There came then Wise Men from the East Unto a stable by an inn, And there amid each lowing beast Were sheltered weary folk within – For knelt beside a feeding trough A man and woman vigil kept, As on the hay and woollen cloth A baby lay and softly slept. The elder Magus then addressed The object of their noble quest – Whose sleep was peaceful as the blessed – And unabashed, the old man wept –
“Behold, sweet babe ! There in your cot The future of mankind is held – For you are ev’ry chance we’ve got, With ev’ry hope and fear excelled. We begged the heavens for a sign, And with your birth the gods have smiled – Yet not for any charms divine, But virtues many, unbeguiled. Now all who look upon you see The future of humanity – More precious than a deity, Is each belovèd human child.”
Put away the tinsel and put on a sober tie, It’s time to all resume the working world – Another year has started, another passed us by, So it’s onwards to the future with a brand-new hue-and-cry (While already planning holidays to sunshine in July) And so into the cauldron we are swirled. On the 7:22 with the paper on our thigh, Or page 1 of the diary, with a hope or with a sigh, There’s no escaping progress – tomorrow’s never shy – And so into the New Year we are hurled.
I spy…well bless my eye, A comet shot across the sky. Is this a sign ? For good or bad ? Is this how God would toast the lad ? I know what doubters say: That comets happen anyway.
I spy…well how ’bout this: Two planets close enough to kiss. And sure they’re bright…but bright enough ? Is that how God announces stuff ? I know how doubters mock: Conjunctions happen by the clock.
I spy…hang on…alright, A supernova bursting bright ! Now those are rare, so what’s that worth ? And yet…A death to hail a birth ? I know how doubters sneer: These things take months to disappear.
I spy…well here’s some more: A nova ? Or a meteor ? I guess…but not the clearest clue – Is this the best that God can do ? I know the doubters’ line: Why not just magic up the sign ?
I spy…I know, I know… A pagan myth that steals the show, When ev’ry ancient hero born Was heralded before the morn. I know what doubters see: That stars are stars, so let them be.
One more tot and then I’ll start – My pen’s uncapped and primed, Indeed it’s been that way all afternoon. I know my almanac by heart, With beats precisely timed And metric feet to dance to ev’ry tune. It lays it out by grid and chart Of syllables that chime, By trochees by the phases of the Moon. But writing’s such a thirsty art, Especially when it’s rhymed – But one more tot and I’ll be starting soon.
There is time to be festive And time to be restive, A time for a breather From excess and fun. Janu’ry’s time is busy and new, For getting to do what we should have got done.
There is time for the goblins, And squirrels and robins, A time for Orion And waiting for snow. Janu’ry’s time is starry and dark – The weather is stark and the sun is hung low.
There is time to prepare For the snowdrop and hare – It’s time to plant onions And harvest the swedes. Janu’ry’s time is whitened and browned, Spent prepping the ground and in sowing the seeds
There is time for mysterious, Time for the serious, Time to be golden, And time to be grey. Janu’ry’s time is the sober and young, For getting things done in the short Winter day.
A mural of the Cardo in Jerusalem. Since the street was laid out in Hadrian’s rebuilding of the city in the HE 10130s, it’s a bit late for the poem but you get the idea. Alas, I have been unable to find out who the artist is.
Before Year Zero
It is, they say, (or so it’s said), An Age of Wonder in our Time ! An Age of Peace and Plentitude, Of Reason and Sublime. A Pax Romana to us all, To all us tribes who lost the fight – As vassal states, we’re better fed, Than ever were through might ! Come, all Romans, and construct Your forum and your aqueduct ! And set us on the metalled road To ever greater heights ! So join our bacchanalia, From Galilee to Greece to Gaul. And merry Saturnalia to all !
We may not yet be perfect, true, But hey, we’ve made a cracking start – We’re all philosophers, these days, We’re lovers of the art. How civilised we have become, How better yet we’ll grow to be: Two thousand years of peace shall flow, Where all mankind is free ! We’ve gods to spare, we’ve gods galore, And ev’ry tribe will bring some more – And best of all, they’re kept at bay, To serve humanity. So join our bacchanalia And never mind the zealot’s call. And merry Saturnalia to all !
