1. |
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Knight of the (slightly drooping) Garter,
King of Bankrupt Hall,
Lord of the Backstairs Tower Tryst,
Stout Adam of the Fall.
Richeldis, Julian, Sawtrey, Nelson,
Boleyn and Boudicca tall,
Margery, Fanny, Turnip, Kett,
Old Tom Paine and all-
Norfolk and good our heroes stand
With something pure about ’em
But none more Norfolk nor less good
Than Dodgy Bob of Houghton.
Sir Robert Walpole, King of Sink,
The Pharaoh of the Flaw,
The not so bumpkin Norfolk dumplin’
Loophole in the Law.
The first Prime Minister and still
Unequalled in that office;
The backwoods front-man, laughing loud,
The Prince of Peace – and Profits.
The Age he named is hero-free,
No children need to know.
They keep it off the syllabus,
No killers boldly go.
No Bonnie Charlie anthems, saints,
No bagpipe calls to arms;
Just German Georges 1 and 2,
Enlightenment and farms.
The beau, the rake, the dandy, fop,
The mistress-paying knights,
The hypocrite with itchy palm:
‘All thesemen have their price.’
Sir Robert Walpole, Count of Cash,
The Pharaoh of the Flaw,
The not so bumpkin country speakin’
Loophole in the Law.
His Babel built ‘too far from London’ [12]
Under a Norfolk bushel
The Neptune and Britannia Rampant
Counting House as Castle.
His bust and Caesar hairdo placed
A British cut above
The classic Mantle he assumed
Of Wisdom, Justice, Love.
Removed the timber duty while
He ordered his supplies,
Avoided Finished Buildings tax
With one unfinished frieze.
Sir Robert Walpole, Earl of Ease,
The Pharaoh of the Flaw,
The ruddy cunnin’ Norfolk rulin’
Loophole in the Law.
Our burly boisterous backhand Bob
Was bawdy in his cups
Had heart-to-hearts with kings and queens
Yet kept the common touch.
And when the South Sea Bubble burst
And drowned both Whig and Tory,
He saved the country with a speech
And rode the tide to glory
Avoided War for eighteen years
Of Profit weighed with cost,
‘They ring the bells, they’ll wring their hands,’
He said when Peace was lost.
Sir Robert Loophole, Laughin’ Bob,
The Prophet of the Flaw,
Three hundredweight of Killed Cock Robin[13]
Loophole in the Law.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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2. |
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Brown Lady of the Haunted Halls
Where root and pig are rife
They say he killed her in his wrath
Who loved her more than life.
‘Where eyes should be, dark hollows were,’
Said one bold guest at Raynham
Another shot her shadow as she
Disappeared behind them.
What I have seen, I pray to God,
I’ll not again, Geist outen!’
Cried George IV ‘I will not sleep
Another hour at Houghton!
She died the queen of Norfolk’s reign,
First Lady of the Whigs,
They took her photo on the stairs
In 1936
She loved her Viscount Charlie true,
She loved her brother Robin,
She was the heart that joined them when
The family firm was thriving.
And now she spooks the titled dogs
That guard the beds at night
And gives her guests in Halls, on stairs
And blackout roads a fright.
For love’s the witch to rule them all
Who more than turnips love
What are we else but rutting swine?
She answers from above:
I was the queen of Norfolk’s reign,
First Lady of the Whigs,
I am the Ghost of England Past,
The Circe of her pigs.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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3. |
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He took the job that couldn’t be done.
By God, he couldn’t do it!
He ploughed against his inner grain
And stuck his foot right through it.
His fits of spleen were legendary,
He brooked no contradictions,
A bladed feather-spitting lord,
‘A slave to brutal passions.’
‘Perplexed and slow in argument,
Inelegant in language’,
They sent him to the House of Lords;
He spoke like Wurzel Gummidge.
The voice of Norfolk at the court,
Its Lord Lieutenant he;
He died of apoplexy but
He lives in every tree.
He makes the world go round and bucks
His pheasant-pluckers’ earnships;
He turns the Earth in cultured hand:
He’s wonderful with turnips.
