Breeze in as good as gold
To lay the tables and wonder
Why the cutlery is so cold.
Teabag
by Peter Dixon
(born 1937)
I’d like to be a teabag,
and stay at home all day
and talk to other teabags
in a teabag sort of way.
I’d love to be a teabag,
and lie in a little box
and never have to wash my face
or change my dirty socks.
I’d like to be a Tetley bag,
an Earl Grey one perhaps,
and doze all day and lie around
with Earl Grey kind of chaps.
I wouldn’t have to do a thing,
no homework, jobs or chores –
just lie inside a comfy box
of teabags and their snores.
I wouldn’t have to do exams,
I needn’t tidy rooms,
or sweep the floor or feed the cat
or wash up all the spoons.
I wouldn’t have to do a thing –
a life of bliss, you see …
except that once in all my life
I’d make a cup of tea!
Horace
by Monty Python
(1971)fn4
Much to his Mum and Dad’s dismay,
Horace ate himself one day.
He didn’t stop to say his grace,
He just sat down and ate his face.
‘We can’t have this!’ His Dad declared,
‘If that lad’s ate, he should be shared.’
But even as they spoke they saw,
Horace eating more and more:
First his legs and then his thighs,
His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes …
‘Stop him someone!’ Mother cried,
‘Those eyeballs would be better fried!’
But all too late, for they were gone,
And he had started on his dong …
‘Oh! foolish child!’ the father mourns,
‘You could have deep fried that with prawns,
Some parsely and some tartar sauce …’
But H. was on his second course:
His liver and his lights and lung,
His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue;
‘To think I raised him from the cot,
And now he’s going to scoff the lot!’
His Mother cried: ‘What shall we do?
What’s left won’t even make a stew …’
And as she wept her son was seen,
To eat his head, his heart, his spleen.
And there he lay, a boy no more,
Just a stomach, on the floor …
None the less, since it was his,
They ate it – that’s what haggis is.fn5
CHAPTER SEVEN
Animal MagicWelcome to the menagerie
Meow means ‘woof’ in cat.
George Carlin (1937–2008)
I’m with Anatole France: ‘Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.’
I could have created a complete anthology of animal poems to learn by heart, but I have forced myself to settle on fifteen:
Four poems about cats
– by Thomas Gray, Eleanor Farjeon, T. S. Eliot and Brian Patten
Three favourites, so well loved they could almost be described as poetic national treasures
– by William Blake, Christina Rossetti and G. K. Chesterton
Three verses to make you smile
– by Ogden Nash (American), Theodore Roethke (American), and Flanders and Swann (English, very)
Three great nature poems
– by one American poet, Denise Levertov, and two English ones, Thom Gunn and Ted Hughes
Plus a poem by the contemporary performance poet, Hollie McNish, about the possibility of becoming a butterfly, ‘Cocoon’ – and, as a playful bonus, a verse that’s definitely not for vegetarians: ‘Any Part of Piggy’ by Noël Coward
Tuck in.
‘Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes’
by Thomas Gray
(1716-71)fn1
’Twas on a lofty vase’s side,
Where China’s gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purred applause.
Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream;
Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw;
A whisker first and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat’s averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch’d, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewed to every watery god,
Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard;
A Favourite has no friend!
From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters, gold.
The Tygerfn2
by William Blake
(1757–1827)
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies,
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
The Lambs of Grasmere
by Christina Rossetti
(1830–94)
The upland flocks grew starved and thinned;
Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs
Whose milkless mothers butted them,
Or who were orphaned of their dams.
The lambs athirst for mother’s milk
Filled all the place with piteous sounds:
Their mothers’ bones made white for miles
The pastureless wet pasture grounds.
Day after day, night after night,
From lamb to lamb the shepherds went,
With teapots for the bleating mouths
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Instead of nature’s nourishment.
The little shivering gaping things
Soon knew the step that brought them aid,
And fondled the protecting hand,
And rubbed it with a woolly head.
Then, as the days waxed on to weeks,
It was a pretty sight to see
These lambs with frisky heads and tails
Skipping and leaping on the lea,
Bleating in tender, trustful tones,
Resting on rocky crag or mound,
And following the beloved feet
That once had sought for them and found.
These very shepherds of their flocks,
These loving lambs so meek to please,
Are worthy of recording words
And honour in their due degrees:
So I might live a hundred years,
And roam from strand to foreign strand,
Yet not forget this flooded spring
And scarce-saved lambs of Westmoreland.
