Is any sound more villagey Than the village pigeon‘s call ? But it’s now heard in the strangest places, Dawn to evenfall – With not a stile or thatch in sight, Atop the concrete wall, We get a hit of rural life Within the urban sprawl.
For even in the suburbs, in those tryhard-hamlets, Right on cue, The woods have flocked to join the rocks And brought along their coo. I wonder who now occupies their trees, Where up they grew ? Who next with wanderlust ? The city swine ? The urban ewe ?
Of course, their feral pigeons Have since long since paved the way – But their call is so disorderly And mumbled night and day. But how the chest of a country lad must swell In the urban grey, When a wood is proudly hooting And she has a lot to say !
Once, all this was fields, Before the semis and the lawns – But their ghost still haunts the verges Where the stinging nettle spawns, The brambles form a makeshift hedge, The foxes keep the rabbits clear, And the accidental barley waits For the fresh suburban beer.
Once, all this was pasture, Till the Guinea pigs replaced the sheep – Yet deer still nibble round the edge, And moles have penetrated deep. The thistles form a pop-up wood, The owls invade the lean-to shed, And the reawakened barley waits For the local deli’s bread.
This straggly mess looks more like the cultivated variety’s disreputable cousin, Wall Barley. But even this is now being used as a food, and what can be more artisanal than that ?
The lib’ries of my childhood mind Were dark and ancient rooms, Where vaults of pages whispered In their literary tombs, And candlelights cast shadows In the labyrinth of glooms, As the monks, all dressed in brown, Chained their precious volumes down.
The lib’ries of my childhood days Were dull and grimly quaint, Where silence wasn’t reverence But boredom and restraint, With long, prosaic rows of spines With no allure or taint, As the staff, all dressed in beige, Locked away each racy page.
The lib’ries of my adulthood Are not as deeply hewn – They aren’t a gothic paradise Or brutalist cocoon, But just an easy place to spend A rainy afternoon, As the books, all dressed in white, Spread their words by stealth & sleight.
Ev’ryone clockwise, round and about – By habit we orbit, by gravity bound, As we veer to the left and we slowly drift out – Ev’ryone clockwise round.
Flow with the currents and circle the mound – Which is home to whatever can reach it and sprout, With its jetsoms of hubcaps, since long run aground. The rest – in the tarmac they’ve drowned.
These rivers of traffic are never in drought, All whirled to the edge till an exit is found, Where others flow-in and forever, no doubt – Ev’ryone clockwise round.
My attempt at a roundel – but I felt there was a line missing in the second verse so I revolutionised it.
My folks were full of the fear of God, And full of His holy gravity. Music, and dancing, were frivolous wastes And bywords for depravity. And birthdays passed with nary a mention So’s not to lead our thoughts astray – But I was still the lucky one, For I was born on Christmas Day.
I was born in the dark of Winter, In the midst of an Almighty freeze Too far North for much of the sun, Too bleak for that many trees. But ev’ry year, the town would string up lights As if to lead my way, And hope that it might snow for me – For I was born on Christmas Day.
Ev’rybody wore a smile, And nobody wore grey – Ev’rything was done with style, Right through to Hogmanay ! And my fav’rite animal, the deer, Was ev’rywhere, with a sleigh ! How much I loved this time of year, To be born on Christmas Day !
I was born in ignorance, And thought all this must be for me – The whole of the town would celebrate That time I changed from two to three, They cheered some more when I turned four, At five and six, they cried hooray – My parents couldn’t stop it all, For I was born on Christmas Day.
They may not have given me presents, But they gave me the greatest gift on Earth – I used to think how lucky Jesus was To coincide my birth. And piously, I’d thank the Lord For far more joy than words can say. And so I grew up loving life – For I was born on Christmas Day.
The choirs would sing, The bands would play, The bells would ring, The shops display, And all the world felt good and near, In one long cabaret – How much I love this time of year, To be born on Christmas Day !
Like other kids with Santa, though, We all must learn the truth – I gradu’ly became aware, As I slowly left my youth. But nonetheless, I didn’t mind, There was no shame to pay – They never could take the glow from me, For I was born on Christmas Day.
I was born in happiness, Despite attempts to tamp it down – And I got to cast my birthday wish To spread my joy throughout the town. I stopped believing in the end in Christ, But that’s okay – Cos I still believe I must be blessed, For I was born on Christmas Day.