As Foreign Secretary he schemed
Though briefed to keep the peace
Alliances against our friends
And with our enemies.
A diplomat who spurned to spin
A web of subterfuge,
He told it bluntly as it was,
Offensively and huge.
When Walpole, brother to his wife
Presumed to doubt his words,
He collared his old bon ami
And both went for their swords.
‘Robbing Bob!’ ‘You Charlie, Sir!
And haughty in your carriage!’
‘Who’ll kill Cock Robin?’ ‘I, Sir, I!’
‘Beshrew your dead wife’s marriage!’
He turns his back upon the world
And bucks his peasants’ earnships;
He turns the Earth in cultured hand:
He’s wonderful with turnips.
He led the Revolution
From a rich man’s high estate
Made model farming a la mode,
Enlightened stall and gate.
He made a science of the sod,
An Athens of the yard,
Went Dutch with clover and sainfoin,
He barned and hedged and marled.
He showed the world his meat and veg,
His four rotation art
And made a well-bred vanguard of
The Norfolk farmer’s cart.
“What ought not, cannot, be allowed,
What makes my choler churn, it's
What small proportion of your farm,
Stout yeoman, is in turnips!”
He makes the world go round and bucks
His pheasant-pluckers’ earnships;
He turns the Earth in cultured hand:
He’s wonderful with turnips.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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4. |
The Cod Fishers
04:46
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Homage to an unsung and underpaid group of East Anglian heroes who, when England’s population was booming at a time of unprecedented economic growth between the end of the Elizabethan period and the Industrial Revolution, sailed north through hell and high water to the arctic circle and brought back the cheap nutritious foodstuff a growing nation needed. And precious little thanks they had for it.
The Mayor he sits in Norwich town
Eating his snow-white cod
‘This fair meat of the northern wastes
Is English as our God.
We need a fleet to bring it home
To feed our growing nation
Of salts who sail close to the wind
And closer to starvation.’
The frozen price of Iceland cod
Is Norwich Market cheap
But the rising tax on catch and salt
Makes tar and fishwife weep.
Oh these chippy men of Nelson’s breed
Who braved the northern seas
They paid the highest price of all
And the meanest price received.
The Iceland fleet sails north in March,
Great ships of forty men,
The doughtiest hearts in England’s shores
From Eastern shire and fen.
Such crews as drive the men of war
To English Victory
Cured by these waves, the saltest men
Who ever put to sea.
Fierce winds and tides have blocked for weeks
Their course through Pentland Firth,
The nearest place to death and hell
On all God’s Christian earth.
Oh these chippy men of Nelson’s breed
Who braved the northern seas
They paid the highest price of all
And the meanest price received.
And the Danish King sits like a storm
That broods upon a shore:
‘Six miles off Iceland you must toss
Nor trade nor fish there more!’
‘No time, sea-lads, for those native cures
And cods hung out to dry,
Our summer catch is steeped in salt
To keep it from the fly
And salt is taxed at rising rates
By Oliver’s excise
And ten score cod per loaded ship
His officers will prise.’
Oh these chippy men of Nelson’s breed
Who braved the northern seas
They paid the highest price of all
And the meanest price received.
Widows and traders who keep afloat
These ventures seal their loan
With a premium more than twice the mean
For so many come not home.
O long the Jack Tar’s journey home
And deep the briny ocean
And toothsome was the bone-white cod
That fed a hungry nation.
And long the Norfolk[11]fishwives stand
With wood combs in their hair
In August at the water’s edge
When fish nor men appear.
Oh these chippy men of Nelson’s breed
Who braved the northern seas
They paid the highest price of all
And the meanest price received.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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5. |
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Midsummer nightmare driving
The roads around Tom Paine,
The June moon had me crying
Were all his dreams in vain?
The woods were blurred with menace,
I could not read the signs,
My Common Sense was fading,
It has so many times.
The Rights of Man and Woman
Like road-kill on the track,
Too deep and late the forest
To think of turning back.
Midsummer in the greenwood,
Midwinter chill within,
The starry sky of reason,
The night as dark as sin.
