Working abroad in the Eighties, Those were strange December days – When the office was open as usual, And the Sun beat down in a haze. But a few of us Johnny Foreigners Exchanged a card and a smile – With a token string of tinsel about our desks, For the extra mile. We offered round choc’lates to hesitant colleagues And kept stopping work for a chat. Someone must have produced a cracker, For they wore a paper hat. We would have shared a tot or two, As we briefly engaged in hugs – Though booze was out of the question, of course, So we chinked our coffee mugs. The world was becoming more American, More awareness year-by-year – And so each time, another trapping of the season Would appear. We’d phone our fam’lies later, not yet, As the locals were called to pray – But we hummed a carol in the long afternoon, As the town got on with its day.
I asked AI for impressionistic carollers, but they just look blotchy…
The Lantern Carol
There may have been snow, There were surely scarves, As they stood on the corner Beneath the stars. They may have had sheets, But they knew the words – And the harmonies That they sang in thirds. And we hurried on by, But we heard their songs – The old familiar Sing-it-alongs. In a pool of light, They played their role – Under the lantern Hung on a pole.
And their breath was hung With the notes they sung, As a frosty white, By the lantern’s swaying light.
There may have been snow, There were surely mitts, As they stood on the corner Singing the Ritz. They may have had sheets, But they knew the text, And no hesitation On which comes next. And we hurried on by, But we heard their cheer – The old familiar End-of-the-year. In a pool of light, Their heart and soul – Under the lantern Hung on a pole.
And their breath was warm With the notes they form, In the inky night By the lantern’s only light.
Here’s to a lively, theatric season, Where we all act nice and play along At ev’ry gathering we can squeeze-in – Any excuse for a drink and song…! We seem to arrive before we’re asked, With a crowd to help us deck the halls – We enter late, them we stay till last, In a round of endless curtain calls.
A gift is not just a gift, It’s an obligation – A debt that I must repay. Sometimes it’s such a lift, A celebration – But those are rare, I’d say.
More like, it’s a piece of tat, Or something that I own, Or something that’s not my style. But I’ll never admit to that, Won’t snark or groan – Just thank you and smile.
I wrack my brains for a list, And I put off buying, So’s to have empty shelves. And then half of you insist On cheekily trying To choose for yourselves.
My asks are given short shrift, When I eye up your label With the sparkly font – Behind it, I know there’s a gift That will try to cable What I ought to want.
The shops begin at Halloween, The orange swapped for red and green, The lights and tinsel far too keen, The cakes too full of plumbs. But I just shrug at so much cheese While leaves remain upon the trees, And don’t succumb to the disease Till the week that Christmas comes.
The radio will cast its spells With earworms full of tinkling bells – But I tune-out their jolly hells For heavy metal drums. My headphones shall see much employ To block all crooning for the Boy – At least, until I join the joy In the week that Christmas comes.
There’s not a spruce within my croft, The baubles still sit up the loft – And there they’ll stay till Autumn’s doffed, And robins scrap for crumbs. You’ll find no streamers round my walls, No mistletoe or choc’late balls – Until, that is, I deck the halls For the week that Christmas comes.
And when the shortest day is looming, So my bonhomie starts booming – Time to plan what to consume In a spread as good as Mum’s. But there’s only so much I can take, Before the shine begins to flake – I must delay, or else I’ll break By the week that Christmas comes.
Herry Christmas, AI, from some of the reddest redbreasts I’ve ever seen.
Never Three on a Card
Every Christmas, I get a warm glow From a handful of cards with the robins’ hello – They’re sometimes alone, and they’re sometimes a pair, But a third one is nowhere – cos as we all know A flock of the robins is strictly no-go. But what is this latest the postladies bear ? One robin, two robins, three robins…? Whoa…! But how can the senders so brazenly dare ?, Depicting the moment before the first blow – As the beak and the claw will leave no love to spare, As they battle to mate and to overthrow. But no ! They swear they’ve taken care To only show what’s really there. In Winter, it seems, the robins bestow A happier temper, content to share – For outside of breeding, they treat all fair, And frolic together in goodwill and snow.
