Dancing by the Light of the Moon Read online

  Haiku had good odds

  But is far behind – and falls

  At the last sylla-

  ble

  And as they flash past the winning post

  The crowd is cheering

  The winner is

  Metaphor

  Who quietly takes a bow

  God, A Poem

  by James Fenton

  (born 1949)

  A nasty surprise in a sandwich,

  A drawing-pin caught in your sock,

  The limpest of shakes from a hand which

  You’d thought would be firm as a rock,

  A serious mistake in a nightie,

  A grave disappointment all round

  Is all that you’ll get from th’Almighty,

  Is all that you’ll get underground.

  Oh he said: ‘If you lay off the crumpet

  I’ll see you alright in the end.

  Just hang on until the last trumpet.

  Have faith in me, chum – I’m your friend.’

  But if you remind him, he’ll tell you:

  ‘I’m sorry, I must have been pissed –

  Though your name rings a sort of a bell. You

  Should have guessed that I do not exist.

  ‘I didn’t exist at Creation,

  I didn’t exist at the Flood,

  And I won’t be around for Salvation

  To sort out the sheep from the cud –

  ‘Or whatever the phrase is. The fact is

  In soteriological terms

  I’m a crude existential malpractice

  And you are a diet of worms.

  ‘You’re a nasty surprise in a sandwich.

  You’re a drawing-pin caught in my sock.

  You’re the limpest of shakes from a hand which

  I’d have thought would be firm as a rock,

  ‘You’re a serious mistake in a nightie,

  You’re a grave disappointment all round –

  That’s all you are,’ says th’Almighty,

  ‘And that’s all that you’ll be underground.’

  What the Teacher Said When Asked:

  What Er We Avin for Geography, Miss?

  by John Agard

  (born 1949)

  This morning I’ve got too much energy

  much too much for geography

  I’m in a high mood

  so class don’t think me crude

  but you can stuff latitude and longitude

  I’ve had enough of the earth’s crust

  today I want to touch the clouds

  Today I want to sing out loud

  and tear all maps to shreds

  I’m not settling for riverbeds

  I want the sky and nothing less

  Today I couldn’t care if east turns west

  Today I’ve got so much energy

  I could do press-ups on the desk

  but that won’t take much out of me

  Today I’ll dance on the globe

  In a rainbow robe

  while you class remain seated

  on your natural zone

  with your pens and things

  watching my contours grow wings

  All right, class, see you later.

  If the headmaster asks for me

  say I’m a million dreaming degrees

  beyond the equator

  a million dreaming degrees

  beyond the equator

  Shopping Trolleys

  by Jenny Boult

  (1951–2005)

  notice how they have perfect steering

  until you put something in them

  their automatic response is to apply the brakes.

  however they can be goaded forward

  by the application of a foot sharply placed

  on the rear bottom bar. surprise is essential.

  you can make them move their wheels

  but there is no guarantee that they will all move

  in the same direction. the poor things

  are terrified & only want to escape. an average

  family shopping turns them into nervous

  wrecks for weeks. you might think that those

  trolleys you see out in carparks & under

  sapling trees are sight-seeing. they aren’t.

  they’re trying to avoid having things put in them.

  it’s hopeless. there’s always someone who wants

  to use them as garbage bins laundry baskets

  billy carts or flower pots. or bassinettes.

  they are prolific breeders in the wild

  & run in enormous herds

  they rust in captivity & frequently collapse

  during use. recovery is unusual

  i mustn’t go down to the sea again

  by John Cooper Clarke

  (born 1949)

  sunken yachtsmen

  sinking yards

  drunken Scotsmen

  drinking hard

  every lunatic and his friend

  i mustn’t go down to the sea again

  the ocean drags

  its drowning men

  emotions flag

  me down again

  tell tracy babs and gwen

  i mustn’t go down to the sea again

  the rain whips

  the promenade

  it drips on chips

  they turn to lard

  i’d send a card if i had a pen

  i mustn’t go down to the sea again

  a string of pearls

  from the bingo bar

  for a girl

  who looks like ringo starr

  she’s mad about married men

  i mustn’t go down to the sea again

  the clumsy kiss

  that ends in tears

  how i wish

  i wasn’t here

  tell tony mike and len

  i mustn’t go down to the sea again

  Sonny’s Lettah (Anti-Sus Poem)

  by Linton Kwesi Johnson

  (born 1952)

  Brixtan Prison

  Jebb Avenue

  Landan south-west two

  Inglan

  Dear Mama,

  Good Day.

  I hope dat wen

  deze few lines reach yu,

  they may find yu in di bes af helt.

  Mama,

  I really don’t know how fi tell yu dis,

  cause I did mek a salim pramis

  fi tek care a likkle Jim

  an try mi bes fi look out fi him.

