Sometimes, falls the Burns Night on the number two New Moon, That will open the cacoon of a brand New Year – So the neeps and cock-a-leekie get to share the serving spoon As the beansprouts and the riceballs soon appear. From the docks of old Kowloon to the mists of Brigadoon, So it all goes in the haggis, and the bamboo pipes the tune – As we all sup down together, from New Scotland Yard to Scone, In a typhoon of lampoons and tartan cheer. Now maybe I am nothing but a Sassenach poltroon, From the billabongs of Perth, and through the snows of Saskatoon – But a shortbread in my green tea on a global afternoon, And the paddy-fields of glens are very near.
Can I just say what a wonderfully weird experience it is to hear someone read Address to the Haggis in an unapologetically RP accent ?
They sculpted each immortal bust As patient as the coming rust – And when our steel has turned to dust, They’ll still be standing here. They’re made from prehistoric shells, And chiselled from the steadfast fells – When eons wait within their cells, Well, what’s another year ? Their flinty eyes have seen it all, Our mighty kingdoms rise and fall, From city states to urban sprawl, For long as time allows. These statues gaze their stoic stares, Untroubled by our fleeting cares, Just waiting for erosion’s airs To smooth their stony brows.
An amended image from the original computer modelling by Darren Naish & Donald Henderson.
Brass Neck
All mammals can swim, Or least, can float, Just paddle each limb And be the boat. It may be slow, And lacking grace, But it lets them row To a dryer place.
Even the elephant, Hedgehog, or bat, Even the fattest Or scardiest cat, Even the kangaroo, Aardvaark, or aye-aye – You know why it’s true ? Cos they’re mammals, that’s why !
All, that is, except for one – The landlubber giraffe. Once evolution had its fun, They’re not safe in the bath. It’s strange the way that they capsize, You’d think they’d learn to cope When possessed of long and mighty thighs, And a built-in periscope.
But on the land They look such gentry, Tall and grand When standing sentry. They are the backlash To the trout, Who make a splash By standing out.
My end was written into my very beginning, Into my terminal genes – My past and future are always inferred, Before I was born, my death was assured. With fate or biology, there is no winning, We’re entropy machines – But the road we take is mine and yours, To pass the time between the wars.
Ev’ryone clockwise, round and about – By habit we orbit, by gravity bound, As we veer to the left and we slowly drift out – Ev’ryone clockwise round.
Flow with the currents and circle the mound – Which is home to whatever can reach it and sprout, With its jetsoms of hubcaps, since long run aground. The rest – in the tarmac they’ve drowned.
These rivers of traffic are never in drought, All whirled to the edge till an exit is found, Where others flow-in and forever, no doubt – Ev’ryone clockwise round.
My attempt at a roundel – but I felt there was a line missing in the second verse so I revolutionised it.
The flourishing show-off their fruits, As they always do, From star to plutocrat. And I want to hate their loot – But then I hear you Saying I’m better than that. Not better than them, no, They clearly are winning, And I couldn’t compete if I tried. But I mustn’t get low If I want to keep grinning – I mustn’t give in to my cynical side.
The skilful exploit the thing they do, Create a buzz, With even better times to come. Now the world’s not fair, it’s true, It never was, But is success then zero-sum ? You always told me, don’t despise, Don’t bitch and sleight – To be myself, and not some copycat. But dammit, it’s so hard to rise Above the spite, It’s so hard to be better than that.
Don’t snub them, don’t hate them, Don’t read the bad press, Don’t seek out their scandal, don’t kiss them and tell. But call them, and truely congratulate them For their great success Which they handle so well. I can hear your voice admonishing me For unworthy bile And poisonous chat. I hate that you’re right, but we must let it be – So paste on a smile And be better than that.
I want to scream, and curse my fate, And spit their names – But dammit, I can’t give in now – It hurts to be considerate, But paranoid games Are indulgences that I cannot allow. Don’t suck-up and don’t condemn, Let it go, Don’t measure myself with where they’re at. I’ll never be better than them, I know, But at least I can be better than that.
Despite the chimes and fireworks, Despite the cheers and resolutions, New Years start off slow – As continuity, not revolution. The banks begin on holiday, The schools are easing into term – There aren’t too many early birds, But then, there aren’t that many worms. The world is in need of a lie-in, Before the problems start to press. Even I am barely trying, Slurring rhymes with extra esses.
My folks were full of the fear of God, And full of His holy gravity. Music, and dancing, were frivolous wastes And bywords for depravity. And birthdays passed with nary a mention So’s not to lead our thoughts astray – But I was still the lucky one, For I was born on Christmas Day.
I was born in the dark of Winter, In the midst of an Almighty freeze Too far North for much of the sun, Too bleak for that many trees. But ev’ry year, the town would string up lights As if to lead my way, And hope that it might snow for me – For I was born on Christmas Day.
Ev’rybody wore a smile, And nobody wore grey – Ev’rything was done with style, Right through to Hogmanay ! And my fav’rite animal, the deer, Was ev’rywhere, with a sleigh ! How much I loved this time of year, To be born on Christmas Day !
I was born in ignorance, And thought all this must be for me – The whole of the town would celebrate That time I changed from two to three, They cheered some more when I turned four, At five and six, they cried hooray – My parents couldn’t stop it all, For I was born on Christmas Day.
They may not have given me presents, But they gave me the greatest gift on Earth – I used to think how lucky Jesus was To coincide my birth. And piously, I’d thank the Lord For far more joy than words can say. And so I grew up loving life – For I was born on Christmas Day.
The choirs would sing, The bands would play, The bells would ring, The shops display, And all the world felt good and near, In one long cabaret – How much I love this time of year, To be born on Christmas Day !
Like other kids with Santa, though, We all must learn the truth – I gradu’ly became aware, As I slowly left my youth. But nonetheless, I didn’t mind, There was no shame to pay – They never could take the glow from me, For I was born on Christmas Day.
I was born in happiness, Despite attempts to tamp it down – And I got to cast my birthday wish To spread my joy throughout the town. I stopped believing in the end in Christ, But that’s okay – Cos I still believe I must be blessed, For I was born on Christmas Day.
And yes, the lights still shine, And yes, the drinks still sway, And still the robins pine, And still the reindeer bray, And I wish my parents well, despite, Their lack of festive fray – Let all the world join-in tonight, To be born on Christmas Day !
So, what’s this title about ? Well…
In 1935, Clayton Woodworth proposed a new calendar. He was a prominent Jehovah’s Witness and editor of The Golden Age magazine for the faithful, and he considered the Gregorian calendar to be irredeemably Pagan. His scheme was laid out in his publication, and it received tacit official approval by the inclusion of a ‘trailer’ in the 1935 Watchtower Yearbook. It introduced a whole new method, with new names for the days of the week, and new lunar months that began their year from the the first New Moon after the Spring Equinox. An example is shown below the Year of Ransom.
The important part for us is that the first New Moon will fall between March 20th for the rare occasions the Equinox falls on March 19th) to April 20th (if the Equinox is on March 21st). This will result in months of either 29 or 30 days, with a thirteenth month of ‘Sanctuary’ being required every two or three years.
Thus, the tenth month could begin anywhen between the 10th of December and the 10th of January…
It’s not surprising that the JW leadership appear to have quickly soured on the idea, but it’s also fascinating to wonder what it would be like had they persisted. In particular, I wonder if part of the appeal was to dislocated the calendar from the Gregorian, so that any given date of the latter would fluctuate upto a month on the new one – making keeping track of those nasty secular dates and birthdays and public holidays that much trickier, (not to mention all of those specific AD-years when the world failed to end…)
Rhyming Couplets 