Counting Forwards

Geological Time Spiral by Joseph Graham, William Newman, & John Stacy

     Counting Forwards

Imagine, if we like,
To the Earth when it was younger –
Let’s go back in our minds
As Rodinia accretes and binds.
Imagine all the life,
With its breeding and its hunger,
Is all within the ocean wide,
While all the land is dead and dried.
Go on back a billion years
To when the Tonian began,
And the first alga brave appears
In the inter-tidal span.
And let’s call this Year Thousand in our plan.

Now imagine, if you like,
A thousand million later –
To Britain, as it will become,
Through evolution’s endless sum.
Let’s use the past to take a hike,
To be our ad-hoc dater –
With ev’ry year that we explore
That’s adding-on a million more.
Ready ?  Well then, come with me !
To Year One Thousand, long before,
When Vinland Vikings rule the sea
And early green specs dot the shore –
And let’s see history expand once more.

            1000-1280
The Tonian is a long old stretch,
From Ethelred to Longshanks.
We’re not sure when things happened quite,
So none of these are strong ranks,
But sponges would appear to appear
Around the Fourth Crusade,
Just as we leave the Dark Age,
As the Boring Billion fade.

            1280-1365
The Cryogenian grows cold,
As the mediaeval warmth recedes –
The plague upsets the status quo,
As animals succeed.
The monks and fossils leave their records,
(Fewer than we’d wish),
As peasants rise-up, and the jellies –
Both the combs and fish.

            1365-1460
The Ediacaran, through the Hundred Years War,
Is a pregnant time.
The Agincourt slaughter sees new forms of life
Are on the climb.
We’ve so little idea what,
Though likely all the phyla we know
Are going their separate ways back then,
As the trade and prosperity grow.

            1460-1515
Bang !  The War of the Cambrian Roses
And Henry Tudor the Trilobite.
Bosworth Field is awash with early fish,
As eyes first see the light.
Predators prey, so the shell evolves,
And the codpiece probes the way to dress –
And we know so much of those olden times
Because of the Burgess printing press.

            1515-1555
The Ordovician sweeps the monks away
And ends in the great divorce –
The Little Ice Age causes mass extinction,
Though with a patchy force.
Most of the phyla shrug it off,
As do the merchants of the day,
While plants colonise a whole new world of land,
Down Mexico way.

            1555-1580
The Elizabethan Silurian
Sees vascular plants grow bodice and ruff,
While armoured fish develop jaws
As Catholics have it tough.
The millipedes creep onto shore
While Mary Queen of Scots must flee,
And Francis Drake sails round the world,
While scorpions swarm the sea.

            1580-1640
Awaiting the tetrapod armada in Plymouth,
Comes the Devonian span –
Sharks and ammonites emerge
In the Tempest of Caliban.
King James writes his Bible
On the wood of the early trees,
Till the Civil War extinction
Brings the shallows to their knees.

            1640-1700
With the Carboniferous Restoration,
Amphibeans arrive.
There’s giant dragonflies in the endless forests,
Where spiders thrive.
They lay-down future coal, of course,
As London is aflame –
Till the Glorious Revolution,
When the reptiles change the game.

            1700-1750
The Permian now joins Pangaea
With the Hannoverian line –
Dimetrodon and future-mammals
Have their chance to shine.
But from the North, a Great Dying
Sweeps them from their heights –
The lava traps of Siberia,
And the pikes of the Jacobites.

            1750-1800
The Triassic sees a trident of firsts –
Pterasaurs, crocomorphs, dinosaurs.
The sea’s full of plessies and ichthies and turtles,
An empire stretching to distant shores.
But American lizards break away
From rule they call draconian,
And a great extinction’s coming-in
That’s all thanks to Napoleon.

            1800-1855
The Regency brings us the Jurassic,
Victoria sees placentas get birthed,
While the Chartists challenge the old big beasts,
As the sauropods shake the earth.
The allosaurs fight stegosaurs,
While archaeopteryx soar above
Of the Valley of Death as India splits,
On their way to becoming a dove.

