Christmas

Possibly that Jesu chap was right and it is a fact

That, whatever our plight,

Simply to know there is a power for good

Brings that power into play,

And further when by proof is understood

All our cares and fears are put to flight.

Then truly it is a joyous thing

To hear the bells and voices ring

With glad news, and to friends to say,

"May that power wonderful enfold you all today,

Cheer and uphold you in every way."

Keep the bells ringing, and the streamers flying for fun.

Today is a world ending, and a world begun.

The star of new birth is ascending high,

To yesteryear's cares and sorrows a fateful goodbye -

The friendly goodbye and wave of the hand,

A laugh at the tears and follies sucked in the sand.

The rosebud of halcyon meaning sways bravely on its stem,

In earnest of fair faring more precious than worldly diadem.

Even now, the dreams and themes of to be on horizon play:

Like morn blush and evening glow they too will pass away,

But they'll leave in the heart a remembrance and song,

Like chords in a sacrament to which Earth-kind all belong -

The stricken, the blest, the whole pilgrim throng.

Leaves

These dried leaves,

Golden and brown and red,

Scattered on the parklands,

And on the grimacing street;

That whisper and rustle and spell

A Future, a mystery tell:

Sweep them away, these dry leaves!

On the wind they whisk,

In a detour frisk,

They group and trouble together:

They whirl and they frolic,

In circles magic,

Like witches about some bother.

Gather them up, they seem to steal

On today, like horrors long forgotten!

The dried leaves of years, and rustling fears,

And tears that make bright hues sodden.

Where the laugh and the shout,

The tints bright and clear?

Instead, flight and rout,

Rowan and seer:

Gather them up in armfuls, these dead leaves,

That once in the bud were so dear!

Gather them up: the gardener is building

A pyre to consume these multi tree-children,

These light ones, green suited,

These gay galloping princes,

Charioteers of the springtime,

Unsaddled by autumn lances.

Gather them up!

Then close press to your bosom,

Ever so tightly, each winsome frail phantom.

Inevitable

My hushed, professional calm stills your room;

Desists the fluorescent clamour

Outside your door.

Belies the constant nag of phones and bell requests.

'Your' light is dimmed and dimming still,

As time beyond ticks on at frantic pace.

You don't know I'm here,

Besides your bed; regulation, crisply made.

I barely got to know you,

Yet here I am to hold your frail, pallid hand;

Token comfort towards the inevitable.

Peacefully calm in your repose.

Your face at rest calms me,

Conceals my 'not supposed to be' fear

At your passing - 

I squeeze your hand with gentlest touch

You'll soon be free from contorted pain

You'll soon be free - rest now!

One of mine

 A bit of an experiment... one of my own pieces ...

'Me Time'

I need some 'Me Time'; no specific reason,

Whilst trudging aimlessly through crowded store

I conclude that 'trudging' could be better spent.

Facing the 'Wrekin' - Giant hurled mound

So folklore would have us believe;

I walk through Keatsonian mist, now clearing.

Marching on through muddied leaf litter;

In footwear far inappropriate

I take in gulps of revitalising air!

Pine trees needling my nostrils

Damp oaky mulch underfoot.

To my right the ribboning 'M-way'.

To left the Buildwas Powerhouse;

Giants' egg-cups of my infancy.

I survey the wondrous panorama.

'Me time' has been achieved!

Driving homeward bound through woolly studded hills;

I check the gauge . . . and need re-fuelling!

Escape

This made me think of our social media escape route - now in the 21stC   - I wonder what Grandad would have thought ?

Why all this hunting for entertainment,

In theatres cramming, in novels dipping?

Why all this lust for hectic excitement,

Newspapers chewing, at races gambling?

I know it's a dire sign of the time,

And folk are aflame to stake on a chance

That might ease ever so little the rack and the pine,

And by basking in fiction the real world escape.

But dare not to look on the street about you,

Around, below, aghast to above,

Are hope and despair, Earth's grand creatures a-mildew;

The comic and tragic of perennial love.

Avaunt! Avaunt! The foeted hall.

Away! Away! The novelette.

Man is horse mettlesome chained in stall,

With powers stupendous - left to rot.

Autumn

Autumn spills a chilly blast

Out the tankard of the morning:

Bee and Man prepare for fast

That Winter threats, by vigorous storing:

Hoard they honey, flesh and fruit,

Edible Good, whatever suit;

Autumn spill your chilly blast,

The garnered store will warmth recruit!

