The Poets’ Almagnac
One more tot and then I’ll start –
My pen’s uncapped and primed,
Indeed it’s been that way all afternoon.
I know my almanac by heart,
With beats precisely timed
And metric feet to dance to ev’ry tune.
It lays it out by grid and chart
Of syllables that chime,
By trochees by the phases of the Moon.
But writing’s such a thirsty art,
Especially when it’s rhymed –
But one more tot and I’ll be starting soon.
Just January
There is time to be festive
And time to be restive,
A time for a breather
From excess and fun.
Janu’ry’s time is busy and new,
For getting to do what we should have got done.
There is time for the goblins,
And squirrels and robins,
A time for Orion
And waiting for snow.
Janu’ry’s time is starry and dark –
The weather is stark and the sun is hung low.
There is time to prepare
For the snowdrop and hare –
It’s time to plant onions
And harvest the swedes.
Janu’ry’s time is whitened and browned,
Spent prepping the ground and in sowing the seeds
There is time for mysterious,
Time for the serious,
Time to be golden,
And time to be grey.
Janu’ry’s time is the sober and young,
For getting things done in the short Winter day.
Before Year Zero
It is, they say, (or so it’s said),
An Age of Wonder in our Time !
An Age of Peace and Plentitude,
Of Reason and Sublime.
A Pax Romana to us all,
To all us tribes who lost the fight –
As vassal states, we’re better fed,
Than ever were through might !
Come, all Romans, and construct
Your forum and your aqueduct !
And set us on the metalled road
To ever greater heights !
So join our bacchanalia,
From Galilee to Greece to Gaul.
And merry Saturnalia to all !
We may not yet be perfect, true,
But hey, we’ve made a cracking start –
We’re all philosophers, these days,
We’re lovers of the art.
How civilised we have become,
How better yet we’ll grow to be:
Two thousand years of peace shall flow,
Where all mankind is free !
We’ve gods to spare, we’ve gods galore,
And ev’ry tribe will bring some more –
And best of all, they’re kept at bay,
To serve humanity.
So join our bacchanalia
And never mind the zealot’s call.
And merry Saturnalia to all !
I am fully aware that our stupidly stupid backwards-counting chronology has no year zero, and I’ve decided I don’t give a toss. Of course, for those of us who prefer the decently-sensible Holocene Calendar, this poem should be called Before Year Ten-Thousand.
Conjure-Less
Hogwarts is a trade school –
Its graduates are magic-wise, but culture-poor.
Their basic maths and science tools
Are lacking, from their focus on excessive lore.
So who will pioneer the medicines ?
It won’t be Harry.
So who the next Brunels and Edisons ?
Don’t look to Harry.
And who will score the soundtracks to our lives ?
Or teach us how to exercise,
And thrust and parry ?
Just who will study bees and save the hives ?
Or write, exposing greed and lies ?
Or help us marry ?
Your world of Latin, nods, and shadows,
Operates clandestinely –
But will it save the climate ? Who knows ?
We’ve no time to tarry.
So who will help us muggles take control
Of our own destiny ?
And who will feed the intellectual soul
That we all carry ?
And who will tell me I can be
Whatever I might wish to be ?
No Sorting Hat’s the boss of me !
Hey, Harry ?
I find it bizarre that a self-confessed lefty wrote about a super-powered elite secretly running the world because the plebby muggles were incapable of doing it for themselves. And poor Harry, having to suffer growing up with those working class oiks until he was restored to his true destiny as the golden child.
Christmas Crackered
A joke designed to make us wince,
A tissue-paper hat that never fits –
We’re all been brainwashed by them since,
As wide-eyed kids, they awed us with their glitz.
And don’t forget the plastic trinket,
Maybe toyed with briefly, then ignored –
But that’s the point, don’t overthink it,
Quick nostalgia hit, and then we’re bored.
A card tricks that has lost its label,
Spinning tops who never get to spin,
They sit forlornly on the table
Till they’re swept up, heading for the bin.
Let’s carbon-tax them all to hell –
And call me Scrooge and Humbug all you wish,
Or if you want to snub me, well,
I guess just go play with your curly fish.
Say what ? I ought to get a grip ?
Alright !, I’ll help you pull one, dry your eyes.
What’s this ? A giant paper clip ?
Oh wow, I sit corrected – what a prize !
Matinee Angels
Who’s afraid of Jimmy Stewart ?
Nobody, that’s who.
Sometimes catty, sometimes moody,
But he still comes through.
