A Very Random Sense Poem

Black Cat

   A Very Random Sense Poem


I saw a black cat as black as the ocean at night
I saw a young man as mad as a hatter
I saw a puppy as fierce as a lion


I heard the wind as fierce as the sun's blaze
I heard a faint cry from a man as poor as a church mouse
I heard her voice as clear as a whistle 
I heard the girl sing as sweet as honey from a hive


I felt the ghost's cold touch as cold as frostbite
I felt the warm coat as warm as wool
I felt the dog's ears as soft as silk


I smelt the gas as strong as a horse
I smelt a rose as red as blood
I smelt the smoke as bold as brass
I smelt a daffodil as yellow as a banana


I tasted a peach as good as gold
I tasted a lemon as bitter as vinegar
I tasted a strawberry as red as a rose
I tasted a banana as yellow as a chick




Rhiaan




.

Yellow

It struck me how appropriate yellow flowers are for Spring today. After the cold, gray,depth of winter the flowers appear warm and inviting in the sun, and yellow is clearly the best colour to reflect the sunshine. Those TV naturalists, nowadays frequently overexcited middle class women who bounce across the screen bathed in false smiles and bonhomie, such beings tell us that yellow is the colour insects recognise as a food source. As the year progresses flower colours change accordingly. Of course there are wonderful flowers of other colours around also, but there is a preponderance of yellow, and daffodils show this up most clearly. No wonder Wordsworth, a man enraptured with nature, and he had the cash so to be, wrote about daffodils, although the ones he came upon were of course wild daffs, and slightly different to these seen here. They would of course be seen clearer if the blustery wind had not kept moving the blighter's around! 

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden Daffodils;
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-
A Poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

Dove Cottage: The Wordsworth Museum

THESE ARE ENTRIES TO A WASHINGTON POST COMPETITION

ASKING FOR A TWO-LINE RHYME
WITH THE MOST ROMANTIC FIRST LINE,
AND THE LEAST ROMANTIC SECOND LINE:

1. My darling, my lover, my beautiful wife:
Marrying you has screwed up my life.

2. I see your face when I am dreaming.
That's why I always wake up screaming.

3. Kind, intelligent, loving and hot;
This describes everything you are not.

4. Love may be beautiful, love may be bliss,
But I only slept with you 'cause I was pissed.

5. I thought that I could love no other
-- that is until I met your brother.

6. Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you.
But the roses are wilting, the violets are dead, the sugar bowl's
empty and so is your head.

7. I want to feel your sweet embrace;
But don't take that paper bag off your face.

8. I love your smile, your face, and your eyes
Damn, I'm good at telling lies!

9. My love, you take my breath away.
What have you stepped in to smell this way?

10. My feelings for you no words can tell,
Except for maybe 'Go to hell.'

11. What inspired this amorous rhyme?
Two parts vodka, one part lime.

National Poetry Day

As it is Poetry Day I will share one of the poems that appeared in Edinburgh in the 60's. Those days were full of innovation and experiment and this poem often appeared in publications at that time. I feel that it has left a mark on my psyche.

This wifey,
Carrying her shopping bag in Leith Walk.
I goes up to her and says,
"See wifey, there's the wild Pentlands ahind ye."
She drapped it

Anon

One of the Great Wars forgotten poets is Joe Lee. He served with the 4th/5th Black Watch throughout the war, and while at the time rated alongside the major literary figures of the day was soon forgotten, possibly because a disagreement with the 'Poet Laureate' of the day.

German Prisoners
By Joseph Lee

WHEN first I saw you in the curious street
Like some platoon of soldier ghosts in grey,
My mad impulse was all to smite and slay,
To spit upon you—tread you ’neath my feet.
But when I saw how each sad soul did greet
My gaze with no sign of defiant frown,
How from tired eyes looked spirits broken down,
How each face showed the pale flag of defeat,
And doubt, despair, and disillusionment,
And how were grievous wounds on many a head,
And on your garb red-faced was other red;
And how you stooped as men whose strength was spent,
I knew that we had suffered each as other,
And could have grasped your hand and cried, “My brother!”

However I feel it would be unjust not treat you with one of my own compositions, one which I have sweated over for the last twenty minutes. I have no idea where the topic came from.