Autumn sails before the mast:

Autumn viking his wild-blown locks;

Deep their nets the fishermen cast,

Heap they high the silvery stocks.

Swarthy arms the ripe-grain mow;

Whirl and eddy the tanned chaff blow.

Winnow grain! Spoil amass!

Like fresh red apples young cheeks aglow!

With sweetness bulge and juicy fall

Plums purple yellow, pears huge brown - flecked:

Yesterday's blossom is beyond recall,

With cherry earrings present Beauty deck:

Chrysanthemum blooms the lilies replace;

December rose will bud apace:

Like puppy unleashed the wind is in chase

Of springtime adornments, it leaps, scampers, pants:

Press out the cider! Fruition never recants.

A brambling we shall go!

One or two of you may have noticed my seemingly obsessive referrals to all things olfactory; evocative smells are key in my childhood memories.  Not least the smell of blackcurrant jam; the first smell of blackcurrant jam when that lid is 'popped' off a brand new jar. To be precise; the jam that sat on the breakfast table at Grandad's in Arnside. "Tiptree Blackcurrant Jam" on crusty white bread! I loved that jam so much; I even forgave the narky pips that would frequently wedge them selves between a tooth or too.

Blackcurrant Jam

It was around Arnside and surrounding areas that I would have first picked and eaten the freshly foraged delights from the local lanes; blackberries mainly and once wild raspberries. I remember picking the soft fruits, bursting their vivid staining juice over my fingers, before popping the newly picked fruit into my mouth. Possibly a tad tart and often that jammy sweetness, but always a single thrill that I'd picked it first and tasted it first!! Now to gather enough fruit without damaging it in the bag provided for such gathering.Oddly, despite getting scratched by the brambles; defending their fruity treasures, I loved picking blackberries and still do. I think that they would have been made into a crumble, if sufficient or merely enjoyed with ice cream, 'if' they made it back that far without been eaten on the way home!

To Mamie (My Dear Wife), 1943

We shall go together! Journey together!
And time and tide shall know our course is one ordained.
The clouds - white on the hills - and the purple dreaming heather
Shall pledge one ode for us like their spirit inseparable and unchained.

The swan on their spring flight feel deep peace on their spread wings,
And build among the rush their morrow unborn:
"Together yet together!" the chaffinch sings:

"Together yet together!" the grasses croon,

Touched by the wandering fingers of the morn.

Even while the world its pale hope crucifies,

Spurting from iron lungs a molten death,

Amid the pain and terror a hallowed breath

Shall pervade us twain and heal heart of its sighs.

For Ocean owns not a Vesuvius master,

Nor shall Earthquake distort the oakwood's grain:

The baffled Soul staggering to blind disaster,

Shall yet look up and see its truth again.

Twain minds enfibred of mutual thoughts unspoken,

Unto one cycle of being are beholden,

To burgeon each with each to their full grace.

Each to its shore through dark ways and through golden,

Revealing unto each Love's inalienable place.

The Rose

Deep into the rose glistens the transient dew!
I gaze into its damask shade,
And, mid the whorl of petals, I view
A sunlit forest glade.

In depth of rose, how I peer deep,
Beholding a vision there,
Where pearl-plumed birds warble and cheep,
And settle in date-brown hair.

Beloved, this rose Elysium is,
Its incense, lorn, Love's fragrant sigh;
Fondly I bend its heart to kiss
Where glistening memories die.

The Sanctuary

A little green plot

Athwart the polyglot:

A leafy place

In a London square,

And the song of a thrush,

At evening there,

Is a joy the town equals not.

Around anxious haste

After pleasure and gain;

Manpower run to waste

In want, error and pain:

But serenely breathes Nature,

Perennially, free,

In this island sanctuary

Of flower, bird and tree

Sighs

" Be serious!" "I'll try!" I said,
And with right spartan sombre decked my face,
And felt deep sadness to my very core,
I racked my heart and mind about problems of the Race.

To be most grave and pensive is manlike, the world says,
And bluffs your fellows to thinking you're wrapped in mighty sense:
I stalked about, and well assumed a truly mournful gaze;
Refused to smile, and met each jest as a low and vain pretence.

