THEIR LONELY BETTERS

As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade
To all the noises that my garden made,
It seemed to me only proper that words
Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.
A robin with no Christian name ran through
The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,
And rustling flowers for some third party waited
To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.

Not one of them was capable of lying,
There was not one which knew that it was dying
Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
Assumed responsibility for time.

Let them leave language to their lonely betters
Who count some days and long for certain letters;
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:
Words are for those with promises to keep.


W.H. Auden
1907-1973

ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST

Father heard his children scream
from: Ruthless Rhymes, 1898

from Perverted Proverbs


What is Enough? An idle dream!
  One cannot have enough, I swear,
Of Ices or Meringues-and-Cream,
  Nougat or Chocolate Eclairs,
Of Oysters or of Caviar,
Of Prawns or Pate de Foie Grar!

Who would not willingly forsake
  Kindred and Home, without a fuss,
For Icing from a Birthday Cake,
  Or juicy fat Asparagus,
And journey over countless seas
For New Potatoes and Green Peas?

They say that a Contented Mind
  Is a Continual Feast; — but where
The mental frame, and how to find,
  Which can with Turtle Soup compare?
No mind, however full of Ease,
Could be Continual Toasted Cheese.

For dinner have a sole to eat,
  (Some Perrier Jouet, ’92,)
An Entree then (and, with the meat,
  A bottle of Lafitte will do),
A quail, a glass of port (just one),
Liqueurs and coffee, and you’ve done.

But should you want a hearty meal,
  And not this gourmet’s lightsome snack,
Fill up with terrapin and teal,
  Clam chowder, crabs, and canvasback;
With all varieties of sauce,
And diff’rent wines for ev’ry course.

Your tastes may be of simpler type; –
  A homely glass of “half-and-half,”
An onion and a dish of tripe,
  Or headpiece of the kindly calf.
(Cruel perhaps, but then, you know,
“‘Faut tout souffrir pour etre veau!”)

‘Tis a mistake to eat too much
  Of any dishes but the best;
And you, of course, should never touch
  A thing you know you can’t digest;
For instance, lobster; — if you do,
Well, — I’m amayonnaised at you!

Let this be your heraldic crest,
  A bottle (charge) of Champagne,
A chicken (gorged) with salad (dress’d),
  Below, this motto to explain –
“Enough is Very Good, may be;
Too much is Good Enough for Me!”



Jocelyn Henry Clive 'Harry' Graham ( 1874 - 1936)

from PARADISE ILLUSTRATED: A Sequence

'Come', spoke the Almighty to Adam,
'There's work to do, even in Eden.'

'I want to see what you call them,'
The Lord said. 'It's a good day for it.'
'And take your thumb out of your mouth.'
He added. (Adam was missing his mother.)

So they shuffled past, or they hopped,
Or they waddled. The beasts of the field
And the fowls of the air,
Pretending not to notice him.

'Speak up now,' said the Lord God briskly,
'Give each and every one the name thereof.'

'Fido,' said Adam, thinking hard,
As the animals went past him one by one.
'Bambi', 'Harpy', 'Pooh',
'Incitatus', 'Acidosis', 'Apparat',
'Krafft-Ebbing', 'Indo-China, 'Schnorkel',
'Buggins', 'Bollock' -

'Bullock will do', said the Lord God, 'I like it'.
The rest are rubbish. You must try again tomorrow.'

'Can't you let her name something?'
Begged Adam. 'She's always on at me
About the animals.'

'Herself a fairer flower,'
Murmured God. 'Hardly necessary.
I would say. But if it makes her happy . . . .'


o-o


'What a trek!' Eve muttered.
'The animals came to Adam . . .
Well, Mohammed must go the mountain.'

'What's that you said', the Almighty asked.
But she was on her way.


o-o


'Lady's finger,' said Eve.
'Lady's smock'.
'Lady's slipper'.
'Lady's tresses . . . .'

She paused.
'Adam's apple.'

'No,' said the Lord.
'Strike that out.'

'Old man's beard, then.'
She sped towards the mountain.

