Category: Places

The Trap-Bath split

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Photo by Photo By: Kaboompics.com on Pexels.com

The TRAP-BATH split

Steadfast and pervasive,
From its bases out of Cockney mouths,
Across the South, and heading North,
Until it’s passed the Firth of Forth.
But out here in the town of Bath,
A person’s class can’t half be grasped
By how that very name is rasped –
In the lingual aftermath.
Though still it’s a disaster, lad,
It’s bad, and sad, and maddening –
Though gladdening that ays are stronger
When the traps are sprung for longer.
Slathering from out our lungs,
A psalm to answer rank or shah –
This split is cast upon our tongues,
To dance the Mardi Gras.

The use of ‘ays’ in the poem is a reference to multiple copies of the first letter of the alphabet.

I notice that the London version of this vowel is steady taking over the West Country. Perhaps the decades of racist ridicule that its accent has suffered has subconsciously hot home ?

Wayfinder

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Sanctuary by Rodney Matthews

Wayfinder

I know where we’re going, trust me,
All the signs are showing thusly –
Follow me, I have the knowing
Of the way like nobody.
For I know where the cows are lowing,
I know where the crows are crowing,
I know where no debts are owing,
And the air is free.

Where the stream is flowing fleetly,
Where the wind is blowing sweetly,
And the strings are softly bowing –
That is where we need to be.
So nevermind how much it’s snowing,
Soon we shall be warm and glowing –
For, despite our to-and-fro-ing,
Still our stars agree.

Though it seems we’re slowing quickly,
And our path is growing prickly,
Still we have to keep on rowing,
Or we’ll wash back out to sea.
So let’s keep on this line we’re toeing
Let’s not think of overthrowing –
Soon we’ll reap the steps we’re sowing,
Home in time for tea.

Uncharted

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Detail from Islandia by Abrahim Ortelius

Uncharted

The maps of old were full of monsters –
Terra incognita !
Back when the darkest continents
Were mysteries of consequence.
Wherever our landlocked pencil wanders
Faster than a cheetah,
Then here be dragons, rest assured,
And natives with the heads of birds.

The maps of old were full of empty,
Till we filled them in.
We went and saw, and came back sad,
That there were no beasts to be had.
We’d spare imagination plenty,
But behemoths were thin –
We’d no leviathans to spare,
Just boring humans, ev’rywhere…

All Roads Lead To Roam

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Skywards Bound by Kathrin Longhurst

All Roads Lead To Roam

Where are you roving, our Romany Rhona ?
I’m running to Rome to pursue my persona.
I have to keep going as long as I can,
Or the Pope, when I get there, will be an old man.

Where are you heading, our Harefooted Heather ?
I’m striding to Stockholm to welcome the weather.
I can’t hang around, I’ve a long way to walk through,
Or Odin has no-one but ravens to talk to.

Where are you wending, our Wanderlust Wanda ?
I’m aiming for Athens to pep-up my ponder.
I must chase the rainbow, before it has cleared,
Or else Zeus will have reason to grow a long beard.

Where are you trekking, our Tramp-Treaded Trista ?
I’m casting to Cairo, to visit my vista.
I need to be off, so I’ve no time to chat,
Or else Ra will sink lower and red-faced and fat.

Ultima Thule

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Detail from the Carta Marina by Olaus Magnus

Ultima Thule

Pytheas claimed to have gone to the North
In ninety-six seventy-six HE.
As far as Thule, beyond the Forth –
But where ?  Nobody can agree.
So the name was later applied to places –
Shetland, Norway, Iceland, and on.
Forever drifting North as the traces
Of habitation were stumbled upon.
The word was attached to Eskimos,
As called by those who did the naming –
And a rare-earth element, which shows
The allure it held in its framing.
Finally, in the hundred-and-twentieth century,
A trading post re-used the term
In Upper Greenland, the latest entry
To plant the Grecian germ.
An airbase later sprang up to claim it –
And at last, Thule was a definite place –
It had finally chosen to cash-in its fame
And end its meandering chase.
Until…the Air Force decided to change her,
To strip out the exonym, rebrand the node.
So Thule is free again, ever the stranger,
To wander the North and with no fixed abode.

Thule is usually pronounced as Thool-uh (or perhaps I should say Þool-uh). However, I have seen Tool-ee used, even by myself.

As for the dating, I’m using the far-more logical HE Calendar because I’ve got no time for counting backwards.

Passport

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Ceres by Liz de la Torre

Passport

The whole world is spherical – I know, because I trekked it –
Always passing clockwise,
Passing to the left.
Onto America, vast and eclectic –
Just roaming, you guys,
Always heading West.
Showing my specifics at ev’ry border-post,
Always passing clockwise,
As tradition goes.
Across the Pacific, port-side to island-coast
From volcanic highs,
To sweet laguna lows.
Onto Malaysia, striding like a dandy,
Always passing clockwise,
Half the way around.
Upon mainland Asia, I passed Mr Brandy,
Racing for his prize,
While always Eastward-bound.
But West for I once more, and headlong through the horse-steppe,
Always passing clockwise,
Most polite and deft.
Home through the back door, from my mammoth schlep,
For etiquette, it lies
In moving to the left.