But as I mingled with the crowd, I saw a fellow with a similar look,
As though his founts of life were sapped, and he a withered root.
Straight changed at once my broody heart,
capriciously it began to dance:
One glance at him, and lo, behold,
My sides with laughter shook.

O! The concern sat in his eye,
As though the role of endless space
Upon his single thought relied,
And all his steps had hell in trace.

I laughed until I almost burst;
My sides all ached, helpless I was:
That such a petty self had durst
Look black at Cosmos infinite.

Other soaps are available . . .

Visits to Grandad’s house in Arnside had their very unique aromas. . . There were several really, but the main ones were the smell of a particular brand of soap in the bathroom; ‘Imperial Leather’, other soaps are available. This smell permeated the bathroom. When we were children I can remember wondering; when we arrived to do our routine run around, to establish if all was the same as when we last left it; if the bar of pre-mentioned soap would be new, or the paper red, gold & black label would be about ready to fall off in amidst the soapy lather. Soapy lather was right; the Cumbrian soft water meant you didn’t really have to work the soap like at home in the hard water area of the West Midlands! Talking of water, it was quite a trick not to scald yourself with the exceptionally hot water. You could also ‘smell’ the heat in that bathroom; this coupled with the viciously hot towel rail made for a possibly perilous time as children, amidst the frequent “don’t touch that” and “run the cold water first”. If I so much as gain a whiff of that soap now, I’ll be back to Arnside in that bathroom . .

Wheels

Living so near to Blists Hill, I love the industrial revolution reference in this poem:
Blists Hill Victorian Town 

A molten-mouthed dragon, when I was a lad,
Out of its flaming belly spat me this ingot,
'Mid the whirr of conveyor-belts, the clang of steam hammers,
The screech of drills, the scrawtch of the millers:
"While yet there is time, learn, boy, from the steel,
Wherever or what, thrums wheel within wheel."

The leviathans, labouring through fluming seas,
To the throb of the engines, the menace me told;
Their shuddering flanks screamed the dictum to me,
As, tempestuously driven, they staggered and rolled:
"Would you know the secret of our forging keels?
Behold, child, and marvel, at our wheels within wheels."


Thund'ring and thrusting through smoke-sated fog,
An impetuous train the augury shrieked;
Plunging and snorting, like a frenzied god,
Ravenous for distance, it clamoured and belched:
"If warning you'd have in your utmost speed,
Remember, when and wherever, that, wheels within wheels,
Are tightly keyed!"


In the depth of the night, when the elements warred,
O'er the roar of ravine and the crash of the shard,
Of the down-tumbling sky in a vortex reel,
Valkyries, riding, the law hallooed to me:
"Know now, and forever, turns wheel within wheel!"


As I sat alone, in reverie rapt,
A spider came ticking an ominous lay:
When weary of seeking him, I resignedly sat,
 To endure him in patience, he tic-tic-a-tacked:
"If ought there to be, human you hold fondly dear,
Hark! Wheels within wheels. Be guarded, and hear!"


 

The Ring

Symbolic words in this poem of rhyming couplets; the giving of an engagement ring.

To you, beloved, this simple ring I tender:

No costly ware - it boasts no ornate splendour:

But proffered fondly in the hope it be,

Ever so dear to thee.

If anything inanimate could hold a charm,

And shield its owner from all grief and harm:

On this, Affection would that power bestow - 

In my heart I know!

Each blue-bright star out of its depth endow,

Health, beauty, love, with serenity light your brow,

And waken in your heart perennial song,

And of wondrous joys in throng.

Idle 'twould be, and folly even so,

To plead no care nor pang your heart to know:

But pray this ring, of love's property possessed,

Aid you to triumph over all unrest:

Aright to guide when doubt and trouble assail;

Friendly to golw though other radiance fail:

Ability, Strength, and Understanding give,

So as ever you adjudge: "It is sweet to live!"

Metal and stone void of all sense may be;

Mindless, and barren of magical ministry.

Then, own it, dear. Touchstone of what is true -

Earnest regard and well-wish, dear, for you!

Two little girls and the Sunflower Goddess

 On our many trips to Arnside, me and my sister Hilary pictured left, with our Grandma Butler; would spend ages marvelling at the beautiful ornament, you can just see in the window. I think I would be about 3-ish  in this picture and Hils about 14 months. This picture of Grandma Butler is my endearing memory of her, and if I shut my eyes; I can smell the freshly picked bunch of sweetpeas I'm clutching. The black and white picture of the day, obviously does not do them justice.