I am fully aware that our stupidly stupid backwards-counting chronology has no year zero, and I’ve decided I don’t give a toss. Of course, for those of us who prefer the decently-sensible Holocene Calendar, this poem should be called Before Year Ten-Thousand.
Hogwarts is a trade school – Its graduates are magic-wise, but culture-poor. Their basic maths and science tools Are lacking, from their focus on excessive lore. So who will pioneer the medicines ? It won’t be Harry. So who the next Brunels and Edisons ? Don’t look to Harry. And who will score the soundtracks to our lives ? Or teach us how to exercise, And thrust and parry ? Just who will study bees and save the hives ? Or write, exposing greed and lies ? Or help us marry ? Your world of Latin, nods, and shadows, Operates clandestinely – But will it save the climate ? Who knows ? We’ve no time to tarry. So who will help us muggles take control Of our own destiny ? And who will feed the intellectual soul That we all carry ? And who will tell me I can be Whatever I might wish to be ? No Sorting Hat’s the boss of me ! Hey, Harry ?
I find it bizarre that a self-confessed lefty wrote about a super-powered elite secretly running the world because the plebby muggles were incapable of doing it for themselves. And poor Harry, having to suffer growing up with those working class oiks until he was restored to his true destiny as the golden child.
A joke designed to make us wince, A tissue-paper hat that never fits – We’re all been brainwashed by them since, As wide-eyed kids, they awed us with their glitz. And don’t forget the plastic trinket, Maybe toyed with briefly, then ignored – But that’s the point, don’t overthink it, Quick nostalgia hit, and then we’re bored. A card tricks that has lost its label, Spinning tops who never get to spin, They sit forlornly on the table Till they’re swept up, heading for the bin. Let’s carbon-tax them all to hell – And call me Scrooge and Humbug all you wish, Or if you want to snub me, well, I guess just go play with your curly fish. Say what ? I ought to get a grip ? Alright !, I’ll help you pull one, dry your eyes. What’s this ? A giant paper clip ? Oh wow, I sit corrected – what a prize !
Who’s afraid of Jimmy Stewart ? Nobody, that’s who. Sometimes catty, sometimes moody, But he still comes through. And Gary Cooper isn’t bad, He’s just misunderstood – And John Wayne is a good old boy Who’s on the side of good. They may have had to play it rough Before they made their name, But once above the title Then they’re quite above all blame. So Cary Grant is Cary Grant – How could he be a thug ? And Frank Sinatra’s golden charm Will counter any drug. They may be hapless bandits, But we’re rooting for them still – They never do much real harm, They never shoot to kill. Henry Fonda is as steadfast As is David Niven suave – Not for them the sleezy gangster Or the commie Yugoslav. Until, at last, late in the day, Wanting credibility, They finally might play with fire And versatility. Their haloes have been hocked And their goody two-shoes put away – But too late, guys, too late, To find your feet in feet of clay. We longed to see your dark side shining through Throughout your height, Here and there, a sneer, a snare, An unpredicted fright – We watched, we hoped, for menace From an unexpected place, Or a cold and soulless stare Within a warm and handsome face. The poisoned glass of milk That did not sour by the end – The evil that men do lives on When done by leading men. Like seeing Peter Lorre, gentle, It’s the shock we need. Make ’em laugh and make ’em swoon – But sometime, make ’em bleed.
Actually, Peter Lorre did play a gentle and likeable character in The Mask of Dimitrios, and boy is it refreshing ! And surprisingly, Jimmy Stewart has played the bad guy three times, so best warn your spoils: firstly, pre fame, in After The Thin Man, and thirdly as by far the nicest of the outlaws in Bandolero. But it was his second trip to the dark side that was his best – as all round shit Alfred Kralik in The Shop Around The Corner. In it, he’s petty, vindictive, and physically abusived to a man he sacks for no other reason that he doesn’t like him – what a brillant portrail of a Tory !
Now whether Jesus was or not, There surely were an infant lot Who could succumb to Herod’s plot: Their bodies drawn and quartered. But where was God to stay these brutes, And spare His people’s tender fruits, And never let His nation’s roots With newborn-blood be watered ? For what uncaring god divine Would only spare His royal line ? His Promised Land – incarnadine, His folk – unsoned, undaughtered. Rejoice ! The children never died, The massacre was not applied – The priests are wrong – the Bible lied: The innocents unslaughtered.
Rhyming Couplets 