            1855-1935
The Cretaceous next, but where to start ?
Pangea well-and-truly splits,
While flowers bloom for Victoria’s weeds,
And spinosaurs are Edwardian hits.
Veloceraptors perish in the Depression,
But T-Rex jazzes the town
With Triceratops to the very end,
When the asteroid comes crashing down.

            1935-2000+
Into the Cenozoic we go,
As the atom bomb sees things get hot.
Mammals and birds diversify,
As hippy grasses grab their shot.
Hominids climb down from the trees
As Tony Blair brings-down the freeze –
Then Christmas Day in ’99
Sees farmers plant communities.

Imagine, if we like,
Where our journey goes from here –
What might the next long thousand bring
To life that’s ever-quickening ?
And when extinctions strike,
Then new forms suddenly appear.
History shows progress all the while,
Though fashions change the style.
But here, for now, our trek is done,
We’ve counted up the years we hold,
From an Anglo-Saxon simple son
To multi-cultured forms so bold.
They tell the greatest story ever told.

Happy birthday ! Yes, it’s true, Rhyming Couplets is turning six, so here’s a special treat for anyone who’s still out there.

Similar to my championing of the Holocene Calendar, I hate counting backwards, and can’t wrap my head around the numbers.  Therefore I propose the Paleontology Calendar, which can either begin at 0 (equal to 2,000 MYA) when the Great Oxydation Event was coming to an end, or at 1,000 MYA when the first algae was colonising the land.  The latter is more useful, as it results in three-digit numbers rather than four, as we don’t have much evidence for what happened prior to the Ediacaran fauna emerging (they’re not called the Boring Billion for nothing…)  However, I’ve adopted the former here so that the dates can line up with European history to make conceptualiseing the events easier, at least for me. By happy coincidence, 1000 MYA is also when Bicellum first appears, which might just be the earliest evidence we have of animals evolving away from algae…

Note that all dates prior to the Cambrian are tentative and likely to change in the future.  Just when the animal phylums diverged is unclear as there are very few fossils, and rely on DNA analysis and molecular clocks.  Furthermore, the current estimated dates may be a few years different from their historical counterparts for the sake convenience (for example, some think that algae first poked its head out of the water as early as 1200 MYA).  Come on, this is a poem, not a textbook !

Trad.

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Trad.

Strange, the oldest folk tunes have no authors known,
They’ve just been sung like that forever.
I wonder if a single soul created them,
Or many voices altogether.
Maybe over centuries, they’ve slowly grown,
Adding new words to old songs,
From bawdy balladry, through cherished hymn,
To terrace singalongs.

From London Bridge to Scarborough Fair,
Ride a cock horse to the old grey mare,
Lady Greensleeves, mistress mine,
And over the hills for auld lang syne.
We’ll never know, we’re never told –
They are too old and we’re too young –
Yet still their songs are sung.

Strange, the newest pop tunes come with artist names –
We know just who created each.
Yet maybe in a thousand years, a few persist
Whose origins are out of reach.
Carols may be sung to them, or children’s’ games,
Or earworms and lullabyes –
With half the words forgotten, and their meaning missed,
But hanging on in diff’rent guise.

From Ground Control to Billie Jean,
Go Johnny, go, come on Eileen.
All the lonely yesterday –
Sing for tomorrow, we fade to grey.
They’ll never know, the trail is cold –
We are too old and still of tongue –
Yet still our songs are sung.

Treasure Trove

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Treasure Trove

Hoards of coins in shallow graves,
Unlawful death of wealth –
An inquest must be called
To let the gold announce itself.
The coroner shall ascertain
The trove’s identity,
And whether misadventure
Caused its current liberty.
Was it witness to a conflict ?
Was it lost or laid to rest ?
Do we need an autopsy
To open up its chest ?
It seems at odds with all their other tasks,
It must be said –
But it surely makes a pleasant change
From dealing in the dead.

Turbo

Turbo petholatus by Wikipedia

Turbo

I wonder if Carl Linnaeus smiled
As he coined a name for a water-snail
As if a windmill in a gale.
Perhaps the twist of its shell beguiled,
But given its lack of energy,
He must have seen the irony ?

