The Woods Where Once I Walked

The woods where once I walked
I glimpsed them from the train
From thirty years ago
I still saw in my mind
Catkins and budding leaves
The dappled light of spring
And kingcups by the stream
And bluebells under the trees
As I glimpsed the woods from the train.

But now the trees stood bare
Like a parade of ghosts
In the clammy winter fog
And the grass lay seared with frost
And no-one walked in the woods

And the train swept on to the north.

A Snuff Bottle

George read through the advertisements in the local paper.
     “For sale: several Chinese works of art: soapstone carvings, ink painting of bamboo, blah, blah, amber snuff bottle ….. Hmm, now that might be worth investigating!”
     He had yet to find a really good amber snuff-bottle to add to his collection. Of course, the chances were that this was just some rubbishy modern piece; but even so, it would be silly to let the chance slip away. He dialled the telephone number given on the advert. A woman’s voice answered. He gave his name, and then, in order not too sound too eager, asked about some of the other items first, and only came to the snuff bottle as if was an afterthought.
     The woman gave him a brief description of the object. “It's about two inches high, with a carving of a dragon on it. There's some Chinese writing on the bottom, but of course I can't read it. It's a beautiful golden colour, and it's got a stopper with a little spoon for the snuff", she told him. "I really can’t say how old it is; I’m not an expert at all! You see, I’ve inherited all these things from my aunt, and I need to dispose of them as quickly as I can, because I live abroad. Why don’t you come and have a look at it? And if you think it’s any good, you can have it for ….. what shall we say? ….. fifty pounds? Fine! How about next Tuesday? Three o’clock?  Now, how to get here: do you know Foxton? Well, go out from there on the Brackenford road, and after a couple of miles you’ll see a turning on your left, just opposite the bus stop. Go down there, and after a few hundred yards there’s a big holly hedge on the left and a sign saying Bluebell Cottage. That’s where I am. Park your car in the drive. If no-one answers the bell, it probably means I’m in the back garden, so come and look for me. See you then!”
     After he had put the phone down, it suddenly occurred to George that he might have heard the woman’s voice before, but he couldn’t  quite recall the circumstances.

     As he drove out on Tuesday, George reflected on his possible good luck. The description of the snuff bottle had genuinely excited him: it had sounded exactly like the real business! He wondered how he might turn the situation even more to his advantage. Should he, for instance, regretfully inform the woman that her snuff bottle was a modern fake, but, rather than make the visit fruitless, he would take it off her hands for thirty pounds? or perhaps only twenty?
    He found Bluebell Cottage without difficulty. It was the only building down a narrow country lane. As predicted, a ring of the front door bell brought no response, and he wandered round into the secluded back garden. This also seemed deserted.
     “Hello, George!” came a voice from behind him. He spun round.
     “You!” was all he could manage to say.
     “Yes, George, it’s me! It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I rented this cottage specially to meet you again, and here you are. I remembered how you used to collect snuff bottles, and I just had to pray you hadn’t given up the hobby. I hope you appreciate the research I put in, to make sure I could describe one that you’d want! So here we are together again, after all those years. It’ll be just like old times. Well; not quite like old times….”
     And she drew a small pistol from her pocket.

Homage to Rupert Brooke

(To be sung to the tune of the Prelude to Act III of “Carmen”, by Bizet)

The boy who sang by Granta’s stream
Of spires and fenland, games and laughter in the morning
Taken by a wider dream
Out eastwards sees the golden sun of blazing dawning
Hears a voice singing proudly now of songs of war and duty

     beauty

Youth and honour lie in Flanders field
And by the banks of Somme and Yser seek for fame
A sword to draw, a lance to wield
A shield to bear the man that dies to win a name
And hear him sing, Now may God be thanked who matched us with his hour

     power

Loud rejoicing as the boat sails away
To sun-baked islands, seas that once were dark as wine
Where heroes fought a burning day
And deeds as brightly as the Hellene sun will shine
And so he goes, seeking Ilium’s walls and Hector’s martial story