Where would we be
Without tea?
How could I cope with the rush of my life if I could not sit down and drink tea?
I can stay awake with coffee,
But fragment when I have too much.
I can go to sleep with cocoa,
But that's not good after lunch.
It's tea that that keeps me going, on and on and on.
It's what makes the nation what it is, tough and wise and strong!
Give me tea then every morning, and more tea every night.
Make it strong and dark and scrumptious and let your eyes be bright.
Use a tea bag hourly and strengthen weakening knees.
Add milk to cool it down folks or drink it up real hot,
Cause if you miss your tea break you will go all to pot.
So stand up for our teabags, salute the stuff God made,
And celebrate our heritage let the teacup be displayed!

Me.

Ewart Alan Mackintosh, Scottish Great War Poet.

After an action one of the officers duties was to write to the nearest relative of each deceased soldier, giving a few, often amended, details of their demise. MackIntosh was an officer who like many of his class came very close to the ordinary men who served under him. This reaction between the young middle class officers and the, mostly, working class men began a reaction that changed the class structure in the United Kingdom and left an effect that is still with us. This is one of the most moving examples of an officers attitude from the Great War.

In Memoriam

by Ewart Alan Mackintosh (killed in action 21 November 1917 aged 24)

(Private D Sutherland killed in action in the German trenches, 16 May 1916, and the others who died.)

So you were David's father,
And he was your only son,
And the new-cut peats are rotting
And the work is left undone,
Because of an old man weeping,
Just an old man in pain,
For David, his son David,
That will not come again.

Oh, the letters he wrote you,
And I can see them still,
Not a word of the fighting,
But just the sheep on the hill
And how you should get the crops in
Ere the year get stormier,
And the Bosches have got his body,
And I was his officer.

You were only David's father,
But I had fifty sons
When we went up in the evening
Under the arch of the guns,
And we came back at twilight -
O God! I heard them call
To me for help and pity
That could not help at all.

Oh, never will I forget you,
My men that trusted me,
More my sons than your fathers',
For they could only see
The little helpless babies
And the young men in their pride.
They could not see you dying,
And hold you while you died.

Happy and young and gallant,
They saw their first-born go,
But not the strong limbs broken
And the beautiful men brought low,
The piteous writhing bodies,
They screamed 'Don't leave me, sir',
For they were only your fathers
But I was your officer.

Poetry

When I jumped out of bed this morning I noticed the sun was shining. How lovely to see this I thought, and noticing the blue tits cheerily chasing each other across the trees opposite I became entranced with the sight. I rushed downstairs and across the road and stood in the park bathing in the sunshine. I listened to the white headed blackbird singing joyfully as it searched for breakfast, I watched the sun reflect of the bright green leaves of the bushes all around me, I noticed the slim white vapour trail high overhead in the azure sky, I rejoiced in the sights and senses of what came close to a spring morning. "Hello, hello, hello. What you a doing off a standing starkers in the park may I ask," said the local police community warden.

Much later....

Now that I know what an 'ASBO' is I am free, (except between the hours of 7 p.m. and 7 a.m of course), to do what I like. So I will return to the waxing lyrical, especially today when we commemorate the poet that was Rabbie Burns. In many parts of the world folks are, as we speak, stuffing haggis and whisky down their throats. Some rejoicing, others slyly avoiding the haggis and sticking with the fruit of the barley! Which reminds me, I must phone my brother in law! Rabbie Burns is seen by some Scots as a kind of saint. They regard him as a 'typical' Scot and in many ways he does fit the bill for that. He came from an extremely poor farming background, where his father,like many of that time, encouraged his children to learn! Robert did, and how! While learning the hard life of ploughing, seeding and reaping the fruits of the field he also studied a wide range of subjects reading voraciously. Geography, theology, maths, literature, French and Latin, and no doubt anything else he came across. The result of a Scotland being Calvinist was not hindering the mind of the nation but it gave free reign for the people, at all levels, to learn if they so desired. The work ethic also contained an encouragement to develop the person. One is left wondering what happened to this, did the wealthy society kill it, are we lazy, or is it just me that fails? Burns spent far too much of his time with women and drink. Some see this as a good thing, but I wonder if this is the case. Doing what we want seems good at the time, but doing what we ought gets more results. Satisfaction does not come through having all we want. Burns poetry did bring him in contact with Edinburgh's high society, and the girls threw themselves at him, finding his wit, his strength, his knowledge and, no doubt, flattery appealing. Women flock to such men, as I can vouch for. Oh yes I can! However, he ended up back on the farm, and a failing one at that. Maybe he just did not sit easily with the chattering classes, a working man tends to have a different, more cynical, view of life than they.

