The ballad of Gregory Gross

This is the ballad of Gregory Gross

Who liked to eat spiders and all sorts of bugs

He lived in a village called Huntingdon Green

In a cottage with hard wooden floors and bright rugs.

One day as he sat by the living room fire

A scuttling, shuffling thing caught his eye.

A spider? A woodlouse? He wasn’t quite sure,

But whatever it was it would do for his pie.

With a spring and a grasp he had captured the thing,

And he carefully opened his hands for a look.

It was small. It was scared. It had green and red stripes.

But what was most strange: it was holding a book.

A bug with a book? What had Gregory found?

As he peered even closer he cried in surprise –

The glint of some glasses was what he saw next

Perched on the creature’s one hundred bright eyes.

‘Oh please do not eat me!’ the creature exclaimed.

‘I’ve done you no harm, and I just want to read 

This book by the greatest of all insect scribes –

JK Crawling, the queen of the green centipedes.’

‘JK Crawling? I don’t think I’ve heard of that name,

Though it rings a vague bell – I cannot think why.

I confess I’m intrigued. You may sit in this matchbox

And read while I roll out the lid for my pie.’

So as Gregory sprinkled the flour on the board

And rolled out the pastry, and cut out a round,

The creature began, in a voice full of fear,

To read ‘Hairy Patter and the Hole in the Ground.’

His voice, at first timid, began to grow strong,

And Gregory found himself drawn to its tone,

And before it was done he’d forgotten his pie

And was sitting engrossed as the creature read on.

And after a while he said to the bug,

‘You read with such passion, you read with such grace –

I’d never have thought it from creatures like you.

Off you go – I’ll find something to eat in your place.’

And the bug scuttled off on his thirty-two legs,

And onions and cheese took his place in the pie,

And Gregory found he was longing to know:

Did Hairy escape, and Lord Volderoach die?

A week later as Gregory sat by the fire,

A scuttling, shuffling thing caught his eye,

But this time he bowed and said, ‘Please have no fear.

I’m Gregory. What is your name, little guy?’

‘I’m Scratch,’ said the bug. ‘If you give me your word

That your diet has changed to what most humans eat,

Then I’ll open my book and I’ll find the right page

And I’ll read as I sit on this rug by your feet.’

And so it fell out that a friendship was born,

And Gregory never again ate a bug,

And Scratch never feared as he scuttled along

To his place by the fire on the warm woollen rug.

Dream state

I dreamed last night of a fleet of UFOs
filling the sky, not to invade but to beam
of all things, the spirit of Charlie Chaplin down.

A world of little tramps, of little guys
sticking it to the man; of roller-skating
within an inch of disaster; of boiled spuds

frolicking on forks; of torn and tarnished tuxedos;
and dictators scalded with sparkling disdain.
And I woke, and ambled pigeon-toed downstairs.

Visions of Greenbelt 1

A tall handsome man leans back a little,

but his tilted head reveals his keen attention. 

Short, she stands tall in the warmth of his regard. 

She finishes speaking. His head with shock of wild blond hair

rocks back at a shared joke. A glint of friendship

sparks and shuttles back and forth. 

She turns and walks off, purposeful, affirmed. 

He turns, returns to his bench enriched. 

Unrehearsed

Behind the musty curtain I scrabble for my script.

Rain drums its loose reggae beat on the tin roof 

and do I see a rat scuttling across to the costume store?

Muffled audience sounds seep through the tabs:

expectorant coughs, expectant whispers. 

Maya, panicking, asks my help - stage left or right?

'Left!' But all I really care about

is learning three scenes in three minutes. 

Roger urges me to break a leg, and I'm not sure

how serious he is. 

The curtain opens. 

'Hi!'

(The fruit of a poetry writing workshop at Greenbelt - set theme: recurring dreams. The Roger in the poem is not my brother, but a colleague who has directed me several times.)

Those Early Morning Blues

(Think of this as sung to the tune of Heartbreak Hotel, more or less.)