Tom Paine is pointing down the road
To new world Washington;
I meet the clear and steady eye
Of Revolution
That maps a Constitution through
The dead decaying mess,
The Royal Burkshire Hunters’ praise
Of murky wilderness.
Midsummer in the greenwood,
The night as dark as sin,
The angel moon of reason,
The pain of hope within.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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6. |
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Our Admiral’s head it has one eye
Heave away! Heave away!
His empty sleeve’s the flag we fly.
‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say.
Heave away Horatio’s boys
Heave away! Heave away!
Heave away and make a Victory noise
We're gone tomorrow but we're here today!
He hunted polar bears, the lad
Heave away! Heave away!
‘To fetch a white rug to my dad.’
‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say.
Chorus
Mosquitoes bit him half to death:
Heave away! Heave away!
‘I’ll die a hero’s life instead’
‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say.
Chorus
Off Corsica, his eye foresworn,
Heave away! Heave away!
‘I got a little hurt this morn.’
‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say.
Chorus
Off Cape St Vincent, breaking ranks,
Heave away! Heave away!
He won the day and England’s thanks.
‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say.
Chorus
Our king’s right hand at Santa Cruz;
Heave away! Heave away!
A night to seize; an arm to lose.
‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say.
Chorus
‘A peerage or Westminster crypt!’
Heave away! Heave away!
He sinks the French from here to Egypt
‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say.
Chorus
‘You’ll discontinue!’ flagged his Admiral.
Heave away! Heave away!
‘My blind eye does not see your signal!’
‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say.
Chorus
‘Redoubtable’ sharpshooters spy him
Heave away! Heave away!
‘They’ve done for me at last. I’m dying.’
‘Tell my wife I’m killed,’ we say.
Heave away Horatio’s boys
Heave away! Heave away!
Heave away and make a Victory noise
We're heroes tomorrow but we're gone today!
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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7. |
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Strange that an Encyclopaedic Age
Leaves Fye Bridge House un-reckoned on its page.
But wait! a lace-cuffed bard with limpid eye
Is halted by a spirit thrilling by…
‘I haunt the former greatness of this Hall -
Before a ceiling floored its gothic stage,
My cheek is paper-white, my poppy
Mouth the blemish on a poet’s page.’
‘Consumptive spirit! Wild! Unbounded! Free!
O sleepless beauty past all human measure.’
She falls upon the thorns of life. I bleed!
Her gates of Eden open at my ple-….
‘I pine for Ruined Hall and sing
An elegy of days before a floor
Plucked window’s eye and clipped the wings
Of church-like space, staired flights unknown before!’
I charge her cup again, again, and ever:
Our Road to Wisdom’s Palace is Excess;
Her blood lips wailing for her demon lover
And black eyes staring from her naked breasts!’
Repeat ‘Consumptive spirit…’ Chorus
Alas! A pounding at the door, the vision flies.
The Parson calls on business, and the Poem ...dies!
© Gareth Calway 2004 "House on the River" (King of Hearts) and then 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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8. |
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‘Come out in the dark lane, lonely boy,
Leave your laptop and play with me.
Leave your father and mother and holiday home
For my wildwood and wicked sea.’
A gone-tomorrow full-moon face
In bonnet and Sunday best;
A goose ran up and down my flesh,
My hair stood like a crest.
‘I’d die to hold a girl like you,
So fashion-hungry thin
But fear there is no heart behind
That sly come-hither grin.
‘There’s maggots in your Sunday best,
Your bony heroin chic’s
A shade too grave about your mouth,
Your vulture-grinning beak.’
‘I’ve been Death’s bride two hundred years
And much too young to die,
Let me take you back to 1819,
The Fifth Day of July.’
The Squire rode down my father’s door
‘All hands to the pump!’ honked he.
‘Sir, I’m weary from working your bone-dry fields,
‘My family hath need of me!’
‘You’re weary from working my golden fields
But my House expects a neighbour
And my Stream has dried in the lower field
And my Pump demands your labour.’
Our childish shrieks filled the heaven-blue
Played hide and seek round the paves
Laughed under the leaves of Eden-green
And kiss-chased through the graves.
