Sometimes, no matter how hard I try To pay attention to the little things That happen anyway, Sometimes, it seems, I simply can’t apply My wayward focus to the nuts and springs Of yet another day: I stare into my screen as numbers fly – The day-long daydreams dream, the maybes sing, The permutations run… I couldn’t tell you how or when or why, But even as the tangents loop and swing, So still the work gets done. I’m barely here, but still my seeing eyes And typing fingers track and dart and ping Throughout each random trance. My mouth is talking – am I telling lies ? I couldn’t say, I wasn’t listening… But oh, how the dust motes dance !
Catherine, Ketevan, Caitlin and Kate. They’re level and sensible, seemly and straight. They know how to work and they know how to wait, Do Catherine, Katharine, Kitty and Kate.
I must have met dozens In neighbours and cousins, And every one is an Empire State. They’re clear and collected, With diction perfected, All thoroughly practical, thoroughly Kate.
I’ve always thought Catherines seem so contented So frankly presented, So fresh and undented. Now Kates may seem dashful, or rash or unruly, But deep down, all Kates are still Catherines truly.
Karen and Cathy and Katya and Kate, They’re never the Average, always the Great. Never Unready, or Reckless, or Late Are Catherine, Katharine, Kitty and Kate,
Steadfast and sisterly, All throughout history Buttoned and booted and striding their gait. Laying down winter fruits, Backbones of institutes, Anyone getting things done is a Kate.
I’ve always thought ‘Catherine’ sounds so dependable, Calm and commendable, Never up-endable. ‘Kate’ sounds diminished, unfinished, and merely, But secretly Kates are still Catherines really.
Trine, Catrina, Kalena and Kate, They’re Hekate’s daughters, and carry her trait. They’re masters of fortune, not victims of fate, Are Lina and Ina and Cathleen and Kate, With K or with C, With a hard or soft T, They’re Catherine, Katharine, Kitty and Kate.
Oh, hello Miss, I think I might know you… But no, I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s so… And yet, I’m sure…I feel like I do… But, please, forgive me, It’s just you remind me of someone… Of someone… But please, bear with me, I may seem undone, but that is because My memory’s iffy, it’s not what it was.
Oh, by the way, my name is Derek, Just so you know. I say, can I buy you a drink ? This place is so atmospheric, Let’s not up-and-go. Though strange, why haven’t I been here before ? And yet, that smile from the man on the door… And his friendly wink… But never mind that, I’m being a bore ! I say, this bar is atmospheric ! A cut above the old generic Oh, by the way, my name is Derek We haven’t met, I think…
Ah, here’s a waiter – can I buy you a tipple ? No, I insist, so let’s make it a triple. But wait, he has a bottle to hand… Is that for us ? I don’t understand..? Why yes, that is my favourite wine, But how did you know..? The lady, you say ? Why, thank you, Miss ! The pleasure is mine, Though how did you guess that I’m chardonnay ? Well, cheers, I’ll get to know you yet ! Derek’s the name, I don’t think we’ve met…
And you are..? Ruth ? Oh, that’s so pretty ! To tell the truth, I’ve always loved that name. Back in my youth, back in the city, I used to date this gorgeous dame – She was a Ruth, A Ruth like you, as it were. And cute to boot, the kind I prefer… And smart, by streuth !, with eyes aflame… I wonder what became of her..?
Another glass ? Oh, let me pour. I know I must be such a bore But talking to you feels so sure… But there I go again… You listen to me so attentive, Lord alone knows your incentive… Please, just hush this old gent if he gets to be a pain. Why, thank you, that was kind to say, But no, my waffling is unwise – You hide it well, yet still display, A certain sadness round your eyes… Well hey, this tastes like chardonnay ! Well, that’s a nice surprise !
I’m Derek, by the way, we haven’t met, And more’s the pity ! If I may say, a face like yours is not one to forget ! Forgive me, miss, but may I ask your name ? Oh, Ruth‘s so pretty ! And easy to remember, as my good wife shares your claim ! And just like you, she’s smart and kind and witty, With eyes a little sad – and yours the same… But there I go again, I bet, just droning-on all day… I don’t believe we’ve ever met. I’m Derek, by the way.
This was inspired by a short story called Saturday will be a Little Late this Week by Derek Edwards, a friend I used to attend the same writing workshop as. Hence the Derek in the poem, though it’s not supposed to be him. I should mention that the narrator is speaking to the same woman throughout.
Can I just say that I hate myself for including the accents on ‘deja’. I mean, they look great as decoration, but the phrase is English now and we only use accents as furniture, or an excuse to sneer at those who leave them off. But they do look pretty…
Take your modern world away, We have no need for it at all. We grow our food in nature’s way, And she shall fill our barns come Fall. So drive your cars and tractors hence, We have no fuel to fill their tanks. Our horses make a lot of sense, And need no complicated cranks.
My friends, you wish for isolation, That is clear: You shun all outside integration, Shun its news and stimulation, Make your parishes your nation Year on year. But when you lose the progress spark It always leads to Ages Dark – You long to gag and leave behind The sharp and seeking human mind, All out of fear.
And whence will come the steel and clay That won’t be found within your chalk ? When all your ploughshares rust away, I hope it’s not too late to talk. I guess your way, I guess your way must heaven seem When Summer days are all a dream, But our advance, But our advances must prevail When Winters bite and harvests fail.
For if you doubt our modern age, Then do not shun us, but engage ! And if you have a better way, Then spread the word and save the day ! Don’t mutter to yourselves with glee “Oh Lord, what fools these mortals be !”
Your modern world will not be missed – We have our God and have our seers. We do not need your scientists, Your doctors or your engineers. We have some books, we have some plays, An old guitar or homemade fife – We paint and act and sing our days, And have no need for modern life.
My friends, you wish for simple pleasures, That is clear: Finding in your simple measures Honest tasks and homespun leisures. All bestowing rustic treasures Year on year. But shrugging off our salaries Will also lose our galleries, By shunning our committee fights, You lose our films and city lights, All out of fear.
And whence will come the medicine That won’t be found within your herbs ? Before the pestilence can win, Pray let your Eden be disturbed ! We’ll still be here, We’ll still be here by south and north, To take you back and bring you forth. So look for us, So look for us by east and west, If you should quit your priestly quest.
For if our modern world offends, Pray do not hope for dreams, my friends For fairies will not feed the poor, Nor kill the germs nor mine the ore. So grab the future, all she’s worth, And put a girdle round the Earth.
This is a little-remembered play of Priestleys, edging into science-fiction while at the same time imagining a rural idyll that rejects modernity, with plenty of references to A Midsummer Night’s Dream thrown in.
A Bunch of Elephants – Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
An Unnecessaryness of Collective Nouns
Some creatures are packs, Or are flocks, or are nyes, Or are schools, or are smacks, Or are swarms, or are cries. These names are but games, Be they clowders or clans – Unheeded, unneeded, In knots, knobs and spans.
So what are these words for all critters and birds, With their bands and their gangs and their cohorts and herds ? Just gaggles of banter and hunches, To pep up the huddles and bundles and bunches.
And such linguistic fizz is clearly more than farmers made, With ferrets by the business, And ponies by the marmalade.
Let no sneer of pedants All lather and quack “It’s army for red ants And scurry for black.” A mole-tain of hillocks, A cotton of wools, A bollocks of bullocks And bullshit of bulls.
Just who are these sods who are playing at gods With their troops and their squads and their plagues and their pods ? As if we might ever be caring To credit each cluster and quiver and glaring.
And so their meanings dwindle till the whole safari’s spent, With kittens by the kindle, And ravens by the parli’ment.
Most collective nouns were invented by the Victorians. It’s what they did.
Doctor, doctor, I’m losing it for sure – I need a hit of medicine, I’m begging for a cure – I’ll suffer any needle and I’ll swallow any pill, Just make it quick and do your schtick, I’m sick of feeling ill.
Squirt me full of salty water – mercy, how I parch ! Grind some powder in your mortar, even if it’s starch, Pop me full of sugar tablets, Give me lucky feet of rabbits, Give me anything, I’ll grab it. Health is on the march !
Doctor, doctor, my body’s playing tricks – I need a shot of remedy, I’m aching for a fix. I’ll dose on any tincture and I’ll slather any balm – Just take my pulse while I convulse, and never lose your calm.
Scrip me up a snake-oil tonic, trick me back to health – Humour me my case is chronic, medicate with stealth. Wear your lab-coat, reassure me, Use your stethoscope to lure me, Use your firm deep voice to cure me. Help me help myself.
Antimatter: it bugs me – It doesn’t feel likely, it doesn’t feel clean. But maybe it’s here and it hugs me, Maybe it’s here and will never been seen.
And it really doesn’t matter if I really don’t believe, Cos it doesn’t even know it, and it doesn’t even care – So it just goes on existing, with no thought to beg-my-leave. Unless, of course, it doesn’t – cos it isn’t even there.
I am the B in doubt and in womb, I am the G in gnostic and brougham, The P that’s in coup, and in pseudo and pneum-, The N there in autumn, the dumb L in Hulme, The W lurking in answer and whom, The E that is freeloading gaffe. And I am the H and the T in whistle, The K in knife and the C in scissel, The S in debris and the comma in this’ll, The F in lieutenant and laugh.
A poem about silent letters. Because spelling in English is always an adventure.
Since long before the Russians shook your walls, And ere the Prophet’s prophets spread his word, Or Alexander feasted in your halls And found you even fairer than he’d heard – Your golden domes upon your golden sand Have tempted men and kings since Darius. Who needs the Muses when we’ve Samarkand ? What would ye, Ladies ? It was ever thus !
I met a maiden from an ancient clan, Who held a gaze as old as Summertime, She traded finest silks by caravan Across the Steppes that only camels climb I should have bid her health, and gone my way, And never mind the henna on her hand, But no, I had to make excuse to stay – Men are unwise, and curiously planned.
She showed a little of her precious stock, The bolts she brought from China to Tashkent: She laid them out upon the desert rock, And stroked the fibres of the Orient. Countless caterpillars gave their lives for each, In patterns joyfully superfluous – Not that they care what moral they may teach: They have their dreams and do not think of us.
We spent the chilly night beneath their thread, As she unveiled the promise of the East – But come the dawn, her cloths-of-heaven bed, Like her, had fled – and I woke ached and creased. I wonder if, in dehydrated spunk, I’d summoned her mirage at my command – We Englishmen, when we get hatless-drunk, We take the golden road to Samarkand.
Two Ways to Samarkand
What wouldst thou, Flecker, it was ever thus – Readers are wise and rhythmically planned. They have their Road, so do not make a fuss. They think your Journey never really scanned.
This is a sort-of rondeau redoublé, except that the first verse whose lines then get repeated as the final lines of the others is missing, and wasn’t written by me, but by James Elroy Flecker in his famous(ish) The Golden Journey to Samerkand. From what I can gather, the poem appeared both ‘album length’ in a play, and cut down to a ‘single’ containing only the last part, both of which end with the four lines I’ve borrowed here. However, different references seem to say either ‘Golden Road’ or ‘Golden Journey’ in the last line, hence my second poem. ‘Darius’ is intended to be pronounced with the enphasis on the first syllable – I realise that some people place it on the second, but that just wrecks my rhythm. Incidentally, by ‘hatless-drunk’, I mean sunstroke.
Liar liar lyrebird, imitating ev’rything: Ev’ry chord and ev’ry word – nothing roared and nothing slurred. Never tire, lyrebird – add another to your role – Ev’ry song you ever sang, you stole.
Liar liar lyrebird, add another to your role: Ev’ry chord and ev’ry word – none ignored and none preferred. Never tire, lyrebird, imitating ev’rything – Ev’ry sound you ever heard, you sing.
Hymn of Mimicry
Mockingbirds mock, And the mocking-hens flock – But how do they know It’s a mocking-cock’s show ?
Two for one – the second poem is from a former verse of the first which never really fitted, and then the first one was substantially altered and out if had to go.
Rhyming Couplets 