Her ring finger bore a feldspar, And her next a polished flint, Her index bore the starry glint Of mica or calcite – whichever is bright. Her other hand was nothing but quartz – Citrine, rose and amethyst. While silicon zircons circled her wrist. She said she liked them because they were like her, Mirroring their wearer, Displaying her worth – Common, yet polished into something rarer, As cheap as dirt, yet the salt of the Earth.
A zircon is not the same as a cubic zirconium – the latter is zirconium dioxide (ZrO2), whereas the indestructible mineral is zirconium silicate (ZrSiO4).
Ever desperate to ward off the attention of Mr Block, I’ve again turned my pen to writing short verses appropriate to the titles of this year’s Inktober. And here they are, presented to you all week long…in November….
Never mind, the titles which demanded their itch be scratched are:
Poppies on dresses, poppies on golf-clubs, Poppies on penny-for-the-guys, Poppies on the grills of Beamers and V-Dubs, Poppies on Mowbury pies. Round-up refuseniks, I hate the lot, Let’s paint poppies on their doors – For the poppy is the sign of the patriot, And mine is bigger than yours.
It isn’t a frost – don’t fret, But it is a cold morning – Notice is given, we’d better take care, It’s merely the first of the nips in the air. It isn’t a frost – not yet, But it is a fair warning – It won’t come tomorrow or next week, it’s stating, But Autumn is old, and the Winter is waiting.
The clocks have changed, the dark has grown, The evenings have started early – Even as I leave the office, Day has gone and night is surly. Gloomy hordes of wrapped-up figures Cram onto my flood-lit train – It’s come at once, this blackening, As Winter leaps out once again. Trudging home from the lonely station, Beneath the unexpected stars That just last week were veiled in dusk – Orion’s back, and is that Mars ? It’ll only last a few days, this, Till early nights are nothing strange – It’s just the sudden shift, that’s all, When dark has grown and clocks have changed.
detail from Saint Peter in front of his eponymous basilica in the Vatican, sculpted by Adamo Tadolini
Mistress Blacklock
Throughout the gothic city-states, Secure with many doors and gates, The greatest craftsmen in the land Were those who crafted locks – Protecting life and property Behind the password of a key – And yet, with just a twist of hand It frees our hearths and stocks.
Thus, whereupon the plague is rife, The locals dread their very life, And conjured up a chatelaine To rattle in the night – A mistress dark and grimly tall With sturdy boots and sweeping shawl, And ring-bound keys upon a chain To lock the dead up tight.
Never in a hurry, she, Yet striding on determinedly – She visits those who’s fever runs As fast as runs their sands. No lock can bar her solemn deeds, For she has just the key she needs To reach all lovers, reach all sons – Where’er the fever lands.
The doors unlock, and slowly swing Upon the rogue and saint and king, And in she stalks with silent ease, And stoppable by none. She takes the ring about her waist And cycles, never in a haste, Through all her heavy iron keys To find the very one.
And that she lifts and points toward Her victim, all the rest ignored And presses to his chest her shaft That bloodless passes through. The fingers of her left discern The bow upon the shank, and turn As smoothly as the masters’ craft, Their workings, firm and true.
Her right she offers to he held By him, that fear may be dispelled – They say her bony, steady hands Are warmer than you’d think. And so his latches spring apart To free his soul and stop his heart – Her key withdraws from out his glands With just the faintest clink.
And with that, speaking not a word, And with no other neighbour stirred, The plague has been about its chores With not a jam or jolt. As through the busy, ailing towns She goes about her nightly rounds, Of dousing lights and shutting doors And drawing home the bolt.
detail from a 1700s German painting by, well, who knows ?
Thank-You and Goodnight
The End of the World should come on a Sunday, After a glorious night on the tiles – When we’re hungover with breakfast at noon, Then we’d welcome Apocalypse, fire and typhoon ! We’ve slogged all the week, so give us some fun, hey, Hold off the Hades till priests fill the aisles – Not with a Mardi, but Samedi Gras ! A season finale, and one last hurrah !
Does the Devil lurk at crossroads ? Doesn’t he have some place to go ? It’s a waypoint, not a terminus. But strum a guitar to the croaking toads And see if the Highway Lord will show – Or, failing that, the midnight bus.
Isn’t this where mediaeval priests Would bury the suicidal souls ? Is that why Satan’s such a fan ? But no undeads tonight, at least, Just jamming with the bats and moles, With not a trace of a bogeyman.
Of all the places to meet with fate, A junction seems a strange address – It sounds like the Devil’s lost his way. Whatever, the hour is getting late, With only the hedgehogs to impress – Time, perhaps, to call it a day.
These roads are just two country lanes, That even in daylight are pretty stark – The Devil has better things to do. Now, which way did I come, again ? All these paths look the same in the dark – Where’s the signpost ? Not a clue…
Old Zeus loved to dress as a bull, While Loki dragged-up as a mare – Pan would never be short of wool, And Bast had a head for feline flair.
Such tales from the priests and wassailers, Of shape-shifting changers Who scared dairymaids – For the Devil had all the best tailors, And demons were angels Who loved masquerades.
It used to be said that only the gods (And arthropods) Could metamorphosise – But humans watched, and wanted-in, To shed their skin For a cunning disguise.
And so came Hollywood, Wigs and prosthetics, And cosmetics enough to make Jezebel blush. Till even the fay never had it so good, And the witches spurned wands for our pencil and brush.
So we’re gloriously gothic and archly absurd, We’re casting a glamour To stammer the Word. And whether we’re devil or psycho or clown, We raise-up the dead for a night on the town.
And the gods all smile at how far we’ve run, As they don a new style to join in the fun.
For all they may claim that religious festivals of the dead are deeply serious and purely about honouring souls and lost relatives, or about warding-off dangerous evil spirits, never underestimate the subconscious human desire to dress-up and have a party.
Breathe deep, my dear, Fill your lungs With the vapour of the day – The hint of frost That pricks your throat, The faint tang of decay. Breathe, A little too rapidly – In with a stutter, Out with a rasp. Breathe deep, my dear, Breathe me in – The better to scream, The better to gasp. Or try to hold me in, Until your chest must heave Its own desire – For sooner, my dear, Or later, You know you must Expire.
Rhyming Couplets 