Dancing by the Light of the Moon Read online

  Things never seen or heard or written about,

  Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiar

  Things. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,

  Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,

  All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,

  All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,

  Though all came moving slowly out together.’

  ‘Describe just one of them.’

  ‘I am unable.’

  ‘What were their colours?’

  Mostly nameless colours,

  Colours you’d like to see; but one was puce

  Or perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.

  Some had no colour.’

  ‘Tell me, had they legs?’

  ‘Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.’

  ‘But did these things come out in any order?

  What o’clock was it? What was the day of the week?

  Who else was present? How was the weather?’

  ‘I was coming to that. It was half-past three

  On Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.

  The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog Jesu

  On thirty-seven shimmering instruments,

  Collecting for Caernarvon’s (Fever) Hospital Fund.

  The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,

  Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,

  Were all assembled. Criccieth’s mayor addressed them

  First in good Welsh and then in fluent English,

  Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,

  Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,

  Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward

  Silently at a snail’s pace. But at last

  The most odd, indescribable thing of all,

  Which hardly one man there could see for wonder

  Did something recognizably a something.’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘It made a noise.’

  ‘A frightening noise?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?’

  ‘No, but a very loud, respectable noise –

  Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morning

  In Chapel, close before the second psalm.’

  ‘What did the mayor do?’

  ‘I was coming to that.’

  Minstrel Man

  by Langston Hughes

  (1901–67)

  Because my mouth

  Is wide with laughter

  And my throat

  Is deep with song,

  You do not think

  I suffer after

  I have held my pain

  So long?

  Because my mouth

  Is wide with laughter,

  You do not hear

  My inner cry?

  Because my feet

  Are gay with dancing,

  You do not know

  I die?

  The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel

  by John Betjeman

  (1906–84)fn8

  He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer

  As he gazed at the London skies

  Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains

  Or was it his bees-winged eyes?

  To the right and before him Pont Street

  Did tower in her new built red,

  As hard as the morning gaslight

  That shone on his unmade bed,

  ‘I want some more hock in my seltzer,

  And Robbie, please give me your hand –

  Is this the end or beginning?

  How can I understand?

  ‘So you’ve brought me the latest Yellow Book:

  And Buchan has got in it now:

  Approval of what is approved of

  Is as false as a well-kept vow.

  ‘More hock, Robbie – where is the seltzer?

  Dear boy, pull again at the bell!

  They are all little better than cretins,

  Though this is the Cadogan Hotel.

  ‘One astrakhan coat is at Willis’s –

  Another one’s at the Savoy:

  Do fetch my morocco portmanteau,

  And bring them on later, dear boy.’

  A thump, and a murmur of voices –

  (‘Oh why must they make such a din?’)

  As the door of the bedroom swung open

  And TWO PLAIN CLOTHES POLICEMEN came in:

  ‘Mr. Woilde, we ’ave come for tew take yew

  Where felons and criminals dwell:

  We must ask yew tew leave with us quoietly

  For this is the Cadogan Hotel.’

  He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book.

  He staggered – and, terrible-eyed,

  He brushed past the palms on the staircase

  And was helped to a hansom outside.

  How to Get On in Society

  by John Betjemanfn9

  Phone for the fish-knives, Norman

  As Cook is a little unnerved;

  You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes

  And I must have things daintily served.

  Are the requisites all in the toilet?

  The frills round the cutlets can wait

  Till the girl has replenished the cruets

  And switched on the logs in the grate.

  It’s ever so close in the lounge dear,

  But the vestibule’s comfy for tea

  And Howard is riding on horseback

  So do come and take some with me.

  Now here is a fork for your pastries

  And do use the couch for your feet;

  I know what I wanted to ask you –

  Is trifle sufficient for sweet?

  Milk and then just as it comes dear?

  I’m afraid the preserve’s full of stones;

  Beg pardon, I’m soiling the doileys

  With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.

  Television

  by Roald Dahl

  (1916–90)

  The most important thing we’ve learned,

  So far as children are concerned,

  Is never, never, NEVER let

  Them near your television set –

  Or better still, just don’t install

  The idiotic thing at all.