  Mama,

  I really did try mi bes,

  but nondiles

  mi sarry fi tell you seh

  poor likkle Jim get arres.

  It woz di miggle a di rush howah

  wen evrybady jus a hosel an a bosel

  fi goh home fi dem evenin showah;

  mi an Jim stan-up

  waitin pan a bus,

  nat cauzin no fus,

  wen all af a sudden

  a police van pull-up.

  Out jump tree policeman,

  di hole a dem carryin batan.

  Dem waak straight up to mi an Jim.

  One a dem hol awn to Jim

  seh him tekin him in;

  Jim tell him fi let goh a him

  far him noh dhu notn

  an him naw teef,

  nat even a butn.

  Jim start to wriggle

  di police start to giggle.

  Mama,

  mek I tell yu whe dem dhu to Jim

  Mama,

  mek I tell yu whe dem dhu to him:

  dem tump him in him belly

  an it turn to jelly

  dem lick him pan him back

  and him rib get pap

  dem lick him pan him hed

  but it tuff like led

  dem kick him in him seed

  an it started to bleed

  Mama,

  I jus coudn stan-up deh

  and noh dhu notn:

  soh me jook one in him eye


  an him started to cry

  mi tump one in him mout

  an him started to shout

  mi kick one pan him shin

  an him started to spin

  mi tump him pan him chin

  an him drap pan a bin

  an crash

  an ded.

  Mama,

  more policeman come dung

  an beat mi to di grung;

  dem charge Jim fi sus,

  dem charge me fi murdah.

  Mama,

  don fret,

  dont get depres

  an doun-hearted.

  Be af good courage

  till I hear fram you.

  I remain

  your son,

  Sonny.

  Gran Can You Rap?

  by Jack Ousbey

  Gran was in her chair she was taking a nap

  When I tapped her on the shoulder to see if she could rap.

  Gran can you rap? Can you rap? Can you, Gran?

  And she opened one eye and said to me, man,

  I’m the best rapping Gran this world’s ever seen

  I’m a tip-top, slip-slap, rap-rap queen.

  And she rose from the chair in the corner of the room

  And she started to rap with a bim-bam-boom,

  And she rolled up her eyes and she rolled round her head

  And as she rolled by this is what she said,

  I’m the best rapping gran this world’s ever seen

  I’m a nip-nap, yip-yap, rap-rap queen.

  Then she rapped past my Dad and she rapped past my mother,

  She rapped past me and my little baby brother.

  She rapped her arms narrow she rapped her arms wide,

  She rapped through the door and she rapped outside.

  She’s the best rapping Gran this world’s ever seen

  She’s a drip-drop, trip-trap, rap-rap queen.

  She rapped down the garden she rapped down the street,

  The neighbours all cheered and they tapped their feet.

  She rapped through the traffic lights as they turned red

  As she rapped round the corner this is what she said,

  I’m the best rapping Gran this world’s ever seen

  I’m a flip-flop, hip-hop, rap-rap queen.

  She rapped down the lane she rapped up the hill,

  And as she disappeared she was rapping still.

  I could hear Gran’s voice saying, Listen, man,

  Listen to the rapping of the rap-rap Gran.

  I’m the best rapping Gran this world’s ever seen

  I’m a –

  tip-top, slip-slap,

  nip-nap, yip-yap,

  hip-hop, trip-trap,

  touch yer cap,

  take a nap,

  happy, happy, happy, happy,

  rap – rap – queen.

  Love from a Foreign City

  by Lavinia Greenlaw

  (born 1962)

  Dearest, the cockroaches are having babies.

  One fell from the ceiling into my gin

  with no ill effects. Mother has been.

  I showed her the bite marks on the cot

  And she gave me the name of her rat-catcher.

  He was so impressed by the hole in her u-bend,

  he took it home for his personal museum.

  I cannot sleep. They are digging up children

  on Hackney Marshes. The papers say

  when that girl tried to scream for help,

  the man cut her tongue out. Not far from here.

  There have been more firebombs,

  but only at dawn and out in the suburbs.

  And a mortar attack. We heard it from the flat,

  A thud like someone dropping a table.

  They say the pond life coming out of the taps

  is completely harmless. A law has been passed

  on dangerous dogs: muzzles, tattoos, castration.

  When the Labrador over the road jumped up

  to say hello to Billie, he wet himself.

  The shops in North End Road are all closing.

  You can’t get your shoes mended anywhere.

  The one-way system keeps changing direction,

  I get lost a hundred yards from home.

  There are parts of the new A to Z marked simply

  ‘under development’. Even street names

  have been demolished. There is typhoid in Finchley.