Woke up this morning, when the dog began to bark,
Don't wanna leave my duvet, don't wanna be up with the lark
I got those grey morning blues now, grey morning blues again.
Gotta let the dog out, else he just might leave his mark.

Went down and let the dog out, fell into a chair,
Don't ever wanna move now, don't wanna take the air
I got those grey morning blues now, grey morning blues again.
Now hound dog wants his water, won't stop snuffling till it's there.

Stumble to the kitchen, give the dog his bowl,
Look round for a teapot, to ease my aching soul
I got those grey morning blues now, grey morning blues again.
Gotta get a brew now, before my life goes down the hole.

There's Rooibos with Vanilla, there's Rooibos without,
There's Green tea and there's White tea, and pink and blue no doubt
I got those grey morning blues now, grey morning blues again.
But I just can't find no Tea tea, and it makes me wanna shout.

I got no time for Rooibos, with that or without this,
I never smile for Camomile, that tastes - well, not like bliss
I got those grey morning blues now, grey morning blues again.
For a proper builder's brew now, I'd even give that dog a kiss.

Psalm 0

To marauding magpies fighting their battles
with machine-gun squawks at first light
I say Yes.

To wasps defending their paper lanterns
with angry buzzes and piercing stings
I say Yes.

To thunder storms black with promise
turning dry earth to drowning mud
I say Yes

To Memory's daughters demanding their tithe
of dance and verse and story and science
I say Yes

To the old grey widow-maker with swelling tides
qui a bercé mon coeur pour la vie
I say Oui

To the soul-wrenched cry of a world in pain
for feeding and healing and justice and love
I say Yes

To saxophones, smart phones, eclairs and steaks
and Gherkins and Shards and portraits and flags
I say Yes

To seekers, believers, deniers and doubters
to those loved by millions, or loved by just one
I say Yes

To the straight and the gay, and the trad and the trans
and the whole rainbow spectrum, with pride
I say Yes

To the clever or not, the Bolt or the Snail,
the Diva, the Corncrake, the Star or the Grip
I say Yes

Bullies

The testers
poking and prodding
specimens stretched tight
watching who snaps
chucking the rejects out
with a sneer

The angry
stalking their prey
sensing the poor unwitting one
who struggles to face a daunting world
crushing him for daring to mirror
their own failing souls

The gleeful
fangs and fan clubs ready
warmed by the fire of fear
quenching their thirst on tears
dancing to the music of panic
playing to a baying crowd

Scavengers, predators, parasites,
armoury fierce and strong
hiding their wounds
resisting detente
making it hard to find
the divine spark within

the dark night of the shoulder

rusted cogs
shrieking protest
fitfully grinding

old pump handle
chained down
resentfully jangling

slow fire
smouldering
threatening flares

the dark
tendinitis
of the shoulder

Lee Abbey

A small, unguarded opening appears
in our busy, walled-in, scheduled days,
and we pack up, set off, go west,
hustled at first by manic carriageways,

then nudged along by gentler Devon lanes.
The world slows down. Around a bend we spot
the Valley of the Rocks – sheer, mighty,

filled with sculpted crags and craggy goats.

A final bend, and something softly breaks;
a last vestigial remnant of those walls
of tasks and duties gently crumbles.
In this thin place through widening gaps we glimpse

a world more real. Much-loved fields slope down
to Lee Bay. Hills in tandem frame the view,
and further off, three headlands in a row
dip their rocky toes into the sea.

We park, unpack perceived necessities;
I find a friendly bench and sit, and wait.
A wave of peace laps round my soul—
I breathe in this belovèd, hallowed site.

A dozen fir trees basking in the sun
lean back from years of prodding by the breeze,
and from their copse survey the valley's breadth.
A chitt chitt from the lawn diverts my gaze

to where a counterbalanced wagtail bobs,
her tail's rise matching each quick dip for grubs.
Nearby a proud, fat robin shows disdain
for lesser birds, the lord of his terrain.