     for the

Boy who sang by Granta’s stream
In storm and glory
To the war
Is gone.
..........................................................................................
Notes:-
Rupert Brooke was the golden boy of English poetry in the years leading up to the First World War. His most frequently quoted poems are "Grantchester", about the villages around Cambridge, and a sonnet, "Now may God be thanked, who has matched us with his hour", expressing his excitement at the declaration of war in 1914. Brooke promptly volunteered for service, and in early 1915 was shipped out to the Mediterranean for the Gallipoli expedition. But he never got there; dying of a mosquito bite on the island of Sykros on April 23rd. He was 27 years old.
   This poem is designed to be sung to Bizet's music, and the words are chosen with this in mind: for their sound as well as their meaning.
   The imagery  is deliberately archaic, because Brooke had no idea what the war would actually be like - but neither did anyone else! "Ilium" in verse three is Troy: as you stand on the ramparts of Troy you can see the main Turkish war memorial on Gallipoli,on the far side of the Dardanelles straits.

Miniature

Becky said to her father, "My friend told me how she found this tiny little man in her garden". Her father looked up from his book with an expression suggesting interest, so she continued.
   "He was just a few inches high, but he looked the same as an ordinary man. He was wearing clothes like you see in the history books, and he had a tiny sword in his hand".
   Becky's father, of course, wasn't fooled for an instant by this roundabout way of approaching the story. While Becky was speaking he turned round to scrabble in the bookcase until he found the volume he wanted.
   "So did the tiny little man say anything to your friend?" he asked, "And did he speak English?"
   "Yes: he asked her to help him".
   "He'd certainly need some help!" her father said. "Here we are: Gulliver's Travels; the voyage to Lilliput, where the people are only six inches high. Has your friend read it, I wonder? Now in Lilliput everything is tiny: the animals, the birds, even the trees. But it would be a different matter if  any Lilliputians tried to live here, where things are large. They couldn't last five minutes; it would be sheer murder!"
   "Why?"
   "Just think about it. How could people only six inches high defend themselves against stoats and foxes, or against hawks and owls? I think they'd have to live in the trees, like squirrels, and build themselves nests".
   "They'd have weapons! This man had a sword".
   "Swift's Lilliputians had sword too. It's a nice idea, but unfortunately it's impossible. If you were just six inches high, you couldn't build a fire hot enough to work metal. In fact, fire would be a terrible danger, like it is to all small creatures, and so would floods. You can read in this book how in Lilliput the royal palace catches fire and how Gulliver puts it out, though it's actually very rude!"
   "Couldn't they survive somehow?"
   "I think their best bet would be to get into someone's house and live under the floorboards, like the Borrowers. Then they'd be warm and dry, and they could pick up scraps of food, and find needles and nails to defend themselves against rats or other animals. I think if the tiny man asks for help again, your friend ought to invite him indoors.
   "Oh, and by the way, she might ask him where he learned to speak English."

Later, Becky went down to the wild area at the bottom of the garden behind the pond, and waited. After a while the little man appeared again. He was so small he only reached half way up to her knee. He had black hair and a black beard, and wore a kind of white tunic. His sword was still in his hand.
   "Would you like to come and live in our house, to keep you safe from wild animals?" asked Becky. But all he said was "Help me!" Becky wasn't sure whether she heard him speak, or it was a voice inside her head.
   "How can I help you?" she asked.
   "Find the Sampo. Find the Sampo".
   "But I don't know what that is, or where to look!" Becky said. But the little man had vanished.

(To be continued)

In a Strange Land

Cerdic and Zar walked on through the jungle, marvelling at the peculiar vegetation. The gravity was much the same as on Earth, but the space-suits, which regulations obliged them always to wear on unexplored planets, were cumbersome and hampered their movements. There were paths leading in various directions, and they wondered who, or what, had made them. But that could come later. Their task for now concerned Vallon, who had disappeared the day before, leaving nothing except his helmet. They had been sent out to find him, or, failing that, to discover what misfortune had befallen him.