And yes, the lights still shine, And yes, the drinks still sway, And still the robins pine, And still the reindeer bray, And I wish my parents well, despite, Their lack of festive fray – Let all the world join-in tonight, To be born on Christmas Day !
So, what’s this title about ? Well…
In 1935, Clayton Woodworth proposed a new calendar. He was a prominent Jehovah’s Witness and editor of The Golden Age magazine for the faithful, and he considered the Gregorian calendar to be irredeemably Pagan. His scheme was laid out in his publication, and it received tacit official approval by the inclusion of a ‘trailer’ in the 1935 Watchtower Yearbook. It introduced a whole new method, with new names for the days of the week, and new lunar months that began their year from the the first New Moon after the Spring Equinox. An example is shown below the Year of Ransom.
The important part for us is that the first New Moon will fall between March 20th for the rare occasions the Equinox falls on March 19th) to April 20th (if the Equinox is on March 21st). This will result in months of either 29 or 30 days, with a thirteenth month of ‘Sanctuary’ being required every two or three years.
Thus, the tenth month could begin anywhen between the 10th of December and the 10th of January…
It’s not surprising that the JW leadership appear to have quickly soured on the idea, but it’s also fascinating to wonder what it would be like had they persisted. In particular, I wonder if part of the appeal was to dislocated the calendar from the Gregorian, so that any given date of the latter would fluctuate upto a month on the new one – making keeping track of those nasty secular dates and birthdays and public holidays that much trickier, (not to mention all of those specific AD-years when the world failed to end…)
Parking ticket winging its way to Mr C. Gull by Craig A Rodway
Red-Herring Gulls
The sudden shriek of a seagull Takes me back to the ozone, back to the seaside – To those Summers of sand and Ninety-Nines, Where the fish is fresh and the Sun still shines. From ever since I was knee-high, Be it Morcambe, Cromer, or Ryde. The seagulls were my holiday guide.
But these days, the seagulls are ev’rywhere, Yes, even in Winter, even in the bleak – When gloomy days in gloomy suburbs See dozens pecking kebabs from the kerbs, With ev’ry beak in a mocking shriek. Well, go ahead, gulls – for a second there I was back on the prom without a care.
Quick, down here ! Over there ! Are they near ? They’re ev’rywhere ! You take one way, I’ll go this – Meet you Monday, Hit-or-miss. Best not dally, Shake your feet – Up the alley, ’Cross the street – Don’t stop now ! Pick up the pace – I’ll see you, somehow, Usual place.
I live in the suburbs In a box made of ticky-tacky – It’s small and it’s samey, And won no award. It’s not to conform, And it’s not to be strange or wacky, I live here because here Is all I can afford.
I grew up around here, Then I went to the university And I came out with a large debt And I found my first job. And it paid not a lot, Except for in uncertainty, So I tried for a mortgage For a key on a fob.
There’s a Barratt, there’s a Redrow There’s a Wimpey, there’s a Jubilee. Where’s the woodland, where’s the meadow ? Oh, please don’t ask me.
Alas, all they sold me Was a box made of ticky-tacky, But it’s dry and it’s plumbed-in, If no pleasure-dome. I raised up my children And worked as a gopher-lacky, Trying to get by And make it a home.
So spare me your distaste How I went to the university – And spare me your prejudice Of me and my peers. I don’t have your millions Or a co-operative nursery, Yet I struggled and I made it Despite all your sneers.
Blame the council, blame the builder, Blame the bubble, blame the rising-sea. If it all seems out of kilter, Then please don’t blame me.
Street trees, lining suburban streets From Wandsworth to Walthamstow. Planes, of course, and sycamores, Wherever the middle-class grow. Full of rustles, full of tweets, From Hackney to Acton Town, To shade the cars and the corner stores Till the council trim them down.
Street trees, lining suburban streets From Kidbrooke to Cricklewood With tear-off strips and missing cats In a vertical neighbourhood. Full of squirrels and parakeets From Hampton to Harringay Then shed their leaves on the garden flats Till the council sweep them away.
Ship rat, far from sea, Beached upon the pavement. You do not twitch, you do not flee, So why do you sit so still for me ? You’re not too fat, you’re not too thin, You’re not held in enslavement – And yet you crouch beside the bin, And gently tremble in your skin.
Brown rat, are you asleep ? You chose an awkward bed, friend. Have you nowhere else to creep Than on the tarmac in a heap ? Fox or cat will find you prone, And that will surely be your end. Perhaps you’re dying, all alone, Just waiting for your final groan.
Rhyming Couplets 