Sunday Best

hats to heaven

Sunday Best

Just what is it with trilbies and churches ?
Men must remove theirs, but women’s stay put.
Indeed, why does Paul say that women must cover ?
Is God so upset by each bare-headed mother ?
Men, shed your turbans !  Your masking besmirches !
At least He allows still a shoe on each foot !
(Though women are free from such moaning and wails
To sport wedding bonnets and funeral veils.)

Just what is it with stetsons and churches ?
We might as well dress-down in sackcloth and soots
Than decked-out in finery, mumbling our prayers,
While tutting at any bloke hiding his hairs.
Men, lose your skull-caps !  Such hattery lurches
To thinking you’re working upon your kibbutz –
For men who wear hats are not resters, but grafters –
So the Lord wants your locks flowing free to the rafters.

Just what is it with bowlers and churches ?
Men’s heads are open, but women’s are shut.
How much of an insult is headgear undoffed ?
Does God rage in Heaven at brims left aloft ?
Men, ditch your toupees !  Our scriptural researches
Show bald-pate Elisha is nobody’s butt !
Or do we use ‘etiquette’ as a hypocrisy ?
That doesn’t sound like good manners to me !

I hope the hatted women in church also keep silent throughout, just as 1st Cor 14:34 says to.

Power-to-Weight Cogitatio

i do like a good graph

Power-to-Weight Cogitatio

I knew a girl called Angela Engels
With wanted to know the fundamentals –
Who wanted to know how angels flew
When they were far too large, she knew,
To stay aloft the way they do.
But then…well eagles, they’re big too,
And owls are even bigger, sure –
At least the biggest ones are bigger –
And albatrosses, once mature –
And condors are bosses, they have to figure,
With wings much wider than she was tall,
And yet…they hardly seem to flap them at all.
But hang on…there’s always swans,
And swans kept pumping through the air
And turkeys, though they hardly fly,
But yes they can, from here to there.
And bustards too can reach the sky, they say,
(Though it takes them quite the run up
To get up up and away.)

So Angela looked up size and span and stat,
And found they weren’t that fat –
Those amigos averaged less that a dozen kilos
And she knew flat how she weighed more than that.
So unless the angels, like insects, were pin-head small,
They’d surely barely rise and plenty fall.
But there was also mention
Of an ancient, mythic vulture, barely known –
Now that got her attention !
Though they had only found one bone,
And had to guess the rest and how they’d grown.
And just the same for Quetzalcoatlus
Surely that was just as hatless,
Based on fossils and guesstimates,
Not measures and weights,
And was perched uneasy on its throne.
And anyway, those both were dead –
So heck, for all their trying
They couldn’t be that great at flying, she said.

So maybe angels, though their wings are feathered,
(And they cannot be untethered
From the hug of gravity),
So maybe they employ another method in reality –
P’raps their wings are really a screen
Protecting their backs from a rocket machine
That blasts them up to Heaven instead !,
Like Newton said – and yes, alright, it’s then implied
That then their flight is just a glide back down.
(They’d also need a flameproof gown,
And goggles wouldn’t go amiss,
But she could really take to this !)
Although…well, was it heavy on the carbon,
Swimming like a tarpon through the air ?
Would angels better abstain and take the train,
To show they care ?
Angela hoped they’d be aware, and do without it,
Or at least to think about it, heed her words
And maybe leave the flying to the birds.

Passing Through

steel underneath
Tattered Old Work Boots by Fantasy Stock

Passing Through

You came to escape a war,
And chose our shore as somewhere tame
Where quiet days don’t end in flame –
But now they are fighting no more,
And you must up and return to your nation –
Not an order, just an observation.
I needn’t ask what for,
And I note this not with pleasure, but alack –
For now your ravished country needs you back.

Transient Verses

blur book stack books bookshelves
Photo by Janko Ferlic on Pexels.com

Transient Verses

Year after year, our language is changing
And drifting yet further from Shakespeare’s day,
Making it harder to known of his meaning,
Making obscure as we’re slipping away.
Writings updated retain all their meaning,
But lose all their diction and word-play and flow –
So when only scholars can read still this poem,
Then do not translate it, but just let me go.

Horseguards

royal guard standing near lamp post
Photo by Samuel Wu00f6lfl on Pexels.com

Horseguards

Come on down to Whitehall,
To visit England’s pride –
Fine-dressed guards on horseback stand
Sentry either side.

Come on down to Whitehall,
These soldiers trained to kill
With milit’ry precision sit
Absolutely still.

Come on down to Whitehall,
At eleventh hour
Watch crack troops all moving at
The rate of one horse-power.

Come on down to Whitehall,
They don’t do things by halves –
Our household guards can both stand guard
And pose for photographs.