Above, the angry, cassocked crows contest
their places in the council of the trees,
and hustling seagulls soar and swoop and seek
another unsuspecting mark to fleece.

The little bobbing wagtail seems to say,
'Don't seek your future far above
among the rancorous cantankerous crows;
heaven is found wherever eyes made whole

gaze through the crumbling walls to that far land
closer than breath.
Follow the woven cord, knotted within this place;

be still, and hear the wild goose sing.'

'three headlands in a row'

'A dozen fir trees basking in the sun'

Easter morning at St Martha's, March 31 2013

We gather just below St Martha's Hill –
First one, then several cars drive up and park,
And out we get, wrapped warm against the chill,
Our eyes adjusting to the lingering dark.
And: 'Christ is Risen!' – we chant our Easter words,
And turn toward the East, and then begin
To climb, as onomatopoeic birds
Trill, chitter, chirrup, tweet the morning in.
Dark trees like Japanese silhouettes regain
Solidity: oak, beech, and silver birch.
Colour seeps through the world. The fox-red lane
Through muted greens climbs to the pilgrim church.
The gilded cloud banks tease our waiting eyes
Till blazing sunrise bursts across the skies.

Maundy Thursday: Stripping the Church

(Revised version)

Candlesticks, chalice, paten all remind
Us of the reverence we seek to show
Our Paschal King. They are the first to go
This Maundy Night. It's time to leave behind
The starched white linen, gold brocade, and find
A bleaker, naked faith; to undergo
The three days' death that wakens us to know
This paradox: to see we must grow blind.

Criss-crossing without words the servers walk,
Take cloths and hangings out; we kneel, and pray;
The lights are dimmed; now Lent has done its work.
The chill night air strips clinging warmth away,
And sound and light are for another day –
Tonight we leave into the silent dark.

Judas

I am a man of sorrows
and acquainted with grief.
The sorrows struck early –
I was a child of a colony
and acquainted with pique,
with ever-ripe resentment
ready to be plucked,
its bitter gall savoured
or spat out at the feet
of the civilised Romans.

I grew up among thorns –
prickly spirited rebels
hugging their grudges tight,
fighting off indifference,
clinging to like-minded types
and shrugging off the rest.
When little seemed to change,
when every saviour fell,
I took what I could get,
of women, wine or wealth.

Then Jeshua came along,
resparked the fire.
A man worth noting,
a cause to consider.
He spoke strange words,
of seeds and pearls and camels–
I didn't understand.
And when the jar was smashed,
and stank of wasted wealth,
the fire sputtered out.

With thirty silver coins
one could do a lot of good.
But who am I trying to kid?
With a thousand coins of gold
you couldn't buy that pearl,
the one I threw away.
Oh yes, I get it now –
the camel and the pearl –
for I am a man of betrayal
and acquainted with greed.

Passion

(Please note: this is not a new poem. I have reposted it from my other blog, "Older Poems", purely and simply because it fits the season.)

I brought them the kingdom, invited them in;
And some came along, and some chose to stay.
I preached and I healed and I freed them from sin,
But now it is time that I go on my way.
I must set my face for Jerusalem,
Though they still don't know who I really am.

O Peter: I called you, and you followed me,
So forward and brave, so honest and true,
But oh, will you wish you had stayed by the sea
When you find what my way has in store for you?
Peter - so sure that you're always right -
Just wait till the cock crows late in the night.

You said, 'You're the Christ,' but you wouldn't stop there;
You couldn't believe I must suffer and die.
I had to rebuke you, to show that I care:
I can't let you live with that comfortable lie.
So I'll walk to Jerusalem just for you;
I love you too much not to see it through.

O Mary, your demons tormented you so,
So I cast them away, and I healed your pain,
And now you are filled with love through and through -
Oh, how can I let you face torment again?
Yet I must make my way to Jerusalem,
And allow you to see who I really am.

