EVIL PLAGUES

Evil plagues the Wand’ring Boblet

Over Hill and Borrowdale;

Drinking from forbidden goblet,

Cursed by fate, and bound to fail.

In the bleakest cold of winter

Or the blazing summer sun,

Toils and sweats the anguished Boblet,

For his work is never done.

High and low they must pursue him,

Hound him even unto death.

Until at last receives the Boblet

His just reward, and final rest...

REVISING OF NOTES

Vixi puellis nuper idoneus

Et militavi non sine gloria

… Horace

Today, we have revising of notes.  Yesterday,

We had attending of lectures.  And tomorrow,

We shall have what to do after failing.  But today,

Today we have revising of notes.  Veronica’s

Thighs glisten like marble in the neighbouring garden,

And today we have revising of notes.

This is the Careers Officer.  And this

Is the Careers Office, whose use you will see,

When you are given your careers.  And this is the Degree Certificate,

Which in your case you have not got.  The girl

In the garden requires a full evening’s attention,

Which in our case we have not got.

In case you don’t make the grade, there is always postgraduate study.

This is easily  entered, providing there are places.  But please, don’t let me

See every one expecting to get a place, because you can get good marks quite easily

If you have any strength of will-power.  The girl

In the garden has got up and is adjusting her brassiere, but you needn’t let it put you off

If you have any strength of will-power.

And this, you can see is the important thing.  It is perfectly easy

If you have any strength of will-power, to pass the tests

And look forward to a successful future, by memorising the facts and figures, and the small bikini

Of the girl in the garden.  And rapidly backwards and forwards in your head

You weigh your future and your immediate desires, to decide which course of action requires priority:

They call it passing the test.

They call it passing the test.  It is perfectly easy

If you have any strength of will-power, to memorise the names,

And the formulae, and the facts.  All it requires is a head like sponge,

Which in our case we have not got; and the girl in the garden,

Losing interest, has got up and gone into the house, while your thoughts fly rapidly backwards and forwards –

They call it passing the test.

                        With apologies to Henry Reed

FAILURE TO WRITE A POEM

            Words of circular length

lying in line

upon a field of white

Waiting

for my pen

to encompass them

Sentences

not quite able to combine

as poetry

Insufficiently sublime

hypocrisy

Lies

as yet but half-told truths

Insufficiently divine

for heresy

The latitude and longitude of lines

Unable quite to coalesce,

A rhymer, not yet wholly blind –

Please rescue me…

VICTIM OF THE ASSASSIN

When i saw you in Venice

You looked so cool

So cool and sophisticated,

With your designer shades

And your glass of wine

When i saw you on the catwalk

You looked so good

So good i could eat you,

Complete with your new hat

And your stiletto heels

When i last saw you

You looked so fine

Just like you did in Venice,

With your designer sunglasses

And your glass stiletto knife

i can’t see you any more

i can’t stand the pain

The pain of not being with you,

With your glass affections

And my Achilles heel

FORBIDDEN PURPOSE

The sun is low on the hills tonight,

And the she-wolf’s howl is blending

With the muffled cry of the last rook afly,

Down to his nest descending.

And home is far from here tonight,

From the darkened woods we’re treading,

Where the silent snarl of the oak-tree’s gnarl

Fills every step with dreading.

The night grows cold and silent now,

As like a dying ember

The sun is out – and we are left

The midst of deep December.

And what dark Grail our goal tonight?

What purpose brings us forth?

What monster’s lair or castle fair

Where we must prove our worth?

We seek the bone-interréd Good

In graves of dead men lying;

We come to steal this sacred veal

Or perish in the trying!

So thus, we creep beneath the trees,

Our fearful hearts a-pounding,

Until we reach the catacombs

And Mardor takes a sounding.

The honest man’s in bed tonight,

And dreams his dreams unknowing.

He’ll never know and never see

The frontier of our going.

No turning from our purpose now –

No holding back or slowing!

(Why do our lanthorns flicker so,

When no cold wind is blowing?)

How carefully have we prepared

This night-time’s holy venture!

We will prevail where others failed,

Or face the final censure.

No trick of fate can thwart us now,

No act of god, or man;

No happenstance, or fall of chance

Can spoil our perfect plan!

For courage is our badge tonight,

And fortitude our banner,

And rectitude our attitude

And confident our manner!

Escuchio holds out the net,

Fortuno cracks the door:

Asai and I hold fast our breath –

Now need we wait no more!

But hold! What dreadful sound is that?

What evil presence spies us?

With rattling bones and ghostly groans,

That threatens and defies us?

With stricken faces frightened white,

First one and then another

Stops and turns, and casts about,

And whispers to his brother.

What awful demons from their graves

Might not the long-dead call?

What spirit pale will we unveil

When we its grave despoil?

Then as one man, we turn and flee

Unconquerable terror

That shreds the soul and spoils the dream

And send us hell-for-leather!

Eftsoons the night is dark again;

No lanthorns blight its umbra.

No silly fools with futile tools

Disturb its peaceful slumber.

And so, as sullen morning breaks

Upon our bleeding shame,

Behind closed doors we clutch our straws

To see who was to blame.