It may seem strange to place Milton's poetry under the heading of the environment but maybe there is at least some justification for this placement. In Paradise Lost Milton anticipated our present concern with the environment in his lament that mankind rapaciously exploited the treasures of the earth and in his characterization of Mammon as a proto=industrialist. Perhaps the loss of Paradise had for Milton not only a religious meaning. His hopes of a Puritan utopia were dashed even before the Restoration.

1. 1
THE MILKMAID AND THE
MOWER
An Anthology of Poems by
Julian Scutts
With an introductory essay
Copyright Julian Scutts 2018

2. 2
ISBN 9781 387 556212
While the ploughman near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
From L’ALLEGRO by John Milton
The line “Hence loathed Melancholy” sets the tone for a poem which declares
that life is good and joyful, while another poemby Milton, Il Penseroso,
assumes a more sober and even lugubrious tone. Even in L’Allegro we find
hints that life has a not altogether joyful aspect. While the milkmaid sings
blithely, the mower whets his scythe, otherwise a symbol of mortality. Poetry
is perhaps necessarily ambivalent, as this anthology may reveal in its own, at
times, rather odd way.

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AN Introductory Essay
Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea of the
Spiritual Universe
What Tensions and Resolutions Emerge from a Survey of
Paradise Lost?
…What in me is dark
Illumin, what is low raise and support;
That to the highth of this great Argument
I may assert Eternal Providence,
And justifie the wayes of God to men.
John Milton Paradise Lost 1. 22-26
: The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of angels and
God and at liberty when of Devils and Hell is because he was a true
poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.
William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (c.1790-93)
If we follow William Blake in the supposition that Milton unwittingly
sympathized with the devil as he wrote Paradise Lost we must conclude
that there is a profound disconnect between Milton’s purpose as testified
by the words first cited above and Blake’s assertion in The Marriage of
Heaven and Hell. In terms of modern psychology we might speak of a
conflict between statements formulated by the author’s conscious
deliberating mind and the undercurrents of emotion that find their
source in the subconscious. Further there remains the question. Can the
writing of Paradise Lost be attributed solely to his avowed aim within
the scheme of Christian apologetics?
The subtitle refers to “tensions and resolutions,” the natural results of
the discrepancy under consideration. It may prove enlightening to recall

4. 4
the period over which Milton composed Paradise Lost, namely one that
began towards the end of Oliver Cromwell’s personal rule and ended in
the third year of the reign of Charles II, which began in May 1660. This
period spanned the brief interlude of Richard Cromwell’s fragile hold on
power and the so-called “Anarchy,” when Britain was in a state of
political limbo. It is reasonable to suppose that Milton’s concern with the
loss of Paradise was reinforced by his sense of another loss, that of his
hopes for the permanent establishment of a republican Puritan-led form
of government on British soil. Milton’s increasing doubt as to the
practicability of this project crept in even while Cromwell was still in
power and led inexorably to the abandonment of any prospect that the
Kingdom of Heaven on earth was imminent.
Did the writing of Paradise Lost spring solely from Milton’s avowed
purpose of “Justifying the ways of God to men”? Those passages in
Paradise Lost that specifically address this theological question present
little more than a résumé of the controversy between Jean Calvin and
Jacobus Arminius, the former upholding the doctrine of predestination
against the latter’s belief in the limited scope of human free will. and
from which it becomes clear that Milton defends the Arminian position
and therewith the contention that a person possesses some measure of
free will when accepting the gift of divine grace. Milton’s poem treats the
nature of liberty beyond limits set by theological measures. What
psycho-dynamic forces might then have sustained Milton in the year-
long process of writing a masterpiece of English poetry despite the
burden of his blindness and the buffeting of ill fortune, involving at one
point his imprisonment in the Tower of London? The vast cosmic sweep
of the vistas explored by Milton’s imagination and encyclopedic
knowledge of the Bible and classical mythology arguably results from an
escapist reflex. Thus the seemingly urgent issues of Milton’s times fade
and dwindle in importance against an immeasurable background. On the
other hand, the exploration of zones that lie beyond the ken of human
experience can well enhance awareness of the specific issues of a certain
time, a phenomenon revealed by Dante’s Divine Comedy, so revealing as
it is of the political events in Florence and Rome, some of which expose
iniquities committed by the high and mighty in church and state.
Even if Milton had sought to exclude from his thought all concerns
with contemporary issues, the zeitgeist of his age, the emergence of
science in the modern sense of that word (here we recall Milton’s
personal encounter with Galileo), the philosophical climate created by
the works of Réné Descartes and Sir Francis Bacon, could he ever have

5. 5
done so? Academic research has pointed to the relevance of all such
factors, some even to Milton’s putative awareness of ecologic issues to
the point of presenting him as a proto-green in close connection with an
interpretation of Eve in the light of Feminist criticism.1 .
In her monograph First “Mother of Science”: Milton’s Eve,
Knowledge, and Nature,Jennifer Munroe departs from a citation of
the following lines in stating her arguments in favour of her Feminist
interpretation of Paradise Lost: The occurrence of word ‘science’ in the
lines:
The Tempter all impassion’d thus began.
O Sacred, Wise, and Wisdom-giving Plant,
Mother of Science, now I feel thy Power
Within me clear, not only to discern
Things in their causes, but to trace the ways
Of highest agents, deemed however wise.
(9. 679–85)
Does the word ‘science’ tempt us to ponder whether Milton had the
modern meaning of ‘science’ in mind when formulating the term ‘Mother
of Science’? If so, then only on the strength of his intuition. Francis
Bacon categorized physics and medicine as a ‘science’ but he placed
1
An Ecocritical Analysis of Mammon and Mother Earth in Paradise Lost Submitted by
Danielle Subido In partial fulfillment of the requirements for the course EN314 British
Literature Dr. Isa Kelley Bowman, Assistant Professor University of Guam Mangilao,
Guam January 08, 2016Milton and Mines:
Ed Simon,‘Cycle and Epicycle, Orb in Orb’: the science of Paradise Lost.
https://aeon.co/ideas/cycle-and-epicycle-orb-in-orb-the-science-of-paradise-lost
Jennifer Munroe, First “Mother of Science”: Milton’s Eve, Knowledge, and
Nature.
https://link.springer.com/chapter/10.1057/9781137001900_3

6. 6
other in our terms non-scientific subjects and fields of knowledge into
the same category. If the term alludes to the Tree of the Knowledge of
Good and Evil, to which he refers several times by that name, he may
have had the Vulgate translation of the Book of Genesis in mind where
Scientia poses the Latin equivalent of the Hebrew original. Even in this
case he deviated conspicuously from a word more familiar to an English
reader. It is interesting to note the words ‘not only to trace things in their
causes, but to trace the ways of highest agents’ as they could reflect
Francis Bacon’s bid to discover laws of causation by observation and
empirical analysis without denying that natural causes are ultimately
subservient to higher influences that should be the subject of religious
and theological modes of comprehension. Bacon’s empirical approach
served his purpose of freeing modern thought from the normative force of
the Aristotelian worldview. Descartes pursued the same goal but by a
different means, abstract philosophy and mathematics, both of which
were not reliant on some external statement of authority. Satan’s
affirmation that the ‘mind is its own place’ finds a parallel in the
Cartesian cogito, ergo sum proposition. Satan defended his right to rebel
from God the Creator by recourse to the notion of self-generation or auto-
creation. On the one hand Satan’s claim to total independence from God
implied freedom but on the other also captivity and self-isolation and
egocentricity inducing tyrannical narcissism. This aspect of Satan comes
to the fore throughout the narrative of Paradise Lost, perhaps
exonerating Milton from Blake’s charge that he was of the Devil’s Party
without knowing it. In any case Blake distinguished between the Devil,
the embodiment of amoral energy which had its place in the order of
things, and Satan as the principle of stasis and spiritual captivity.
There was one aspect of Satan, however, that had a more lasting and
affirmative power, which might be encapsulated by the term ‘originality.’
Milton was the godfather of the Romantic school after all. Goethe
promoted the word “Wanderer” to a watchword that declared freedom
from Aristotelian traditions, particularly with respect to the dramatic
Unities of Time, Place and Manner. His newfound freedom led to a sense
of insecurity so poignantly revealed in his early poem “Wandrers
Sturmlied.” In this the Poet-Wanderer attempts to fly like a bird to the
summit of Parnassus but stalls in flight and crash-lands into a muddy
stream through which he must wade crestfallen to a humble hunter’s
lodge or shelter. An interesting parallel to this so-described mishap is
found at the beginning of the Seventh Book of Paradise Lost. The poets

7. 7
fears that he will be thrown off the back of winged Pegasus and fall to
earth, there to ‘wander’ in disconsolate solitude.
If Satan is a wanderer in the guise of a mariner, so, in Paradise
Regained is Jesus, but in line with earthbound Biblical tradition. The
Muse to which the poets dedicated his work conflated the Muse of Greek
tradition and the Holy Spirit of the Bible; in our secular age we might
say, two perceptions of time and two states of mind corresponding to that
of daytime awareness and that of dreaming and the unconscious mode of
the mind’s operation. The interaction of these modes of consciousness is
nowhere more consummately revealed than in Wordsworth’s poem
known by its first line” “I wandered lonely as a cloud.” The ‘breeze’ which
moves the daffodils which the poet encounters while out wandering is
also the breeze which animates the daffodils generated by his wandering
mind in pensive mood. To the same breeze the poet dedicates his long
poem entitled The Prelude, which as the noted critic and scholar M.H.
Abrams has noted, recalls the Heavenly Muse in Paradise Lost.

8. 8
POEMS
EVERY CLOUDHAS A SILVER LINING
Tea, Darling? We're British.
I have a funny feeling.
It is all so unappealing.
The dollar's hit the ceiling.
This may send the markets reeling.
If the markets hit the floor,
Paul says we'll all be poor.
Oh, how beastly! What a bore!
But Peter's not so sure:
"Whenever markets crash,
it's time to make a splash,"

9. 9
and, as Grandma used to say,
"There'll be another day."
It's time for an excursion,
not for worry but diversion.
Who's for cream cakes and tea inEaling?
Earl Grey or just Darjeeling?
We'll have to mend our fences
and go easy on expenses.
On this may all agree.
It's always time for tea.
I can take it.
Pleased to meet you, how do you do?
I’m your friendly neighbourhood guru.
My words are pure and gentle.
My creed most transcendental.
I free men and women
From western materialism
From anxiety and care
And every evil snare.
To accumulate great wealth

10. 10
Is injurious to your health
In luxury you dine
But some dirty rotten swine
To your utmost dismay
Has taken the silver away.
I have the rare capacity
To transcend such wicked rapacity.
Free yourself from material tangles.
Let me take care of your bangles.
Beware lest a slight hesitation
Come between you and sublime meditation.
Me and my Shrink
My shrink is depressed
And I’m to blame.
He cured me of anxiety
With complete success,
So I don’t worry about anything,
Not even the exorbitant bills
He keeps sending me.
A Poem to Turn Anyone Green
I am located in a park, where I am contemplating adjacent trees.
One tree inparticular has caught my attention.