The tardy teacher loomed at the gate,
Seized my pretty lobes,
Snatched my posy of burial flowers
‘You’re a hell child, Susan Nobes!’
The sunlit schoolroom candle burned
A flame that barely lightened;
A stroke before the clock struck nine
It devilishly brightened.
A growl and rumble at the door,
As dark as pitch in the room,
A sizzling hiss, like a snake on the roof,
An ear-exploding boom.
‘Prayer,’ scorned the teacher, ‘is stronger than rain!’
The dark began to splinter
In lightning tongues as bright as noon,
It grew as cold as winter.
‘God save us!’ screamed the children all,
The teacher tore her gown,
The rain came down in ice and hail,
The sky tipped upside down.
A stained glass window-angel smashed,
I kneeled and tried to pray,
A fiery crack of sulphur took
My girlish breath away.
The flickering lightning licked the tower,
Scorched a yard-wide hole in the wall
And from where my Saviour hung on high
Great blocks began to fall.
‘O Robert, our Susan’s lost in the storm.
What kept you away so long?’
‘The Squire needed water, he got his wish,
But where is our daughter gone?’
‘I sent her to Sunday School, oh Robert,
And I fear my choice was cursed.
For none alive has seen such a Flood
Of gravesoil in the church.
He forged the cross under baked Dove Hill
Its Wash rolled like a tide,
He climbed over hill to the rain-drenched crowd
And took the teacher aside.
‘Where’s Susan?’ he asked, as quiet as Death,
‘I believe she is with her Saviour.’
‘You left her alone in the schoolroom and fled?’
His question got no answer.
He waded the Flood and past the font
At which he’d named his daughter;
A schoolroom chill as any tomb
Awash with blocks and mortar.
He found me lifeless upon the floor,
My temples charred with flame,
He clenched me in his arms and wept
A tide he’ll never stem.
‘Come out in the dark lane, lonely boy,
Leave your laptop and play with me.
Leave your father and mother and holiday home
For my wildwood and wicked sea.’
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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9. |
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(b.1780, daughter of John Gurney of Earlham Hall, a Norwich banker and Quaker; married London Quaker Joseph Fry in 1800; formed the Association for the Improvement of Female Prisoners in Newgate there in 1817; helped persuade Peel’s government to reform the penal code in 1822, including conditions of transportation;
The quality streets of the ’Nineties,
Toy soldiers on painted tins
With chocolate-box ladies in dresses
And French Revolution within.
I’m a Gurney of Earlham Hall, Norwich,
The Cathedral City is mine
With its ladies and literati,
And Prince William to dance and to dine.
In my riding-high scarlet habit,
I shyly join the dance,
Setting my feathered cap at the troops
Bound for Napoleon’s France.
These Quaker meetings, must I go?
I’m ill, give my excuses.
Love God but loathe hysterics, cant.
I don’t know what God’s use is.
‘I must not flirt, be tetchy, proud,
Be vain, the children’s scold,
Be pretty, tall and passionate,
Be seventeen years old.’
One Quaker-silent day, Love’s star
Hoves like the Sun before me,
The distant God I guessed, I see,
I’m weeping but I’m happy.
God’s nightmares come, I’m all at sea;
The tide flows in and takes me,
‘Elizabeth’ is washed away,
Her drowning breath forsakes me.
These Quaker meetings, must I go?
I’m ill, give my excuses.
Love God but loathe hysterics, cant.
I don’t know what God’s use is.
White-robed, I brave the staring streets
Serve poor and falsely damned,
The press-ganged man whose wife with babe
Was starved so stole then hanged;
Barred slimy dungeons swarmed with rats,
Cruel chains and iron collars,
Beasted gaolbirds, brutal guards,
Half-naked nights of horrors;
The wagon loads brought to the docks
Like cows for transportation
To lives of crime – no other work
“You can’t reform a felon!”
These Quaker meetings, must I go?
I’m ill, give my excuses.
Love God but loathe hysterics, cant.
I don’t know what God’s use is.
She didn’t rant against the Law,
False judges, gaolers, prisons,
She touched the inmates’ desperate hearts,
Cared for their ill-starred children,
She taught them, got them work for bread;
Brought faith and self-respect
To filth, disorder, chaos, noise:
The gaolbirds did the rest.