Farewell, Athelstan

cloak & shield
King Alfred Pewsey by wfcap

Farewell, Athelstan

The Anglo-Saxons had their own names –
Had no need for our Kate or James
Some, like Swithin and Thunor, perhaps,
Are only found on churches and maps –
Yet some, like Edward and Hilda, survive,
Though Oswald and Cuthbert are barely alive –
And Mildred and Wilfred are old-fashioned now,
Yet rather less Saxon than Dickens, somehow.
The same with Ethel and Edith – I swear
They sound quite common, for all that they’re rare,
While some like Dunstan, Wymond, and Wystan,
Are as old-money posh as Aubrey and Tristan.
And fun-fact, Ruth was a noun for compassion,
Yet strangely never was used in this fashion –
Yet Edruth and Ruthbert could’ve been (no joke),
Though Gailjoy to them meant a wind and a yoke…
Stanley and Beverley back then were place names,
While Hengist and Offa are leave-just-a-trace names,
And Osborn and Osmund are now only surnames,
While Hrothgar sees Roger become the preferred name.
So Alfred and Albert are still doing fine,
But Harold and Winston are on the decline –
And Edmund and Edgar are straight out of yore,
While Winifred and Edwin are winners no more.

Note that the theoretical Ruthbert would probably be pronounced in modern English to rhyme with Cuthbert and not with truth-bert.

The Tower of Pisa

la torre non pendente di pisa
The Belltower of Pisa Cathedral by Bonanno Pisano

The Tower of Pisa

I know we love it as a symbol –
Hubris, cheap materials and failure,
While locals soak up tourist-dollars
Selling canting paraphernalia.
The crowds all prop it up in photos
Loving that its old and broke –
While laughing at the locals,
Who are all in on the joke.

And now the authorities
Have had to underpin the base,
While taking care to keep the tilt
That underpins their public face.
I guess we do not get to choose
What piques our int’rest, makes us smile –
But here’s a tower full of piquant int’rest
By the mile !

I think I am alone in wishing
That they’d take it down and start again.
I just want my cathedrals
To inspire me, not amuse me, in the main.
But here is a belfry
Far too weak for bells and gravity’s demands –
It’s just a shell, a cynic’s dream
Who’s only wonder is how still it stands.

Ah, listen to me, what misery !
Just moaning off my sunstroke.
Can’t I shrug and let them be,
And maybe even get the joke ?
I guess we do not get to choose
What gets remembered, anyway –
But this one’s sure to loom in mind,
And hold us in its sway.

Witnesses

these are tees not crosses
The Cursed Field by Fyodor Bronnikov

Witnesses

“Tell me, Roman, why this plan
To execute this convict man ?
Of all the ways to make him dead,
Why hold up high with arms outspread ?
Seeing him now crucified
Just makes a martyr, gives him pride,
It lets the martyr die with pride,
So hero-like, so dignified.”

“But you are wrong.  Now look again:
The loincloth with its urine stain,
The drooling lips, the bloodshot eyes,
The excrement that cakes his thighs.
To hang for days in agony –
Now look again and show to me,
Just look up there and show to me,
The slightest shred of dignity.”


“Ah yes, I see, the lolling head,
And yet…who cares once he is dead ?
And history may not recall
His wails and jerking fits at all.
Despite what we right here may find,
The crowd are of a diff’rent mind –
And what they see within their mind
Is all that you will leave behind.”

“Perhaps you’re right, and time will tell –
But who can say he’s dying well ?
And in three days, he lingers on
For no-one, once the crowd has gone.
Any execution can
Create a martyr from a man –
Yet here, we see he’s
just a man
And
that is why this Roman plan.”

Bringing Juvenilia Week to a close with a typically iconoclastic poke at religion with some Real Science.  Originally just the first two verses, it lacked the necessary back-and-forth to be the dialogue it wanted to be, so the latter two are new, though just as naff as a homage to the original.

Now, the perfect poem to follow with tomorrow would be this one, but it has already been posted.

Journeyman

aerial view of road between green grass field
Photo by TruShotz on Pexels.com

Journeyman

First I took the high road, then I took the low road,
(But I found the middle of the road is barely worth a mention.)
I hit and hogged and kicked-the-can upon the long and winding road
That’s sometimes paved with yellow bricks, and sometimes good-intentions.

Yet how many must a man walk down before they make him ?
This hard road to Damascus is a lonely trial of tears.
Please don’t lead to Rome again, but to the road not taken,
For the golden road to Samarkand begins at Wigan Pier.

Ah idioms, where would language be without jargon ?  This poem is so early, I was still allowing myself to slip in post-rhyme esses (tearS and pier), which I’m much stricter about these days, although they do still crop-up where to avoid them would make the syntax tortured (though usually in the also-rhyme position [lines 1 and 3], with a cleaner pairing on the prime-rhymes).

Propersome Grammar

north america book and toke book
Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

Propersome Grammar

To take the example of gotten,
Grammaticists so much malign
This useful past participle
Whose use was once most rife and fine.
Crossing oceans, forth it went,
Yet back at home its usage fell
A shorter version came in vogue
That was but little used till now.
And yet these language experts
Who tell us how to speak forthhence
Forget this evolution,
Forget that English is not French.
They try to stop the creeping changes,
Battle hard against the rot.
“If we don’t keep our English pure,
Well, what then have we got ?”

Language has long fascinated me, and here’s an early attempt of spinning some obscure lingual trivia into half a page, a useful fallback still when Mr Block comes to call.  The bit about English not being French is a reference to l’Académie Française, (that’s right, Immortals, I capitalised the adjective – deal with it !)  I heartily hope that the average Francophone ignores them with rigour.  I’m sure an English equivalent would simply hate ‘forthhence’, though maybe with good reason on this occasion.