Though much admired by the Church of Scotland folks I doubt he could really be called 'Christian,' he appears tome to be happier as a 'liberal' happily reading his 'Guardian.' he loved his wife, but that did not stop him fathering many bairns elsewhere. Some men seem uncaring towards their wives in this regard. Tempting though it may be, and situations at home can be difficult, having several children by a wide variety of woman shows you to be a spoilt brat,not a man. Not that I am jealous of course. We would all like lots of women at our beck and call, but it is better to have the best, and in the end commitment to one only, however difficult is the best way. (My beloved ran away of course). Rabbie Burns would probably be a good man to have around, a good patriot, happiest when with his friends in the pub, hard working and very much a working man. In many ways he does provide the Scot with an image they respond to. Sad to say he died after falling asleep in the rain when drunk. He died of the resulting rheumatic fever. Here is one of his more human refrains.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that,
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That man to man, the world o'er,
Shall brithers be for a' that

Two sites worth a browse:

Robert Burns

The World Burns Club

William Topaz McGonagall

Time for culture I think. Culture with a capital 'K' at that! I refer of course to what Spike Milligan called that great "Poet, tragedian and twit," William Topaz McGonagall! This man has become one of Scotland's most famous sons.
Not because of his great talent, indeed his fame comes from the lack of them!
William was born of Irish parents in Edinburgh sometime between 1825 and 1830, depending on who you believe. His family eventually settled in Dundee and although he had some education, most of Wullie's time was spent as a hand loom weaver. He claimed that in 1877 he discovered
the 'muse' had come upon him and he was a poet. He had already tried out the acting in 'Macbeth.' From this moment on he began a life as a poet, travelling around performing in pubs and halls wherever he was welcome. He was always welcomed, for while he perceived himself to be a poet the audience perceived him to be a 'Bam!' It became the thing to invite him to give a reading just so the motley crew gathered there could ridicule him, sometimes in the most violent manner. Abused and assaulted, pelted with rotten veg and other vile armoury he continued nonetheless to believe in himself and his abilities as a poet. All this, in spite of the reality! On one occasion he walked fifty miles to Balmoral to see Queen Victoria in person. The police constable at the gate turned him away in a fashion that would not occur in these politically correct days. It was also strongly emphasised that he should not return! Over two hundred poems were published during his twenty five year long literary career, a career which even took him to New York at one stage, but he was quickly on the boat home again.
Did he realise he was a joke to the world, and therefore play to them as this was his only means of income? Some would say so. Sadly it appears he may well have considered himself equal to Burns and other famous bards. His poetry has however remained popular, mostly because it is awful! Because of this he has become one of Scotland's most loved, and quoted poets. Not however in the higher echelons of Scots poetic society! Maybe had he read Burns a little closer he would have considered more the line "To see ourselves as others see us," and gone back to the weaving. It would have been our loss mind if he had!

William wrote this when the Tay bridge was opened in September 1878:-

The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay

BEAUTIFUL Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array
And your central girders, which seem to the eye
To be almost towering to the sky.
The greatest wonder of the day,
And a great beautification to the River Tay,
Most beautiful to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Sadly this bridge was struck by a gale on the night of the 28th December 1879, and the design faults and construction failures led to a weakening of the central girders. As the Edinburgh train reached the 'High Girders' the weight and the gale combined to bring the edifice crashing down into the Tay. The Tay is wide at this point and is renowned as carrying the largest volume of water in the UK. There were no survivors. The engine was eventually lifted from the depths and went back into use until 1908. With typical Scots black humour it became known as 'The Diver.'

Once again William Topaz McGonagall found reason to write, and produced what has become his most quoted poem. It gives an excellent example of his style, if that is the word, and surely leaves a desire with all readers for more!

The Tay Bridge Disaster

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

'Twas about seven o'clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem'd to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-
"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."

When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."

But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers' hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.

So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o'er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the tale
How the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.


Those who wish to learn more about this great man, and surely you want to, can find his poems at 'McGonagall Online.'
Well worth a browse over the Christmas period.