The statue in the window is called 'Clytie' we loved her:

 Clytie was a character in Greek mythology who became jealous of her lover, the sun god Apollo. To punish her, he transformed her into a sunflower so that she would always face towards him in his daily journey across the skies. This bust of Clytie fascinated us; the beautiful, yet sad face emerging from a sunflower, in pure white unglazed porcelain which closely resembled a type of marble from the island of Paros; and became known as Parian Ware.  The picture below is the marble statue; the porcelain one now resides at my parents house.

A little yellow box

There were always little yellow boxes to be found in Grandad's house; usually in more than one place. Generally one would be located on the side-board in the dining room and if memory serves, possibly in the living room. What am I talking about? I'm recalling Grandad's love of a particular sweet. In my view, these tantalising fruit shapes, with their pictures decorating these yellow boxes, were as I see fruit teas now, as an adult. They smell deliciously appealing, but ever-so disappointing when consumed. Now when offered these fruit gums I'd never refuse; always trying to aim for the blackcurrent ones or raspberry, ~ (they may have been strawberry actually). They always seemed quite brittle to suck at first, then eventually the flavour would come through when you'd sucked them to a stained glass circle. 
I may just go and have to buy some soon to reminisce . . . . .

Sunburned

My poem about childhood memories of getting a bit too much sun; a factor or two were evidently missing:

Summer's past sand squiggles to escape my toes,

As I stand heat-bound on the shore,

Tingle salt-spray bathes them;

A break from sand castle building chores.

I'm nudged into sea-side memories,

As I bundle out covers to sway,

I drape the cool dampness toga-like

Around my neck; this scorching May

Transported to a childhood holiday, 

Calming my sunburned back - chalky lotion.

Seeking out the coolest patch of sheet.

Painful, burned, a spoiled emotion.

Giving

 The strength of feeling regarding Grandad's socialist views, are put to verse here:

Scatter a largess while you may,

Your purse may be empty another day,

And the hand that opens to give, perchance,

May receive - at the fall of Need's avalanche.

Though it is not wise to give your all,

Nor spread as bounty what your own require,

Know that crumbs that from aplenty fall,

Are fruitful seeds if they relieve the dire.

The High and Mighty forget this law,

And by Hunger and Hate in time they are shorn:

The rats devour the boasted store,

And Capital burns with the surplus corn.

Let what you give be no charity,

The earth in turn gave it you.

If you 'give' for a chair in paradise,

Best pocket your dime - it is rue.

Superiority

Rogueing, lying, 

Gambling, bragging,

We're men of the Stock Exchange,

Lawers, bankers

Land and mill grabbers

We're financiers of famous name.

'Tis ours to will

When nations kill,

When we maim for our Glory and gain:

We are the wise ones,

The shrewd and the proud ones,

Who hold all the rabble in chain.

The chain's but a thread

Invisibly sped

Through child minds in their unreasoning age:

We set such a seed

As will grant us to bleed

The creatures deluded in their adult stage.

We teach them to act

In such fashion that

Will make them our tools with ease:

We arraign them, blast them,

Quote them, and hymn them,

Just as our will they please.

But should in time later

They reject all our blather,

And act by the rules we act;

'Twill be up with our ghost,

All our profits be lost,

They'll have learned to sort fiction from fact.

Mere Man

I can picture Grandad surrounded by piles of paper in his bedroom or perhaps strewn over the dining room table; editing here and adding his special form of shorthand there . . . 

In each corner spins a spider,

Weaving cobwebs with endless art:

All the rooms are in disorder,

Nothing neat and nothing smart.

All the floors they need a sweeping;

Everywhere a duster wants,

And Mr Man, his things is keeping

Scattered about in heaps and dumps.

Something soon has got to happen,

Or a mole he will become,

Creeping amid the household bracken,

Gone to earth, and awful glum;

Everything is topsy-turvey,

It's disgraceful, I declare:

If only he, less wordy-wordy,

Would just set to and make things square.

Something must be done about it:

Shall I see the Registrar?

If he won't move, why, then I'll shout it

Through the town, both near and far:

Really, it's a pressing problem,

And I'm sure you will agree

Mere Man is an audacious vandal

Despoiling nest so pretty and wee.

A rummage under the stairs.

Now I knew that Grandad had trained for some massage treatment courses and I had the box of stuff from my Dad, somewhere under the stairs. Got it!