The Donkey
by G. K. Chesterton
(1874–1936)
When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.
With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.
Cats sleep, anywhere
by Eleanor Farjeon
(1881–1965)
Cats sleep, anywhere,
Any table, any chair
Top of piano, window-ledge,
In the middle, on the edge,
Open drawer, empty shoe,
Anybody’s lap will do,
Fitted in a cardboard box,
In the cupboard, with your frocks –
Anywhere! They don’t care!
Cats sleep anywhere.
Macavity: the Mystery Cat
by T. S. Eliot
(1888–1965)fn3
Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw –
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime – Macavity’s not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime – Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air –
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!
Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square –
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!
He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair –
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!
And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair –
But it’s useless to investigate – Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
‘It must have been Macavity!’ – but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place – MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
Any Part of Piggy
by Noël Coward
(1899–1973)
Any part of piggy
Is quite all right with me
Ham from Westphalia, ham from Parma
Ham as lean as the Dalai Lama
Ham from Virginia, ham from York,
Trotters, sausages, hot roast pork.
Crackling crisp for my teeth to grind on
Bacon with or without the rind on
Though humanitarian
I’m not a vegetarian.
I’m neither crank nor prude nor prig
And though it may sound infra dig
Any part of darling pig
Is perfectly fine with me.
The Turkey
by Ogden Nash
(1902–71)fn4
There is nothing more perky
Than a masculine turkey
When he struts he struts
With no ifs or buts.
When his face is apoplectic
His harem grows hectic,
And when he gobbles
Their universe wobbles.
The Sloth
by Theodore Roethke
(1908–63)
In moving-slow he has no Peer.
You ask him something in his Ear,
He thinks about it for a Year;
And, then, before he says a Word
There, upside down (unlike a Bird),
He will assume that you have Heard –
A most Ex-as-per-at-ing Lug.
But should you call his manner Smug,
He’ll sigh and give his Branch a Hug;
Then off again to Sleep he goes,
Still swaying gently by his Toes,
And you just know he knows he knows.
To the Snake
by Denise Levertov
(1923–97)
Green Snake, when I hung you round my neck
and stroked your cold, pulsing throat
as you hissed to me, glinting
arrowy gold scales, and I felt
the weight of you on my shoulders,
and the whispering silver of your dryness
sounded close at my ears –
Green Snake – I swore to my companions that certainly
you were harmless! But truly
I had no certainty, and no hope, only desiring
to hold you, for that joy,
which left
a long wake of pleasure, as the leaves moved
and you faded into the pattern
of grass and shadows, and I returned
smiling and haunted, to a
dark morning.
The Hippopotamus Song
by Michael Flanders (1922–75) and Donald Swann (1923–94)fn5
A bold hippopotamus was standing one day
On the banks of the cool Shalimar
He gazed at the bottom as he peacefully lay
By the light of the evening star
Away on the hilltop sat combing her hair
His fair hippopotami maid
The hippopotamus was no ignoramus
And sang her this sweet serenade
Chorus:
Mud, mud, glorious mud
Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood
So follow me follow, down to the hollow
And there let me wallow in glorious mud
The fair hippopotama he aimed to entice
From her seat on that hilltop above
As she hadn’t got a ma to give her advice
Came tiptoeing down to her love
Like thunder the forest re-echoed the sound
Of the song that they sang when they met
His inamorata adjusted her garter
And lifted her voice in duet
Chorus
Now more hippopotami began to convene
On the banks of that river so wide
I wonder now what am I to say of the scene
That ensued by the Shalimar side
They dived all at once with an ear-splitting sposh
Then rose to the surface again
A regular army of hippopotami
All singing this haunting refrain
Chorus
(Extra verse:)
The amorous hippopotamus whose love song we know
Is now married and father of ten,
He murmurs, ‘God rot ’em!’ as he watches them grow,
And he longs to be single again!
He’ll gambol no more on the banks of the Nile,
Which Nasser is flooding next spring,
With hippopotamas in silken pyjamas
No more will he teach them to sing …
Chorus
Considering the Snail
by Thom Gunn
(1929–2004)
The snail pushes through a green
night, for the grass is heavy
with water and meets over
the bright path he makes, where rain
has darkened the earth’s dark. He
moves in a wood of desire,
pale antlers barely stirring
as he hunts. I cannot tell
what power is at work, drenched there
Dancing by the Light of the Moon Page 9
