On The Disadvantages Of Central Heating

by Amy Clampitt

cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod
stove-warmed flatiron slid under
the covers, mornings a damascene-
sealed bizzarrerie of fernwork
decades ago now

walking in northwest london, tea
brought up steaming, a Peek Frean
biscuit alongside to be nibbled
as blue gas leaps up singing
decades ago now

damp sheets in Dorset, fog-hung
habitat of bronchitis, of long
hot soaks in the bathtub, of nothing
quite drying out until next summer:
delicious to think of

hassocks pulled in close, toasting-
forks held to coal-glow, strong-minded
small boys and big eager sheepdogs
muscling in on brutish profundities
now quite forgotten

the farmhouse long sold, old friends
dead or lost track of, what's salvaged
is this vivid diminuendo, unfogged
by mere affect, the perishing residue
of pure sensation

The Destruction Of Sennacherib

by Lord Byron

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset was seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through it there rolled not a breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating turf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on the ground and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broken in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.

O Love! Thou Makest All Things Even

by Sarah-Flower Adams

O Love! thou makest all things even
In earth or heaven;
Finding thy way through prison-bars
Up to the stars;
Or, true to the Almighty plan,
That out of dust created man,
Thou lookest in a grave 0 to see
Thine immortality!

Hopalong finds a pal

I am amazed that after three months my three-legged fox is proving himself to be a trier. I mean to say he has four legs but as regular readers will know one of his back legs just dangles from the knee joint.

Since Christmas Hopalong has had me on edge day after day, or rather night after night. The really stormy cold weather we had recently meant there were nights he (or for all I know she) did not turn up at all, although others did, and I feared the worst.

The next thing is Hopalong’s back and going like a good ‘un on three legs and even getting there soon after I put the food out meaning he gets first dibs on whatever’s on the menu, from the remains of a chicken carcase, decent dog food, even eggs and often cheese.

Not long after midnight Hopalong turned up for a snack and soon after a “friend” arrived

It wasn’t just a one-off with a second fox arriving and then leaving Hopalong to his meal in peace. Soon afterwards they were onscreen together again with no trouble at all.

Once Hopalong had eaten enough and headed into the vegetation the “friend” popped back for some titbits.

I am no expert on foxes, I just know I like to see them doing what comes naturally (which does not include men and women in fancy dress on horseback riding out with a pack of dogs to chase them and for the dogs to rip them to pieces).

I can make suppositions, however.

Foxes are usually lonesome animals and once a dog and vixen have mated the dog departs leaving the vixen to birth and raise the cubs. The vixen will then teach her cubs how ti find food and remain safe.

Sometimes a last cub will stay with the vixen until it is time for mating and she heads off, leaving the cub to go off and find its own mate and start the process over again.

I haven’t figured out how to differentiate the sexes but I would think the Hopalong could be a vixen and the larger companion could be her grown-up cub. They certainly seem to get along.

This earlier scene may explain why I have named Hopalong’s “friend” Scaredycat. The clip below was taken just a few minutes before Hopalong turned up.

It appears the big fox had gone ahead to check the area and had a bit of a nosh before Hopalong turned up. This is a very nervous young fox trying to get a feed before somewhat bigger, or more important, arrives.

ScaredyCat gets a quick nibble before Hopalong hops in.

The British

by Benjamin Zephaniah 

Take some Picts, Celts and Silures
And let them settle,
Then overrun them with Roman conquerors.
Remove the Romans after approximately 400 years
Add lots of Norman French to some
Angles, Saxons, Jutes and Vikings, then stir vigorously.

Mix some hot Chileans, cool Jamaicans, Dominicans,
Trinidadians, and Bajans with some Ethiopians, Chinese,
Vietnamese and Sudanese.

Then take a blend of Somalians, Sri Lankins, Nigerians
And Pakistanis
Sprinkle some fresh Indians, Malaysians and Bosnians,
Iraqis and Bangladeshis together with some
Afghan, Spanish, Turkish, Kurdish, Japanese
And Palestinians
Then add to the melting pot.

Leave the ingredients to simmer

As they mix and blend allow their languages to flourish
Binding them together with English.

Allow time to be cool.

Add some unity and understanding, respect for the future,
Serve with justice and enjoy.

Note: all the ingredients are equally important. Treating one ingredient better than another will leave a bitter unpleasant taste.

Warning: An unequal spread of justice will damage the people and cause pain.
Give justice and equality to all.

Memento

by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Like a reminder of this life
of trams, sun, sparrows,
and the flighty uncontrolledness
of streams leaping like thermometers.
and because ducks are quacking somewhere
above the crackling of the last, paper-thin ice,
and because children are crying bitterly
(remember children's lives are so sweet!)
and because in the drunken, shimmering starlight
the moon whoops it up,
and a stocking crackles at the knee,
gold in itself and tinged by the sun,
like a reminder of life,
and because there is resin on tree trunks,
and because I was madly mistaken
in thinking that my life was over
like a reminder of my life,
you entered into me on stockinged feet.
You entered - neither too late or too early -
at exactly the right time, as my very own,
and with a smile, uprooted me
from memories, as from a grave.
And I, once again whirling among
the painted horses, gladly exchange
for one reminder of life,
all its memories.
1974

Up sticks and we’re heading home to the land of the Red Dragon

We talked a lot that Sunday, the love of my life and myself.