This is amazing! I am just looking at the certificates awarded by the Smae Institute, that Grandad received in 1946 on completion and successfully passing the Swedish Massage course.

There are also some fascinating books by the French physician, Emile Coue. In particular his pamphlet:  conscious auto-suggestion, and J. Louis Orton which include such titles in the 'intensive course' literature as: 'System of Voice Culture', 'The World's Greatest Power/how to make the most of it', Personality/its nature, operation & development', & 'Hygeinic Therapy'.

This is quite a revelation to me; though is it? I had known for a good while that Grandad Butler was a believer in complimentary medicine and therapies. We would often see him downing a tablespoon full of Olive oil, before rubbing a drop or two into his hands and his face.
He had strong beliefs in the principles of 'mind-over-matter' as held by Christian Scientist Church, founded by Mary Baker Eddy  but more than that; I don't know.

In amongst the text books is an examination paper from the Smae Institute; founded 1919, dated for 1st November 1948/ Final Examination, section B/Joint manipulation, comprising of 10 questions. It states: "When the term describe is used it will not be sufficient to give only names, full details are required."

I have been taking a look at some of the pamphlets, associated with this course.

D.M. CLARKE, of the Smae Institute. Right at the end, following his last paragraph; wishing the students well in their chosen career progression, he quotes an elderly gentleman:

In these days of being politically correct, I am not going to apologise in repeating this -

A patient is reputedly said to have peered over the top of the sheets one day and said:

"All the world is queer, save thee and me, and even thee's a little queer."

Strangely enough, this is a phrase which I have heard many times in our family, and never known its origins until now!

Sunset

Yon sunset expounds a gospel far more plainly
Than ever parson from his pulpit spake:
Its pastel hues and fiery ball unfeigndly
Engrave the pattern of man's ancient faith.

Nor does the hush that comes with Day's declining,
Even by a little taunt the stammering heart:
Infinite depths, with finite nuance combining,
Intone Earth's muted one-ness 'ere we depart.

Away, out of the Sun's embrace we are gliding, 
To dare the dark, and fellowship with each star:
Thou, pulsed, hush, that drinks hte heart's confiding,
No mortal's fault may thy transcendence mar.

Childhood recollections

Visits to Arnside

Leaving the M6 and been driven down the tree arched, narrow lanes towards Grandads house was one of mixed feelings. Sheer excitement that we were nearly there, but a dread that the winds and dips in the road would probably make my back seat passenger, motion sickness worse. I would try and deep breathe, look forward and suck frantically on the barley-sugar sweet. I had been given travel sickness pills on previous journeys, but always ended up 'wasting' 2 hours of Grandad's house time on arrival, due to having to crash out. This in itself was strangely comforting as I lay atop the burgundy eiderdown on the huge double bed, which became my sister's and my bed for the 1-2 week stay. Jumping up after the travel pill induced sleep, I would run down-stairs, after first peeking round the corner of each room, and stopping 3 stairs short of the bottom, jump into the hall, thus making the telephone receiver 'ding', something that I had found out by accident one day; if you trod a certain way in the hall the telephone would 'magically' ring just once.

By-passing the lounge, I would go through to the kitchen. I was always fascinated by the red formica work top with its little gold flecks, and the solid fuel, stove with the 'pipe that must never be touched'. More than anything though would be the exit from kitchen to the garden, that both me and my sister would savour each visit. The kitchen door led out from the side of the house to the driveway, and the beautiful garden on either side of the pink and white alternating paving stones that went to the top of the garden, through a couple of rose covered archways. Roses were in abundance, and their fragrence likewise, topped off by the deliciousness of sweet peas. I don't remember what it looked like at any time other than summer. That's not to say that we didn't visit at other times, just that those poignant memories have stayed with me; the garden during its other seasons, evidently did not.

I do remember the rainy September October days during our half term visits. The garden had a washing line which when it rained, I would watch from the window; the rain-drops sliding down the line. I likened them to 'fairy cable cars'. It was a wonderful garden for fairy imaginings, but the front garden was even more so.

