Sometimes, we shall come to a junction We’re sure we’ve taken before – The fingerpost fulfils its function, But we need it to tell us more:
Did we pass this way in our youth, Rounding the bend to find the familiar ? Can we trust mem’ry to tell the truth When it says the way was hillier ?
I guess the world’s a globe, and feet are curved, And arcs are circles over time, And anyone who’s life has swerved Must one day find they’ve made a rhyme.
And so, this junction has crossed our path, And forced a choice of way – And still we live in the aftermath Of the road we took that day.
This time, let’s take the other of three, The road untook, the life unspent – Except, for all we try to see, We can’t recall which way we went…
Scenes from the Chapter House at Salisbury Cathedral depicting Noah, circa HE 11284.
Be Fruitful, and Multiply
The rain comes down and the flood breaks free And ev’ryone dies, from Atlas to Russia In the year 2348 BC – Or so says Bishop Ussher. And after the waters dissipate Noah and sons and wives make eight.
The empty land is beckoning them – Europe to Japheth, Egypt to Ham – And Asia becomes the realm of Shem, From Turkey to Vietnam. So now that the land’s no longer wet, Just how many kin will they beget ?
Well see, the Bible clearly lists out Sixteen grandsons, twenty-seven greats – And these all boys (the girls are missed out), To found the known-world’s states. But such expansion cannot last long Till plague and war and famine are strong.
So let’s say from here, things settle down And nat’ral attrition soon appears, And the time it takes to double a town Is a hundred-and-fifty years – In Ussher’s time, with coal and machine, That’s the highest the world had ever seen.
So, taking his dating of when things happen And taking that girls are as common as boys, So fifty years later we’ll start our mapping And tease some facts from the noise – We’ve roughly a hundred, in all events, And spread across three continents.
A cent’ry post-flood, or so James willed it, The Tower of Babel raises its steeple – But only forty-odd folks can build it – That’s all of Asia’s people, Including elders and babes-in-arms, With no-one fishing or tending the farms.
Then Abraham hears God Almighty, Telling him that he is chosen Out of a pool of a hundred and ninety – And yet his wife is frozen… The Lord, though, promises a son To make it a hundred and ninety-one.
In time, when Jacob’s family go To Egypt – well, the dates allow For Asia to have five-twenty-or-so (Though down by seventy now.) See, that’s how exponentials grow – They end up big but they start off low.
Exodus – 1491, (A shorter sojourn than modern lights), As a third of the world is on the run – Fourteen-hundred Israelites. A count of six-hundred-thousand men ? I think you’d better check it agen.
For those of us who prefer our dates to be logical, 2348 BC is HE 7653, the Tower of Babel is pegged at 7754, Abraham’s calling at 8104, Jacob’s folks move to Egypt in 8295 , and the Exodus is in 8510. The reference to Asia being down by seventy is because Genesis 46:27 gives this as the total size of Jacob’s family to come and join him.
We all of us Are branded and defined – So that must make me… Well…nevermind. If you catch my name Then all the better, But it won’t be me who drops A single letter. Cos if I’m any good, Then you’ll find out in the end – It will beam out through the ether It will sneak out round the bend. But just for now, Go easy on the fame – My ego, it can take it If you don’t know what’s my name.
If you really wanna know Then you can learn it – But honestly, I think I gotta earn it. And as for folks Who helped me get along – They’re worth a hand, They’re worth a whole-damn song. But they’re more then gabbled names And anecdotes – And since you’ve never heard of them, Best save it for the liner-notes. But if you leave my presence With a head full of fun, Then whatever be my name, My work is done.
Little fish, little fish, Current-tossed fry, Ninety-nine percent of your sibling-fish will die. Eaten up, swallowed up, Too small to run – Ninety-nine percent – but you, will you be one ? Little fish, little fish, Dead before your teens. Is it down to luck, or is it down to genes ? Eaten up, swallowed up, Labouring in vain – A few of you will make it, to start it all again.
Alas, I am an absent host, But help yourselves to meat and wine From out my cellar, share a toast – I won’t be home, but it’s all fine. My albums should be worth a look, So find yourself a hidden gem. Provide a home for all my books – I have no further use for them. Please stop the milk and feed the cat And water Harriet the fern, And split my cash and sell my flat – I’m done with them, they’ve served their turn. I’ve had to leave, I can’t say where – I don’t know where. I won’t be back. This is the one thing I can’t share – No tears, just time to sling my pack.