  In almost every house we’ve been,

  We’ve watched them gaping at the screen.

  They loll and slop and lounge about,

  And stare until their eyes pop out.

  (Last week in someone’s place we saw

  A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)

  They sit and stare and stare and sit

  Until they’re hypnotised by it,

  Until they’re absolutely drunk

  With all that shocking ghastly junk.

  Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,

  They don’t climb out the window sill,

  They never fight or kick or punch,

  They leave you free to cook the lunch

  And wash the dishes in the sink –

  But did you ever stop to think,

  To wonder just exactly what

  This does to your beloved tot?

  IT ROTS THE SENSES IN THE HEAD!

  IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!

  IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!

  IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND

  HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND

  A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!

  HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!

  HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!

  HE cannot THINK – HE ONLY SEES!

  ‘All right!’ you’ll cry. ‘All right!’ you’ll say,

  ‘But if we take the set away,

  What shall we do to entertain

  Our darling children? Please explain!’

  We’ll answer this by asking you,

  ‘What used the darling ones to do?

  ‘How used they keep themselves contented

  Before this monster
was invented?’

  Have you forgotten? Don’t you know?

  We’ll say it very loud and slow:

  THEY … USED … TO … READ! They’d READ and READ,

  AND READ and READ, and then proceed

  TO READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!

  One half their lives was reading books!

  The nursery shelves held books galore!

  Books cluttered up the nursery floor!

  And in the bedroom, by the bed,

  More books were waiting to be read!

  Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales

  Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales

  And treasure isles, and distant shores

  Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,

  And pirates wearing purple pants,

  And sailing ships and elephants,

  And cannibals crouching round the pot,

  Stirring away at something hot.

  (It smells so good, what can it be?

  Good gracious, it’s Penelope.)

  The younger ones had Beatrix Potter

  With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,

  And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,

  And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and –

  Just How The Camel Got His Hump,

  And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,

  And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,

  There’s Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole –

  Oh, books, what books they used to know,

  Those children living long ago!

  So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,

  Go throw your TV set away,

  And in its place you can install

  A lovely bookshelf on the wall.

  Then fill the shelves with lots of books,

  Ignoring all the dirty looks,

  The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,

  And children hitting you with sticks –

  Fear not, because we promise you

  That, in about a week or two

  Of having nothing else to do,

  They’ll now begin to feel the need

  Of having something to read.

  And once they start – oh boy, oh boy!

  You watch the slowly growing joy

  That fills their hearts. They’ll grow so keen

  They’ll wonder what they’d ever seen

  In that ridiculous machine,

  That nauseating, foul, unclean,

  Repulsive television screen!

  And later, each and every kid

  Will love you more for what you did.

  Thoughts after Ruskin

  by Elma Mitchell

  (1919–2000)fn10

  Women reminded him of lilies and roses.

  Me they remind rather of blood and soap,

  Armed with a warm rag, assaulting noses,

  Ears, neck, mouth and all the secret places:

  Armed with a sharp knife, cutting up liver,

  Holding hearts to bleed under a running tap,

  Gutting and stuffing, pickling and preserving,

  Scalding, blanching, broiling, pulverizing,

  – All the terrible chemistry of their kitchens.

  Their distant husbands lean across mahogany

  And delicately manipulate the market,

  While safe at home, the tender and the gentle

  Are killing tiny mice, dead snap by the neck,

  Asphyxiating flies, evicting spiders,

  Scrubbing, scouring aloud, disturbing cupboards,

  Committing things to dustbins, twisting, wringing,

  Wrists red and knuckles white and fingers puckered,

  Pulpy, tepid. Steering screaming cleaners

  Around the snags of furniture, they straighten

  And haul out sheets from under the incontinent

  And heavy old, stoop to importunate young,

  Tugging, folding, tucking, zipping, buttoning,

  Spooning in food, encouraging excretion,

  Mopping up vomit, stabbing cloth with needles,

  Contorting wool around their knitting needles,

  Creating snug and comfy on their needles.