11. 11
With each thought I feel ever more at one with this tree.
How can I contemplate trees without becoming one?
Just think what happened to Narcissus, who turned into a daffodil.
Or the nymph Daphne, who became a laurel tree.
What's so bad about being a tree anyway?
Is not it a good thing to put downroots?
But what about the loss of mobility that would follow?
Trees have carefree lives, though.
No taxes, rushing to work, paying bills.
On the other hand in my present state
I need not worry about woodworm, acid rain, being pruned,
woodpeckers or serving the needs of leg-lifting dogs.
And family affairs? Hmm.. Do I want my kids to be nuts?
It's all very well to branch out - in metaphoric terms, that is.
Oh, that board meeting! It’s time to go.
Hey, my limbs are stiff.
I can’t move my trunk. My fingers are green.
Silly thought, no one turns into a tree these days!
Aaaaahhhhh!
Swish, swish. Rustle rustle..

12. 12
The Unfortunate Old Maid of Vancouver
There was an old maid from Vancouver
Who insisted on being a hoover.
She sucked up much dust
Till her health went bust,
And the council had to remove ‘er.
There is an auld laddie near Fife
There is an auld laddie near Fife
who sought for himself a good wife.
As no one would have 'im
he retired to a cabin
and drinks Scotch every day of his life.
THE ONE APPOINTMENT JACK DID KEEP
Jack came to the strangest conclusion,
Which was: Time’s an illusion.
He turned up much too late

13. 13
To each appointment and date
Till the day of his very own funeral.
Have a Bash at Lit Crit, Mate!
Hamlet's story
is sad and gory.
From the start the outlook's bad.

14. 14
The king, i.e. Hamlet's dad,
got bumped off by his loving brother,
who then had the nerve to wed Ham's mother.
One night Hamlet met his old man's ghost,
who said: "My son, while I here roast,
your uncle, who murdered me,
is having a rave-up for all to see."
He added, on the point of leaving,
"Do the do, my boy. Look sharp, get weaving."
But Hamlet never decisively acted,
by doubt and scruples he got distracted.
So as he dithered
things slithered
till everyone got killed , alas,
'cept for Horatio and Fortinbras.
Goethe's Faust PartOne
is all about this horny don,
who gets browned off by all that learning,
for all he's missed in life, much yearning.
Mephisto, you might say the devil,
promises Faust a helluva revel,
on one (see the small print) slight condition,
After the party it's straight to perdition.
Then prancing witches chant "hubble bubble",
Faust goes and gets his gal into trouble.
(Faust may have knowed an awful lot,

15. 15
but on birth control he weren't too hot).
Things get so bad it can't be true
They perk up a bit, though, in Faust PartTwo
The Illustrious Balloon
Mid clouds of adulation
Topped with a golden crown
He wafts so high above us
And smiles benignly down.
We lowly creatures wallow
Upon these earthy sods.
Our eyes alone may follow
His passage to the gods.
Getting More Bang fromtheir Bucks, A Loud Report
At the annual general meeting
Of Walrus Armaments Incorporated
the Chairman, Mr. Carpenter,
reported to shareholders that,
despite the current global downturn,
business was booming.
In response to the words:

16. 16
“Our products safeguard world peace,”
there was thunderous applause.
At the buffet afterwards
delicious oysters
excited comment.
I’m Easy-going Lola
On the late unrest in France over supplies of Nutella
---------------------------------------
after "Ich bin die fesche Lola" sung by Marlene Dietrich
--------------------------------------------
I'm easy-going Lola, the girl who's most in vogue.
The Nutella in my pantry is there for none but me.
I'm easy-going Lola, the heartthrob à la mode,
but hands off my Nutella, or my other side you'll see.
I’m easy-going Lola , the girl who's most in vogue.
The Nutella in my pantry is stacked next to the gin.
I'll let you walk me homeward, though you are a rogue,

17. 17
but hands off my Nutella, or I'll kick you in the shin.
Lola, Lola! the boys l know who I am.
You can take my marmalade, if that is what you seek.
No one calls me petty, so take my strawberry jam,
but fingers off Nutella, or it's hospital all week.
Enjoy being miserable
The wife has gone and left me,
the bailiff's at the door.
I'm not exactly dying
but my health is very poor.
I have a funny feeling
that I'm subject to a curse.
My hopes and aspirations
all went into reverse.
The weather's bloody awful,
and my roof is caving in.
Against the odds I'm facing
I know I cannot win.
The preacher at the corner
is promising Man's doom,
and the telly, when it's working
adds to the general gloom.

18. 18
I sometimes got the feeling
to my life there's little point,
and so I played with notions
to leave this earthly joint.
I heard a voice within me say
"Look on the dark side, mate,
and it will surprise you
what abundance brings your fate."
So, enjoy being miserable,
is what I have to say,
and you have enjoyment
from dawn till end of day.
What becomes of crazy mixed up kids fifty years on?
They become crazy mixed up elderly he-goats.
I am in part a Protestant,
In part I am a Jew,
But then I am a Catholic,
on off-days an atheist, too.
I’m something of a socialist
and pay my union dues
from well-laundered Mafia funds.
Psst! Have you got your share, too?

19. 19
If they’d put me down inUlster,
I’d have blown my brains out with a gun,
Just to keep ‘em guessing
Which faction in me won.
You can call me all the names you like.
A Prot, a wop, a yid.
In earlier days I used to be
a crazy mixed-up kid.
And I sure still am baffled
by this crazy mixed-up world,
and don’t expect enlightenment
ere my winding sheet is furled.
But there’s just one thing I’d like to know
Before the day I die.
Which part of me is all the rest,
And which part of me is I?
The Last Remaining Socialist (apart fromBernie, that is)
Hark! That rustling of the leaves
Makes me wobbly at the knees,
Or did I dream of Thatcher’s ghost
Chasing wets from post to post?
·

20. 20
When Tony Blair bashed up Hussein,
No RobinHood at home bought gain.
Who then yet may save the day?
Who remains to show the way?
Bill Dozer is this man, I say!
Trouser ? Loser ? Boozer? Hey!
Who the heck's Bill Dozer?
Like Superman he flits about
cosh in hand, with mighty clout.
He is a man of iron fist,
the last remaining socialist.
He hears each worker's woeful cry:
like Joe Hill he'll never die.
When Marx shall rise from Highgate's tomb,
capitalists will meet their doom.
Horn-rimmed his specs, his suit dull brown
he swoops like an eagle down.
He'll give each grabbing boss the boot
and share with us the ill-gotten loot.
Bill Dozer is this man, I say!
Trouser?, Loser? Boozer? Hey!
What the heck's Bili Dozer?
But if still the point you missed:
He's the last remaining socialist.
THE ROACH MOTEL
There is a town in Austin

21. 21
they call "the Roach Motel,”
for many a poor roach that entered there
a sticky fate befell.
Now roaches, you keep out of there
whatever may entice,
for any roach may enter once,
but never enter twice.
My father was a crawler,
who crawled from dive to dive,
but he steered clear of roach motels,
and therefore did survive.
Guests of the roach motel, I vouch,
roach mother, tell your son,
need no long-term pension plan.
Ee Gad, I know, I am one.
Jean-Claude Juncker's Continental System
Cohorts of Luxembourg, arise!
Keep the Russians from the Rhine.
Hosts of Luxembourg, en garde,
Confine the British to the brine.
"We'll do without America,"
says Merkel with aplomb.
Warily one has to ask,
"Whose finger's on the Bomb?"

22. 22
Français ou allemand?
Que parlons-nous, messieurs?
Until this issue's settled
It's Anglais, faut de mieux.
A toast, my brave companions,
on the path we march along.
Not bourbon and not whiskey
but cognac Napoleon!
Nelson's on his Column
There will always be an England:
roast beef and Yorkshire pud
assure the most fainthearted
that all is for the good.
Is anyone still doubtful?
This thought our hopes restore:
Marmite, baked beans and crumpets
provision us galore.
Coffee at eleven, at five o'clock high tea,
banishing the terrors that met us at the Somme,
kept us and Big Ben ticking
and will to Kingdom Come.

23. 23
Nelsons' on his column.
Against Juncker's spiteful quips
no naval power can save us,
but we do have fish and chips
Squire Welby’s Little World
I am in all a moderate man, a noted country gentleman'
with all the accoutrements, a house, a farm and gout
my politics are not extreme, I'm reasonably devout.
I .have my peccadillos but they barely warrant mention.
To hide my light beneath a bushel I've never felt an urge.
In one particular virtue I feel a measure of pride.
Judge after I have put my case if I'm not justified.
Temperance is my virtue. I draw back from the verge.
Excess I shun as ‘twere the pox. Revels I'll have none,
for eating much and drinking much are folly's requisite.
At the vicarage and the manor I am noted for my wit.
No local scandals I invite. London's there for fun.
Here on my farm, my little world, there reigns a blissful peace.
Bumpkins and commoners alike still hail me as “the Squire.”
Come end of day, I'll sip my port, roast chestnuts by the fire.
Was that the braying of an ass or the cackle of my geese?

24. 24
When Walpole steered the ship of state how happily we plied!
No foreign broils or riotous mobs then then sapped the nation's wealth.
Complacent Whigs and good King George sustained our common heath,
but now dark clouds are gathering, and adverse is the tide.
I thank my Maker day by day for being richly blessed,
yet feel no little pang and twinge when I think upon the poor.
Much more could be done for them, of that I am quite sure.
To help me get to sleep at night a jug of stout is best.
In days done by I did aspire to turn men's hearts to good.
So great the world and I so small, unequal to the task.
Should risking all have aught effect? ,respectfully I ask
and thereby serve the greater world ? I don't see how it could.
Gulch-Mammon
Though Jack has climbed his beanstalk,
Saint George his dragon slain,
Gulch-Mammon lives on happily
And myriad is his train
His belly is enormous,

25. 25
Yet full it ne'er will be.
The moment luncheon's over,
It's time to start high-tea.
Gulch-Mammon's teeth are millstones
Whose grindings rarely cease.
His slightest indigestion
Is menace to our peace.
And every time he sneezes,
Things worsen, though they're bad,
And every time he belches,
The Richter Scale goes mad.
Perchance he bored with eating,
He starts to smoke and fume.
You'll always know his whereabouts.
Just watch out for his plume.
His home is just palatial,
For gold is everywhere.
His rest-room seat is golden,
A thing most choice and rare.
No one knows for certain,
The income that he draws.
Whatever you are making,

26. 26
It's vastly more than yours.
There on his vast plantations,
Some kine are thin, some fat,
And many laws and statutes
Did little to change that.
Are Jack and George just sleeping,
Or are they inhis pay?
Whoso may know the answer
Seems disinclined to say.
A la Recherche du TempsPerdu in a London Transport Caff in the Bad Old Days
When You could Smoke
I went to a London transport caff
to have a mug of tea and a biscuit.
The night before I had heard a talk
about Marcel Proust’s “A la Recherche..”
and that, on the radio. So, nibbling
my biscuit I hoped to get transported back
through time, like the professor said.
Not bad on 50 p, I thought.
Nothing of the sort happened.
No trip. I just became more aware

27. 27
of the present and the goings-on
in the transport caff, of things like
The cigarette ash in the sugar bowl,
the checkered plastic tablecloth
besmirched with ketchup
and the remains of fried egg,
the earwig creeping up the wall,
the four-lettered Anglo-Saxon expletives
in every other sentence in unedifying conversations
about women, or parts of them, football and the dogs,
of things like fag ends stuck on lower lips,
the pinup poster rudely scribbled on,
the thud-knock-clickerty-click—tick-ping-plop-“sod”
from the amusements corner and from the juke box
what else but: “I can’t get no satisfaction”?
I took one last look at the groats in my tin mug
just in case the future had better things instore,
but last night’s screwed up tabloid headline read:
“Has Russia made a super-bug?”
Opening the door to a black-smoke-belching
Juggernaut’s revving up, and the sound of hawking
and spitting from the bog, I left the caff
a disappointed man.
An Academic Gentleman