Her act of faith – let Newgate be
A place to be reformed,
Not punished, demonised, disowned;
The State observed and learned.
These Quaker meetings, must I go?
I have no more excuses.
Love God and loathe hysterics, can
And do know what God’s use is.
in old age forced herself to petition Prince Albert and, in 1842, addressed a Quaker meeting out of apparent madness, in a wheelchair, ending with Isaiah’s ‘Thine eyes shall see the king in his beauty: they shall behold the land that is very far off’; d. Oct 12 1845)
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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10. |
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She sees the pale gold August wheat,
The oaken greens of home,
A mind’s-eye Norfolk harvest wrapped
Around October’s bones.
6 paces off, 8 rifles point,
Death scarves her blue-grey eyes,
The woman stands and prays and waits
And still no shot arrives…
‘Love of country’s not enough
And when they shoot me dead
Let bitterness and hatred die,’
Our Norfolk angel said.
The British held the line at Mons,
The French were in retreat,
All stranded men came to her door
Through Brussels’ conquered streets.
4 sneaks and spies to smoke her out,
3 days’ interrogation.
She wouldn’t lie…. They shot her dead
For love of more than nation.
‘Love of country’s not enough
And when they shoot me dead
Let bitterness and hatred die,’
Our Norfolk angel said.
(spoken) Her life is flashing by, the days
With Eddy on the beach
When life was fresh and beautiful,
The country dear and sweet.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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11. |
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“Harold Francis Davidson (‘Little Jimmy’) was loved by the villagers, who recognised his humanity and forgave him his transgressions. May he rest in peace.” (epitaph in Stiffkey churchyard)
An actor cum rector,
His pulpit his stage,
Generous star of his parish’s
Unlighted age.
Serves his country and king
In the First World War,
Comes home to a wife
Playing the whore.
Spends his weekdays in Soho
With poor girls undone,
25,000 fallen
On the streets of London.
Stiffkey to the Gate
Of the kirk and pearlies,
His trial grips the nation
By the short and curlies.
To the Stiffkey faithful
He’s the open hand;
To the North Norfolk gentry
In the dock he stands.
RANDY RECTOR OF STIFFKEY’s
The Fleet Street shtick;
Bishop Norwich calls in
A muck-raking Dick.
All the fallen absolve him
Save the one Dick decants
Down a bottle of lies
Even she recants.
Stiffkey to the Gate
Of the kirk and pearlies,
His trial grips the nation
By the short and curlies.
The Cathedral Inquisition
Meets to pre-Judge him,
The Snob-jobbing Old Boys
Defrock and degrade him.
He returns to the stage;
At Blackpool he rages,
Pleads his innocence, preaches
To lions in cages.
At Skeggy, he treads on
The big tail of Freddie
The Lion who shakes him
And leaves him for deadie.
The crowd cheers the show
But the show is over
For this people's’ padre,
This Magdalene lover.
Stiffkey to the Gate
Of the kirk and pearlies,
His trial grips the nation
By the short and curlies.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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12. |
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Twisting round my hair in knots,
Twisting round your neck with thoughts.
My oh my, you have to agree
Certain issues of poetry
Can’t conceive of a harmony.
I’m twisting pastoral flowers into your face.
I’m twisting your kind of thinking into place.
I’m twisting…
Listening to you plum for choice
Between degrees of passive vice.
‘There’s much that may be said for Donne.’
I am the outside world come in,
Butchered hands and axe grinding,
Open your ’ed and let me in!
I’m twisting pastoral flowers into your face.
I’m twisting your kind of thinking into place.
I’m twisting….
Your rich aesthetic literariness
Is like the lush grass on a grave.
My oh my I’m rotten through
But life moves through and it’s sick – of you.
I’ll thrust you off me and trample you.
I’m twisting pastoral flowers into your case
I’m twisting your kind of thinking into place.
I’m … Terminating this debate!
Rose Red countermelody (sung in the round by MaznGaz)
Rose rose rose red
Shall I ever see thee wed?