  Mother has bought me a lavender tree.

  My First Day at School

  by Michaela Morgan

  14 November 1960. New Orleans, USA. Ruby Bridges, aged six, is the first black child to enter an all-white elementary school. She was escorted in by armed guards as protesters shout abuse at her.

  I remember …

  Momma scrubbed my face, hard.

  Plaited my hair, tight.

  Perched a hopeful white bow on my head,

  Like a butterfly hoping for flight.

  She shone my shoes, black, shiny, neat.

  Another hopeful bow, on each toe,

  To give wings to my feet.

  My dress was standing to attention, stiff with starch.

  My little battledress.

  And now, my march.

  Two marshals march in front of me.

  Two marshals march behind of me.

  The people scream and jeer at me.

  Their faces are red, not white.

  The marshals tower above me, a grey-legged wall.

  Broad of back, white of face and tall, tall, tall.

  I only see their legs and shoes, as black and shiny as mine.

  They march along, stern and strong. I try to march in time.

  One hisses to another, ‘Slow down it ain’t a race.

  She only take little bitty girlie steps.’

  I quicken my pace.

  Head up.

  Eyes straight.

  I march into school.

  To learn like any other kid can.

  And maybe to teach a lesson too.

  From Brand New Ancients

  by Kate Tempest

  (born 1985)fn15

  Polish the silverware, dust off the telly screen,

  it’s holy hour on Saturday evening,

  the new Dionysus is in his dressing room preening,

  the make-up girls hold their breath as they dream him

  into a perfect bronze and then leave him

  to his pre-show routine of stretching and breathing.

  He winks in the mirror as he flosses his teeth,

  pulls his trousers up to his nipples and strides out to the stage.

  The permatanned God of our age.

  We kneel down before him, we beg him for pardon,

  mothers feast on the raw flesh of their children struck by the madness that floods the whole country, this provocation to savagery.

  Let’s all get famous. I need to be more than just this.

  Give me my glory. A double page spread.

  Let people weep when they hear that I’m dead.

  Let people sleep in the street for a glimpse of my head

  as I walk the red carpet into the den of the blessed.

  Why celebrate this? Why not denigrate this?

  I don’t know the names of my neighbours,

  but I know the names of the rich and the famous.

  And the names of their ex-girlfriends

  and their ex-girlfriends’ new boyfriends.

  Now, watch him shaking his head, he is furious:

  how dare this contestant have thought for a second

  that this godhead, this champion of unnatural selection,

  should be subjected to another version

  of a bridge over fucking troubled water.

  I stare at the screen and I hear the troubadours sing

  the Deeds of Simon. He took the eyes from our heads

  and blamed us for our blindness.

  Why is this interesting? Why are we watching?

  CHAPTER FOURT
EEN

  Nowt So Queer as FolkFrom Kubla Khan to Vincent Malloy

  Here are seventeen poems about people – from the mighty Kubla Khan, grandson of Genghis Khan and, from 1260 to 1294, fifth Khagan of the Mongol Empire, to the seven-year-old Vincent Malloy, whose ambition in life was to grow up to be like his hero, the star of the best Hammer Horror films, Vincent Price. In between you will find an assortment of arresting characters, some real, most imaginary, but all brought to life in verses that are easy to learn by heart because of the strength of their rhythm and the power of their rhymes.

  It’s well known that singing in a choir makes people happy: there is the camaraderie of being part of a group, there is the enjoyment of rehearsal, there is the sense of satisfaction in the performance and the applause that follows it. Speaking a poem with a group is equally rewarding – and the poems in the last chapter and this are particularly suited to the purpose. That said, in my book, almost every poem gains something by being spoken out loud, and gains something extra by being spoken by a variety of voices.

  Working on this book is what inspired me to team up with Aatif Hassan and the team at Dukes Education in Britain to launch the ‘Poetry Together’ project. The idea is a simple one:

  to get young people to learn a poem by heart, a poem of their choosing;

  to get old people to learn a poem by heart, the same poem;

  and then to get them together to perform the poem together – and have tea.

  And that’s it. Different generations – old and young – meeting up, having tea, and speaking a poem, all together.fn1

  ‘Words mean more than what is set down on paper,’ according to Maya Angelou. ‘It takes the human voice to imbue them with the shades of deeper meaning.’

  Kubla Khan

  Or, A Vision in a Dream. A Fragment.

  by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  (1772–1834)fn2

  In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

  A stately pleasure-dome decree:

  Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

  Through caverns measureless to man

  Down to a sunless sea.

  So twice five miles of fertile ground

  With walls and towers were girdled round:

  And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

  Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

  And here were forests ancient as the hills,

  Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

  But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

  Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

  A savage place! as holy and enchanted

  As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted