Dancing by the Light of the Moon

by Gyles Brandreth

  Now that April’s there,

  And whoever wakes in England

  Sees, some morning, unaware,

  That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

  Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

  While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

  In England – now!

  II

  And after April, when May follows,

  And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

  Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

  Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

  Blossoms and dewdrops – at the bent spray’s edge –

  That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

  Lest you should think he never could recapture

  The first fine careless rapture!

  And though the fields look rough with hoary dew

  All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

  The buttercups, the little children’s dower

  – Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

  From A Shropshire Lad (Poem II)

  by A. E. Housman

  (1859–1936)

  Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

  Is hung with bloom along the bough,

  And stands about the woodland ride

  Wearing white for Eastertide.

  Now, of my threescore years and ten,

  Twenty will not come again,

  And take from seventy springs a score,

  It only leaves me fifty more.

  And since to look at things in bloom

  Fifty springs are little room,

  About the woodlands I will go

  To see the cherry hung with snow.

  Summer

  An August Midnight

  by Thomas Hardy

  (1840–1928)

  I

  A shaded lamp and a waving blind,

  And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:

  On this scene enter – winged, horned, and spined –

  A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;

  While ’mid my page there idly stands

  A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands …

  II

  Thus meet we five, in this still place,

  At this point of time, at this point in space.

  – My guests besmear my new-penned line,

  Or bang at the lamp and fall supine.

  ‘God’s humblest, they!’ I muse. Yet why?

  They know Earth-secrets that know not I.

  Settling

  by Denise Levertov

  (1923–97)

  I was welcomed here – clear gold

  of late summer, of opening autumn,

  the dawn eagle sunning himself on the highest tree,

  the mountain revealing herself unclouded, her snow

  tinted apricot as she looked west,

  Tolerant, in her steadfastness, of the restless sun

  forever rising and setting.

  Now I am given

  a taste of the grey foretold by all and sundry,

  a grey both heavy and chill. I’ve boasted I would not care,

  I’m London-born. And I won’t. I’ll dig in,

  into my days, having come here to live, not to visit.

  Grey is the price

  of neighboring with eagles, of knowing

  a mountain’s vast presence, seen or unseen.

  Blackberry-Picking

  by Seamus Heaney

  (1939–2013)

  for Philip Hobsbaum

  Late August, given heavy rain and sun

  For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.

  At first, just one, a glossy purple clot

  Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.

  You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet

  Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it

  Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for

  Picking. Then red ones inked up, and that hunger

  Sent us out with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots

  Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.

  Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills,

  We trekked and picked until the cans were full,

  Until the tinkling bottom had been covered

  With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned

  Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered

  With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

  We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.

  But when the bath was filled we found a fur,

  A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.

  The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush,

  The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.

  I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair

  That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.

  Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

  Autumn

  To Autumn

  by John Keats

  (1795–1821)

  Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

  Conspiring with him how to load and bless

  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

  To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

  And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

  To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

  With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

  And still more, later flowers for the bees,

  Until they think warm days will never cease,

  For Summer has o’erbrimm’d their clammy cells.

  Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

  Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

  Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

  Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

  Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

  Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

  Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;

  And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

  Steady thy laden head across a brook;

  Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

  Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

  Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they?

  Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, –

  While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

  And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

  Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

  Among the river sallows, borne aloft

  Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

  And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

  Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

  The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;

  And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

  Winter

  The Darkling Thrush

  by Thomas Hardy

  (1840–1928)

  I leant upon a coppice gate

  When Frost was spectre-gray,

  And Winter’s dregs made desolate

  The weakening eye of day.

  The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

  Like strings of broken lyres,

  And all mankind that haunted nigh

  Had sought their household fires.

  The land’s sharp features seemed to be

  The Century’s corpse outleant,

  His crypt the cloudy canopy,

  The wind his death-lament.

  The ancient pulse of germ and birth

  Was shrunken hard and dry,

  And every spirit upon earth

  Seemed fervourless as I.

  At once a voice arose among

  The bleak twigs overhead

  In a full-hearted evensong

  Of joy illimited;

  An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

  In blast-beruffled
plume,

  Had chosen thus to fling his soul

  Upon the growing gloom.

  So little cause for carolings

  Of such ecstatic sound

  Was written on terrestrial things

  Afar or nigh around,

  That I could think there trembled through

  His happy good-night air

  Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

  And I was unaware.

  Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

  by Robert Frost

  (1874–1963)

  Whose woods these are I think I know.

  His house is in the village though;

  He will not see me stopping here

  To watch his woods fill up with snow.

  My little horse must think it queer

  To stop without a farmhouse near

  Between the woods and frozen lake

  The darkest evening of the year.

  He gives his harness bells a shake

  To ask if there is some mistake.

  The only other sound’s the sweep

  Of easy wind and downy flake.

  The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

  But I have promises to keep,

  And miles to go before I sleep,

  And miles to go before I sleep.

  Christmas

  little tree

  by E. E. Cummings

  (1894–1962)fn1

  little tree

  little silent Christmas tree

  you are so little

  you are more like a flower

  who found you in the green forest

  and were you very sorry to come away?

  see i will comfort you

  because you smell so sweetly

  i will kiss your cool bark

  and hug you safe and tight

  just as your mother would,

  only don’t be afraid

  look the spangles

  that sleep all the year in a dark box

  dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,

  the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

  put up your little arms

  and i’ll give them all to you to hold

  every finger shall have its ring

  and there won’t be a single place dark or unhappy

  then when you’re quite dressed

  you’ll stand in the window for everyone to see

  and how they’ll stare!

  oh but you’ll be very proud

  and my little sister and i will take hands

  and looking up at our beautiful tree

  we’ll dance and sing

  ‘Noel Noel’

  Another Christmas Poem

  by Wendy Cope

  (born 1945)

  Bloody Christmas, here again.

  Let us raise a loving cup:

  Peace on earth, goodwill to men,

  And make them do the washing-up.

  Talking Turkeys!!

  by Benjamin Zephaniah

  (born 1958)fn2

  Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas

  Cos turkeys just wanna hav fun

  Turkeys are cool, turkeys are wicked

  An every turkey has a Mum.

  Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas,

  Don’t eat it, keep it alive,

  It could be yu mate, an not on yu plate

  Say, Yo! Turkey I’m on your side.

  I got lots of friends who are turkeys

  An all of dem fear christmas time,

  Dey wanna enjoy it, dey say humans destroyed it

  An humans are out of dere mind,

  Yeah, I got lots of friends who are turkeys

  Dey all hav a right to a life,

  Not to be caged up an genetically made up

  By any farmer an his wife.

  Turkeys just wanna play reggae

  Turkeys just wanna hip-hop

  Can yu imagine a nice young turkey saying,

  ‘I cannot wait for de chop’?

  Turkeys like getting presents, dey wanna watch christmas TV,

  Turkeys hav brains an turkeys feel pain

  In many ways like yu an me.

  I once knew a turkey called Turkey

  He said ‘Benji explain to me please,

  Who put de turkey in christmas

  An what happens to christmas trees?’

  I said, ‘I am not too sure turkey

  But it’s nothing to do wid Christ Mass

  Humans get greedy an waste more dan need be

  An business men mek loadsa cash.’

  Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas

  Invite dem indoors fe sum greens

  Let dem eat cake an let dem partake

  In a plate of organic grown beans,

  Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas

  An spare dem de cut of de knife,

  Join Turkeys United an dey’ll be delighted

  An yu will mek new friends ‘for life’.

  Christmas Day in the Workhouse

  by Ronnie Barker

  (1929–2005)

  Inspired by George R. Sims (1847–1922)fn3

  It was Christmas Day in the workhouse,

  The merriest day of the year,

  The paupers and the prisoners

  Were all assembled there.

  In came the Christmas pudding,

  When a voice that shattered glass

  Said, ‘We don’t want your Christmas pudding,

  So stick it there with the rest of the unwanted presents.’

  The workhouse master then arose

  And prepared to carve the duck.

  He said, ‘Who wants the parson’s nose?’

  And the prisoners shouted, ‘You have it yourself, sir!’

  The vicar brought his bible

  And read out little bits.

  Said one old crone at the back of the hall,

  ‘This man gets on very well with everybody.’

  The master rose to make a speech,

  But just before he started,

  The mistress, who was fifteen stone,

  Gave three loud cheers and nearly choked herself.

  And all the paupers then began

  To pull their Christmas crackers.

  One pauper held his too low down

  And blew off both his paper hat and the man’s next to him.

  The mistress, dishing out the food,

  Dropped custard down her front.

  She cried, ‘Aren’t I a silly girl?’

  And they answered ‘You’re a perfect picture as always ma’am!’

  So then they all began to sing

  Which shook the workhouse walls.

  ‘Merry Christmas!’ cried the master

  And the inmates shouted: ‘Best of luck to you as well sir!’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Thirty Days Hath SeptemberUseful poetry

  Here are a few poems that are easy to learn – and so practical. Almost certainly, you will know a version of the first already.

  The days in the month

  Thirty days hath September,

  April, June and November;

  February has twenty-eight alone

  All the rest have thirty-one

  Except in Leap Year, that’s the time

  When February’s Days are twenty-nine

  The Kings and Queens of England

  There have been quite a few English sovereigns since the overthrow of King Harold by William the Conqueror in 1066. Remembering them in the correct order isn’t easy, unless you have mastered the verse that follows. It takes you from the Norman Conquest to the present day, but ignores Lady Jane Grey, who was so briefly Queen of England and Ireland (from 10 to 19 July 1553) that she doesn’t count, and Oliver Cromwell and his son, Richard, who ruled during the so-called ‘Commonwealth’ between 1653 and 1659, but whose ascendancy didn’t last because they weren’t the real thing.

  To work out who is who, you must know that ‘Willy’ is a diminutive of ‘
William’, ‘Harry’ a diminutive of ‘Henry’, ‘Ste’ is ‘Stephen’, ‘Ned’ is ‘Edward’, ‘Dick’ is ‘Richard’, and ‘Bessie’ and ‘Lizzie’ both diminutives of ‘Elizabeth’. When a name is first mentioned that is the first monarch of that name.

  Willy, Willy, Harry, Ste,

  Harry, Dick, John, Harry three,

  One, two, three Neds, Richard two,

  Henries four, five, six – then who?

  Edwards four, five, Dick the bad,

  Harries twain and Ned the lad,

  Mary, Bessie, James the vain,

  Charlie, Charlie, James again,

  William & Mary, Anna Gloria,

  Four Georges, William and Victoria,

  Edward the Seventh next, and then

  George the Fifth in 1910.

  Edward the Eighth soon abdicated

  And so a George was reinstated.

  After Lizzie Two (who’s still alive)

  Comes Charlie Three and Willie Five.

  And when they’re all gone and up in heaven

  If it’s still going it will be George Seven.

  That’s the way our monarchs lie

  Since Harold got it in the eye!

  Inspired by the poem that has helped British children remember the names and order of English kings and queens, Genevieve Madeline Ryan decided to do something similar for the presidents of the United States. She contacted Hugh Sidey, Presidential historian and White House correspondent, for help with historical accuracy, and composed a poem that has since been set to music. It is a long poem, but easily accessed online.

  Professor Thomas Andrew Lehrer is a mathematician who taught at Harvard, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and the University of California at Santa Cruz, and achieved international popularity in the 1950s and 1960s as Tom Lehrer, writer and performer of humorous songs. In this one, written in 1959, he set the names of the 102 chemical elements known at the time to the tune of the ‘Major-General’s Song’ from the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, The Pirates of Penzance.

  The Elements

  by Tom Lehrer

  (born 1928)

  There’s antimony, arsenic, aluminum, selenium,

  And hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen and rhenium,

  And nickel, neodymium, neptunium, germanium,

  And iron, americium, ruthenium, uranium,