…and up in five, it’s the news on the hour. But first, here’s ten thousand watts of power Pumping our signals to the Jovian system – Even the Great Red Spot can’t resist ‘em ! They’re listening-in to our Hawkwind and Floyd, A pirate station across the void. So going out to you super Jupers – A radio clash of aural ammunition, Rocking you out of your frozen stupors. Listen-up, Europans, to our FM transmission Of hazy cosmic jive.
Ev’ry sha-la-la-la is a sonic bomb At the speed of light – can you hear me, Major Tom ? But just in case our trace is erratic, But just in-case we’re nothing but static – If only our carrier signal is reaching With a constant hiss and white-noise bleaching – Then dudes, what can I say, it’s the same old saga. But pulsing now from the broadcast-tower, This one’s for you: here’s Radio Ga Ga. We have the time, we have the power, To bring your air alive.
Cats are loners, other than their staff, But they stay away from other kitties – Except at night, when the Moon is half, And they gather into cat committees – Sometimes to fight, or sometimes to sing, And sometimes to love when the night is fair – Settling business, ignoring the king, With tails and noses up in the air. Perhaps such feline encounters harden, Make up for their lives as soft as their fur. Then once they’re done, it’s back to the garden, With time to sleep and time to purr.
I was instructed to iambicize, And keep a strictly penta-metric beat. Alas, I could not fit within this size: I could not keep my bloody stride within my bloody feet.
To the colony of mould upon my windowsill – Show me just the slightest mark Of sentience, a crucial spark To show you’re rising from the dark, Some gesture or some tiny act of will – Show me that you are aware And truly, shall I gladly spare Your thinking self – it’s only fair To leave you be, and curb my urge to kill. It’s not your fault, of course, I know, We cannot help the way we grow. So demonstrate it can be so With some discrete communiqué or skill. But otherwise, I hereby state I shall not balk, nor hesitate To bring about your speedy fate, And wipe you out from ev’ry crack you fill. And with my conscience duly sated, And my fears for health abated – Now it’s time I contemplated How to shift the mice behind the pepper mill. I hear them scritching in their horde, In cupboards and the skirting-board. They cannot longer be ignored – Their squeaks ring from the ventilation grille. So rodents, let us parley, please – I cannot have you stealing cheese, Nor plaguing with your crop of fleas – And yet, I hope we can co-habit still. But only if you’re duly smart To learn of hygiene – for a start – And keep your soil well set apart From places where it could pollute or spill. And finally, let’s have agreed A limit to how much you breed, And maybe we can yet succeed To forge a truce – forever and until. But if you cannot learn the score Then we, alas, must be at war – And if you doubt my lust for gore, Just ask the mould no longer on my windowsill.
The sweetest thing you ever said, Of all the loving things you said, Is when you murmured in our bed That we were never meant to be. No karmas chimed when first we met, No stars were crossed, no fates were set, No providence in gold and jet, No single-hearted entity.
For no-one had foreseen us, Nor our destinies fore-planned – There was not a plot between us, Nor an ever-guiding hand. It is no spook, but just a fluke Your years are spent with me. For you and I, the augurs sigh, Were never meant to be.
The sweetest thing you ever said, Of all the loving things you said, Is when you whispered through my head That we are nothing more than chance. For we are random in our bearing, In a universe uncaring – Kismet never kissed our pairing, Nor the twists of Fortune’s dance.
For no-one had foreseen us, We were never on the cards – The statistics couldn’t glean us, Nor the sibyls, nor the bards. It’s only luck that we have struck – You were not sent to me. For you and I, the prophets cry, Were never meant to be.
Sometimes, no matter how hard I try To pay attention to the little things That happen anyway, Sometimes, it seems, I simply can’t apply My wayward focus to the nuts and springs Of yet another day: I stare into my screen as numbers fly – The day-long daydreams dream, the maybes sing, The permutations run… I couldn’t tell you how or when or why, But even as the tangents loop and swing, So still the work gets done. I’m barely here, but still my seeing eyes And typing fingers track and dart and ping Throughout each random trance. My mouth is talking – am I telling lies ? I couldn’t say, I wasn’t listening… But oh, how the dust motes dance !
Catherine, Ketevan, Caitlin and Kate. They’re level and sensible, seemly and straight. They know how to work and they know how to wait, Do Catherine, Katharine, Kitty and Kate.
I must have met dozens In neighbours and cousins, And every one is an Empire State. They’re clear and collected, With diction perfected, All thoroughly practical, thoroughly Kate.
I’ve always thought Catherines seem so contented So frankly presented, So fresh and undented. Now Kates may seem dashful, or rash or unruly, But deep down, all Kates are still Catherines truly.
Karen and Cathy and Katya and Kate, They’re never the Average, always the Great. Never Unready, or Reckless, or Late Are Catherine, Katharine, Kitty and Kate,
Steadfast and sisterly, All throughout history Buttoned and booted and striding their gait. Laying down winter fruits, Backbones of institutes, Anyone getting things done is a Kate.
I’ve always thought ‘Catherine’ sounds so dependable, Calm and commendable, Never up-endable. ‘Kate’ sounds diminished, unfinished, and merely, But secretly Kates are still Catherines really.
Trine, Catrina, Kalena and Kate, They’re Hekate’s daughters, and carry her trait. They’re masters of fortune, not victims of fate, Are Lina and Ina and Cathleen and Kate, With K or with C, With a hard or soft T, They’re Catherine, Katharine, Kitty and Kate.
Oh, hello Miss, I think I might know you… But no, I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s so… And yet, I’m sure…I feel like I do… But, please, forgive me, It’s just you remind me of someone… Of someone… But please, bear with me, I may seem undone, but that is because My memory’s iffy, it’s not what it was.
Oh, by the way, my name is Derek, Just so you know. I say, can I buy you a drink ? This place is so atmospheric, Let’s not up-and-go. Though strange, why haven’t I been here before ? And yet, that smile from the man on the door… And his friendly wink… But never mind that, I’m being a bore ! I say, this bar is atmospheric ! A cut above the old generic Oh, by the way, my name is Derek We haven’t met, I think…
Ah, here’s a waiter – can I buy you a tipple ? No, I insist, so let’s make it a triple. But wait, he has a bottle to hand… Is that for us ? I don’t understand..? Why yes, that is my favourite wine, But how did you know..? The lady, you say ? Why, thank you, Miss ! The pleasure is mine, Though how did you guess that I’m chardonnay ? Well, cheers, I’ll get to know you yet ! Derek’s the name, I don’t think we’ve met…
And you are..? Ruth ? Oh, that’s so pretty ! To tell the truth, I’ve always loved that name. Back in my youth, back in the city, I used to date this gorgeous dame – She was a Ruth, A Ruth like you, as it were. And cute to boot, the kind I prefer… And smart, by streuth !, with eyes aflame… I wonder what became of her..?
Another glass ? Oh, let me pour. I know I must be such a bore But talking to you feels so sure… But there I go again… You listen to me so attentive, Lord alone knows your incentive… Please, just hush this old gent if he gets to be a pain. Why, thank you, that was kind to say, But no, my waffling is unwise – You hide it well, yet still display, A certain sadness round your eyes… Well hey, this tastes like chardonnay ! Well, that’s a nice surprise !
I’m Derek, by the way, we haven’t met, And more’s the pity ! If I may say, a face like yours is not one to forget ! Forgive me, miss, but may I ask your name ? Oh, Ruth‘s so pretty ! And easy to remember, as my good wife shares your claim ! And just like you, she’s smart and kind and witty, With eyes a little sad – and yours the same… But there I go again, I bet, just droning-on all day… I don’t believe we’ve ever met. I’m Derek, by the way.
This was inspired by a short story called Saturday will be a Little Late this Week by Derek Edwards, a friend I used to attend the same writing workshop as. Hence the Derek in the poem, though it’s not supposed to be him. I should mention that the narrator is speaking to the same woman throughout.
Can I just say that I hate myself for including the accents on ‘deja’. I mean, they look great as decoration, but the phrase is English now and we only use accents as furniture, or an excuse to sneer at those who leave them off. But they do look pretty…
Take your modern world away, We have no need for it at all. We grow our food in nature’s way, And she shall fill our barns come Fall. So drive your cars and tractors hence, We have no fuel to fill their tanks. Our horses make a lot of sense, And need no complicated cranks.
My friends, you wish for isolation, That is clear: You shun all outside integration, Shun its news and stimulation, Make your parishes your nation Year on year. But when you lose the progress spark It always leads to Ages Dark – You long to gag and leave behind The sharp and seeking human mind, All out of fear.
And whence will come the steel and clay That won’t be found within your chalk ? When all your ploughshares rust away, I hope it’s not too late to talk. I guess your way, I guess your way must heaven seem When Summer days are all a dream, But our advance, But our advances must prevail When Winters bite and harvests fail.
For if you doubt our modern age, Then do not shun us, but engage ! And if you have a better way, Then spread the word and save the day ! Don’t mutter to yourselves with glee “Oh Lord, what fools these mortals be !”
Your modern world will not be missed – We have our God and have our seers. We do not need your scientists, Your doctors or your engineers. We have some books, we have some plays, An old guitar or homemade fife – We paint and act and sing our days, And have no need for modern life.
My friends, you wish for simple pleasures, That is clear: Finding in your simple measures Honest tasks and homespun leisures. All bestowing rustic treasures Year on year. But shrugging off our salaries Will also lose our galleries, By shunning our committee fights, You lose our films and city lights, All out of fear.
And whence will come the medicine That won’t be found within your herbs ? Before the pestilence can win, Pray let your Eden be disturbed ! We’ll still be here, We’ll still be here by south and north, To take you back and bring you forth. So look for us, So look for us by east and west, If you should quit your priestly quest.
For if our modern world offends, Pray do not hope for dreams, my friends For fairies will not feed the poor, Nor kill the germs nor mine the ore. So grab the future, all she’s worth, And put a girdle round the Earth.
This is a little-remembered play of Priestleys, edging into science-fiction while at the same time imagining a rural idyll that rejects modernity, with plenty of references to A Midsummer Night’s Dream thrown in.
A Bunch of Elephants – Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
An Unnecessaryness of Collective Nouns
Some creatures are packs, Or are flocks, or are nyes, Or are schools, or are smacks, Or are swarms, or are cries. These names are but games, Be they clowders or clans – Unheeded, unneeded, In knots, knobs and spans.
So what are these words for all critters and birds, With their bands and their gangs and their cohorts and herds ? Just gaggles of banter and hunches, To pep up the huddles and bundles and bunches.
And such linguistic fizz is clearly more than farmers made, With ferrets by the business, And ponies by the marmalade.
Let no sneer of pedants All lather and quack “It’s army for red ants And scurry for black.” A mole-tain of hillocks, A cotton of wools, A bollocks of bullocks And bullshit of bulls.
Just who are these sods who are playing at gods With their troops and their squads and their plagues and their pods ? As if we might ever be caring To credit each cluster and quiver and glaring.
And so their meanings dwindle till the whole safari’s spent, With kittens by the kindle, And ravens by the parli’ment.
Most collective nouns were invented by the Victorians. It’s what they did.