28. 28
At some time you must have met one,
an academic gentleman.
Though once a whippersnapper,
he's cultured, suave and dapper,
That mustache of his so pert,
his eye for a pretty skirt.
and then his neat bow-tie
which makes the ladies sigh.
He has such a winning way.
He always says 'Good Day.'
They say his grading's fair,
and, these days, that's rare.
He has one nasty knack,
stabbing rivals in the back.
When he does someone wrong,
at least it's with aplomb.
Condemn his spite and bile?
Yes, but - oh. my - what style!
Where Are We Going?
Or Survival on the Streets
When walking back home from the campus
One day, a professor of philosophy
(who adopted the linguistic analysis approach),
Was deep in thought as he reflected on

29. 29
What meaning could be attached to the words:
“LIFE AFTER DEATH.”
He became so engrossed in thought, in fact,
That he lost contact with the outside world
And he didn’t notice the lights
At the crossing, whether red or green,
Nor did he hear the screech of brakes.
Next moment – if that’s the word – he
If we allow the use of this pronoun here
- found the answer he was looking for – if in fact he did.
Confucius What He Would Say to Pedestrians in Manhattan
One of the more annoying thing
about central New York
is having to stop walking
at the end of almost every block
until the sign tell you to closs the street,
or else you get yourself squash
by a bus or maybe yellow cab,
or even by the NYPD.
Generally speaking,
being annoyed
is better than being squash,

30. 30
so use waiting time to meditate.
Surf, Obey!
Atrocious English Rhymes about British Monarchs Who Spoke English Atrociously
William the First was our last king to come uninvited
though invincible armadas have sometimes been sighted.
Foreign kings were imported in cases of doubt.
Native kings had the habit of getting thrown out.
In the War of the Roses none tipped the scales
till the fray was joined by young Richmond from Wales.
A house like the Tudors for to bring to an end
On virginqueens you may safely depend.

31. 31
Then came the Stuarts, who in Scotland had root,
But being too tactless, they were given the boot.
Though of Orange the house was not without fame,
some Irishmen spit when they hear Billy’s name.
George the First from Hanover as in matters English ill versed;
For affairs of state a state of affairs by no means the worst.
George the Third, however, spoke English quite well,
So Yanks up in arms told the Liberty Bell.
Thus Frenchmen and Dutchmen, Germans and Danes
Have made their subjects rack their poor brains.
But the history of monarchs whose accents were poor
Holds even today many lessons instore.
At the hustings all parties will promise us aught,
But after elections some memories are short.
“A kink is a man, no less and no more,”
Said a very wise king as he sat on the shore.
“Let each of you here, thane or serf, be astute.
Don’t expect me to do what I plainly canute.

32. 32
Paradise Mislaid
A funny thing happened to postwar civilization
On its way to the Millennium,
Which Marx and others had secularized
In the nineteenth century. In the twentieth
Hell drew equal, but all the apocalypse stuff
(like Dylan Thomas) seemed buried forever.
We decided to turn Paradise into real estate.
Trouble was, we weren’t too sure where to find it,
Though experts had located it somewhere
Slightly west or east (left or right, looking north)
Of a point midway between the Euphrates and the Nile.
According to some, it moved sideways a few inches each year.
Computer systems would relieve us of Adam’s curse,
Which many wanted back as soon as they had been relieved,
And Eve discarded more and more items of covering,
And everything (a forgivable exaggeration)
In the garden (the upkeep of which had to be paid for by taxpayers)
Was lovely (or at least pleasant enough for most).
The Devil, who no longer existed (save as a literary metaphor)
Had been extradited on a drugs smuggling charge
And was last seen heading north.
The Forbidden Tree had been cordoned off by
Security people and no serpents were allowed near.
One day we woke up to discover

33. 33
That Paradise had absconded in the night.
The more sensational headlines read PARADISE LOST,
But this was watered down in a subsequent official press statement
to read PARADISE MISLAID.
As to its new location, even the pundits failed to agree
Whether and if so, by how much, it had moved left or right.
It was even rumoured that the Devil
Had bribed the Angel at the Gate
and infiltrated the Intelligence Service.
The Ministry of Defence reported that a large flying object
Had appeared as a blob on the radar before slipping off,
And some wag even suggested that this was Paradise in fact.
Adam uttered “What the..” under his breath,
switched off the telly – it was an old war film –
And gave Eve a knowing look.
Eve didn’t fancy an early night,
And the ensuing row
Raised Cain.
History Lessens
The world and Time have mocked us all,
Be we great or be we small.
The same temptations Jesus thwarted,
The Church, I fear, has oft times courted.

34. 34
Luther preached before the throne
The just shall live by faith alone.
Yet freedom in a peasant’s ears
filled his lord with dread and fears.
“Workers unite!” was Marx’s plea.
The aftermath is plain to see.
A pacifist brought forth the Bomb,
A paradox Lord save us from.
Our fate, its sense beyond Man’s ken,
Must be:
For optimists: tofail and strive again.
For pessimists: to strive and fail again.
The God of this World is Not Wholly …
The god of this world is not wholly
Wholly good or wholly evil.
He does his best to avoid extremes.
With his cornucopia he feeds the paying multitudes
While the rest discreetly hunger. He nourishes,
Admixing with good food insignificant,
That is – as far as we can tell - insignificant
Doses of toxin. We must say grace mindful
That slightly poisoned food is better than none, and
“In the long run,” as one archdeacon of economics said:

35. 35
“Who cares,?“ We’ll all be dead.”
Progress was not made for man, but man
Was made to serve progress. “What progress?” you ask.
Ah, the answer to that is far, far, above us,
Filed away on the fiftieth storey.
By the way, don’t get too worried
About that radioactive leak!
An expert has assured us we need expect
Only a couple of extra cancer cases at most.
And besides, don’t rock the boat
No the god of this world is not holy.
Period.
EVERY SILVER LINING HAS A CLOUD: CONTEMPLATIONS
By river-banks I saw such scenes
as might enchant an angel's gaze.
They gladdened many a childhood hour
and filled my youthful heart with praise.
Onwards, onwards my bark glided,
where waters flowed by open leas,
past greening woods where lad and lass
cast apple blossoms to the breeze.
Onwards, onwards, my bark glided,
on the gently lilting stream
past fenced gardens, stately houses,
rewards of toil with due esteem.

36. 36
Past beeches, bays and boughs of ash,
past golden leaves on many a tree,
onwards, onwards, my bark glided,
onwards, onwards, to the sea.
Till the last rose fade on a withered stem
and the sun last set in the sky,
abide my love abide though night condemn
that we dream of a day passed by,
when our first love rose with the morning sun
ere the early dew of the dawn
to vapours turned dissolved to one,
and to where by the wind were they borne?
The oxen turning at the mill
their master's granary store to fill,
consume the wisps of fallen straw
that lie upon the miller's floor.
And so our loves, our joys, our tears
like sunken pearls beneath the years'
vast deep are lost
save to one in dreamer's sleep,
or else are God's alone to keep.
Where is the substance of our years,
and whither flowed our mortal tears?
In present pain to living eye?
O rose, your beauty gives reply,
your forebears reigned, as you this hour
to bear their praise alone, frail flower.
Alas! Your beauty soon is shed
the seeing eye in dust to wed.
In dust communion, what is dust
but token that all living must
at last be one?
Does not manhood kill the boy,
each falling leaf a tree destroy,

37. 37
or shall the substance of past things
return to us though memory brings
but shadow forms, unless restored
by us in present living.
He built no house
and saw no house decay
He served no gain
and loss could not betray.
No marble tomb,
his resting place a stone.
Here Caesar fell
from Empire's ivory throne.
I walked one morn a well-loved path
where snow's white should before me lay.
Therein were footprints half-erased
as names on weather-beaten graves,
sole tokens of men's transient paths,
through a realm ephemeral,
through dimensions felt. not grasped,
that bore, and bear, and to the last,
shall bear the impress of each heart.
One day I'll walk by copse and rill,
up to a mound, a cold green hill,
therefrom the setting sun to see.
I'll rest beneath a spreading tree,
and dream perchance of that past day
when snow's white shroud before me lay.
XERXES WEPT
How ravaged is this land,
a virgin found by men of war.
Who sets upon our temple violent bands,

38. 38
burns wisdom's record,
scars beauty left by sculptors' hands?
This land's conqueror is he,
and Xerxes is his name.
But Xerxes weeps, a dew-eyed maid.
Why should he weep,
the conqueror of this land?
He weeps for what he knows and sees.
His mighty host, his men-at-arms,
his hundred myriad blades and shields
he sees dissolve like flakes of snow
upon wet grass, fresh fallen.
A hundred years, their flesh is dust
and rust their gleaming glory.
A conqueror of conquerors is there,
and Chronos is his name.
His hands stronger than all human hands
That hold the blade and hurl the dart.
His hands none stays
save One alone,
that One who guides the sculptor's hand
inspires the pen, gives prophets words,
leads those who will in righteous ways,
the conqueror of the conqueror of conquerors,
Whose name is one, one only.
THOUGHTS OF A SNOWMAN
So happy there the boys and girls
around me playing in the pure white snow
under a vault so clear and blue.
The same sunlight than shines on them
and cheers them with its warm caress
makes me slowly melt away.

39. 39
I weep, perspire,
grow smaller, softer, with each hour,
I made by happy hands
with the snow of yesterday.
Though today I melt away,
though tomorrow I am no more,
happy am I for their sakes,
for the children playing there.
He built no house
And saw no house decay.
He served no gain
And loss could not betray.
No marble tomb,
Heis resting place a stone.
Here Caesar fell
From empire’s ivory throne.
T
H
E
M

40. 40
E
S
Nature
Backs to Nature
Taking Coleridge at his word,
I hied me to a rural scene
To leave behind the madding herd
For where Titania reigns the queen.
Ah! ‘Tis hard to wax romantic,
Though bees hum and boughs do sway,
To close the mind to all the frantic
Things that jostle us each day.
No more the gentle rustic peasant,
No more the green wood wild and free.
This national park, however pleasant,
Some how’s a substitute to me.
What the elm, the oak, the fir,
O what yon flowery slopes to win,
And all that Nature’s beauties stir
Is marred by that blooming Cola tin.

41. 41
These eyes absorbing and receptive
Scan the prospect domed with blue,
Yet that unsightly thing rejected
Does little to enhance the view.
Would Wordsworth's cloud lift my powers,
Lest these powers should sag.
In lieu of glorious yellow flowers
I spy but a wandering plastic bag.
And though you find your Eldorado
By some far-off golden shore,
Whiles yet you munch your avocado
Above the chartered Jumbos roar.
Back then to the grind of duty,
Congested roads, polluted air.
From such as these fashion beauty.
New Millennial Baudelaire.
Nat the Nut, Yew and I
No one seemed to take much note at first.
Old-timers on park benches passed a comment or two,
Somebody wrote a letter to the local rag,
but no one (who mattered, that is)
really seemed to mind.
Of course, you will always have

42. 42
your bellyachers and woolly romantics
with nothing better to do than whine
about the way things are going, -
the loss of bird life, the silenced dawn chorus,
the vanishing English hedgerow,
you know the sort of thing.
The leaves began falling long before autumn.
"Funny," they said, "curious," "that's one for the book."
This was all very interesting for botanists,
environmentalists, chemists and the like.
Such words as "pollution," "soil erosion"
and "deprivation" were bandied about,
but no one was much the wiser though
the experts were agreed on one point.
"Photosynthesis provides the basis of all life."
This was interesting but nothing like
as interesting as the favourite for Ascot,
the football results, the Top of the Pops,
the late night thriller or the FT index.
All that changed.
Foresters and timber merchants became concerned
about the decaying cores of many trees.
The government became concerned, too,
(not so much about the fate of the trees as such
as about the effect the scarcity of wood
was having on the paper industry and inflation).

