Cats crop up in poetry Like they do in neighbours’ kitchens, But when it’s time for serious, They’re nowhere near to pitch in. They haven’t time for heavy metaphor Or mopey musing – And earnest stream-of-consciousness Will send them straight to snoozing. But crack a smile and shake some wit, Or balladeer some derring-do, And lapping up the limericks, Here comes the kitty-crew: Pepperpot and Sootikin, The tyger tyger in the hat, Macavity and Pangur Ban, The owl-loving pussycat, In nurseries and nightclubs, In the scary and absurd, We’re sure to stumble over them Wherever words are purred.
There came then Wise Men from the East Unto a stable by an inn, And there amid each lowing beast Were sheltered weary folk within – For knelt beside a feeding trough A man and woman vigil kept, As on the hay and woollen cloth A baby lay and softly slept. The elder Magus then addressed The object of their noble quest – Whose sleep was peaceful as the blessed – And unabashed, the old man wept –
“Behold, sweet babe ! There in your cot The future of mankind is held – For you are ev’ry chance we’ve got, With ev’ry hope and fear excelled. We begged the heavens for a sign, And with your birth the gods have smiled – Yet not for any charms divine, But virtues many, unbeguiled. Now all who look upon you see The future of humanity – More precious than a deity, Is each belovèd human child.”
I spy…well bless my eye, A comet shot across the sky. Is this a sign ? For good or bad ? Is this how God would toast the lad ? I know what doubters say: That comets happen anyway.
I spy…well how ’bout this: Two planets close enough to kiss. And sure they’re bright…but bright enough ? Is that how God announces stuff ? I know how doubters mock: Conjunctions happen by the clock.
I spy…hang on…alright, A supernova bursting bright ! Now those are rare, so what’s that worth ? And yet…A death to hail a birth ? I know how doubters sneer: These things take months to disappear.
I spy…well here’s some more: A nova ? Or a meteor ? I guess…but not the clearest clue – Is this the best that God can do ? I know the doubters’ line: Why not just magic up the sign ?
I spy…I know, I know… A pagan myth that steals the show, When ev’ry ancient hero born Was heralded before the morn. I know what doubters see: That stars are stars, so let them be.
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.
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.
On winter days, in wood and dene, I love to see your leaves of green, And hang a sprig, a magic shoot, And kiss beneath your poison fruit. The glory of the mistletoe, When perched aloft and laced with snow – Your roots in wood, and never loam, But on whose bough have you made home ?
This noble tree, of age and might, Now after winter’s longest night, Is verdant still, revered with awe, As hope for yet the coming thaw. So stands this tree in frozen earth, Yet evergreen, to herald birth. Its sap e’er rising through each limb, A share of which our pest will skim.
And so the shrub upon the branch Brings wine and feast to winter’s blanche. Its prey brings strength, so won’t be killed – Like rings of growth on which to build, And spreads afar across the sea, Till greater yet than e’er the tree – For now our bush has such acclaim It proudly bears a Latin name.
But lo, the mistle buds a shoot That like its host has taken root, With leeching tubers digging in, A diff’rent plant, but of its kin. This child shall conquer half the world With winter blooms of gold unfurled – And incense sweet their bouquets sow, And berries bright with stellar glow.
And yet the saps of long ago Within this parasite still flow So little changed, it simply thieves Then decks them out in diff’rent leaves. So ev’ry living thing must fight Against all predatory blight, For even here, we see the grow Of yet another mistletoe.
But this one’s hued in scarlet bright, With fur and bristles dense and white – And though as yet too small to see Alone, without its parent tree, So still its roots have bitten deep, And spreads its seeds while yet we sleep – In just one night, their airborne ride Shall leave them by each mantel-side.
Mischief Night, and the Devil is abroad – He could be here. For on this night, be you tenant or lord, There’s something near. Be it a ghost, or the ghost of a thought, The underworld or the over-wrought, It may be all, or it may be naught – It’s getting dark, my dear.
Mischief Night, and the Devil is amock – He could be nigh. For on this night, as our worries flock, His jinks run high. A will-o’-the-wisp, or a whisp’ring breeze, A chill in the air, or a banshee’s sneeze ? A frost tonight or a deathly freeze ? It’s getting cold – oh my…
Mischief Night, and the Devil is alive – He could be me. For on this night, the shenanigans thrive, And fools run free. Is that a ghoul, or a turnip’s head ? A friendly fright, or the living dead ? And the Devil just smiles and goes to bed – It’s getting late, you see.
Now that the herd is in the barn, And now that the flock is in the fold, Then huddle close and I’ll spin you a yarn, The one my father told. And he was taught by his in turn, And he by his, the self-same airs That someday your own kids will learn When you tell them, and they tell theirs.
