As a child when I went to the circus,
Though I loved the clowns and the acrobats,
I hated when the ringmaster made the animals act
And do unnatural things,
To tickle human beings.
As the tiger came out of the cage,
You could see he was in rage.
On a visit to the zoo,
Seeing the tiger roam,
I often wondered,
How does it feel
To be uprooted from your natural habitat.
The frustration was writ large on the face of the Royal cat.
On growing up, and on a visit to
A family friend's farm house,
I used to squirm to see walls decorated with tiger skins
And the conversation full of anecdotes of the kill.
I often wonder
Is that why it's becoming extinct.
We really had no right to kill
For pleasure or greed,
Every creature has a place in the scheme of things
It's sad today the tiger tops the list of endangered species.
I still remember the poem by Blake,
Which I read in the seventh grade.
The day is not far when those famous stripes
Will just adorn the rags of designer lines.
A curse upon his king who leads his state,
No matter what his plea, to this foul game,
And may it end his wicked dynasty,
And may he die in exile and black shame.
If there is vengeance in the Heaven of Heavens,
What punishment could Heaven devise for these,
Who fill the rivers of the world with dead,
And turn their murderers loose on all the seas!
Put back the clock of time a thousand years,
And make our Europe, once the world's proud Queen
A shrieking strumpet, furious fratricide,
Eater of entrails, wallowing obscene
In pits where millions foam and rave and bark,
Mad dogs and idiots, thrice drunk with strife;
While Science towers above;-- a witch, red-winged:
Science we looked to for the light of life,
Curse me the men who make and sell iron ships
Who walk the floor in thought, that they may find
Each powder prompt, each steel with fearful edge
Each deadliest device against mankind.
Curse me the sleek Lords with their plumes and spurs,
May Heaven give their land to peasant spades,
Give them the brand of Cain, for their pride's sake,
And felon's stripes for medals and for braids.
Curse me the fiddling, twiddling diplomats,
Haggling here, plotting and hatching there,
Who make the kind world but their game of cards,
Till millions die at turning of a hair.
What punishment will Heaven devise for these
Who win by other's sweat and hardihood,
Who make men into stinking vulture's meat,
Saying to evil still "Be thou my good"?
Ah, he who starts a million souls towards death
Should burn in utmost hell a million years!
-- Mothers of men go on the destined wrack
To give them life, with anguish and with tears:--
Are all those childhood sorrows sneered away?
Yea, fools laugh at the humble christenings,
And cradle-joys are mocked of the fat lords:
These mothers' sons made dead men for the Kings!
All in the name of this or that grim flag,
No angel-flags in all the rag-array --
Banners the demons love, and all Hell sings
And plays wild harps. Those flags march forth to-day!
Away, melancholy,
Away, let it go.
Are not the trees green,
The earth as green?
Does not the wind blow,
Fire leap and the rivers flow?
Away, melancholy.
The ant is busy
He carrieth his meat,
All things hurry
To be eaten or eat.
Away, melancholy.
Man, too, hurries,
Eats, couples, buries,
He is an animal also
With a hey ho melancholy,
Away with it, let it go.
Man of all creatures
Is superlative
(Away, melancholy)
He of all creatures alone
Raiseth a stone
(Away melancholy)
Into the stone, the god
Pours what he knows of good
Calling, good, God
Away melancholy, let it go.
Speak not to me of tears,
Tyranny, pox, wars,
Saying, Can God
Stone of man's thoughts, be good?
Say rather is it enough
That the stuffed
Stone of man's good, growing,
By man's called God
Away, melancholy, let it go.
Man aspires
To good,
To love
Sighs;
Beaten, corrupted, dying
In his own blood lying
Yet heaves up an eye above
Cries Love, love.
It is his virtue needs explaining,
Not his failing.
Away, melancholy,
Away with it, let it go.
As a fisher-boy I fared
To the black rock in the sea,
And, while false gifts I prepared
Listen'd and sang merrily, Down descending the decoy,
Soon a fish attacked the bait;
One exultant shout of joy, --
And the fish was captured straight.
