The shorn moon trembling indistinct on her path,
Frail as a scar upon the pale blue sky,
Draws towards the downward slope: some sorrow hath
Worn her down to the quick, so she faintly fares
Along her foot-searched way without knowing why
She creeps persistent down the sky's long stairs.
Some day they see, though I have never seen,
The dead moon heaped within the new moon's arms
For surely the fragile, fine young thing had been
Too heavily burdened to mount the heavens so.
But my dear heart stands still, as a new, strong dread alarms
Me; might a young girl be heaped with such shadow of woe?
Since Death from the mother moon has pared us down to the quick,
And cast us forth like shorn, thin moons, to travel
An uncharted way among the myriad thick
Strewn stars of silent people, and luminous litter
Of lives which sorrows like mischievous dark mice chavel
To nought, diminishing each star's glitter.
Since Death has delivered us, utterly naked and white,
Since the month of childhood is over, and we stand alone,
Since the beloved, faded moon that set us alight
Is delivered from us and pays no heed though we moan
In sorrow, since we stand in bewilderment, strange
And fearful to sally forth down the sky's long range.
We may not cry to her still to sustain us here,
We may not hold her shadow back from the dark.
Oh, let us here forget, let us take the sheer
Unknown that lies before us, bearing the ark
Of the covenant onwards where she cannot go.
Let us rise and leave her now, she will never know.
I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.
I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.
I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light
in the back of my mind to guide me.
I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
my life when they murder by means of my hands, my death when they live me.
I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white waves
call me to folly and the desert calls me
to doom and the beggar refuses my gift and the children curse me.
I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or thinks he is God
come near me.
I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my
humanity, dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing, and against all those
who would dissipate my entirety, would
blow me like thistledown hither and thither or hither and thither
like water held in the
hands would spill me.
Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.
A shady friend for torrid days
Is easier to find
Than one of higher temperature
For frigid hour of mind.
The vane a little to the east
Scares muslin souls away;
If broadcloth breasts are firmer
Than those of organdy,
Who is to blame? The weaver?
Ah! the bewildering thread!
The tapestries of paradise!
So notelessly are made!
Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss;
This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys;
Death proves them all but toys;
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade.
All things to end are made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds open her gate.
"Come, come!" the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die!
Lord, have mercy on us!
Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply.
I am sick, I must die!
Lord, have mercy on us!
Haste, therefore, each degree,
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage;
Mount we unto the sky.
I am sick, I must die!
Lord, have mercy on us!
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!"
Robin's Nest 