Sometimes, late at night, Out on the plains, or on the road, When the bats are in full flight To the singing of the toad, There can be heard the gallop Of a lonely charger wild, Through the ups of York and Salop And the downs of Kent and Fylde
There’s those who claim they’ve seen him, And they claim he rides a grey, A snow-white grey so gleaming That the very stars give way. A king, they say, with bow and crown, And horseshoes of cold steel – And ev’rywhere those hooves stomp down, The people come to heel.
Though some say he’s not invading Through our castles, towns and huts, But rather the land he’s raiding Is our throats, and veins, and guts – Riding, riding, ever onwards, There is no defence – Though some may call him Conquest, And others Pestilence.
But many will say No!, he rides a chestnut When he roams abroad, And he wears a shining breastplate, And he holds a tempered sword – And he is War, yet not invasion, But one folk upon another, Year-on-year, at any provocation, Brother killing brother.
But fighting is fighting, and always near To the likes of us who are called-on to bleed, And arrow or sword, it’s the same old fear When facing-down the next stampede. Or maybe a few who see this horseman Get to then escape to tell – Yet whether Mongol, Moor, or Norseman, All those roads lead straight to Hell.
Still, I have also heard it told by folks That the horse is jettest black, And gaunt enough that each rib pokes, With scarcely strength for saddle or pack – But its passenger can’t weigh much, at least, He’s spindly as his balancing scales – Clearly the lord of the Famine, not feast As he measures-out losses from frosts and gales.
Then others say his is the best-fed mount In any town it passes, Glossy as the fur-coat of a count, ‘Gainst their threadbare nags and asses. And the dirt where its hoofprints have trodden is barren now, The only thing growing is the drought – The fields are always so shy of the plough When Famine goes riding out.
Yet the final vision of our phantom knight Is the strangest of all they claim have seen, When robed in black, or robed in white, On a pale steed – dun, or maybe green. Some say a skeleton, lacking flesh, And what does he carry ? An hourglass of time ? A downturned torch, or a flail to thresh ? Or a sickle to scythe the stalks in their prime ?
And they give him a name, they call him Death. But surely all these versions are that – So death by what ? From a poisoned breath ?, Or the slurry from the mines, or rancid fat ? Maybe our souls aren’t chaff to the miller, But the smoke in the lung and the acid on the stone – Pollution, that’s the next big killer – And surely worth a horse of its own.
So light all the candles and ring all the bells, To ward off the Silent Divider, And warn them in Wigan and Walsall and Wells Of the grizzled new face of the Rider. From Wetherby weavers to Tintagel tin, From the tar-pits of Derby to Sunderland soot, So each time we breathe we invite the rogue in And his fingers leave shadows wherever they’re put.
Then listen, my children, listen for his hoofbeat, Listen as he slowly yet surely destroys By dogging the trudging of your own two feet In the choke and the grime and the constant noise. His other visions are horrors of our past, But it’s in our future that we all must die – And the fourth of the horsemen will take us at the last, As he kicks up the dust as he’s riding-by.
I suppose Pollution should cover the mass-deaths by human-caused tragedies, while Pestilence cover those from other living things while Famine has the natural disasters gig. This would mean that a plague of locusts is definitely one for Pestilence, while Famine would deal with meteor impacts. But don’t even get me started on green horses...
Unfortunately, I have been unable to discover who the artist is
No Month for an Atheist
October is the month when all the dead Are brought to life again – In our imaginations spectres tread, And sceptics howl in vain. So why must we be common-sensers, Jaded cynics, sober sisters ?, When the world wants will-suspensors, Playful panics, logic-twisters.
What the Hell ! And if it’s Hell you want, Then take it – take it all ! Mine’s a holy water from the font With a twist of lime, served tall. At least it’s safe, when Satan is A dentist wearing plastic horns. It’s ketchup blood and dry-ice fizz, And no-one’s killing newly-borns.
October is the month when all the dead Are brought to life again – In our imaginations, streets run red With ev’ry guilty stain. We’ve all got demons locked within – Let’s keep them in until they’re slayed. For that is worth believing in – The luxury to be afraid.
What the Hell ! Take all the Hell you need – I mean, at least it’s warm. Mine’s a chilly wisdom, I concede, In the face of an eerie storm. So have the month, enjoy your frights, And call me killjoy all you like, It’s fine – we’ll all sleep sound at night, As once again the dead don’t strike.
Here comes Abigail, Searching for the Holy Grail – She looks for it in Mark and Luke, She looks for it in John But once she sees it’s all a fluke She learns what’s going on.
Abigail, Abigail, Making all the rabbis wail, Making all the imams hush, Making all the vicars blush.
Here comes Abigail, Grabbing scripture by the tail – Tearing through the Psalms and Acts, Incase it’s all a con – She’s chasing down elusive facts To suss what’s going on.
Abigail, Abigail, Making all the abbés quail, Making all the prophets cry, And simply by her asking “why ?”
Rhyming Couplets 