Gillingas
“First recorded as such c.698. Origin: (settlement of) Gilla’s people, from Old English -ingas ˋpeople of’.”
– How England Was Named
Eight miles west of Charing Cross
And just to south of Hanger Hill,
Lived farming folk whose Saxon Boss
Is with us yet, through his old ville –
Now while our names are doomed for loss,
Gilla’s people linger still.
Convergent Resonance
Tumbling lines, one from another,
Falling in behind the last –
Each one linking with his brother,
Lacing up and holding fast –
So ev’ry time a rhyme should sound,
Then, potently, a rhyme shall kick,
Until the final line is found
To shut the box with sweetest click.
Linguistic Schtick
Synonyms, ah synonyms ! The poet’s greatest rule –
Facilitating, all-enabling, multiplicating tool.
Synonyms – repeating things – they let us say once more
The same old curds in diff’rent words – a dozen ways to score.
In Mind
Ask him a question, he answers precise and pristine:
The greatest and smallest, and ev’rything shaded between.
Ask him a question, the height and the year and the queen –
He knows all the answers, but hasn’t a clue what they mean.
First Eight Lines of a Sonnet
I sometimes feel like life is just preamble,
All As and Bs and As and Bs forever –
There’s building-up of tension for the scramble,
But no antithesis can slip the tether.
Won’t someone blow the whistle on this shamble,
And get me underway in my endeavour ?
I long to find a volta, take a gamble,
But always must await a break in weather…
Three-Line Poem
Angels may be small, too small to glance –
And yet the real question that the clerics should advance
Is why on only pinheads do they ever choose to dance ?
Rainy-Day Responses
Sooner or later, we all sing a song to the rain,
And those who have sung them before can all sing them again.
Later or sooner, we all pray a prayer to the skies,
And those who have prayed them before can all lead the replies.
Arch-Angels
Michael’s ones are round,
But Gabriel’s are pointed –
With orders, each is crowned,
And mouldings, each anointed.
With stonework tightly joined
And structurally sound,
Gabriel’s are pointed,
But Michael’s ones are round.
The Three Orders
Tusk-tusk, Tuscan,
You’re just a stripped-down Doric,
Sat squat upon your plinth –
You don’t fool me.
And don’t posit Composite,
You ain’t so long historic –
You’re just Corinthian
That’s running-free.
If Bassae’s still Ionic,
(And it is),
And so are Ammonites –
Then isn’t it moronic
To insist that Serlio is right ?
To favour Romans over Greeks,
And not allow some playful tweaks,
Patrolling boarders of the orders
Just to keep them pure from mutant freaks.
The Tuscans and the Composites
Were born in the Renaissance,
When Italians made counterfeits
To stand-up in response.
Well fair enough, by why stop there ?
Now that we have this president,
Let’s have a hundred orders blare
To prop-up ev’ry pediment.
A Poet to His Surgeon
You know me much closer and touch me much deeper
Than any could ever before –
You bring to your table this soundest of sleepers,
And open me up to explore.
You rend me asunder with gentle‘est plunder,
To survey my hintermost-lands –
You ease my distress with your tender caress,
With my life firmly held in your hands.
Rhyming Couplets 