43. 43
Then the doom-watchers caught the scent
and there was talk of an imminent ecological collapse,
but the man in the street still
passed it all off as the usual load of rot.
Then Kew Gardens, Epping Forest, Central Park,
the Everglades and the Bois de Boulogne
went the way of all wood.
A tramp, locally known as Nat the Nut,
was found in the village cemetery gibbering,
Before being bundled into an ambulance,
he was heard to say:
"With these very ears I heard 'em groan,
and this is what one of 'em said:
'Tonight we are dying, yew and I,
and the morrow sees us dead.'
And the willows wept in the valleys
and the trees on the hills pined away."
When the harvest failed,
the church bells tolled
for a woe no man could gainsay,
for none doubted then the trees were lost
or held it was only they.
The Man Who Never Missed an Upportunity
At birth he was as hairless as a coot,
though in his case,
it would be more appropriate to say.

44. 44
"as hairless as a rock face."
A bare two-year old, he kept
his parents in suspense
by clambering up and over
the furniture--the stools and chairs,
table tops, window-sills and shelves,
there, like fledgling, precariously to perch.
When a boy, he scrambled up apple-trees,
oaks, cedars, maples and poplars.
Whenever mewed up in a school room,
or forced to stay indoors,
he would pine for another upportunity.
A youth, he was rock-climbing in Wales
and then mountaineering in the Alps.
Having turned professional, he went
on expeditions in the Rockies,
the Andes and the Himalayas.
His copious head of sandy hair
and patriarchal beard prompted
the Sherpas to call him:
"shaggy mountain he-goat,"
This I render in English,
not being well-versed
in Sherpa or Nepalese.
He could pick his way
up, down and along
the most perilous crevasse.
He almost married a young Swiss
he met on the south face of the Eiger,
or was it the Jungfrau?
Whichever the case, he gave her up
for a piece of fluff
atop a far-off mountain.
Now he is old and his hair is snowy white.
Few friends are left, especially in
the mountaineering fraternity.
Was he to blame
if some aspiring Icarus said:

45. 45
"If he can do it, so can I?"
He now lives on a hill,
and finds his way up
something of a climb.
Only in memory, they say,
may he relive those peaks
strung up or pinned up over his chalet walls.
But how come that enigmatic smile of his,
suggesting, I opine, that far from being content
with nostalgic memories
of the snows of yesteryear,
the old boy actually looks forward
to his conquest of a last
and greater summit.
Joys increase where hearts lie open
To the sun and reign,
Where Jack and Jill are King and Queen,
Diamonds or no.
Pharaoh and Caesar
Must bow down
To the spade and to the plough.
Augurs of harvest utter
Words of life and words of death.
Black the gallows, red the wine.
Nimble or club-footed we glide or shuffle
To the dance.
Does Death sleeve every ace?
Not every race is to the strong.
Under the cold moon and stars
They sleep
Awaiting the coming sun,
Dreamers wrapped in many-coloured strands
Great pains did dye and card.

46. 46
Only Fish Have the Proper Scales
A man he would a-measuring go
With compass, scales and string.
The ambition he harboured
To measure the height,
To measure the width,
To measure the length,
To measure the weight,
To measure the strength
Of every, no every conceivable thing.
And so it was that he spent his life
Measuring all from his toes to his wife.
What, you would meet him? Oh, that cannot be,
One day he tried to measure the sea.
Another Gold
Far from profit’s crass allure,
At a place somewhat obscure,
A poet sweeps his shepherd’s lyre;
He sings of gold, of heaven’s fire.
No. not of gold that Midas stores
Behind fast-bolted treasury doors
But of gold, that, eve and dawn,
Touches sheaves of ripened corn.
More emeralds than all wealth can gain
Has to these eyes the verdant plain.
Without the mind all precious stones
Have lesser worth than dead men’s bones.

47. 47
The Death –or at Least the Disappearance - 0f the Great
God Pan
Once there was a boy
Whose chief delight it ever was
to roam wherever fancy led,
to verdant mead or secret glade,
some copse or gently sloping hill,
where seated on his mossy throne,
he might survey his Arcady
and spy far-off spires and towers.
As if bound by a fairy’s spell
he heard melodies so strange
and saw yet stranger sights.
Sometimes he awoke to shouts
as loud as any thunder-clap
that fells the mighty oak.
Rousing from his drowsy dreams one day
he saw standing there a figure,
more elf than man, goatish, small,
whose laughing eyes spelt
mischief but no harm.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Pan.
Learn of me, and I shall teach
the names of shrubs and trees,
the alder, hawthorn, bay, rowan,
the blackthorn, birch and ash.
Learn of me the songs birds sing,
of chaffinch, thrush, tit, piper,
the buzzard, rook and jay.
Learn of me what creeping things
there are, what life is found
in burrow, pond and stream.
Learn what games fox-cubs do play,
how weasels hunt and rabbits sport,
and I shall teach you how to tease

48. 48
little girls by a pulling of their plaits,
and bigger ones, well I’ll come to that.
I’ll teach much more, but for the while,
just listen to this pipe I play.”
So sweet the strain that bade me muse
on things from Fancy’s store purloined,
on changing scenes and what they told
of elves in grottoes, nixies coy
that bathed in streams by woody dells,
of golden fields and reapers gladsome,
yet unmindful of their toil,
of pastures lush where shepherds danced,
their gold-fleeced flocks untended grazed,
for wolves, it seemed, were kindly then.
A voice bade me return to that same spot
to learn new wonders and explore new lands.
The vision over, sadly I homeward stepped,
Cheered only by the promise I had heard.
Mine was this sorrow, for yes, I was that boy.
I came again and waited there for Pan.
I waited though the wind was cold
and clouds, like zealous sentinels,
would let no sunbeams pass.
Pan never came, but one came in his stead.,
a little man, in stature only like to Pan.
His clothes were black, as black as sin.
his hat was black and very tall.
Black were his shoes and mirror-shiny, too.
All was black, in fact, save silver buckles
on hat and shoe, his silver hair,
his haggard dead-pan face.
He also had a black sack on his back
and a spade held fast by a black strap.

49. 49
He placed the black sack and spade
on the ground and glowered at me.
“Now I shall teach you, boy”, he said,
producing a little black book
from a pocket in his black coat.
He opened the black book at chapter one,
and read it to me. This done, he read on
the second chapter, then the third,
the fourth, until the final chapter came,
and this also he read aloud to me.
He taught me words both new and long,
which soon would haunt me in my sleep,
and gross moral turpentine, and more words,
jussive subjunkthings, ablative ablutions,
speculative Antinomianism, unclear warheads,
overkill, collateral damage, infernal combustion,
and finally words proving inconclusively
that all but a few must perish in perdition,
or, in keeping with this rational age,
a thermonuclear holocaust.
He made me carry the black sack
up to a hill and then handed me his spade.
with which I had to dig a hole.
“Why?” I asked. “”Because I say!” said he,
“and because I want to bury that black sack.”
I dared not ask what that sack contained.
My task accomplished, I ran back

50. 50
my homeward way, surmising as I did
what that sack might have contained.
Pan, I fancied, or else perchance, a boy.
ONCE
Once in a quiet place
I heard an ancient song,
which to a gentle lyre
a singer sang anew.
And what the song I heard?
Of water, earth and air.
of ages long forgot
when everything was pure.
The air was breath of God.
The streams were crystalline.
Earth mother was to all
and blessed was all she bore.
I tell men of this song,
though some should smile or sneer,
though poisoned were the founts
And fume-filled were the air.
SHADES IN THE PARK
"Is this the gate of Heaven?" asked Mary.
"Silly," said Ann. "It's only the gate of the park."
As they walked down a glade, Mary asked,
"Who lives in those trees over there?
Look, they're waving at us."
"It's nobody," said Ann. "Just the shades
dancing over the grass under the trees.”
"Let's climb that mound," said Mary.

51. 51
"Yes, let's," said Ann.
"Does this hill lead to the sky?" asked Mary.
"Of course it doesn't," snapped Ann.
"If you were big like me, you'd see.
the thorns and thistles with purple flowers
on the brow of the hill, you would."
"Are hilly brows like eyebrows?" asked Mary.
"Sort of, only different," said Ann,
looking very deliberate, like Mum sometimes.
Mary ran ahead. "Look," she cried.
"You can see a piece of the sky
where there's a hole in the ground."
"Silly," said Ann, "That's the refegshun of the sky
in the lake. Let's go down to the swans.
Once at the lake-side they saw a swan
swimming towards them.
"Is it an angel," asked Mary.
Her elder sister was speechless
for a moment. "It's just lovely," said Ann,
who had dropped her omniscient guard.
CHILDREN
A CHERUB WITHOUT WINGS
A little cherub, perched on high,
twanged on her harp all day.
She felt a little lonely,
though "bored" I would not say.
How happily those children play!
she thought as she looked down,

52. 52
and on the lovely visage
appeared the slightest frown.
Gabriel marked her sorrow
and asked her what was wrong,
and so she had to tell him
for what her heart did long.
She could become a baby
if she would but agree
to lose those fluffy wings of hers
and still a cherub be.
Let me cut this ditty short.
Her wish indeed came true.
So now we call her Bubeleh.
Her beauty may all see.
FATHER TIME
It was one of those splendid mellow golden days
in early autumn when many trees, though still green,
begin to betray a trace of red or yellow.
In the afternoon I took little Eleanor to the park
just round the corner from where we live.
I came across a man whose hair, greying slightly,
was swept back to hide a bald patch. His cheeks

53. 53
were hollow and he wore bifocals:
"Der Hund tut nicht beissen!"--he reassured me
when Eleanor ran up to one of his hounds.
Only little children and dogs were worth knowing,
he said, the rest he didn't give a hang for.
Eleanor was accosting all-comers--frosty matrons,
flint-faced marchers who had calculated that
the most direct path between A and B led through the park.
Then she joined in a knock-about game of football
till a young Turkish lad, shrewd in psychology,
gave her a spare ball to play with all on her own.
Her euphoria was ended when, carrying her trophy off
she tumbled down a six-inch hole. By the time
she'd recovered, the ball, ineluctably, was somewhere else.
Unabashed, she toddled to the playground, where
she found some children digging away in a sandpit.
She brought out the mother in a girl of eleven
and bathed in the glow of much adulation,
too young to know divisions of language and custom,
to be aware that the minutes were fast ticking away.
Then I looked at my watch: Well past six, almost dark.
Despite my entreaties, Eleanor remained unpersuaded
that it was really time for us to go.
With what vehemence she kicked and screamed,
how transfixing her glares when I got the pushchair
and strapped her down. She made me feel
what a pig I was all the way home.
And Who’ll Do the Mopping Up?
Vae victis! Her quick eyes spy out the field.
Reconnoitred, the foe's dispositions have been noted,