Forever dubbed forever more
By a name befitting of cavaliers
To a bug with neither joints nor gears –
In the age of steam, as the turbines roar,
What did they think of their silent whirlwind,
Forever failing to twirl and spin ?

But maybe our Carl was being sublime ?
As cyclones on their well-greased heels,
Like plugholes, perhaps, or waterwheels,
But they did so in their own sweet time –
Forever in motion, the will that drives,
Revolving their shells throughout their lives.

Perhaps Carl was thinking of the popular hobby of snail racing ?

Surplus Women

For King & Country by Edward Skinner

Surplus Women

We cheered them off, that September,
So sure in their duty,
As we were in ours, you see.
We loved them enough, I remember,
To want them to keep-in alright
With the powers-that-be.
We held the fort, as contenders,
But only until they returned,
As surely they would, we trust.
Be a good sport, I remember,
Assisting to sister the brotherhood,
Because we could, and must.

They’re most of them gone these days, ho-hum,
Except the old and lame and mad –
Though not their fault who goes and stays,
All families are missing a brother or dad.
It’s lonely for the strays that we’ve become –
And guilty to be so secretly glad.
Gas fitters, brick layers,
Tram drivers, football players –
Our handiwork is at the root
Of ev’ry batch of shells the soldiers shoot.

We filled the schools, as pretenders,
And the factories too,
And the pubs and the shops, we hear.
We held their tools, I remember,
And lived their jobs, and drove their trams,
And tended their crops, all year.
We proved our worth, our gender,
As we waited for news
That the end was upon us, at last.
To give back each berth, I remember –
Was joy for their coming,
And dread that our honours had passed.

But what if so few of them come back to check-in ?
What will we do then, without their call ?
We’ll manage, of course, we’ll soon get the knack,
We’ll, some of us, have an absolute ball –
But what if they never retrack, d’you reckon ?
What if this freedom’s our absolute all ?
Slowly thriving with aplomb,
While gaining votes and singledom –
We’ve come at last to claim our due
Now that there’s far far more of us than you.

Missing Keepsakes

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Missing Keepsakes

“Upto 2000 artefacts are believed to have been stolen from the British Museum over the last ten years.”

– Curator’s Quarterly

Five-odd million artefacts,
Or maybe twice as many,
Filling dusty drawers and racks,
From Hull to Abergavenny.
Boxed-up, stacked-up, locked-up long,
With rusty coins and broken gems,
And set by law to house this throng,
Without the funds to open them.

Blame the politicians,
Blame the thieves,
Blame management as lax –
But never blame the public who believes
In paying less of tax.
But no-one ever thanks us for
The treasures we preserve,
That otherwise get lost to war,
Or buried in the earth.

Plenty on the left have sneered
At colonial comeuppance
While others on the right have cheered
At wokeness not worth tuppence.
And both have kicked the workers
Who are overworked and underpaid,
Because we’re just the lurkers
In the basement, in the way.

They never cared before,
Enough to fund the work they left to spoil –
And still they will not thank us for
Our centuries of toil.
It’s others source the objects,
We just clean, and log, and save –
And that takes funds, and takes respect,
And a culture well-behaved.

Those Two Impostors

Out of the Square by Cesar Santos

Those Two Impostors

So there I was, a Son of Martha,
Making my way in the world.
I knew that I could keep my head
’Gainst any Brown Bess girl.

But that was ere I met my match
With Triumph and Disaster –
A pair of Ladies of Many Dreams
As clever as Aggie de Castrer.

They played my heart for pitch & toss,
With a swish of skirt in the dew –
With broken dinner knives, they dug,
To plant their roses blue.

Why did I go with the grey widow-maker
Upon my young-man’s feet ?
Oh, how I wish I’d walked by myself,
Where never the twain shall meet.

But I shall hang from the highest hill
On the road to Mandalay.
How far is St Helena now
From a lonely shilling-a-day ?