We knew how it would end-up from the very first – Someone blabbing to a tabloid hack. Those who spaff the spoilers are the very worst !
Some can’t keep a secret and will always burst Spilling the surprises shows hold back – We knew how it would end-up from the very first.
Some folks love to chatter till they’re well-rehearsed, And can’t resist the calling of the craic – Those who spaff the spoilers are the very worst !
Ignorance is fragile, anticipation cursed, Our ears must hear the constant yack-a-yack – We knew how it would end-up from the very first.
Impatience is a burden with a raging thirst, And throws all expectation out of whack. Those who spaff the spoilers are the very worst !
Once the gaffe is blown, it can never be reversed, The clever twist can never land its smack. We knew how it would end-up from the very first… Unless…it’s just a ruse to throw us off the track…?
I remember we’d troop off to Grandma’s old church, (My parents not having a church of their own), And there, with my brothers and cousins, we sat Through the joyfulless carols and reverent drone That tried to cajole in us love for lord Jesus, And bribed us with candle-and-currant Christingles. We’d dutif’ly queue up, us kids, at the rail, For our symbolic fire-risks – and catch the first tingles:
The season had started ! The countdown was counting ! And even before the first door was prized open, The tension was banking, the pressure was mounting – The avarice simmering, quaintly called ‘hoping’. Our candles were dripping, the service was over, So back home to Grandma’s for crumpets and cakes, And writing our lists from the big book of Argos, And tingles that gradu’ly built into shakes.
Ev’ryone makes typos, Where a silly misspelled rush of prose Is hiccupped in its fluency – Careless hands work careless labours, Jumping cases, catching neighbours, Letters standing in for others, Covering their brothers’ truancy.
For as our fingers run and leap And waltz and peck, Too busy to go back and check, So in the errors creep. Too quick they ran, too soon they leapt, And where our eyes should intercept, They’re mesmerized by finger-dances, Only sparing random glances At the all-important screen. Or else they stare out straight ahead To read instead the words unseen, That float midair, as thick as flies – The copytext behind the eyes. But if we’re lucky, underlines in red Will warn us what we’ve said And give us chance to clean. But otherwise, each error cries unheard, Each mangled word and un-snipped thread Is slurred by digits over-keen.
So ev’ryone makes typos, Where our textual flows get bent and dented, Letters get disoriented, Weakening intent – They may look careless and inept, But these days we’re all quite adept At reading what was really meant.
Blockbusting, balls-walling, entrepreneur, Overman-achieving and Sorbonne-viveur, Moving-and-shaking and never-make mistaking – God, I could never be so bold !
I’m the one who failed to get to know you, I’m the one it’s easy to say no to, Nobody’s enemy, nobody’s go-to, And always the last one to be told.
I know that you work hard, but always with results, You go the extra yard, but you don’t do nuts-and-bolts It’s down to me to tidy up and lock the doors at night, While you’re off making masterplans to set the town alight.
I’m not like you, off to change the world again, The hero of the story, the driver of the train, The leader and infallible, the oysters and champagne, The charismatic marvel to behold !
We cannot all be actors, we cannot all be confident, We cannot all ignore the inner voice that never gives consent. I guess I don’t blame you, when your talents are so rife – And when even I would toss aside the novel of my life.
You’re the exception, but you think that you’re the mean, It’s only for your eyes that the world is bright and keen, While I’m drowning in the wake of wherever you have been – But hey, that’s just the way the dice were rolled.
Dear reader, thumbing through my book – Allow me to ally your quarm, Dear reader: you shall fetch no harm Within – for ev’rywhere you look, I promise you shall only find Here poems with their lines entwined In rhymes and rhymes which lace and bind Agreeably with eye and hook.
Nowhere in my whole collection Shall you need to choke a groan At all the orphans, all alone, With friendless lines in disconnection. Barely noticing their neighbours, Such lines flail with blunted sabres, Never pooling all their labours, Pulling ev’ry-which direction.
Dear reader, pondering my book – Feel free, take your time. Take the long and thoughtful look And do not worry – they all rhyme.
Rhyming Couplets 