54. 54
quantified, assessed. The forces of order
and tidiness, in neat array,
perfect their alignment, await onslaught.
The sentinels stand guard:
A pot of jam, a jar of marmalade are emplaced
on the strategic salient of the dining-room table.
In battle-dress, knives, forks and spoons,
the infantry, have been fully mobilized. Now battle!
The moment's silence is conflict's omen.
Certain of the issue, she advances,
knowing all order is as brief as day,
while primal Chaos ruled
when all was void.
She crawls towards an unwary footstool,
a defenceless lone straggler near the door.
This, with one fell blow knocked out,
her target would now appear to be the oak sideboard.
With a sideways reel, the feint is over.
Blitzkrieg is launched on the dining-room table,
the heart of enemy operations. She tugs
the table-cloth; a pepper-bomb descends,
inducing heavy sneezing fits
(didn't they outlaw biological warfare?)
Thus repulsed, she makes for the paper-stand;
papers, magazines, ordered by number, edition or day,
take heavy poundings till they lie scattered,
littered on the floor.
The main assault no longer brooks delay! She tugs again -
the infantry charge down.
They miss the mark but make a hellish din.
With head well positioned for cover, she tugs
a third time, and with a mighty splut
the jam-jars teeter, topple and tumble,
and tumblers crash down with deafening jars.
With jammy hands, the victress daubs the walls,

55. 55
and in triumph commemorates her feat.
By the shindy wakened, Father stalks in,
his face like that of Jupiter tonans
before the fatal blow.
Her sunny smiles pierce the dismal gloom -
O double conquest! Did Gaul, cowering
to the gore-drenched blade, love Caesar,
the British tribes, defeated, bless Agricola?
What smiles leave hard a little tear
makes tender as a lamb, and Dad,
a willing captive to her wiles, gives in -
surrender unconditional.
And Mum?
She'll do the mopping up, of course!
My Son
Kafka, Browning, Brecht and Proust
have doubtless come to stay,
so must the quest for that mot juste
await another day.
No lofty flight of higher thought,
no cerebral endeavour,
makes good the bitter loss, alack!
of a joy renounced forever.
Then Smutty-Face, thee I embrace,
let gooey hands possess me,
that Self-Reproach shall have no case
At length to bring against me.
No Further Search for Omens Necessary

56. 56
No more need of mumbo-jumbo, abracadabra,
voodoo, stargazing, necromancy, what have you.
If you’re prospecting for ill omens, take a tip;
don’t dabble in the kids’ stuff,
don’t bother with the Book of Changes,
the passing of predatory fowl, teacups,
the hoot of an owl, spooky doings at midnight.
To disembowel an ox, or a cat, or anything come to that,
would be very messy, and quite unnecessary,
but consider this -
In some corner of a foreign field
that is forever,
in some dark shelter of a bombed-out camp or settlement
that is forever
part of your world and mine,
with the whiff of cordite in his nostrils,
with the rattle of the machinegun
in his ears,
a man-child is born.
Fear this,
for he will not
necessarily
forgive.
IF YOU SEE OUR LITTLE SISTER

57. 57
How wan the lily of the vale,
How sick the rose.
No children play,
No children sing.
Have you seen our little sister?
We saw her in our garden,
Her pockets full of posies,
We saw her skip away to yonder hill.
A gale is strangely blowing
Through beds of wilting flowers,
And the crimson sun is sinking
Until its strength must fail
Unmindful of our woes
And the burdens of today,.
If you see our little sister,
tell her we wish her well.
The willows are yet weeping,
The cedar still is mourning
And birds refuse to sing.
If you see our little sister,
Then tell her not to fear,
For her home of quiet darkness
Is a better place than here.
FURUHI, A LAMENT
(Based on a poem by a Japanese poet of the seventh century, Yamanoe
Okura)

58. 58
What in all the world is most desired?
The precious ores, the seven precious stones?
Yet what are these to one
whom Heaven gave its fairest pearl,
that gem love brought forth to day,
our son Furuhi, our little son?
O why did Heaven lend to us
its fairest jewel?
When the star of evening shone,
he wakened us, laughing, jumping,
and when the star of evening shone,
he lay between us, there to be
a lily cupped by two green leaves.
But like that short-lived flower,
his freshness faded, wilted, paled,
as he grew weak and sick upon his bed
until like bird of night death came
to snatch its prey.
O Lord of sky and earth, tell why
you, possessor of both realms,
took from this scant store our gem,
our most loved only flower.
And Lord of dark shades of night,
to whose realm of nothing falls
all the realms of being owned,
why did you seize with such unseemly haste
what in full time was yours with better grace?
What cause had you to deny
a little season's bliss?
O Lord of dreams and visions, why
did you, as though consoling, promise
to return to us our pearl
and let us see him smile again,
and let us hear his laughter as before,

59. 59
at our waking, till cold reason
with vial of gall poisoned the cup of dawn
that we felt his death not once,
but again with each returning day?
O Lord whose name we do not know,
lead him gently and with parent's care,
or call us soon that as before
our shoulders bear him high.
THE BIRTHDAY BOY
Dad had left on urgent business,
something to do with a workers' dispute,
and Mum was at the next-door neighbour's
on one of her 'brief' visits.
Mary, the birthday boy's elder sister,
had just dished out the junkets.
Martin, known for his irascible fits, arrived late.
He started flicking blancmange around.
His main target was Aloysius,
though Jacob and Andreas got hit too.
At the head of the table someone looked sad,
trying to hide his tears, while smiling courageously.
Birthday boys do want their guests to be happy.
But then Calvin turned up, and started an argument.
His'dispute" with Martin soon turned vehement,
only to degenerate into a bawling match.
Girls on the sidelines started to giggle - nervously.
Karl, Jacob's distant cousin, was the last to arrive.
He said birthday parties were silly and tugged the tablecloth.
The din was hellish, enough to wake the dead.
The birthday boy shook his head and sighed.
"If only Dad and Mum were here."
The guests turned towards him and grew silent,

60. 60
some for shame, some in contrition,
mindful of what the birthday party was all about.
ANIMAL SECTION
A Sorry Tail
Herr Schneider and his Heidi
Lived a staid and peaceful life
In a suburb prim and tidy,
Free of rancour, free of strife.
One blessing only Heaven denied
To this prosperous married pair
No infant’s laugh or baby’s cry
E’er pierced their household’s air.
As life’s observers, many note
That it often is the case
That those from humankind remote
Befriend the canine race.
Thus Heinrich Schneider and his wife
Rejoiced when comfort came.
A little puppy changed their life
And Spezi (Spetsy) was his name.
Those first weeks caused such a muddle
When he threatened all known order.
"Oh Heinrich, look, another puddle,
And the spoilt herbaceous border!"
But continence can be well learned
Soon Spezi posed a model.

61. 61
No sausage-dog has ever earned
More right to proudly waddle.
On business trips to Bonn or Ghent,
Uphill or down a hollow,
No matter where the Schneiders went,
Spezi was sure to follow.
Herr Heinrich Schneider and his spouse
Felt the need to wander,
And for once to leave their house
For a land that lay far yonder.
Japan at cherry-blossom time!
No better place than this
Enthralled the German couple’s mind.
The chance they would not miss.
"But what of Spezi", Heidi cried,
"We can’t leave him behind."
"Ach! unser Spezi," Heinrich sighed.
"There’s a way we’ll find."
They gave him anti-rabies shots
And medicines galore.
All that red tape, and lots and lots
Of paper-mountains more.
Off to the orient they flew
With hopeful joy and glee.
Oh what wonders bright and new
Would soon enthral all three?
Imperial palaces they saw
And Fuji’s snow-capped summit,
Ornate gardens stirring awe.
You name it, they had done it.
Immersed in culture and in art

62. 62
They sensed a certain lack.
And so it was that they took heart
To leave the beaten track.
They hired a car and off they went
To some far-distant by-way.
And many a pleasant hour they spent
Till the dying light of day.
They found a cosy place to rest.
On the price they made a deal.
At last a chance to have a "Fest".
The time came for a meal.
The menu was in Japanese,
As well one might expect.
The waiter clearly meant to please
And bowed with great respect.
Of English, German and of French
He had no scrap of knowledge.
He gave each ear a nervous clench.
No, he’d never been to college.
Herr Schneider felt like sauerkraut
And Heidi felt like veal,
Food of this kind they’d do without
Until another meal.
But Spezi’s hunger would not wait.
Herr Schneider eyed the waiter.
"Wuff, Wuff, our Spezi wants a plate.
For dogs one has to cater."
While they sat there, a full hour passed.
Then the waiter brought some dishes.
The Schneiders ate their strange repast,
Which fell short of their wishes.

63. 63
It was now time to pay the bill,
Which ran to many a yen.
Both were feeling somewhat ill.
and hardly spoke a word, but then -
Heidi cried "Is Spezi back yet?"
"Wuff wuff" did Heinrich bark.
"Please, waiter, tell us, where’s our pet?
In the kitchen? In the park?
A piece of fur the waiter brought.
Then Heidi’s face went pale.
She had a grim and horrid thought
On seeing Spezi’s tail.
What is the moral of this tale?
Down under be a dingo.
Where e’er you roam you should not fail
To understand the lingo.
Impurrturbably Above it All
Hail, Ginger Majesty on high,
where on your royal ledge you lie.
Occasionally a glance you throw
On us unfortunates below,
A restless crew who daily pace
Compulsively from place to place.
Appearances may easily fool.
When masters serve, those kept shall rule.
When Ginger slinks through furling silk
It is to claim his cool fresh milk.
Human cares may humans stir.
Cats generally prefer to purr.

64. 64
Them no falling stocks appal
Who today have got it all.
Cats, of course, aren’t always nice,
Especially to birds and mice.
Down the Red Carpet
Taking great pains to keep his claws from sight,
He pussyfoots down the carpet plush and red,
At the end of which a fox with outstretched paw now waits.
He delivers a carefully worded speech
With a distinctly Macavertellian turn of phrase,
And purrs imperturbably of peace.
Wincing painfully at the very mention of that word,
He promises further measures to combat
The growing menace of terrorism,
That obscene form of violence
Not clad in the cloth of state.
Yet do we not discern a wistful,
Almost nostalgic, far-off look,
While he pauses between the paragraphs,
As he thinks back to those heady halcyon days,
When he, in those wild-cat days of yesteryear,
Ordered the deaths of innocent civilians
And planted bombs to maim and kill.
His means justified their ends.
He receives an thunderous ovation,
And there are tears in many eyes,
Most noticeably among the crocodiles.
The Plucky Duck
I begin my tale about a duck
That had the nerve, the verve and the pluck

65. 65
To leave the farm on a stormy night.
All went well till it ran out of luck
When crossing paths with a farmer’s truck.
What a sad end to the life of a duck!
To Lady and the Dog Star
They said a funny Latin word,
they said that you were dead,
yet merrily you wagged your tail
when I took you to the vet.
You were not kind to chickens,
as well the neighbours know,
or come to that, to ducks and geese,
and yet I loved you so.
Oh to recall the bygone days
we roamed and roved together,
sometimes when snow lay all about,
sometimes on purple heather.
Our walkies to the liquor store,
our excursions to the bar,
and all those times you led me home
when I couldn't use the car.
At night, I swear, an angel
looms in the purple sky,
and on a gently twinkling leash
you, Lady, lead on high.
NYANG

66. 66
I had a cat called Nyang.
She used to sit on my head.
I often think about Nyang.
What a pity she’s now dead.
I swear this ditty’s true.
I do, I do, I do
.
When Ignorance is Bliss
I can't complain with all this grub I'm getting
from dawn's first crack until the sun's last setting.
I'm glad to be the happy son of fate,
except for the fact I'm putting on some weight.
The people here all seem so happy too
but for one who's feeling very blue,
by which I mean the chieftain's elder son,
I have a hunch on why he's feeling glum.
His younger bro' turned up the other day,
forlorn and broke, the gossip-mongers say.
His fortune's gone and his last farthing's spent.
He really chose a fine time to repent.
All's past, forgiven and soon to be forgotten!
The reason's clear his brother feels so rotten.
To celebrate they're putting on a ball
with tons of guests and food and drinks for all.
I sometimes wonder where things are leading to.
But I'm well fed, so I should give a moo?