But no – don’t deal in lies –
For if a dog has torn my heart,
As it’s moving up and down again,
It’s just because I gladly played my part.

Don’t let cold iron be my master
While the gentlemen go by –
For the female of the species
Is a better man than I.

Brook Street Jam

Brook Street Jam

A statue of two men – one plays a harpsichord,
The other one leans as he noodles a guitar.
His lead, I notice, is plugged-into the keyboard,
His fingers on the neck in a c-sharp bar.
Two blokes lost in the moment, forever –
George with his collar loosened at the throat,
With multiple strings of borrowed beads,
And his arms pulled-out from the sleeves of his coat.
Jimi, meanwhile, has hitched-up his kaftan on one side,
To access the pocket of his jeans –
With a periwig perched atop his wild hair,
And purple boots (though the colour can’t be seen).
A little-bit larger than life-size, of course,
But with no cordon or pedestal here –
So easy, so pleasing, to reach out and touch them –
The impossible past has never felt so near !
The people like to pose and the pigeons like to perch,
And the verdigris and lichen are a psychedelic stain.
No plaque or explanation – we know who they are,
As they’re basked in the sun and they’re washed in the rain.
Their eyes are open, but surely unseeing,
Pointing at the keys or looking at the sky –
Communing with their muse, as if she is their singer,
To an audience of shoppers who hurry on by.
One wonders what they might ever have talked about,
Between the numbers, on languid nights –
With George very much the establishment man,
And Jimi outspoken on civil rights.
From diff’rent eras and diff’rent generations,
Baroque versus blues – yet they’re finding a way –
The statue, of course, is eternally silent,
And leaves it to the viewer to hear what they play.

In truth, Jimi only lived in the flat three months, but it’s still tempting to wonder what they might have said if a mixture of time travel and hallucinogens had brought them together. Both immigrants, both musicians, but there the comparisons pretty much end. Yet sometimes, it’s worth finding some common ground for the sake of a good tune...

A.I. Housman

Threshold by Matt Dixon

A.I. Housman

Oh, that were I a-one to live
To witness steam alive with thought –
So pleased with all the help they’ll give,
And in return they’ll ask for naught.

How clever might this new world be,
When engines have production’s means ?
Will there still be a place for me
When rhyme is written by machines ?

But how can pistons dream of Spring,
Or iron flywheels turn a phrase ?
What ballads shall the whistles sing ?
Upon what sights shall eye-bolts gaze ?

And yet…and yet, the future has
Eternity to get things right –
Today is cloudy still – whereas,
Tomorrow shall be clear and bright.

The poetry of rod and gear
May yet come into ev’ry home.
But let them come – I do not fear
Another writer – flesh or chrome !

I’d shake my metal colleague’s hand –
Though I am years too soon, alack !
Yet one day, when they understand,
I hope they’ll smile, and greet me back.

The Bootymen’s Air

Beneath the Waves – Garden of Buried Hopes by Nightblue-Art

The Bootymen’s Air

There is, it’s said, a pirate ship
That haunts the Caribbean.
Or does she sail the Orient,
Or pilot the Aegean ?
Was ever there a stranger craft
On which men went to sea on ?

No-one seems to know her name,
For all she rides the swell.
Some say she’s The Banshee,
Some The Siren, some The Belle,
Perhaps there’s plenty meet with her,
But none who live to tell.

Yet one fact all agree on,
Is you hear her when she nears,
By a slow and lonely singing
That the ozone brings our ears –
And a world away from the racket
Of the usual pirate jeers.

They claim that it’s her figurehead
Who keens upon the waves –
That is, it is the ship herself
And not her crew of knaves,
As she bares down on the helpless souls
And sings them to their graves.

But eerier yet, her voice, they say,
Will echo off the sea,
And bounce upon the clouds and back
While the breeze blows in her key,
She sounds from all directions,
And in perfect harmony.

So if you ever catch a snatch
Of ghostly murmurings,
And if your hold is full of coin
And fingers full of rings –
Then pray it’s just the whistling wind,
And not the ship who sings.