Zar paused to look at a huge, brilliant red, trumpet-shaped flower on a bush alongside the path. An insect-like creature the size of a humming-bird flew in, searching for nectar. It feasted for a brief moment, but then the trumpet closed in on it and trapped it. The bush also folded in on itself, the better to enjoy its meal undisturbed.
   "Ugh!" said Cerdic, "Like a Venus fly-trap, but much bigger! This planet is a dangerous place!"
   "I wonder what attracted it?" said Zar. "Was it the colour, or the scent, or what?"
   "No way of telling, as far as the scent's concerned," said Cerdic, "We can't take our helmets off to investigate."
   "Why not? All the instruments say the air here's quite clean: plenty of oxygen. I'd love to breathe proper air again, after all those months on the ship!"
   "Vallon must have taken his helmet off, and look what happened to him!"
   "We don't know that anything happened to him! He just hasn't come back; that's all. He may be walking around here somewhere, enjoying the flowers!"
   "Then why's his radio not working? Why hasn't he been in contact, if only to reassure us that he's all right?"
   "Has it occurred to you that perhaps he doesn't want to come back? Now that after all that time cooped up on the ship, he was free again? He wanted to enjoy it as long as he could. Now maybe he'll turn up again, safe and sound!"

They came to the place where Vallon's helmet had been found. "No sign of any violence anywhere here", said Cerdic, "And no damage to the helmet. It looks like he just took it off, dropped it and walked on"
   "It's like I said, then", replied Zar. "I'm willing to bet he's still alive and unharmed, looking at the scenery, probably not far from here. Let's keep walking, but keep our eyes open. By the way, I wonder who made these paths?"
   "That's what I'm wondering too", said Cerdic.

After a while they came across a space-suit lying on the track. It could only have belonged to Vallon. But of the man himself there was no sign.
   "He obviously found it an encumbrance", said Zar, "So he dropped it and went on without it. I can see his point: these things are really awkward in full gravity".
  "I don't like it at all!" protested Cerdic. "Haven't you noticed something really strange? To get out of your space-suit, you have to take it to pieces, but this one's fully assembled. Now, why would he take it apart, get out of it, and then go to all the trouble of putting it back together again? It's almost as if he'd been sucked out of it somehow. We'd better scout around a bit more, and then take it back to the ship for proper analysis if we still don't find him".

Before they had gone much further, Cerdic stopped and muttered, "Now isn't that odd!" Zar, when he looked, was just as surprised, for what stood before them was a large apple tree, complete with very appetising-looking fruit.
   "What on earth is that doing here?" exclaimed Zar.
   "It's not on earth, that's the problem! So far we haven't seen a single plant that looks anything like our vegetation, and now we find this! Can you explain it?"
   "No."
   "There's only one possibility I can think of, and it's very worrying. It's as if something here has been observing us, penetrating into our minds, discovering what we want, and then creating this tree just for us ..... Hey, what are you doing? Stop it!"
   He shouted this because Zar had started to remove his helmet.
   "It's forbidden!" Cerdic shouted.
   "I don't care!" Zar replied. He took a deep breath. "Ah, the air's beautiful! So good to breathe properly again! Now let's have a look at those apples. I haven't tasted fresh fruit since we set out!"
   "It's a trap!"
   "Why are you so suspicious? Look; quite possibly something here is reading our minds, but why shouldn't it be friendly? I'm prepared to trust it, anyway. Now, let's try these apples ..... hmm, they smell all right ..... taste all right too! Delicious, in fact! Why don't you try one?"
   "I'm reporting you when we get back! You're disobeying the most basic instructions! You shouldn't be let out at all!"
   "I've had enough of you! Look, man; don't you realise? We've found a Garden of Eden here! Vallon saw that. Perhaps he won't come back at all now. I can see his point. I'm off! You might see me again; or then again, you might not. Goodbye!"
   Zar ran away through the bushes. Cerdic tried to follow, but, handicapped by having to breathe in his helmet, soon lost sight of him.