67. 67
On the inadvisability of keeping a crocodile as pet
He took a crocodile as pet,
ordered on the internet.
Fed Ex brought the little brute,
so harmless looking and so cute.
As little creatures tend to do,
his companion grew and grew,
as did its appetite, forsooth,
much too much, to tell the truth.
Lest my ending should appall
I will spare the details all.
Let dogs and cats and little mice
as our household friends suffice.
There was a Nip in the Air
So, I’m the last survivor of a breed that ruled the world!
Brrr! It’s getting mighty cold.
I suppose we can’t complain though. Our innings was quite long.
Brrrr! It’s getting mighty cold.

68. 68
When I was just a nipper not long hatched from the egg,
Brrrrr! It’s getting mighty cold,
My dinosaurus granddad told us stories of an age,
When everything was beautiful and fair.
We had a democratic system,
We had judges stern but just.
No one knew what hunger was,
We just ate ferns and moss.
O happy salad days!
Brrrrrr! It’s getting mighty cold.
I suppose we got too dozy in our leafy paradise
And didn’t see the rot was setting in.,
When a bad-egg dinosaurus by the name of Tyrannosaurus
Decided violent revolution was a more preferable solution
To the problems of the state than was steady evolution.
Brrrrrrr! It’s getting mighty cold.
He taught that eating lettuce was a very foolish practice,
That eating meat was what we ought to do.
“In the case of scarcity, don’t think t a perversity
To eat a weaker brother. Let the weak go to the wall!
Brrrrrrrr! It’s getting mighty cold.
The ensuing decimation with each succeeding generation
Of our species led in time to a general deterioration,
Then a cataclysmic annihilation until the time has come
That I’m the only one left to tell the tale.
Brrrrrrrrr! It’s getting mighty cold.
Those frisky little suckers that constantly make fun of us

69. 69
Doubtless think they’ll have it all their way – and so they may!
The sun denies to none of heydays at least one.
But after that? Brrrrrrrrrr! It’s getting mighty cold!
ONE TOO MANY
Were they birds of night with luminous wings?
Were they Gabriel’s geese on a spree?
Were the stars adrift, or were they things
None but prophets – or madmen – can see?
Or had I had one too many that night
though I swear I had no more than three.
But you saw them too, my wife, my dove,
As we stood at the kitchen door,
Or was it indulgence, my wife, my love,
Bade you speak thus and not what you saw?
Look, an ambulance has just drawn up.
Who are those men inwhite coats coming for?

70. 70
LOVE, AFFECTION and LE CHAGRIN D’AMOUR
CAPILLARY DISTRACTIONS
But a brush and a touch, one parting more,
Delilah, Moon-girl, you stole my strong light.
I, your Sun-boy, am shorn having blackout,
But remember my close shaves, the honey,
Dead days, my foes jaw-struck, the longwinded ass
My aid. Drawn by love's waves, I come to.
With influence silverish, drowning
My golden locks, the yolk-eating fish-god wins
For a period till dawn's yellow round.
I shake gold pillars that in Ashdod

71. 71
The uncut dye, for at noon I burn for you,
Daily I die for you, O Delilah.
BETTER TO HAVE LOVED AND LOST
Have you no tongue? So faint of heart?
Go tell her there's no other
so wonderful, and that apart,
so very like her mother!
Declare your hand, say it out loud
and never mind the lingo.
Why hide your ardor in a cloud.
She'll be yours, by jingo!
"Ich liebe dich!," "O, je t'adore!"
"ik hou van jou!," " b'hubuk!"
But when you're prostrate on the floor?
And when she shows you to the door?
Don't lose your nerve, or run amuck,
read Tennyson for better luck.
MY DRUG-STORE MUSE
Her eyes of heaven's blue distilled,
her charcoal hair,
in snow-white dress
immaculate.
I looked at her and I did sense
a poem's genesis.

72. 72
LAURA
Mine ne'er to be, yet mine always;
Laura, spirit of dawn. Darkest night
Cannot hide thee nor obscure thy rays.
Though Black Death hath by his temporal right
Claimed thee, dost thou, my love , indwell this heart.
Though Charon's hammer this clay vessel break,
The winds ne 'er scathed by Time's envenomed dart
Shall of its pure content aye possession take
And spread abroad thy fragrance to all Man,
Fill the valleys and linger o'er the seas.
'Tis not my part all future times to scan,
But thankfully to muse by pastures, groves and leas,
Await thy returning, nightly count the hours
"Till I rejoice with singing birds and flowers."
ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF VIENNA
She was only a girl who served breakfast and tea,
But, O, the difference to me!
She was dark and petite,
Her smiles honey sweet.
I almost went dotty
When she served extra coffee,
And how my heart jumped

73. 73
When accidentally we bumped.
I say nothing false :
I don’t walk now, I waltz.
THE CHOOSING WELL
To choose one girl from many
Is a task that's sweet and sour,
For every girl is wonderful,
Or should be, like a flower.
Some dazzle with their beauty,
Though they may prick or sting,
But each one has her glory,
Come summer, winter, spring,
And when we make the choosing
We know not that we do.
The process is mysterious,
Man's way with maid is pathless,
And pathless is the sea.
Thee choose I black and beautiful,
The reason none enquire!
'Tis vain to count her virtues,
or balance them with vices,
to mark if nimble paces
or halting gait attend her way.
'Tis vain. She's mine I say.

74. 74
THREE CATHERINES, TWO ANNES AND A JANE
Six wives - three Catherines, two Annes and a Jane
were married to Henry in the course of his reign.
An Anne and a Catherine met their end by the axe.
Anne Boleyn was too haughty, Catherine Howard too lax.
Henry's very first wife was Catherine of Aragon,
both pious and faithful, a virtuous paragon.
Producing no sons, she incurred a divorce.
Anne of Cleves followed a similar course.
Her face was spotty; she had bad teeth and bad breath.
Don’t trust a portrait, the wise man saith..
Jane Seymore very sadly died as she gave birth.
Henry's last wife, Catherine Parr, was a woman of worth.
More a nurse than a playmate, she bathed Hal with affection
and did a good job to relieve his dejection.
Envoi
So that's the close of this ditty,
which I think is rather a pity.
No, I'm not the Poet Laureate,
as the Royal Court never saw to it.
If I were paid to do so,
I'd keep writing like Robinson Crusoe.
ABOY CHASING A BUTTERFLY

75. 75
Leaving his men in the rigging to fight it out,
A boy chasing a butterfly,
He followed her gilded galleon
With purple sails to Egypt's sands.
There the rough Roman botched his exit,
His salto mortale being performed
With something less than a surgeon's skill,
So inconsiderate and unnecessary
The ensuing nasty mess.
Only she knew death to be a royal repose
And dying an exquisite languor
Within a chamber scented by Arabian sap
Above the balmy shade of palms.
ARDOR OR PALAVER ?
"We are dying, Egypt, dying."
I'm still alive and trying
to prove to you, my dove,
that I feel for you a love
you can put to any test,
which means, at your behest:
I'd jump from the fiftieth storey,
though the end of that were gory.

76. 76
How proudly I would stagger
if you stabbed me with a dagger.
You can go and tell 'em
for you I'd gulp down venom.
My will can never bend,
I will love you to the end.
But one thing I'll never do,
not even, dear, for you.
"And what," you ask, "is that?"
I won't pay a penny for that hat.
THE ARROWIN MY CHEST
When I consider my most likely end
In this the lap of what some folk call "wealth",
I deem it best for heart and soul and health
To hence depart, in foreign ways to wend.
But if cut down by some most dire event,
I deathward wander, blinded or insane,
What had I then that I might call a gain,
And should I then my errant days repent?
No not for me the slow and graceless death
Of some mad cow, some rabid froth-mouthed hound,

77. 77
But let me rather, though a captive bound,
'mid cannibals expend my final breath.
Or with a maid nut-brown and lithe in arm,
And with an arrow sticking in my chest,
Let me, content and grateful, to my rest
Return, and sing my latest pilgrim's psalm.
PLAIN JENNY
She’s not exactly a stunner
Or a beauty contest top-runner.
Sometimes she slips up on grammar.
But is that a reason to damn 'er?
Some men want gold and not copper,
And more often than not come a cropper.
George married a pretty blue stocking.
That divorce case, how horribly shocking.
Giles got hitched to a bunny,
Who soon hopped off with his money.
Cyril, with his eye for good looks,
Is now happy with someone who cooks.
Poor Herbert fell for a hooker,
And then most sadly mistook 'er
For his faithful, his heaven-sent wife.
(In fact, they were hell-bent on strife).
Such examples truly are many.
You can get two belles for a penny.
But I’ll keep to good-hearted Jenny.
Plain Jenny, you’ll do for a life.

78. 78
You were proud Who would not weep,
And I too proud to smile.
Our words unspoken
The box of precious ointment
Left unopened
Are things stolen from us that
Never shall return.
Beneath a bridge unbuilt
A once calm stream
A now wild restless sea
Where phantom ships
In ageless quest sail on
To reach no home
To find no haven’s res
MUCH KISSED, MUCH MISSED
My first love was much kissed,
And when she went, much missed,
For I was young, romantic,
And loving drove me frantic.
One evening, just as it got dark,
We put on Beethoven or Bach.
While I had things sublime in mind,
She, more sensually inclined
To my surprise lay on her back,
And I, a callow youth, alack!

79. 79
Grew much confused, indeed perplexed,
Not knowing rightly what came next.
JUST LIKE AN ANGEL
My love is like an angel.
Her eyes are bright and blue.
Her hanging locks are golden,
but is her heart so too?
When shall my arms next clutch her?
At the rising of the sun?
Or when the full moon glimmers
ere the course of day has run?
To this I have no answer,
and now is darkest night.
The star of eve and morning
eludes my powers of sight.
Behold! There looms a rose-bush,
which is budding in the gloom.
May yet that knave named Jack Frost
snatch summer's scarlet bloom?
My love is like an angel,
but one who rarely sings.
She finds new perches easily
thanks to her fluffy wings.

80. 80
WHAT’S A YEAR IN TIME’S VAST FLOW?
When a sailor man bade his sweetheart good bye
he said she should tarry a year
until he sailed back with silver and gold
and a ring to dry her last tear.
"To me you are more than silver and gold,"
said the maid in sorrow and pain.
"The ocean is cruel and the wind will change,
and we'll meet no never again."
The sailor laughed at his love's deepest fear,
"What's a year in Time's vast flow?
Wait for the day my good ship returns,
then the truth of this promise you'll know."
The maid remained faithful and constant in love
in this world where few things are clear,
till she met a young man with no silver and gold.
What he did have was abundant, and near.
Departed, the Cold Night and the Sea
What was colder than that night?
Your eyes like glass,
Your frozen stare?
And what was blacker than the night?
No hope the night at length should pass?
Dawn came, the sea was light,

81. 81
Eternal vast its restless calm.
The waves, as once our hearts, still beat.
All lesser loves than love itself had passed.
POSSESSIVE ADJECTIVES
My desert I-land is a great place to be.
Would you care to peruse this brochure?
But even with the Bible and Shakespeare,
my eight favourite gramophone records,
and a limitless supply of needles,
not everything is kosher.
If you're feeling lonely, how about
me coming over to you-land,
or if you like, you can visit me-land
On second thoughts, I'd better visit you-land first,
As in the second person you can't tell nominative from accusative.
In any case, we can always practise the dative,
or conjugate in the first person plural.
We'll see I to I, I'm sure.
Then we can go on trips to him- and her-land,
and even to the continental them-land
(if you can stand the crowds).
But if you come over to me-land,
I'll show you all the tourist sights.
Don't believe those silly stories about swamps,
shark-infested bays, and so on. Lies, I tell you, lies!
Mind you, I can't promise fair weather all the time.
If the wind's in the wrong direction,
you might imagine you're getting the whiff
of an imaginary swamp. Lies, I say!

82. 82
Can I interest you in a colour brochure?
Visit my sunny I-land--excuse the slip--visit me-land.
Some adjectives can be so possessive.
There's no need to get tense
about the future.
After the conjugation
and--excuse my grammar--
the copulation--is over,
and we are no longer active,
let us, the redundant,
decline in the imperfect,
and dream of a promised land,
beyond the gloaming,
where the sea ends in
the infinitive.
FEMININE RHYMES
Though few of us sigh like furnace
with ballads made our mistress's eyebrow
these days . . .
a poem is still as good as a bunch of flowers
when it comes to expressing our feeling
about a woman we like.
A poem is rather like a woman, come to think.
A good poem may have a pleasing form,
or by inner virtues compensate for this.
A good poem does not reveal too much at once
But leaves a lot to imagination's powers.
Rather it teases without being coquettish.

83. 83
It is reticent but not prudish,
for a poem that gives nothing away
may well end up on the shelf.
A good poem is not unapproachable, remote,
like some model with a past.
Too much logic jars in poems, too.
Smooth rhymes can be a shade too glib.
A good poem saves from complacency
Without haranguing day and night.
It can, of course, be taken to bed.
It wife-like serves us food for thought
and tells home truths with good intent.
THE TEARS THAT I SHED
Tell me, O willow, why dost thou weep
beside the lake? Why dost thou weep?
I will not tell thee why I do weep,
why I do weep beside the lake.
I will not tell thee why I weep so.
I know why thou weepest, O willow, I know,
for thy branches, thy leaves and thy trunk,
for they will come with axes and saws
when they come for to chop thee up.

84. 84
No, not for myself I weep, I weep,
but for the tree alone on the hill,
for they shall come with axes and saws
and him shall they fell to the ground.
Then why dost thou weep, O foolish tree,
for the tree alone on the hill,
for while they hack and saw him down,
they shall spare not a thought for thee?
So then I must tell thee, foolish man,
why I weep beside the lake.
From wood they make boards,
from boards a box, a box to lay thee in.
So now I must tell thee, O foolish man,
The tears that I shed are for thee
.APOLOGIES TO COWPER
When once a lovelorn callow swain,
Heartbroken by a maid's rebuff
Sought balsam for his heart's deep pain,
Of female wiles had had enough,
Grave listener at the local pub,
Sat Tom inured to pangs of love,
Who spoke as lion to his cub
Or to a chick a turtledove.
"Son, weep not! I know thy disarray,
And I recall that time ah! Long gorn by

85. 85
When I, a callow youth of Harringay,
Did to my first love like a furnace sigh.
With ardent kisses she the fire would stoke.
Oh how the temperature did rise,
Till one day she give it such a soak
That out it fizzled to my woeful cries.
Nought could relieve my darkness until Alice,
A fulsome wench from Walthamstow,
Changed my gloom into a Crystal Palace.
Bang crash the day she found another beau!
Oh nothing salved my bitter bitter spleen,
No medicine, herb, apothecary's lotion,
Till I met a luscious blonde from Woodford Green.
How she set my heart and soul in motion.
All went well until I met her mother,
Who asked in innocence how much I earned.
My honest answer love's fickle flame did smother,
So once again I got my fingers burnt.
By now I'd grown cynical a bit,
So when true love came knocking at my door,
I lost my nerve and had a fainting fit,
And so she went. I saw her nevermore.
Thus, my son, I live to tell the tale.
Renounce the frolics of thy frivolous youth.
A loaf but nibbled soon is hard and stale.
Let wisdom early teach this hard-won truth."

86. 86
WHAT KILLED OUR LOVE?
Nought killed our love.
For Love, how can it die?
But the flourishing of Love?
Oh, that may seem to pass.
Ask Dido, ask Romeo, ask me.
Thwart Love, let's try
bury Love and seal its tomb,
but it must surely rise again
and then pursue us day by day,
and haunt us night by night.
Forget Love, try, but know
it will invade our innermost recess
and in the Spirit’s catacombs
celebrate, though darkness reign,
what Reason’s light betrayed.
WHAT CONSTITUTES HER LOVE?
Humdumpty was an analyst, a Cambridge Ph.D.,
A noted bio-atomist, whatever that might be.
Indeed, from earliest childhood it was his single aim
To analyze no matter what might enter his domain.
He analyzed his father's watch and next the neighbour's cat.
Ah! Little more was seen or heard of Felix after that.
Astounding learned pedagogues, hard pressed to keep his pace,
Humdumpty grew up daily--in knowledge if not grace.
And then at university his intellectual power

87. 87
Decimated Einstein and the works of Schopenhauer.
With ease that was amazing he romped a Double First,
And yet, for all his learning, nought quenched his burning thirst.
Despite the storm, and tumult that marked his inner life,
Humdumpty found the leisure to woo--and win--a wife.
He loved her--Oh! so dearly, his idol and his joy!
Alack! How oft our dearest 'tis we ourselves destroy.
One day in stormy weather he raised his eyes above,
And posed himself the riddle: "What constitutes her love?"
One night--to angels' weeping--the dark thought seized his mind:
"By scalpel and analysis the answer I shall find."
Full soon she took a sleeping draught, and when the time was due,
He set about his gruesome task, inspired by love so true.
How tenderly, how lovingly, he cut into her heart.
With what profound emotion he set his spouse apart.
To isolate that molecule in which all love resides
He scrutinized each corpuscle, and did much else besides.
All data was computerized, and ere a while had passed,
A reasonable hypothesis was imminent at last.
How tantalizing is the truth, how far--and yet, how near!
'Twas in the corner of his eye--and then would disappear.
It dawned at last upon him, his efforts would prove vain,
Unless he somehow managed to join her up again.
Of every art that served this end he tried the whole range through.
He first tried biophysics--and his last resort was glue.

88. 88
Alas, alas, Humdumpty! There is a fateful law:
Some things men set asunder no mortal can restore.
They did not need a hangman or Madame Guillotine.
Before another week had passed, he died of bitter spleen.
Now some say he's in Heaven, and others, he's in Hell.
I'm not a theologian, it's difficult to tell.
For sure, he cut his dear wife up, and who would call that right?
But was it not his quest for truth that brought about his plight?
WHEN WE SIPPED CIDER
How sweet was cider in that year
we sipped our fill before the fall!
How gold, how glorious the sky,
so rosy-red the stones around,
how long the shade of Michael's tower.
In each other's arms entwined,
we sipped sweet cider and we kissed,
at the Cross in Coventry.
O Eve, my love, where are you now?
And where, O dear, am I?
ROXANA’S CURSE
Hey you guys, why leave your town
To find a bride and settle down?
Take a tip and don’t philander
Somewhere remote like Alexander.

89. 89
He married a princess called Roxana,
It seems, to make her hill tribes calmer.
To equalize the world by sex
Was a worthy aim subject to checks.
Pneumonia, poison or whatever
The emperor from his wife did sever.
So poor Roxana was alone
Cut off from people, friends and home.
She made her way to Macedonia
There to die not of pneumonia.
She, much sinned against, did sin.
She did in some foes and got done in.
Want to learn more? Surf to ‘Cassander’
And read some books on Alexander.
Before they placed her in a hearse
She pronounced an awesome curse.
‘To conquer my land shall many strive
who ne’er shall leave that land alive’.
I fear this curse still ails her land,
which nought can lift save God's own hand.
Name this land if that you can.
Take this hint. It ends with –stan.
After a Medieval German Rhyme by an Anonymous Poetess
I am yours. You are mine.
This is the sure and certain sign

90. 90
You are enclosed within my heart.
Its little key no man shall find.
Here then remain as long as time
WIDOW’s WEEDS
The black-clad diplomat treads warily,
and so should we, lest careless feet
crush the beetle, the centipede or the ant
all little folk with whom the Emperor,
his purple robe adorned with golden bees,
must come to share the same large bed
the all-giving and all-taking Earth
with impartial hospitality affords
her children great and small.
As time flies, the busy spiders spin
their supple threads with cunning hands,
as in antique legend the triune Fates
mete out and cut the many-colored threads,
strands golden, yarn sea-blue and dark,
in which are woven every raiment worn
by man and woman, in sunshine or in storm.
His chalk-white corse in colors three bedecked
they have borne to the yielding earth,
and not without that circumstance
accorded the hero by the nation
for which he died.
Wreaths of red and yellow flowers recall
that evening scented by autumnal leaves

91. 91
when she, now clad in widow's weeds,
put on the hues of bounteous summer,
and danced enchanted by a stranger
dressed in coat of red with golden epaulets;
their threads swayed like harvest corn
as he, breached the defending walls
of a heart unready for long sieges.
White flowers recall another and much shorter day
when the chill midwinter sun half-smiled
like a mother hearing the tongues of bells
and rumours by grave sages told
upon her daughter's wedding day.
"But, Mother, Boney's on Elba,
tending his mules and rearing his cattle,
while in Vienna the architects of peace
have banished war for a thousand years,
and though it were only for ninety and nine
we and our children shall live at ease."
But soon blind bats sensed distant peals,
the sickle moon cast down its sallow rays.
Scarce had the month of warlike Mars begun
than Apollyon reared up from troubled seas.
"What soldier slays his emperor?"
cried he who shrewdly guessed the answer,
and the ensuing moment proved him right!
Grenoble! Paris! The King flees north.
Marching orders, the parting night,
the dread no whirlwind's passion can dispel,
the letter from Brussels on the eve of strife.
"Dearest, it's going to be a son.

92. 92
He'll live to become great, a general,
I wager my last sou. To think,
that knavish little Corsican has caused my dove to fear.
We'll teach him and shake him bone apart! No jest!
A few hours more, and all will be over."
I'll bring perfumes from Paris, lace from the Hague,
We'll sack the French quarters for brandy and wine,
and cozen from Prussia a boatload of hock.
I'll take leave. Await my tap on a pane
before midnight when the longest day is done."
Alas, at noon on the longest day
she knew why Mother had faintly smiled
upon one winter's wedding morn.
"But Madam, however hard the blow, this note
was signed by none less than the Iron Duke himself."
On a dusty track a wayfarer stands, a man ignored,
a painter unrecognized, who in youth
used only colors that were gaily bright,
whose canvas now declares dark shades have beauty too.
Some evenings, by the fire-side glow he tells his friends
of a widow beautiful in black:
"I saw her in a jet-black coach
drawn by four horsed black to match.
Though pure the beauty of a bride in white,
hers was a beauty yet worthier of a master's brush.
She wore a dress of silk. My eye is trained to catch
the fleeting sheen of every cloth. The scene
lives with me still. Though like fugitives,
she and her beauty have passed from sight.
They left behind a cloud of dust, no more."