And Gary Cooper isn’t bad,
He’s just misunderstood –
And John Wayne is a good old boy
Who’s on the side of good.
They may have had to play it rough
Before they made their name,
But once above the title
Then they’re quite above all blame.
So Cary Grant is Cary Grant –
How could he be a thug ?
And Frank Sinatra’s golden charm
Will counter any drug.
They may be hapless bandits,
But we’re rooting for them still –
They never do much real harm,
They never shoot to kill.
Henry Fonda is as steadfast
As is David Niven suave –
Not for them the sleezy gangster
Or the commie Yugoslav.
Until, at last, late in the day,
Wanting credibility,
They finally might play with fire
And versatility.
Their haloes have been hocked
And their goody two-shoes put away –
But too late, guys, too late,
To find your feet in feet of clay.
We longed to see your dark side shining through
Throughout your height,
Here and there, a sneer, a snare,
An unpredicted fright –
We watched, we hoped, for menace
From an unexpected place,
Or a cold and soulless stare
Within a warm and handsome face.
The poisoned glass of milk
That did not sour by the end –
The evil that men do lives on
When done by leading men.
Like seeing Peter Lorre, gentle,
It’s the shock we need.
Make ’em laugh and make ’em swoon –
But sometime, make ’em bleed.
Actually, Peter Lorre did play a gentle and likeable character in The Mask of Dimitrios, and boy is it refreshing ! And surprisingly, Jimmy Stewart has played the bad guy three times, so best warn your spoils: firstly, pre fame, in After The Thin Man, and thirdly as by far the nicest of the outlaws in Bandolero. But it was his second trip to the dark side that was his best – as all round shit Alfred Kralik in The Shop Around The Corner. In it, he’s petty, vindictive, and physically abusived to a man he sacks for no other reason that he doesn’t like him – what a brillant portrail of a Tory !
Good News in the Silence of Josephus
Now whether Jesus was or not,
There surely were an infant lot
Who could succumb to Herod’s plot:
Their bodies drawn and quartered.
But where was God to stay these brutes,
And spare His people’s tender fruits,
And never let His nation’s roots
With newborn-blood be watered ?
For what uncaring god divine
Would only spare His royal line ?
His Promised Land – incarnadine,
His folk – unsoned, undaughtered.
Rejoice ! The children never died,
The massacre was not applied –
The priests are wrong – the Bible lied:
The innocents unslaughtered.
At the Sign of ‘The Manger’
Innkeeping’s an hon’rable trade,
Whatever they say –
We’re a welcome light at the end-of-day –
We’re a dry roof and roaring fire
That’s safe from the wolf and the bandit’s blade
When legs begin to tire –
And ev’ryone can call us home
Who come from Babylon to Rome,
Or pilgrims to Jerusalem –
You won’t catch us refusing them,
As long as we get paid.
Or caravans from out the East,
Or shepherds after one last feast
Before they spend their weeks upon the hills.
Our stable yard is filled with strangers –
Merchants, rabbis, farmers, rangers –
And the horses, camels, asses
Of the ever-moving masses,
Who seek shelter from the season’s chills.
But last month, after years of this life,
Of seeing it all – I saw a first.
A man leading a donkey bearing his wife
Who was bearing his child –
Poor beast ! I mean, what a load !
She was so big, fit to burst.
I tell you, it fair got me riled, my friend,
To make her travel so close to her end
On such a bumpy road.
And busy too, this time of year,
With wanderers from far and near
All passing through and moving on,
Who all descend upon our rooms –
It’s boomtime for the hostelries,
We’re busier than bees.
So when they banged upon my door,
I knew I hadn’t even got
A patch of floor to offer them –
Not even room to fit a cot.
Now don’t condemn –
When I, my wife and staff, the lot,
Had long since given up our beds
For other needful, weary heads.
And yet…how could we leave them out to rot ?
Maybe they were on the run,
I wondered what they’d done ? But you know what ?
We still could not, and so instead,
We offered them the cattle shed, for what it’s worth.
The place was red with afterbirth
Before the rising of the sun.
Between the old tun and the ploughs,
She laid the kid upon the hay
That otherwise would feed the cows.
And when we could, we brought a tray
And kept an eye that all was well –
She understood, but truth to tell
We’d fifty other guests to serve each day.
And they were on their way before I knew it,
After just a week or two –
Heading home or onto somewhere new.
I guess I wish them well and all,
And maybe someday years from now
The child will come around to call,
And maybe make it big somehow.
They were the stranger sort of strangers, sure enough,
In all they did,
But still, they didn’t lack for love to pass down to their kid.