Zar trotted on, headed for he knew not where, breathing in the pure, clean air, rejoicing in the vegetation and insects around him. Already he had almost forgotten about Vallon, and Cerdic and the ship. There were no more of the fly-trap plants to be seen. Although he was on an alien planet, the plants and flowers seemed in an odd way familiar, reminding him of the countryside of his childhood on Earth. The buzzing insects were brilliantly coloured. He was certain the planet was happy, and friendly. But then it came into his mind; if this was indeed Eden, and maybe he was Adam, then there was something missing. Where was his Eve? If the planet could indeed read his mind, it would sense what he needed. She must surely be here somewhere! Then he saw her.

She was reclining amidst the vegetation, in what resembled a deck-chair, though it was probably a gigantic flower. She was very beautiful: the first beautiful woman he had seen since he boarded the ship all those months ago. She belonged to him.
   Zar dropped his helmet and climbed up onto the chair-like flower, and laid down beside her. He kissed her. He kissed her. Her arms wrapped round him in tight embrace and her mouth clamped immovably onto his. And then the flower folded around them and the enzymes from her mouth entered his body, dissolving the tissues until every bone had been liquefied, and sucking them all out until the empty spacesuit could be discarded, as Vallon's had been.


  

Clerihews

The Clerihew is a form of comic verse invented by, and named after, Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1857-1956). It takes the form of two short, rhymed couplets. The first couplet should feature someone's name, to which is attached a rhyme, which ideally should be highly contrived and improbable; and which the second couplet then attempts to relate back to the subject. Collections of Bentley's original Clerihews usually include an extremely silly index.
   Many authors since Bentley's day have produced Clerihews. Here are a few of mine; mostly literary. I hope to add to them in due course.

John Steinbeck's family Joad
Should have taken a different road
They received only brutal kicks
Travelling on Route 66

Mahler's Fruits of the Earth
Had its premiere in Perth
But the audience of Diggers
Greeted it with sniggers

When Philip Larkin
Was booked for illegal parking
I thought it was pretty bad
That he tried to blame his mum and dad.

One Christmas, Jean-Paul Sartre
Was invited to visit Chartres
But he preferred to spend the festive season
Writing "A Critique of Dialectical Reason"

At a cricket match, George Orwell
Neglected to keep the score well
Though this earned him no reproof
From the Ministry of Truth

If you chance to see Shane Warne
Looking all shaven and shorn
He'll be wondering why he can't
Book for a new hair transplant

Adolf Hitler once read Joseph Heller
But he didn't think much of the fellah
He said there was no way Yossarian
Could ever have passed for an Aryan

Count Dracula (whose real name was Vlad)
Could be seen as completely mad
Since he took the decision to remain here
When he might have gone home to Romania

I doubt if Siegfried Sassoon
Felt exactly over the moon
When Robert Graves told him his letter*
Could have been written much better

(*Declaring his refusal to take any further part in the First World War)

...............................................................................

                      Index

Australians; philistine attitude of  -  Mahler
Christmas; Bah! Humbug!  -  Sartre
Combat; hors de  -  Sassoon
Criticism; literary  -  Heller, Sassoon
Follicles; lack of  -  Warne
F****d up  -  Larkin
Immigrant; undesirable  -  Dracula, Joad
Innumeracy  -  Orwell
Jagger, Mick; travel advice of; refuted  -  Joad
Point; missing the  -  Heller
Unreadability  -  Sartre
Windows, rose; failure to appreciate  -  Sartre
Wisden; unfitness for inclusion in  -  Orwell
Wrong 'un  -  Warne

Dog; or, Hegel was right, Bentham was wrong

He has nosed around
And now he proposes
To lie an the sun and do nothing
Until dinner.
There is a lot to think about.
Puppies have been ignoring his advice
His career as a watchdog is threatened by new technology, in the form of a burglar alarm
The spaniel next door has got a much better basket than him
And should he show solidarity with persecuted pit-bulls,
Threatened with racial discrimination?
Meanwhile in the Far East, it is said, dogs are still being killed and eaten
Surely some action should be taken?
But none of these things concern him at all
As he lies in the sun doing nothing
Which is why, whereas we are human,
He is only a dog.