Why was the front garden more magical? I'm not sure now to be truthful; looking at the picture here (I sneakily took this from the garden gate, at a recent visit to Arnside). This picture somewhat belies the childhood wonder my sister and I enjoyed so much. Rushing out after tea into the gnat-strewn evening sun, we would race to the bottom right corner of the garden to assemble a 'fairy feast'. This would comprise of a flat stone, with a selection of flower petal dishes and cups, painstakingly arranged on the top, after several attempts to stop it all falling over! Cushions of moss around the table would complete the look; even having a 'grander' one for the Fairy queen to sit. In our joy and excitement we would come in to show our spectacle to the grown ups!

The Possession

This is beautifully representative of Grandad's passion and admiration of Nature.

A swan on the lake at eventide,

Statuesque on rink of crinkled pink:

Two fluffy, grey cignets that snugly ride

Between ivory wings:

On the tranquil horizon, a saffron sun,

In an ocean of azure, poised e'er it dips

Behind the far-distant empurpled hills:

The squawk of a wild-duck in the reed,

A coot call quavering, high-keyed:

Startled, to flight takes the penguin-grebe;

Day is near done!

On corrugated glass of lemon, roseate, slate,

Wooded islands sleep:

No longer the bullfinch chirps to his mate:

Night shadows creep.

Occurance departs! Reflection lingers on,

In heart and in brain,

An unencumbered possession:

And when I am gone,

It will still remain.

Labour's Election Victory ~ (July 1945)

Grandad's epic poem:

The Dawn,
And Promise!
Will it be fulfilled?
The begrimed streets
With assurances are billed.
And will they be forgotten e'er the bills rot:
False-speech and lip-served principles besot
And deceive, again, a weary world?

England has chosen a Labour Government now,
And none may claim it lacks majority:
Full tide has come to implement each vow,
For common good wield common authority.
The people quaff new hope, decades of dreams
Flood into vital awakening, hearts beat free,
And eyes, woe-sunken, gleam with wistful incredulity.

As though the yearning womb of the teeming Earth,
Had ministered this happening to birth,
The rivals nations' babel blends to a single voice,
The East an West acclaim the People's choice:
They glorify the vision, now tangible to be,
Of common men with common aim shaping their destiny.


May none betray that vision centuries of anguish bred,
But with will emancipative its Grief-born pledge sustain:
By iron law of Faith be dispelled by Tradition's dread,
Else it shall re-enslave, and hope and fervour wane.
Private conceit disrupts: the sacred task
Will wreck on demagogy and self-parade:
Not fine points of procedure, but deeds long o'erdue men ask,
That shall forever found and prosper a worthier Age.

Subtle and many the schemes ruthless Privilege will devise,
To invalidate reform, and progressive aims abort:
And every kind of sabotage, insidiously, it will try,
To withold the Peace the Plenty, long possible and long sought.


O may your fleets be in loyal command,
Your Air Armadas not in caste's control,
And may your Armies not fail faithful to stand,
When mad Reaction conspires to crush your soul.


Thousands have trod the way - the Appian Way of the crucified,
The Way of Agony in the Wilderness of Republican Spain:
The Atomic Dawn, throughout milleniums prophesied,
Shall it prelude salvation, or end the White Man's reign?


In the same holy Cause, the Nazerene defied
Even to the Cross, the pharisaical vipers of usury:
Be now unloosed their hold, action immediate be undenied:
The people's toil let fill the people's treasury.


No propertied class has ever, without a fight,
Relinquished of its privilege and power:
But ardour flees the unjust when opposed by equal might;
They scatter to Old World havens, to await Reaction's hour.


Attains our civilisation to its Zenith Day, 
It shall avail for Man a Wider and Freer Way,
Or be eclipsed, cataclysmic, in annihilative strife,
As Inca, Egypt, Athens with plague and famine rife.
Its grandeur in ruins crumble, its towns fatalism and banditry haunt:
The wild ass bray contempt amid its depopulated vaunt:
And when shall come the Others, they shall mourn the ideal wrecked
Upon barbaric altars, by misdirected intellect.


No pampered class has ever had the inclination to redeem
Humanity from want and inter-nation suicide:
Though plausible diplomats of the public school may seem
in motive altruistic, on labouring backs they are schooled to ride.
With smug ineptitude, well-fed, well-housed, well-clad,
They preen themselves superior, in judgement unprejudiced -
Superior, in truth, to the struggle for home and bread:
Indifferent, not unbiased, beneath ponderous camouflage
Of pompous, sonorous diction concealing mental vacuity:
O, to high office, a tie, not merit, the Open Sesame.
Who shall his lofty purpose to this perverted clique trust,
His Cause shall be dishallowed and trampled in the dust.