The point is that anything I said involved convincing myself that I would not just hop from job to job. I had responsibilities. I had a family.

It was my darling who put her finger on it and broke the deadlock.

As she rightly pointed out, I would see the move as running away again, as I had when I joined the Sooty Show. But if I found another job first it would not be running away, but starting afresh.

That is why when I went in to start my noon shift on Monday the first thing I did was to ring a number in Oswestry and ask to speak to Mr Tom Roberts.

Obviously the operator had given him my name because as soon as I was put through he said: “Hello Robin, how are you doing, Enjoying watching all the big movies and getting paid for it?”

We had a bit of general chat about this and that. Being one of the directors of North Wales News he had a lot he could chat about, but then he said: “Well, that’s enough of the news room chat, why have you really called?”

Then I told him I wanted to get back into journalism and I wondered if there was anything going in the company.

He told me there might be something, but he would have to check first. I arranged to call him again at 3pm, thanked him for his time and hung up.

I had plenty of paperwork to keep me busy for the next three hours but it still seemed time passed slowly. Finally three o’clock arrived and once again I dialled the number and asked to speak to Tom Roberts.

He told me there was a vacancy for a reporter on the Chronicle, a weekly newspaper based in Bangor, although the job was based at Holyhead covering a good part of Anglesey.

The editor was Ray Bower and he was prepared to take me on as I came recommended by Peter Leaney and Brian Barratt, two senior editors. The job would come open in two weeks but, as they thought I would need to give four weeks’ notice, the job could be held open for another two weeks.

I told Tom I would have to talk to my wife about it but thought she would be happy with the situation. I said I would confirm the position by ringing him on the Tuesday morning.

I couldn’t help thinking about the situation all day and evening and on the journey home that night. As soon as I got home Marion could hardly wait to hear what had happened.

I told her everything that had passed between Tom and myself and then just said: “The job’s there if I want it. Start in four weeks’ time. Do we want it?”

She threw her arms around my neck and said: “Yes we do.”

The die was cast and from that moment we were on our way home.

Verses on a Butterfly

by Joseph Warton

Fair Child of Sun and Summer! we behold
With eager eyes thy wings bedropp'd with gold;
The purple spots that o'er thy mantle spread,
The sapphire's lively blue, the ruby's red,
Ten thousand various blended tints surprise,
Beyond the rainbow's hues or peacock's eyes:
Not Judah's king in eastern pomp array'd,
Whose charms allur'd from far the Sheban maid,
High on his glitt'ring throne, like you could shine
(Nature's completest miniature divine):
For thee the rose her balmy buds renews,
And silver lilies fill their cups with dews;
Flora for thee the laughing fields perfumes,
For thee Pomona sheds her choicest blooms,
Soft Zephyr wafts thee on his gentlest gales
O'er Hackwood's sunny hill and verdant vales;
For thee, gay queen of insects! do we rove
From walk to walk, from beauteous grove to grove;
And let the critics know, whose pedant pride
And awkward jests our sprightly sport deride:
That all who honours fame, or wealth pursue,
Change but the name of things - they hunt for you.

For a row of laurel shrubs

by David Wagoner

They don't want to be your hedge,
Your barrier, your living wall, the no-go
Go-between between your property
And the prying of dogs and strangers. They don't

Want to settle any of your old squabbles
Inside or out of bounds. Their new growth
In eight-foot shoots goes thrusting straight
Up in the air each April or goes off

Half-cocked sideways to recconoiter
Wilder dimensions: the very idea
Of squareness, of staying level seems
Alien to them, and they aren't in the least

Discouraged by being suddenly lopped off
Year after year by clippers or the stuttering
Electric teeth of trimmers hedging their bets
To keep them all in line, all roughly

In order, they don't even
Want to be good-neighborly bushes
(Though under the outer stems and leaves
The thick thick-headed, soot-blackened

Elderly branches have been dodging
And weaving through so many disastrous springs
So many whacked out, contra
Dictory changes of direction, they've locked

Themselves together for good). Yet each
Original planting, left to itself, would be
No fence, no partition, no crook-jointed
Entanglement, but a tree by now outside
 
With all of itself turned
Inconvenient angle you can imagine,
And look, on the ground, the fallen leaves,
Brown, leathery, as thick as tongues, remain

Almost what they were, tougher than ever,
Slow to molder, to give in, dead slow to feed
The earth themselves, there at the feet
Of their fathers in the evergreen shade

Of their replacements. Remember, admirers
Long ago would sometimes weave fresh clippings   
Into crowns and place them squarely on the heads
Of their most peculiar poets.