombies, torn from Paradise !
And still not a word is spoken, And the puzzling verse is never read out in church. No statue or stained-glass token Celebrate animate saints as they stumble and lurch. And those who are sat in the pews quite still And pretend that the verse is a metaphor or test – I guess they haven’t the need or the will To admit to themselves that it might be a jest. Zombies, clinging to their mask, Zombies, too afraid to ask.
The plant you gave so lovingly Is dying on my windowsill. I swear it’s not a metaphor, It’s just a drooping hellebore. I tend the plant so lovingly, And steadily it goes downhill. I swear its thrips and fungal pus Are meaningless in terms of us. This poor maltreated gift you chose, This sacrificial Lenten rose, Is no barometer of woes That gnarls and twists and guilts. It’s just a plant in dying throes That cannot blame or presuppose. The only thing this flower shows Is soil that’s poor in silts. I swear our love still blooms and grows, As surely as this other wilts. Whatever the bards or historians say, It’s not the pot-plant of Dorian Gray.
Jesus ? My word ! Oh my lord, it’s the boss… Well, I never expected to see you today – Except maybe just hanging out up on your cross… Yet it’s funny, but when as a kid we would pray, And the Reverend Thomas instructed our eyes To be scrupe’lessly be tight and respectfully shut, Still I’d sneak them half-open and squint at your thighs, Half-expecting you’d come down a moment and strut. When there’s no-one to see, would you take-up the chance To relax and to stretch, and to smoke, and to dance ?- Till the words of the prayer were quite lost to my trance. Yet you never showed even the hint you’re alive, So you hung just the same when we sipped on your blood, And you looked down as glum when we learned of the Flood, And you seemed as remote when our prayer-books would thud, And we mumbled or massacred Hymn Forty-Five.
But anyway, never mind my reminiscence, Just how long’s it been since you came round my way ? For somehow you faded in slow evanescence, Your black and white certainties merging to grey. And old Reverend Thomas was no help explaining The problem of evil or problem of gays, And so finally, even my lifelong ingraining Could not keep the wonder or stem the malaise. But reading the papers, there’s plenty of good news – From leprosy vaccines to movies and blues, And there’s juries, and voting, and self-tapping screws – When abandoned, alone, we learned how to be great. I had waited and waited back there in your church For some word or some action to come from your perch, But unheard was my questions, and unseen my search – Until now, when I find you, I find you too late.
As I was heading to Saint Ives, I passed a troupe with many lives, With many plays and songs and dance, As I was heading to Penzance.
As I was heading to Saint Just, They played for me, as well they must, And bid me “Come and join us, Friend !” As I was heading to Land’s End.
This piece of nonsense was inspired by the famous nursery rhyme, even though that probably refers to a different St Ives (who’d have thought there’d be two saints named Ive ?) The town in this poem is the Cornish seaside resort on the Penwith peninsula, which is also home to the Minack open-air theatre.
Oh dear, dear F1, You’re oh so keen to jump the gun. The slightest knock, and up you pop, Just barging past and to the top, And begging to be asked a question, Or to make a cool suggestion – Anything to lend a cyber hand.
Your happiness is my command, And, oh, you’ll never understand, F1, old son, You simply can’t ! I want Escape ! I want F2 ! I’m sorry, son, but get it through your key: If help I need, it won’t be you, you see. It’s never you.
Nothing to say again, nothing to say, So I say all my nothing in hope of a spark – And say and say it all twice, anyway.
I’ve had not a notion for many-a day, I’m ser’ously thinking of quitting this lark: I’ve nothing to say, again – nothing to say.
My thinking is lumpy, my twinkle is grey, My meditive mantra’s an angst-laden bark – I chant it and chant all twice, anyway.
I rummage my brain for a straggler or stray, But the cupboard is bare and the tunnel is dark: I’ve nothing to say, again, nothing to say.
I have to do something, I can’t sit and pray ! I somehow must mallet my impotent mark: I hammer and hammer it twice, anyway !
But what can I do if the words will not play ? The page is still empty – the meaning is stark: I’ve nothing to say, again. Nothing to say. So shout it, and shout it out twice, anyway !
Liza Eliza, Daughter of a Kaiser – Plumper than cuter, And something of a miser. Asks her advisor To find her a suitor Who never will despise her For eating off of pewter.
Liza Eliza Master of disguiser – Spying on her diners, Incase they criticise her. Better to be wiser, For fear that they’ll malign her, Or else they might surprise her By eating off of china.
Rhyming Couplets 