The Ides of March
Julius Caesar
must have been an East-end geezer.
Cos every year he went
and took a holiday in Kent.
On Liturgy
A tea light brightens up the church
Pebbles won't leave you in the lurch.
But if to read God's Words you dare,
You're better off with Morning Prayer.
On Ecclesiastical Ambition
To become a cardinal
is rather hard 'n' all
Being a vicar
Is much, much quicker.
David Croft
The better works of David Croft
are on the television oft.
But it's hard to savour
"Grace and Favour".
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Thursday, 15 March 2012
Monday, 17 October 2011
The Perils of Feel-Good Poetry
The thing is, we thought Dead Poets' Day was going to be all about feeling good. And it mostly was. Lovely daffodils and sleekit timorous cowering beasties and what have you - OK, the John Clare was a little more melancholy, but in a good kind of way, and I thought from there on in the upward gradient of the mood would continue through to "Read your Favourite Poem" time.
And "Read your Favourite Poem" time was superb - Jenny kissed me, the lovely wistfulness of Betjeman's Harrow on the Hill, and then after an hour of this kind of uplifting cheerfulness - the kind of thing poetry was designed for - we had Burton reading, for reasons known only to himself, Hardy's Hap. And yes, in its place it's a powerful piece of work. In its place. But I wanted joy and hearts, romance and flowers. Not a Wessex scream at an empty sky.
And so we turned to Morgwn to pronounce the prayer to close the liturgy of poetry. But in the kind of outbreak of spontaneity that I'm going to have to stamp out, Morgwyn announced that first she'd like to read us her favourite poem.
Stop all the Clocks.
She said it always makes her feel happy because she remembers that Hugh Grant got it together with Andie MacDowell in that film.
Tonight's dinner was a terrible gloomy affair. The Gibbon Moon folk are still somewhere out on Four Acres, sobbing. Young Keith's nipped off to the White Horse for a quiet cry into his beer. And I'd tell you about tomorrow's planned Flint Fiesta, but what's the point? And what's the point of poetry, if it's going to make you feel bad?
And "Read your Favourite Poem" time was superb - Jenny kissed me, the lovely wistfulness of Betjeman's Harrow on the Hill, and then after an hour of this kind of uplifting cheerfulness - the kind of thing poetry was designed for - we had Burton reading, for reasons known only to himself, Hardy's Hap. And yes, in its place it's a powerful piece of work. In its place. But I wanted joy and hearts, romance and flowers. Not a Wessex scream at an empty sky.
And so we turned to Morgwn to pronounce the prayer to close the liturgy of poetry. But in the kind of outbreak of spontaneity that I'm going to have to stamp out, Morgwyn announced that first she'd like to read us her favourite poem.
Stop all the Clocks.
She said it always makes her feel happy because she remembers that Hugh Grant got it together with Andie MacDowell in that film.
Tonight's dinner was a terrible gloomy affair. The Gibbon Moon folk are still somewhere out on Four Acres, sobbing. Young Keith's nipped off to the White Horse for a quiet cry into his beer. And I'd tell you about tomorrow's planned Flint Fiesta, but what's the point? And what's the point of poetry, if it's going to make you feel bad?
Dead Poets' Day Programme
A lovely day when we spend an hour for each of our dead poets. Hardy and Betjemann feel particularly autumnal, while we have neglected the lighter side of life.
8 am - Thomas Hardy
9 am - John Betjemann
10 am - Christina Rossetti
11 am - Kirsty MacColl
12 noon (the lunch spot) A Lear and Carroll Miscellany
1 pm - Gerald Manley Hopkins
1.30 pm - Susan Womanley Hopkins (his lesser-known sister)
1.45 pm - Bernard Beastley Hopkins (the brother they tried to keep quiet about)
2 pm - The Scottish Hour: William McGonagall, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott
3 pm - The Welsh Hour: Max Boyce, William Williams, Dylan Thomas
4 pm - The South Midlands Hour: William Shakespeare, John Clare, John Dryden
5pm - Alfred, Lord Tennyson
6 pm - The People's Choice
7 pm - Dinner
Now, I want you all looking very smart and intellectual, and I don't want anybody misplacing the apostrophe in Poets'. Somebody came to our blog the other day having searched in Google for "Pedantry and Distraction". And that's not the sort of reputation I want to lose lightly.
Saturday, 2 April 2011
A Druidic Myth-Poem - in Betjemannesque style
When Druids worshipped 'midst the oaks
and sacrificed the nasty blokes
in human shapes of wicker made,
and danced in firelight round the glade;
at Stonehenge gathered, Solstice morn
and watched the first new light of dawn
and yet despite the blood and gore
were good and holy, wise and more -
with Nature they were well-aligned,
although to sacrifice inclined.
At least that's what the legend says
despite the lack of evidence.
Our grimy modern way of life
makes romance of a sacred knife
that flashes round the smoke-filled crown
of stone on Sarum's rolling down
and ends the frantic flutt'ring breath
of some poor victim facing death
and thinks it a small price to pay
for living in a natural way.
And dreams against all common sense
of natural power flowing thence
down ley alignments, wyrd and fay,
the electric cables of their day
and thinks the modern world quite drear
compared to wondrous yester-year
and nuclear power a scary bet
for powering the Internet.
So I shall ponder visions bright
and meditate on a tea light.
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