Thanks AI, you didn’t do too bad this time…

Englischer Waltzer

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Englischer Waltzer

Eins zwo drei, eins zwo drei,

Beefeaters, wellingtons, toads-in-the-hole,
Morris and molly and May-round-the-pole,
Our feet may be English, but German our soul,
As we spin to the Saxony stride.

Volkswagens, Porsches, and Beamers and Mercs,
Beethoven, Handel, and Kraft-at-the-works,
Our ears may be English, but German our quirks,
As we turn to the Teutonic tide.

Some say Bavaria,
Some say Vienna –
The where and the when are
Long lost in the swirl.
Spinnen and spinnen,
In cotton and linen –
From Bath to Berlin,
In a wurlitzer’s whirl.

Fish-and-chip, tea-and-jam, bubble-and-squeak,
Stiff-upper sorries and tongues-in-our-cheek
Our words may be English, but German our speak,
As we pulse to the Prussian parade.

Rottweiler, doberman, alsatian, spitz,
The Hamburger Hans and the Frankfurter Fritz
Our names may be English, but German our glitz,
As we shimmy with Swabian suede.

Wange to wange,
From oompah to banger –
It’s no doppelganger,
But dancing for reel.
Schneller and schneller,
In ev’ry bierkeller –
It’s no tarantella,
But spooling its spiel.

Solo Traveller

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The Dark Pool by Laura Knight

Solo Traveller

Happy holiday, saddos !
In your needlessly double-rooms –
Honestly, single berths are only
For cots, and losers, and tombs.
Here’s your single-stayer supplement
To tax you for being alone
And your sad little single table
Where you silently scroll your phone.
Why did you even bother leaving home ?
Why do you care ?
What’s the point of meeting people
When you’ve nothing to share ?
Ah well, it’s all to our profit,
As you pass your gloomy weeks –
A mix of lonely spinsters
And asexual frigid freaks.
We do our best to rub it in, of course,
That’s always fun –
To let you know you’ve failed at life,
To holiday for one.
But in the end, you bring our other guests down
By being there,
You suck the sun right off the beach
With your self-contented air.

Pastoral Symphony

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Pastoral Symphony

The countryside is sometimes all a chorus of its own,
With the songbird sky-sopranos saying grace –
And the yapping dogs’ falsetto, and the tomcats’ mezzo tone,
And the hens and pigeons make an alto brace.
The sheep are then the tenor, the pigs are baritone,
While the cows are mooing low down in the bass,
And underlying ev’rything, the bees provide the drone,
While the clip-clop hooves of horses beat the pace.
And finally, the donkey starts, a soloist alone –
She’s the braying primadonna of the place !

New Kid in Town

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Nashville Athena by orientalizing

New Kid in Town

Country folk are godly folk,
They sing to holy Jesus,
Sing how he’s the one they set their heart upon.
Yet over Nashville way, no joke,
They worship olive trees, yes,
Sing to Grecians in their mighty Parthenon.
They built a statue of Athena
Dressed in gold and ivory,
With ancient eyes of blue that never blink.
They built a temple to the Virgin,
Yet in rivalry –
Cos she ain’t the usual Virgin that they think –

Hallelujah, hail Athena !
Sing it loud and sing it free !
You beat Poseidon with his trident,
And now Jesus with his trinity.
We need a goddess, not a patriarch
To stir these sisters free –
In the Athens of the South, your spark
Lights up your mystery.

Country folk are gawdy folk,
They love their rhinestone rings –
Yet their churches are just warehouses of prayers.
Is Jesus stoney broke
That he can’t afford some decent bling
In which his shouty preachers flog his wares ?
But over at Athena’s place,
There’s statues in the pediments
Of epic battles fought in ancient times –
She may be stoic in her face,
But not so harsh and regiment
To frown upon our splashing-out the dimes.

Hallelujah, hail Athena !
Sing it free and sing it loud !
Lady Wisdom, Lady with the Owl,
Intelligent and proud –
We need a goddess to the arts
For fans to worship when we hum –
A diva moving-up the charts,
Who’s number one till kingdom come.

The original statue was sculpted by Phedias in 9563HE.  This replica was designed by Alan LeQuire in 11990, using gypsum cement, fibreglass-infused plaster, and gold leaf (not ivory, like the original, but close enough – and surely Phedias would have loved to have access to these…)  It is, I believe, based on ancient descriptions and other statues, but I’m sure some original interpretation has been included, and quite right too !