Ah well, better air the rooms and see the beds get made,
Then pop down to the well to draw some water.
But don’t you see, an innkeeper’s a good and honest trade ?
Just ask that couple and their newborn daughter.
Carol of the Thousands
A child is born tonight, this night,
Afar across the sea,
Whose birth shall spark the world alight
To unforeseen degree.
A child is born tonight, this night,
Within a distant land,
Whose birth shall end all ancient rite,
And all we understand.
And a thousand saints shall nurse
And a thousand laws shall spring,
And a thousand tyrants reign,
And a thousand choirs sing,
And a thousand penitents
Sigh a thousand lonely pleas,
As a thousand preachers preach
Of a thousand heresies,
And a thousand wars shall rage,
As a thousand martyrs die,
And a thousand hopes be dashed
As a thousand others fly.
With our pious hearts aflame,
We each and all shall stake a claim,
Invoking but a single name:
A child is born,
You know his name,
A child is born,
You know his name,
A child is born,
You know his name,
And joy or shame,
There’s nothing now shall ever be the same.
A child is born tonight, this night,
Afar from you and I,
Whose birth shall bless and birth shall blight
The lowest to the high.
A child is born tonight, this night,
Within another town,
Whose birth shall bring a holy might,
To challenge ev’ry crown.
And a thousand kings shall curse,
And a thousand laymen pray,
And a thousand goats shall graze
And a thousand sheep shall stray,
And a thousand cripples grasp
For a thousand holy cures,
As a thousand sinners fall
To a thousand tempters’ lures.
And a thousand signs are gleaned
Of a thousand things to come,
As a thousand trumpets bray
And a thousand drummers drum.
With our precious hearts aflame,
We each and all shall spread his fame,
Invoking but a single name:
A child is born,
You know his name,
A child is born,
You know his name,
A child is born,
You know his name,
And joy or shame,
There’s nothing now shall ever be the same.
A child is born tonight, this night,
Afar from what is now,
Whose birth shall calm and birth shall fright
And shake our ev’ry bough.
A child is born tonight, this night,
Within this bitter cold,
Whose birth shall tell and life recite,
And ever hence be told.
And a thousand lords shall leap,
And a thousand ladies dance,
And a thousand pilgrims trek,
And a thousand scribes advance,
And a thousand starving mouths
Beg a thousand crusts of bread,
As a thousand mourners mourn
For a thousand others dead,
And a thousand children born
To a thousand av’rage folk
Are a thousand times instilled
With the thousand words he spoke.
Let our fervent hearts acclaim,
As each and all come join the game,
Invoking but a single name:
A child is born,
You know his name,
A child is born,
You know his name,
A child is born,
You know his name,
And joy or shame,
There’s nothing now shall ever be the same.
I wanted to write something more ambiguous in its religious outlook which could be sung by everyone without frightening the horses. And although it is far from certain that there ever was an actual human (non-miracle working, non-resurrecting) upon which a whole new religion later sprang, if there were then this is his song.
Hark ! Our Better Angels Sing
I don’t believe in Jesus, and I don’t believe the Virgin Birth –
But Lord, you know I’m trying hard to find some faith in Peace on Earth.
We’re slowly getting better, but the getting better comes so slow
Yet watch the skies each Christmas Day, and finally you’ll see some snow !
So even though I know, oh Lord, that you aren’t even really there,
I’ll sing the songs and send the cards, and hope the World is free and fair –
And even as we dress the tree, and string the lights, and spark the flame,
Let’s wish you Merry Christmas all the same.
I’m sorry, in a sense, that it has come to this, but there you are…
Or rather, there you aren’t, you see, and neither was the guiding star.
And all those prayers, and all those hymns, and all that guilt we sent your way
Have only stopped a single war, and only for a single day.
Best not to hope in baby-gods, or mistletoe, or helper elves –
Looks like we’re on our own, oh Lord – for God helps those who help themselves !
Yet even as we make mistakes, and even as we take the blame,
We’ll wish you Merry Christmas all the same.
I don’t believe in Jesus, and I don’t believe the Virgin Birth –
But Lord, a hundred thousand other babes are born tonight on Earth.
I don’t believe in miracles, I don’t believe in prophesies –
But Lord, I long for peace tonight, regardless of philosophies.
So even though I know, oh Lord, that you aren’t even really there,
I thought I ought to let you know, and thought I ought to let you care –
And even though I don’t believe that baby Jesus ever came,
I’ll wish you Merry Christmas all the same.
Rhyming Couplets 