93. 93
O little worm that toils in darkness
to clothe our mortal limbs in Beauty's sheen,
whose unfading glory only seems to die
when we seek it in one place,
to stay its onward course.
HOW SIRE GADDABOUT UNTO HIS NUPTIALSCAME
Sire Gaddabout one spring-tide morn
his sturdy dappled steed did mount.
for he would wed the highly born
Maid Ethrelda Holyfount
He plucked his lute and sang an air,
but scarce a league was trod
than came a cry. "Beware, beware!
Here comes the knave, Sire Heaviplodde.
"Sire Heaviplodde, my mortal foe?
Seeks he this day a fight?
'Tis him or me a mortal blow
must soon dispatch to endless night."
Sir Heaviplodde in armor black
rode up to mock and jeer.
Then said he, holding high a a sack:
"Your head will serve as souvenir."

94. 94
"Make good, black knight, your foolish boast,"
stern-faced Sire Gaddabout did cry,
"or by ye saints your wretched ghost
full soon the Stygian strait must ply."
The shields did clash, the horses snort,
the dust did fly, the swords did ring,
and, to cut a long tale short,
'twas Heaviplodde who knew death’s sting.
A fulsome wench with babe at breast
stood steadfast in the way.
Sire Gaddabout at her behest
stopped for to hear what she might say.
She raised her babe for him to see,
she cocked her head and with a sneer
said:" Knight at arms, remember me?
You left behind this souvenir."
On seeing this the knight did blush.
He bade his squire go fetch some beer.
Then said he to the young girl "Hush,
this bag of gold should help out, dear."

95. 95
Past hill, past hamlet, wood and mire,
he rode with noble carriage.
Might even yet the fates conspire
to dash all hopes of marriage?
Who stood with visage grim and old
to guard the way before?
A man in black held up a scroll,
whereon were writ the debts of yore.
Not all the gold the knight did hold,
not lands, not herds, his dowry,
could e'er redeem his debts of old
accrued in youthful folly.
"I have sinned" the knight did weep,
"and mercy is my plea.
I must to church my pledge to keep
in holy matrimony."
The grim collector smiled and said:
"As bridegroom you today are free.
Your past is like a shadow fled.
What counts today is what shall be."
BUZZ OFF WORDS TO A SPIDER

96. 96
A silver spider spied a golden fly,
and to it most amorously did sigh:
"O most glorious of flies!
What fine wings you have, what eyes!
No earthly thing shows beauty more.
I shall weave in silver thread
a garb for you, a vestment fair,
that we be forever wed,
a common destiny to share.
I in you, and you in me,
O how happy we shall be.
You shall be my metaphor.
To you I'll pose reality."
"I'm sure what moves you is benign,"
the fly replied in dulcet tone.
"Yet I regretfully decline
your offer of a common home.
My gold is - like your silver - pure,
and may such purity endure,
for purity, if once alloyed,
as sure as fate must be destroyed.
To sun and moon it was decreed
not fusion but duality
should constitute reality.
Cohabitation I debar!
I shall admire you - from afar!"

97. 97
THE SPIN: HOWHARRY NEWHOUSE, THE TON-UP CASANOVA, GOT CAUGHT OUT IN
THE TWENTIETH CENTURY
He's the hotrod Casanova, the man who's been all over.
Tonight, he's on a bee-line straight for D.
Thanks Caroline, thanks Cathy, thanks Clementine, thanks Clair!
For last night was a night that was real cool.
Elvira, Eve and Esther, Elisabeth and Elsie,
He'll be there to kill your sorrows if you hold on till the morrow,
But tonight he's on a bee-line straight for D.
He's the ton-up Casanova, the K-plus demon rover,
And tonight he's fixed his rendezvous with D.
The lights turn red to amber man! Howzat for a nifty scramble!
Tonight he's fixed a date with none but D.
He's the lightning demon bowler that bowled many a maiden over,
And he's notched up runs a thousand and a score.
His conquests are so many that it's hard to keep a tally,
But taking in the rest days, the alphabet he'll manage
And that's without his trying - within the month, and often long before.
On Tuesday it was Annabel, Amanda, Ada, Abigail,
And many more whose names begin with A,
But today is not an A-day, not a B-day, but a D-day,
And tonight he's on a bee-line straight for D.
Now he's bombing down the main street (damn the limit) doing fifty,
And he's heading for the crossroads just off the Gravesend bypass;
He's riding hell for leather to keep his date with D,
For D ain't the kinda lady takes it kindly if kept waiting -
Her kisses burn like embers, vice-tight are her embraces,

98. 98
And then the way she dances! I dig the way she prances
When she does the tarantella with any guy or fella ...
But the speedo points to sixty as he revs his souped up motor,
And he's heedless of the colours - green, red or amber-yella;
Blood-red the lights are flashing, but onwards he's a-dashing,
And edging up the eighties by this time; down Hampton
His name's Henry, the man as hot as curry, and it cost many a maid
Her head along the way - but now he's on the M-Way
And the needle's touching ninety - he's Batman (some say 'batsman')
On the straights he'll be a-toning and really making headway;
On his shoulders leers the death's head over cross-bones, kinda scary,
But now he leaves the M-Way, taking 3 G on the bend now,
And the lights that blink ahead show one colour - and that's red
But does he give a damn now? He's heading for the crossroads,
For the crossroads where she's waiting at a bar named "Sticky Wicket,
At last he's reached the crossroads just off the Gravesend bypass,
At last he flies into the arms of D. Will she catch him?
Yes, she's caught him - howzat for nifty fielding!
But a-roving he'll be going nevermore.
O burning were the kisses,
So tight the hugs and squeezes
On the night the speedo jammed
At 99.
GETTING WISE
So she finally decided to do
what she'd always said she'd do.
She left him! Slam went the door
with a deafening, mighty wham!

99. 99
But scarcely had the landing and
the top of the banisters been cleared,
Then she stopped in her tracks,
and paced back very sprightly,
opened the door of his seedy flat:
the same old tatty, sordid scene!
Number eighteen, Wormwood Scrubbs Terrace.
It had all looked so different by candle-light.
Romantic glows conceal cobwebs and grime;
so too the tinged, dog-eared papering passed unrecorded.
It was the night, so many moons before,
when they met. "I'm your host, Mike Randle!"
"l'm Pauline Day, a friend of Jack Huntley."
From that moment Mike got to work fast.
"Up from the country are you, dear.
I expect you find London quite bewildering.
You'll soon get with the swinging city scene.
Have some wine, dear, red or white?
Help yourself to all you fancy on the buffet.
Bill, could you pass that platter--Edam, cheddar?
No one who's been to a party of mine
Leaves hungry, believe you me.
Care for a little dance in a minute?"
"A dance, oh dear!" she thought all in a stew.
She remembered Grandma's warnings about the sin
devised by the devil and his wicked band
to make a girl lose grip of all
she should keep to herself until her wedding day.
"Try some of this, dear, just a sip."

100. 100
Mike had a shrewd idea where things were heading.
Soon they were reeling to the disco sound.
"Make the next one slow, there's a good man,"
said Mike to Disco Dick. Little did she know
Mike had a nickname, which was Randy Randle.
Soon locked in his tight and firm embrace
she was in Heaven. Such sweet nothings he did bandy,
whispering his banter into her receptive ears.
While she was dreaming of a cottage and tiny tots
he was figuring where he'd left those darned dispeptic pills.
"You're so ... different from the other girls one meets.
You so remind me of the one girl I truly loved.
Leukemia, you know." Oh, how the tears did flow!
Muffling his sobs, his face he buried
in her flaxen locks. Down her spine
his fingers like a piper's nimbly raced.
Why don't we two meet tomorrow for a tête-a-tête?
There's a very nice little Indian place I know.
Look, how about me meeting you at Shepherd's Bush around eight?
So, over a curried chicken he emptied his heart.
While they were waiting for the suite, he clasped her hand.
"So like her," he sighed. She gave a little start.
Yet her hand remained in his. "Coming on nicely," Randle thought.
"Let's get back to my place for coffee...Waitress, the bill!"
"lt's rather late," said Pauline, "l’d better get back home."
"The night is young," said Mike, "Let's live and have our fill."
"Just for half an hour then, but not a minute more."
"I've got a new LP. Just your style. I'll play just one side,"
said Mike, his eyes twinkling, as he opened the front door.
She failed to notice his deft turning of the disc
and by the middle of the second side, he gently kissed her back.

101. 101
At the end he held her in a clinch. Yes, his style was brisk.
Now with fully opened eyes she spied that same sofa,
and a tear now trickled down her rosy cheek.
Then she looked down on the floor. She sighed.
lt was there in that vicinity she lost
what Granny had warned her about not lightly letting go.
"There's none so blind as them that will not see."
Then their trial marriage, as he so aptly termed it!
Soon the sweet nothings turned so strangely sour.
To be at his beck and call she enjoyed the dubious privilege.
What was it first gave the lie? The smug assumption
that she was somehow in his eternal debt, or his habits.
his forgetting to clean the washbasin, to pull the chain,
his toe clippings on the sofa, his snoring, his moods,
his long reads of the Sunday paper at breakfast
that made it oh so clear that she was bloody boring.
But even after she'd found him out, still she lacked the will
to make a break. Habits, good or bad, like iron bands compel.
It seemed she would accept her thralldom as an fact of life
till she decided to eat out one night on her own.
In fact she went to that Tandoori place in Shepherd's Bush.
While waiting for the menu, she heard a not unfamiliar drone:
"You're so different from the other girls one meets.
You so remind me of the first girl I truly loved.
Leukemia, you know...." Oh how the tears did flow.
So she finally decided to do what she'd always said she'd do.
She left him! Slam went the door
with a deafening, mighty thud.
Surprised at her own strength, she left

102. 102
never to turn back--a virgin
maybe not--but very much the wiser.
THE ARTS
Changing lead to gold
Angela, sweep hence these leaden clouds.
Music, they say, can cheer the saddest heart.
Euterpe bids her frowning father smile,
so let her now reveal her powers to me.
And yet you play a doleful Orphic strain.

103. 103
O let me hear a light and happy air. But no,
for that would, mocking, only chide :"So sad?"
The bat, the mole, must shun the sudden light.
The slave, surprised, may fear his broken chains.
Your chords reach down to find my sunless pit.
When pity salts, sympathy salves, the wound.
A song of love can melt the strongest bars.
Raised by strong cords I scale my dungeon walls.
Soon shall I feel the firm earth under foot,
soon shall I ply my worldly trade again.
Yet you play on! Your healing task is done.
I paid the piper, so let me call the tune.
Rising too high, I fear a greater fall.
As sweet as cane the melody you play.
The solid world dissolves into the air.
Of Heaven's gate you hold the golden key.
Let me but linger at the Temple's door.
Entering, I bid the earth adieu. Content
once to have heard the bells of burning gold,
once to have stood before celestial walls.
Then back to earth, but never to the same.
For Heaven's tones, once heard, can never die.
Oh, when the scales have fallen,
we see, we hear, we know
our element is boundless,
like water and like air.
What are poets?
What are poets? Do they have some special power?
Can you mark them out from others by their looks?
Or must we search for ivory towers and call out:
“Hey, you up there! We can’t find the steps`,