  Their huge hands! their everywhere eyes! their voices

  Raised to convey across the hullabaloo,

  Their massive thighs and breasts dispensing comfort,

  Their bloody passages and hairy crannies,

  Their wombs that pocket a man upside down!

  And when all’s over, off with overalls,

  Quick consulting clocks, they go upstairs,

  Sit and sigh a little, brushing hair,

  And somehow find, in mirrors, colours, odours,

  Their essences of lilies and of roses.

  poetry readings

  by Charles Bukowski

  (1920–94)fn11

  poetry readings have to be some of the saddest

  damned things ever,

  the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,

  week after week, month after month, year

  after year,

  getting old together,

  reading on to tiny gatherings,

  still hoping their genius will be

  discovered,

  making tapes together, discs together,

  sweating for applause

  they read basically to and for

  each other,

  they can’t find a New York publisher

  or one

  within miles,

  but they read on and on

  in the poetry holes of America,

  never daunted,

  never considering the possibility that

  their talent might be

  thin, almost invisible,

  they read on and on

  before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,

  their wives, their friends, the other poets

  and the handful of idiots who have wandered

  in

  from nowhere.

  I am ashamed for them,

  I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,

  I am ashamed for their lisping egos,

  their lack of guts.

  if these are our creators,

  please, please give me something else:

  a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,

  a prelim boy in a four rounder,

  a jock guiding his horse through along the

  rail,

  a bartender on last call,

  a waitress pouring me a coffee,

  a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,

  a dog munching a dry bone,

  an elephant’s fart in a circus tent,

  a 6 p.m. freeway crush,

  the mailman telling a dirty joke

  anything

  anything

  but

  these.

  Homework

  by Allen Ginsberg

  (1926–97)fn12

  Homage Kenneth Koch

  If I were doing my Laundry I’d wash my dirty Iran

  I’d throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap, scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in the jungle,

  I’d wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,

  Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,

  Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparkly Cesium out of Love Canal

  Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain the Sludge out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,

  Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little Clouds so snow return white as snow,

  Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie

  Then I’d throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood & Agent Orange,

  Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,

  & put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an Aeon till it came out clean.
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  Phenomenal Woman

  by Maya Angelou

  (1928–2014)fn13

  Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

  I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size

  But when I start to tell them,

  They think I’m telling lies.

  I say,

  It’s in the reach of my arms,

  The span of my hips,

  The stride of my step,

  The curl of my lips.

  I’m a woman

  Phenomenally.

  Phenomenal woman,

  That’s me.

  I walk into a room

  Just as cool as you please,

  And to a man,

  The fellows stand or

  Fall down on their knees.

  Then they swarm around me,

  A hive of honey bees.

  I say,

  It’s the fire in my eyes,

  And the flash of my teeth,

  The swing in my waist,

  And the joy in my feet.

  I’m a woman

  Phenomenally.

  Phenomenal woman,

  That’s me.

  Men themselves have wondered

  What they see in me.

  They try so much

  But they can’t touch

  My inner mystery.

  When I try to show them

  They say they still can’t see.

  I say,

  It’s in the arch of my back,

  The sun of my smile,

  The ride of my breasts,

  The grace of my style.

  I’m a woman

  Phenomenally.

  Phenomenal woman,

  That’s me.

  Now you understand

  Just why my head’s not bowed.

  I don’t shout or jump about

  Or have to talk real loud.

  When you see me passing,

  It ought to make you proud.

  I say,

  It’s in the click of my heels,

  The bend of my hair,

  the palm of my hand,

  The need of my care.

  ’Cause I’m a woman

  Phenomenally.

  Phenomenal woman,

  That’s me.

  The Poetry Grand National

  by Roger Stevens

  (born 1948)fn14

  The horses line up

  They’re under starter’s orders

  They’re off

  Adverb leaps gracefully over the first fence

  Followed by Adjective

  A sleek, Palomino poem

  Simile is overtaking on the outside

  Like a pebble skimming the water

  Half-way round the course

  And Hyperbole is gaining on the leaders

  Travelling at a million miles an hour

  Adverb strides smoothly into first place