By George, What Do We Mean?

Here's something in response to St George's Day (23 April for those who don't know!). 

It occurred to me that, whilst we are familiar with the imagery (of a knight with a lance, a red cross and a dragon), what is the reality? If there is a reality at all? Is anything real? I think I'd better lie down.


By George, What Do We Mean?

One tale of Georgious, noble born,
Of Diocletian’s favoured few:
Beliefs he held could not be torn
From him despite what they would do.
To Roman gods he would not bow,
Refusing bribes to change his stance;
Through torture he would not kowtow,
His soul he would not leave to chance.

In preparation, days before,
He’d left the poor all that he’d owned,
He would not need it any more:
Intransigence was not condoned.
At last, on April twenty-third
By Nicomedia’s city wall,
A swinging of an axe occurred
Thus causing George’s head to fall.

Though dead, his influence lived on
And Christians some would become.
The Empress Prisca – she was one;
Perhaps this led to martyrdom .

 A death in three-oh-three AD?
It doesn’t fit. I’m at a loss:
As there’s no dragon I can see;
I cannot find St George’s cross.

A legend, in another age,
With children taken to a lake,
To give their lives to curb the rage
And hunger of a fearful drake.
The daughter of the king was due
To satisfy the dragon’s ire,
But George, by chance, was present too,
The time the beast reared from the mire.

From horseback George thrust out his lance
Blessed by the symbol of the Cross.
The dragon’s wound let him advance
And take advantage of its loss.
Into the town he led the drake
And promised he would use his sword
To slay the beast if they would take
Leave of false gods and praise the Lord.

A dragon slain by sword or spear
Might have the right mediaeval spin;
Excite the folk of yesteryear
With magic tales to drag them in.

In this sophisticated age
We only trust the facts we get
Referring to a Wiki page.
Reliable – this Internet?

Shakespeare: Ham Lettuce Piccalilli

There's a number of events coming up locally with regard to celebrating Shakespeare's 450th birthday. Although I appreciate his contribution to the English language, to date I have not invested any of my time into understanding the meanings of his literary output. Consequently, my contribution to Bill's big day is a little different.

The following should be read with Shakespeare's famous Hamlet Soliloquy in mind. Scholars may even choose to place this alongside the original version... 


Ham Lettuce Piccalilli

To eat, or not to eat: risk indigestion:
With the peach cobbler I’ve a mind to suffer
The stinks and horrors; borborygmus consumes;
Though to take antacids and seize some truffles,
And with lips closing, eat them? To fry: to make
Quite sure; to fry it deep to say “pretend
That heartburn will not rouse with natural chalks”,
That fish will snare you; ‘tis appreciation
Of trout there to be fished. To fry, to eat;
A treat: purchase ice cream: ay, there’s the grub;
For in such treats of chefs what dreams may come
When we have stuffed ourselves with olive oil,
Most give us pies. We won’t reject
Cornflakes, calamari, even Long-Life;
Fast food – beefburger, chips, sweetcorn – sublime,
The ox’s precious tongue, the Hellman’s, cranberry
Meringues; and what prized lobster’s claws convey:
Enhanced – our sense of focus, and this spurns
Abstinence for it’s true we prefer the steaks,
When on the shelf there’s a pie we must make
With prepared pumpkin. How would noodles fare,
To grill with swede under a kitchen knife?
But then the bread is something for the cress;
The bun is covered, country fromage, quorn,
(No gravlax concerns, expel the swill,)
And makes us gather fare – such thrills we have,
To try provenders that we know not of.
Thus nutrients doth make gourmands of us all;
Ingest the native foods that evolution
Has handed o’er without the slightest thought,
And this comprises the plate that we are sent.
With this regard the curries burn, that’s why
We choose to take this action.

The Home on the Hill

Fylde Coast Community Radio broadcast a programme called "A Poetry Show" each Saturday night at 8pm. The featured poet for 12 April 2014? Edgar Allan Poe. I thought "Poe - that sounds like a good idea," and was - sort of - inspired.

The Home on the Hill

The darkness of the starless night
Removed three figures from the sight
Of sentinels beneath the ground;
They hid there, waiting for a sound
Of movement through the blackened land,
For reasons none would understand.

They did not stir, they did not see
Or hear the figures; carefully
The three companions crept on by
Through grassland leading low and high,
Passed darkened windmills they would tread:
No chance of moonlight overhead.

Despite their silent movement they
Would not dare venture here by day.
Although the dark way was perverse
The light’s exposure would be worse:
As, quiet as the three could be,
The watcher in the sky would see.

They did not use the childhood names
From times when here they once played games,
From when the singer bounced her ball
When joyously her friends she’d call,
Each playing with their precious toys –
But now they would not make a noise.

At last, they saw the place they sought.
They’d reached there without being caught:
The singer with her yellow head,
The bagman glancing round with dread,
The drinker with his hat on, still
They reached the home upon the hill.

The doors were locked. To get inside
They vowed they would not be denied.
They clambered up the sloping wall
As once they did when they were small
And used the entrance on the crown
And slid and slid ‘til they were down.

With lamp held low and out of sight
They chose to risk a beam of light,
To search the house for they had heard
That an abduction had occurred,
That their dear friend had been brought here –  
Then they saw something there, quite near.

A body lay there, was it dead?
Awash in scarlet, foot to head,
But no – some breathing, slow and deep.
‘Twas Po! And she was fast asleep.
They gently shook her ‘til she woke.
She said “Eh-oh” and then she spoke.