You'll live through grief, and do what you must do -
While others flee, you will still bear the pain;
And the empty tomb will torment you anew,
Till a voice says, 'Mary,' and you live again.
But for now, to Jerusalem I must go
With no regrets, for I love you so.

O Father, why must I drink this cup?
Is there no other way that I could go?
To raise them to heaven, must they lift me up?
But if it's your will, then it will be so.
My God, must you forsake me too?
For love of them all I will see it through.

Their wrath, not yours, must run its course;
Your heart will break, but you'll let them be.
I'll drink till their pride has spent its force;
I'll drink bitter pain till my death sets them free.
My God, they forsake us, yet we stay true,
For love of them all we will see it through.

Cinquemillenial

Since two years and two months ago

this blog has had five thousand views.

The entries made: six score or so

since two years and two months ago.

It's nice to see my baby grow;

though not by Armitage or Hughes,

since two years and two months ago

this blog has had five thousand views.

Family Gathering

Driving, arriving,

gathering, greeting,

talking, pausing,

drinking, eating,

smiling, settling,

liking, loving,

resting, chatting,

reluctantly leaving.

Pontius

Will a plea of ignorance do it?
'Forgive me, for I knew not
whom I was sacrificing.' There now.
My, how pompous that sounds.
Pompous Pilate, that's me.
Sitting in my palace, asking
all the right questions, but not necessarily
giving the right orders. I didn't know
who I was ditching, but I knew
he didn't deserve death. Damn him!

What was I to do? I, the Prefect of Judaea,
answering to the Syrian Headmaster,
handing out a detention here, a beating there –
I had too much – and not enough – power.
Please do not ascribe to malice
what incompetence adequately explains:
Incompetent Pilate, that's me. Competent
to crush a Peasants' Revolt, squeeze taxes,
and keep a precarious peace. But not
to face a different sort of king, to grasp
the nettle of his truth. Pity me.

Dante took me for a coward,
would confine me just inside
the Infernal gates. Well, here's the thing:
I've been in hell since first I saw that face;
bound by my office, bearing my cross,
I found my wiggle-room shrinking to nought –
I'm sorry. That sounds so pitiable.
I should stop.

I should have stopped.
I tried to stop –
I tried to stop them,
to offer a face-saving get-out:
a beating, a pardon, a festival boon.
But their clamour confounded me,
and I caved in cravenly.
Ha! I can still turn a phrase, then:
Sonorous Pilate, that's me.
I'm a man for all that –
but never a king.
A pawn?  A pretender? A viceroy?
Where did I stand in the strata of power?
Not high enough, not even close.

Who was I? A man, with the taste of fame
remorselessly turning to ash on his lips;
through ignorance, through weakness,
through his own deliberate fault
washing his hands, and soiling his soul.
May the judgement not be too heavy upon me.

Mobile age

We pace the streets, endlessly talking
to no-one in sight, right hand to ear,
gazing somewhere beyond where we're walking,
attention stretched thin between there and here.

We move between worlds. A job's not for life,
a home's a hotel, well-loved friends travel on.
All vows are conditional, to country, to wife,
the passing is in, the lasting has gone.

Each unforgiving minute's filled
with sixty seconds' to and fro.
God forbid that minds be stilled,
or souls allowed to root and grow.

Fire

65

The old scaffolding pole,
bridging apple and greengage trees,
five feet from the ground,
was a circus tight-rope, high above the ring,
with no safety net.

The nettle-strewn gap
between fence and garage wall,
eighteen itchy, stinging inches wide,
was a mountain cave, bandits' hideaway,
a secret lair.

The back garden,
bordered by the Montagues' and Farm Road,
ten yards by fifteen of suburban lawn,
was the Oval, Edrich facing McKenzie
for the Ashes.

The house still stands
but the children have moved on,
four boys finding new paths and fields;
and ten more children dream new dreams
across a shrinking world.

2013

the same rain, the same
muddy dog after a walk,
but new thoughts, new hopes