Ah, on shore, and to the wood
Past the cliffs, o'er stock and stone,
One foot's traces I pursued,
And the maiden was alone.
Lips were silent, eyes downcast
As a clasp-knife snaps the bait,
With her snare she seized me fast,
And the boy was captured straight.
Heaven knows who's the happy swain
That she rambles with anew!
I must dare the sea again,
Spite of wind and weather too,
When the great and little fish
Wail and flounder in my net,
Straight returns my eager wish
In her arms to revel yet!
There have been many shortages during the Covid 19 chaos, some you might expect but others very curious.
We all know toilet rolls became scarce – after all if you’re going to be stuck at home for months you want to be sure you can keep your nether regions clean.
Bread flour, in fact all flours for a while, became like hen’s teeth. I suppose people thought they could while away their time creating splendid baked goods to rival those on the Great British Bake off.
Understandable but somewhat annoying for those of us who bake every day.
I was completely amazed when I was unable to track down a single bottle of Robinson’s Lemon Barley Water for two or three months but eventually it began to return to the shop shelves.
Recently, however, I tried to get hold of double edged blades for my safety razor.
Despite the prevalence of disposable razors and electric razors I have never before been unable to track down blades for my somewhat aged safety razor, from the UK to Australia, and Oman to Dubai.
The razor itself is a very old implement, though not always in its present form.
Like most men of my age I began shaving in my teens.
My father still preferred a wet shave and used his wartime issue implement even in the 1960s.
Because he ran his own chemist shop he had old stock he had inherited from Mr Dixon, whose widow had sold Dad the shop and house in the 1950s, and found an old razor I could use.
Before I left home Dad had started to use an electric razor and had given me his old razor which was superior to mine.
Not long after I left home to work down South my grandfather, who had been living with us for a decade, died.
After his funeral my mother was sorting out his belongings which included his safety razor which he had used since the war, except in his case it was the First World War.
She asked me if I wanted the razor, which was American, designed by King Gillette, and was a wartime issue for US troops. I don’t know how Grandad Lloyd came by it but he must have served alongside American troops during that “Great War”.
I now had three razors but tended to use the oldest more often. Unfortunately, as was to be expected, this particular razor finally gave up the ghost when the thread on the handle wore out leaving me with two usable parts of a three-part razor.
I then took the handle from my father’s razor and used it on the WW1 model.
Eventually the screw on the top plate wore out and the matching part on my father’s razor was not in the best of conditions so I used the one from my own 1950s model.
I thus had a razor with parts from two world wars and one part of 1950s origins.
I did eventually track down some Wilkinson Sword Edge blades – on Amazon of all places.
This morning I finally had a fresh blade for my old friend and the speckled stubble (yes there are some dark bits in it) was whisked away in perfect fashion once more.
It may be a little bit of “Trigger’s brush” but a part of it is still linked to a young Liverpool lad who went off with his pals to “beat the Hun”.
In spite of war, in spite of death,
In spite of all man's sufferings,
Something in me laughs and sings
And I must praise with all my breath.
In spite of war, in spite of hate,
Lilacs are blooming at my gate,
Tulips are tripping down the path
In spite of war, in spite of wrath.
"Courage!" the morning-glory saith;
"Rejoice!" the daisy murmureth,
And just to live is so divine
When pansies lift their eyes to mine.
The clouds are romping with the sea,
And flashing waves call back to me
That naught is real but what is fair,
That everywhere and everywhere
A glory liveth through despair.
Though guns may roar and cannons boom,
Roses are born and gardens bloom;
My spirit still may light its flame
At that same torch whence poppies came,
Where morning's altar whitely burns
Lilies may lift their silver urns
In spite of war, in spite of shame.
And in my ear a whispering breath,
"Wake from the nightmare! Look and see
That life is naught but ecstasy
In spite of war, in spite of death!"
Fear no more the heat of the sun;
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task has done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.
Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure-rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!
Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.
Then stept she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd
The fulness of her face -
Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-altar gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand shine,
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine
The falsehood of extremes!
When you are old and grey and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down the book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Robin's Nest 