“Oh, Tinky-winky, my dear friend,
“And Laa-Laa, Dipsy: I commend
You for your courage coming here.
You’ve put yourselves at risk, I fear.”
At that, a snuffling made them quake.
Their doom – –  the Noo-noo was awake.

The Fair Weather Gardener

The rain on the window was the inspiration for this one. There seems to have been more than a fair share of that lately.

A few consecutive days with dry, non-windy weather, and who knows what might happen. You may just see that pig fly by.



The Fair Weather Gardener

Hi! I’m a fair weather gardener;
I think that’s the term that they use.
The slightest appearance of rain in the air
It gives me the chance to refuse
To go out the door – it would damage the lawn,
If “lawn” is a suitable term –
It’s green and it grows and it responds to mows,
Beyond that, I’d have to confirm.

So I cannot get through to the edges
Where the grass and the weeds tend to grow;
Where dandelions drill down with oil-seeking roots –
They don’t understand the word “no”.
I can’t reach the shrubs where, last season,
They threw out their branches with glee,
Resulting in orientations
That leaves a new challenge to me.

The weeds and the couch grass blown in from next door,
I need to root those out once more.
I need to prune back the growth on the trees –
That’s something I cannot ignore.
I need to dead-head the rose bushes,
I need to rake out all the leaves
That have covered the borders all winter,
I really must roll up my sleeves.

The trellis needs urgent attention
The posts have been rotted by rain
The wind then altered their aspect:
Don’t think I can fix them again.
I’ll probably shift them as soon as I can
But will not replace them just yet.
I need to decide if there’s something out there
That does not react to the wet.

A few days of sunshine would do it,
A chance for the ground to grow firm.
I’d get out the mower and push it around –
A quick win in quite a short term.
It brings such a sense of achievement
To win each new garden campaign:
At least ‘til the weather unfairly fights back
And I’m sent back inside once again.

The Marvellous Alphabet

A cautionary tale on censorship - I'm not sure where this one came from, but I could hazard a guess. We had a creative writing exercise to write a lipogram - where we had to write some narrative excluding the letter E, so maybe that's the inspiration. The modified Wordsworth quotation came first, so it's likely, I suppose.

The Marvellous Alphabet

All praise to the marvellous alphabet!
It’s wonderful what it can do:
Arranging those symbols in different ways,
Depicting the sounds that we glue
Together to construct a series of words,
Representing our thoughts and our deeds;
To express our meanings to one and to all,
To pass on our concepts and creeds.

But what if some letters should become taboo?
We’re always told what we should think.
What if each day we are told we can’t use
One letter to save us some ink?
We wouldn’t discriminate – t’wouldn’t be fair.
We’d take it in turns to ignore
Particular letters each day, one by one.
But limiting though, to be sure.

Yes. You could quote Wordsworth, ignoring a U:
“I wandered lonely as a clod”
But, fun as that is, beware: don’t be swayed
As placed on your back, it’s a rod.
By using austerity as a big stick
It’s freedom they’re taking away.
It’s censorship hidden in monet’ry terms;
It’s limiting what you can say.

So embrace your marvellous alphabet
Ignoring the government howls.
Value each letter, each consonant group,
Each diphthong from pairing your vowels.
Develop your words and write what you will,
Communicate thoughts and ideas
And enrich the language, make sure you maintain
The freedom we’ve held all these years.

Building Bridges

The following poem relates to the glorious summer of 1976 when my parents would take me to Walmsley Bridge, together with my two pals. Each time we went we'd spend the entire day building a makeshift bridge, never actually getting around to playing on it.  

Building Bridges
(Walmsley Bridge, 1976)

Remember days of warmth and light
When cares ran free and hid away?
The times when we would reunite,
That everlasting holiday?

The shallow stream in which we stood
The water playing round our limbs;
To wiggle toes and feel the mud
Adapting to our slightest whims;
To feel the pebbles ‘neath our feet
And watch the ripples grow and hide
As slowly we would walk, replete
With satisfaction, side by side.

Each time there we would mastermind
A plan, convinced it was unique,
To build a bridge from what we’d find:
From fallen branches, cross the creek.

The larger stones that we could shift,
(Strategic placement in the stream) 
Some heavier than we could lift,
We’d roll them, working as a team.
A branch we’d place across each pair,
Or more than one if they were thin;
With smaller rocks that we’d find there
We’d take great pains to wedge them in.

I’d hear the water change its route
To rush at speed between the stones
And then I’d watch it distribute
The floating twigs to calmer zones.

For hours on end we’d work like ants:
The watching sun would change its view
Of three young lads with dampened pants:
A holiday construction crew.
But then we’d hear my parents shout,
“Hey! Come ashore and dry your feet,”
We’d had no chance to test it out:
At least the building was complete.

Betjeman

The Poetry Show on Fylde Coast Community Radio is having Sir John Betjeman as its featured poet this weekend. Hence the inspiration for my poem, below.

A point of interest: the show is starting to be uploaded to Soundcloud, which is a benefit for those unable to catch the live broadcast.

Betjeman

I’m thinking of having some landscaping done
As damage from ice and the frost has begun
To lift up the gravel – I have to assess:
Is Betjeman really the way to progress?

I’m thinking of watching the Cheltenham Cup;
To risk a few quid as the horses line up.
I have my suspicions – the final furlong:
I Betjeman oats – they won’t last very long.

I’m thinking of breeding my pedigree dog.
I’m checking the listings, the Kennel Club log,
But it’s not too easy – I have not yet found
The Betjeman tending to choose for my hound.

This thinking of driveways and wagers and hounds:
Unusual. Possibly this gives me grounds
To think it’s subliminal; books I have read:
It’s Betjeman’s name that I have in my head.