The laboratory of the spirit

The laboratory of the spirit is not,
as RS Thomas well knew,
hidden behind a coded door,
inhabited by freakish souls
in starched white robes,
but found in desert, high street, home,
as folk amidst the clatter of the day
allow the holy flame to play upon
the elemental substance of their lives.

Notes on the Twelve days poems

So I decided to write a series of poems based loosely on 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'. I realise that some of them might be obscure, so here are a few notes.

1) Eric Partridge (who had a particular interest in forces' slang) and HW Fowler were two of the greatest experts on the English language ever. I took a bit of a liberty by talking of a fowler's use of 'jesses', because a fowler actually catches birds in a net, and doesn't train them like a falconer. If only he had been HW Falconer...

2) A true story, sort of - actually it was a few days before the sales, in Debenhams in Stockport that I sat at a table next to this young woman with her child, and saw the transformation from harassed to joy-filled as her husband arrived.

3) I don't think this works - too prolix. I may revisit it.

4) I don't like this either. Too glib.

5) I'm looking forward to being at the centre Court at Wimbledon for the Men's Doubles and Ladies' singles finals.

6) I wrote this after watching a TV programme - EarthFlight - about snow geese.

7) Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Cyd Charisse, Gene Kelly, John Travolta, Billy Eliot, Darcey Bussell. A haiku seems a suitable form to evoke a swan.

8) Thomas Hardy's The Withered Arm begins with a group of milkers in an eighty-cow dairy. The description of Rhoda Brook is a far cry from the cliche of a buxom healthy young milkmaid.

9) A brave attempt, I like to think. I like the idea of the ladies dancing being flowers, but I don't think this type of visual, miniaturist descriptive poem is my strong point.

10) Pretty feeble. Needs revision.

11) A true story. Rosie and I, planning to go to church one Sunday, and then have a good two hours climbing up Ben Nevis before lunch. Unfortunately we had no idea about Scottish churches, and didn't escape till about 1 pm, and only got half way up Ben Nevis that day.

12) needs work, but I quite like some of these alliterative drummers. Make sure you read number 5 with the exact rhythm of the beginning of Mars from The Planets.

The twelfth day

1) Before the bell a bored boy's digits drum the desk.
2) The rain's rat-a-tat resounds on a ridged iron roof.
3) Slow, single drumskin strikes mark a sad ceremony.
4) The soldier's smart snare sets the squaddies' steps.
5) Timpani drum beats/ pounding out/ rhythm of Mars by/ Gustav Holst.
6) Steel drums sing of surf and sun and sand.
7) Dame Evelyn's glorious glockenspiel defies deafness.
8) Ringo's refined, not raucous R & B rings out.
9) Brilliant Crazy Keith rocked and rolled and crashed and burned.
10) Animal makes mad music mayhem on the Muppets.
11) A drumroll delivers a diva to adoring devotees.
12) Each heartbeat marks and measures our mortal span.

The eleventh day

The hiking couple chose a church –
(perhaps they needed more research) –
the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

Their jeans and tee shirts caused a shock
among the faithful pious flock
of the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

The congregation had strong views,
so no-one sat within three pews
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

The couple sat and prayed and heard
an elder preaching from God's word
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

They sat and heard the man intone
a sermon that was not his own
at the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

Spurgeon's words, the elder took
and read to the people from a book
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

The sermon dealt with Mary, who
met Jesus, as was preached to
the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

The text: "Supposing Him to be
the gardener" was explained for the
Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

Each horticultural metaphor
that ever existed was preached on for
the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

And when the eternal sermon ended
the eternal service was further extended
for the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

For now an endless psalm was sung
and all the flock gave droning tongue
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

Never have human voices made
a sound more like the bagpipes, played
for the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

A man's deep bass provided the drone,
but oh, his voice was not alone
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

Other chanters sang the tune
as morning gave way to afternoon
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

Finally, the service done,
the people walked out one by one
from the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

Their long ordeal by now had passed;
the hikers walked away at last
from the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

Their plans to scale Ben Nevis' height
that day had been quite put to flight
by the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

If you just want an hour or so
of worship, then you should not go
to the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

For you will need three hours to spare
for Word and Worship, penance and prayer
in the Wee Free Kirk in Fort William.

The tenth day

The leaping Lord in Chariots of Fire,
didn't disturb the champagne flutes.
The real Lord Burleigh knocked match boxes
off his hurdles with his racing boots.

Lord Coe had different hurdles to clear
(once his own racing days were done) –
persuading voting technocrats
to give the games to old London.

The ninth day

Black-eyed Susan oh so tall –
with hair so golden dances to the sun.
Ruddy-cheeked Poppy would have gladly danced
tall in the fields to the harvest moon,
but when half the seed of Europe died,
she could only weep and bow her head.
Marigold dressed in her golden ruff,
can only manage a slow pavane,
but sinuous Lily swoops and sways,
in flowing robes of white and pink.
Gentle Daisy with her sisters,
blithely steps her country dance,
and bold Viola's three-coloured dress
swirls as she waltzes to her heart's ease.
While Iris, slender, tall and proud,
struts a quadrille with sisters three,
Heather cavorts in the wild, wide moors.
But English Rose, the belle of the ball,
in red, white or yellow outshines them all.

The eighth day

Thirty-two teats on eight bulbous udders;
twenty-four legs on eight milking stools;
sixteen pails on eight wooden yokes;
eight pretty, buxom maids on eight country lanes.

But that was a yesterday that maybe never was.
Rough hands, scrawny cows, filthy dark barns;
low pay, no hope, working long long days,
broken stools, dirty pails, worn-out working folk.

And what of today; where are the buxom maids?
Two thousand cows in four loafing barns,
one giant parlour with five hundred stalls,
twenty technicians keep ten thousand litres flowing.

And ten million cartons sit in ten million fridges.