'Lily,
Rose,
Violet,
Daisy,
Poppy,
Amaryllis,
Eglantine,
Veronica,
Marigold,
Iris,
Marguerite,
Pansy,
Petunia,
Jasmine,
May.'

'I'm worn out,' she gasped.
'Belladonna -
And that's all for today.'


o-o


'She's better at names than you were,'
The Lord observed.
'They all sound womanish to me,'
Said Adam, nettled.




DJ.Enright
1920-2002

DEWPOND AND BLACK DRAINPIPES

In order to distract me, my mother

sent me on an Archeology Week.

We lived in tents on the downs, 

and walked over to the site

every morning. It was an old dewpond.

There was a boy there called Charlie.

He was the first boy I had really met.

I was too shy to go to the pub,

but I hung around the camp every night

waiting for him to come back.

He took no notice of me at first,

but one night the two of us

were on Washing-Up together.

I was dressed in a black jersey

and black drainpipes, I remember.

You in mourning? he said.

He didn't know I was

one of the first beatniks.

He put a drying-up cloth

over my head and kissed me

through the linen Breeds Of Dogs.

I love you, Charlie I said.

Later, my mother blamed herself

for what had happened. The Romans

didn't even interest her,  she said.

Selima Hill

1945

SIREN SONG

This is the one song everyone

would like to learn; the song 

that is irresistible:

the song that forces men

to leap overboard in squadrons

even though they see the beached skulls

the song nobody knows

because anyone who has heard it

is dead, and the others can't remember.

Shall I tell you the secret

and if I do, will you get me

out of this bird suit?

I don't enjoy it here 

squatting on this island

looking picturesque and mystical

with these two feathery maniacs.

I don't enjoy singing

this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,

to you, only to you.

Come closer, This song

is a cry for help. Help me!

Only you, only you can,

you are unique

at last. Alas

is is a boring song

but it works every time.

Margaret Atwood

1939

BUNTHORNE'S SONG (from PATIENCE)

If you're anxious for to shine in the high aesthetic line as a man of culture rare,
You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere.
You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind.
The meaning doesn't matter if it's only idle chatter of a transcendental kind.
And every one will say,
As you walk your mystic way,
'If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me,
Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!'

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away,
And convince 'em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture's palmiest day.
Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever's fresh and new, and declare it's crude and mean,
For Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine.
And every one will say,
As you walk your mystic way,
'If that's not good enough for him which is good enough for me,
Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!'

Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen,
an attachment a la Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean!
Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band,
If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediaeval hand.
And every one will say
As you walk your flowery way,
'If he's content with a vegetable love which would certainly not suit me,
Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!'





W.S. Gilbert
1836-1911


PS: It's even better when sung to Sullivan's tune.

HOW TO TREAT THE HOUSE-PLANTS

All she ever thinks about are house-plants.

She talks to them and tends them every day.

And she says, 'Don't hurt their feelings. Give them

Love. In all your dealings with them,

Treat them in a tender, human way.'

'Certainly, my dear,' he says. 'OK.

Human, eh?'

But the house-plants do not seem to want to play.

They are stooping, they are drooping,

They are kneeling in their clay;

They are flaking, they are moulting,

Turning yellow, turning grey,

And they look . . . . . well, quite revolting

As they sigh and fade away.

So after she has left the house he gets them

And he sets them in a line against the wall.

And I cannot say he cossets them or pets them -

No, he doesn't sympathise with them at all.

Is he tender? Is he human? Not a bit.

No, to each of them in turn he says: 'You twit!'

You're a

Rotten little skiver,

Cost a fiver,

Earn your keep!

You're a

Dirty little drop-out!

You're a cop-out!

You're a creep!

You're a

Mangy little whinger!

You're a cringer!

Son, it's true -

I have justbin

to the dustbin

Where there's better men than you!

Get that stem back!

Pull your weight!

Stick your leaves out!

STAND UP STRAIGHT!

And, strange to say, the plants cooperate.

So when she comes back home and finds them glowing,

Green and healthy, everyone a king,

She says, 'It's tenderness that gets them growing!

How strange the change a little love can bring!

'Oh yes,' he says. 'Not half. Right. Love's the thing.'

Kit Wright

1944