Boundless as the universe
Is the scope of Social Man.
His lodestar - the Evolving Genius
Of World-conscious Dominion.
Who shall that lodestar follow
Shall prosper: but who turn back
Shall be destroyed; the challenge
Of the Vastness, none may sidetrack.
Fulfil its higher dictate, the limitless prospect is divine:
Repudiate and perish, no alternative is thine.

Cigarettes

Grandad on contemplating giving up smoking:


Viscious companion, definitely dubious friend, 
You have become of late, too friendly by far.
Our long familiarity now must end,
Though my nerves you soothe, my lungs you jar.
The occasions of our hob-nobbing must be reduced,
Your lips seek mine less often than heretofore,
It is a question of acquaintance much abused,
For though I'm friendly, I cannot you adore.
I am quite sure I don't love you, cigarette:
To great cause you give disapproval and fret.

A penance must I do straight away from you.
If needs a smokey cloud I would inhale,
It is advised a pipe would better do,
To make me look content, a homely male.
In any case we must be more reserved,
And cease from twenty gallivants a day:
Too expensive too, your attention I have observed,
And I can ill-afford for vice to pay.
A slight restriction, therefore, does forefend
Much grave complaining and annoyance without end.

Mother

When at play

With my dolls alone,

I live the way

I will when I'm grown;

Real butter, fresh eggs,

Vegetables a store:

No doll of mine begs

In vain for some more.

I have sweets, oh, so tasty,

Made by my own hands;

Though I don't make much pastry,

What I make is real grand.

My dolls are dressed well -

Not fine, but trim and warm;

Sound shoes to prevent chill,

So that they come to no harm.

My home, though not rich,

Is cosy and neat;

It smells sweet and clean

Like a babe's rosy feet.

I try my dolls' childhood,

To make free with joy, full:

We oft go to the wildwood,

And oft, where jaunts the seagull.

But my Mummy and Dad,

My brothers, sisters and me,

Are not half so well off

As Fancy makes my dolls be:

Though Mum and Dad strive,

I know it's in vain:

In two rooms we hive,

Through which comes the rain:

Our stomachs are empty,

Our feet are ill-shod:

I wonder if God above

Knows our limbs are ill-clad.

The Bomber

The horrors of wartime juxtapose the wonders of a spring-day, in this poem:

A bomber has crashed in yonder field!-

The briar buds are bursting now.

Its engine spat fire; with tortured scream,

It plunged to the ground, a demon of flame and steel -

Pink blossom falls from the almond bough.

The wallflowers are blowing, red, yellow and brown -

They drove at high speed, to save the town.

The skylark, high mounting, trills his jubilant lay;

The jasmine is shimmering in golden array -

The explosion rocked dwellings for miles around.

How young would they be? How young would they be?-

Oh, child, come here quickly to me!

The rooks noisily build on topmost bough -

They avoided the houses for our sakes, somehow -

Leaves, heart-shaped, unfold on the lilac tree.

From that blazing inferno they thought not to escape;

They remembered us, and we came to no harm.

O God, for their mothers to learn of their fate!

Young bodies they treasured, crushed all out of shape.

Crushed all out of shape, broken, twisted and charred!-

The linnets are preening in the noonday calm,

The calm of the spring's noonday.

Fat

Presence of fat, in moderation,

Conduces towards sound constitution;

But fat, in a preponderation,

Clogs the vesicles of function.

Just so the wealth within a nation:

Excess begets complete stagnation;

But all the fat, well distributed,

Leaves none with overmuch, and health well suited.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This simple few lines is so meaningful within our society today . . . little has changed.

Politicians

quite timely:

Begrudge them not their glory,
It profits them but a twinkling day, 
It soon grows stale and hoary
Like the principles they betray.


There are odd heroes among them
Who judge sacred their cause
And who scorn the whip and the diadem:
Truly sensitive to the policy's flaws.


They come in and out unchosen
Unranking among the party greats,
On their lips their wisdom frozen,
Deserted by their prudent mates.


Better for them held they to the wisdom
Of their leaders true to the party line,
And had chosen to haul in tandem
With the slick and opportunistic kind.


Who stands alone is invariably honest,
His voice heard but held profane,
Is trodden in the dust as a foul pest
Whom careerists and front benchers disdain.