Thank goodness AI has far more imagination and originality than HAL…
A Space Ploddyssey
As Kubrick prophesised When the ape-men went exploring – Space is vast, and time is slow, And the future will be boring. Red suited, black oblonged, Very very small – Man is dumb when met by wonder, Stanley most of all.
The first three minutes of the movie are a black screen. I’ve heard this described as the ‘overture’, a not-unknown feature of big blockbusters in the Sixties. Thinking about it, this moment does indeed pull together all of the tedium scattered through the film into one masterpiece of Cageian vacuum…
More seriously, there is the interview between the BBC and Frank and I’m-Sorry-Dave. It takes seven minutes for each transmission to travel one way, so the crew give their answer, and have to wait fourteen minutes until they get their reply (plus the time to record the reply, unless it’s being streamed live). Shouldn’t we next see them looking as if they had actually got up and done stuff in those fourteen minutes, rather than look as if we rejoin them five seconds later ? The fact that the film prioritises the suggestion that they are so dull they would happily remain sat in silence than have any moments of – human interaction, work, getting a drink, their hair getting a bit mussed-up, even unintentionally swapping places – says everything about why this film and I can never be friends.
The dragons flew to the village When the glaciers receeded. Before the humans came to found the village In the hills They all moved up the valley As the valley slowly heated – A conflict scratched by ancient claws And knapped by stone-age skills.
The dragons lived on cliff-tops, Where they found the up-draughts bracing, And yet up here upon the fells, the scarp Was ev’ry bit as steep The humans sought the uplands For protection and for grazing, With their wooded winding valleys And their moorlands full of sheep.
But the dragons had a taste for mutton, Raiding flocks and rustling folds – While the humans found the lizards rich, And slow when on their shanks. So they hunted ev’ry dragon That came sniffing round their barren holds, And they feasted on their breastmeat And they tanned their wings and flanks.
But down in the valley woodlands, Where the dragons couldn’t grace, So the tribes would coppice trees for fuel, As soon as the saplings bend. But the deer were a constant nuisance As they trampled through the place, And they nibbled the shoots at liberty, Refusing to be penned.
But Evolution played her hand, Ten thousand years or more, As she favoured drakes who favoured deer, Whose does were scarce in dearth. And the humans were quite happy If they thinned the herds a score, And all stayed-away from pastures And gave folks a wider berth.
So into the flightless forests they came, Where the trees would crowd the sky, And they stalked the stags upon all-fours, Or scampered up a tree. And their back legs grew more sturdy With a pouncing, kicking thigh, And their wings were less-times called-upon Beneath the canopy.
Yes, they still would glide above the valley, Though they rarely soared, As they rode upon the thermals And they roosted on the scarp. Their flaplings, once they’d left the nest Would gather in a horde, And would chase the rodents round the barns To keep their talons sharp.
The farmers even reckoned They had not the strength to leave, Now their flying was more like that of a hen Than of a lark. Good enough to get them airborne, Good enough to catch the breeze, But no good for migrating Once the days were getting dark.
Neither side were loners, In their small communities, As they looked-after their own, And yet would not harass the strays. And they’d sometimes come-together In those opportunities For the curious on both sides To regard their neighbours’ ways.
So by the Middle Ages, They had reached a careful dance, Where the humans let them hunt for rats and deer, By nature’s law. And yes, the windows in the church Showed George’s famous stance, Yet those self-same beasts proved lucrative When pilgrims watched in awe.
Chilly, but still not frosty, Gloomy, but still not snug – The first door may be open, But we’ve yet to feel the tug. Oh sure, the shops accost us, But the season’s still a trudge, And the choc’late that we’re hoping for Is still a plain old fudge.
The first door that we entered Is still twenty-three away – There’s three weeks and-a-bit to go Before the final day. Yet her image is surrendered, And her countdown has begun – Though there’s precious little chance of snow, Just a gen’ral lack of sun.
Yet the double doors are looming As we open each one new – And ev’ry day, another string of lights Slips into view. The month is slowly blooming As the windows open wide – And once they’ve all revealed their sights, There’s nowhere left to hide.
Rhyming Couplets 