Aye, marry that thou wilt
When thou art dead.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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13. |
Yarmouth: A Bingo Blues.
03:29
|
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No waiting, no delay,
Jump right in and off we’ll play:
On the pink....all alone....number one;
On the yellow....lovely legs....legs eleven....
Money bags busting wind with sand
Weighing the rigs of glitter down,
Bags stuffed sick with golden sand
Weighing the rigs of glitter down.
A tide wheels in between roadside signs,
On sandy fortunes the Gold Disc shines.
On the green....iced scream....sweet sixteen;
On the change....don’t be naughty....blind forty....
Dishwasher switches off his tyrants,
Takes a different wavelength;
Miss Radio resists insistent parents,
Takes a different wavelength;
Breakers crash on boundless feelings
Cashed on the rocks of mountainous nothings
On the blue....heaven’s gate....fifty eight;
On the grey....at the Styx....sixty six....
Moments are grapes in a heart-crush wine,
Overflowing cups of detail and colour;
Time’s cleavage gapes for heart-crush wine,
Overflowing cups of detail and colour,
Infinity collides with the corners of events,
Kaleidoscopic shadows of the One beyond events....
No waiting, no delay,
Jump right in and off we’ll play...
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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14. |
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Boudicca got a lot of Romans
Hanging out in the Styx;
The Woad Goddess goes to school
Where they teach her how to be nix.
She’s the Mother of Britain’s
Biblical kicks
Against the odds,
Against the pricks.
She’s the crazy moon
In a gurly whirl
The finest hour
Of the Norfolk girl!
Ride ride, I wanna ride,
Ride ride, a riot on my horse,
Woad woad, a-whoa woad,
Blow whoa, a riot on my horn!
She’s the fury in Janus’s office
Sown with the wildest oats,
She’s a wild goose-chasing sky,
A whiff of burning boats.
She’s the country queen
With the world in sway
Who blooms and blows
It all away.
She’s the crazy moon
In a gurly whirl
The finest hour
Of the Norfolk girl!
Ride ride, I wanna ride,
Ride ride, a riot on my horse,
Woad woad, a-whoa woad,
Blow whoa, a riot on my horn!
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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15. |
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‘This creature had various tokens in her hearing. One was a kind of sound as if it were a pair of bellows blowing in her ear. She – being dismayed at this – was warned in her soul to have no fear, for it was the sound of the Holy Ghost. And then our Lord turned it into the voice of a DOVE, and afterwards he turned it into the voice of a little bird which is called a redbreast, that often sang very merrily in her right ear.’
‘A crown of thorns to freeze your breath
The berried holly brings;
Through snowing sunlight chaste as death
The silent barn-owl wings
But now the ghostly holy dove
That bellows in your ear
Is tuned to robin-song by love
And cheerfully made clear.’
The only gift left on the shelf
That nothing else can rise above
Includes all treasure, lasts forever,
And grows when shared with others: love.
Now starry angels on the tree
Grow larger in the dusk
To heaven-blue and Eden-green
And gold and reindeer-musk.
And what was heard by Margery,
The Visionary of Lynn,
Rings out on tills for checkout girls
Who hear that robin sing.
The only gift left on the shelf,
That nothing else can rise above,
Includes all treasures, lasts forever,
And grows when shared with others: love.
A sacred Ouse of honeyed sound
Above her dreaming bed,
She wakes as one in paradise
And leaps as from the dead.
A thrilling robin in her ear,
A rose that’s heaven scent,
A man divine to earthly eye,
All music from Him lent.
The only gift left on the shelf,
That nothing else can rise above,
Includes all treasures, lasts forever,
And grows when shared with others: love.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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Peacock's Tale Musical Storytelling Sedgeford, UK
It's all right, folks, we're married. A marriage of melody and rhythm ( flirting with harmony & timbre.) Old married woke
folk, indie, Norfolk noir, beat poems, ghazals & Americana for the world from NW Norfolk. Maz lead & harmony vocals, acoustic guitar. Gaz lead & harmony vocals, drum & bass. Traditional tunes with contemporary beats.
garethcalway.blogspot.com/p/doin-different.html
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