Dancing by the Light of the Moon Read online

  Breeze in as good as gold

  To lay the tables and wonder

  Why the cutlery is so cold.

  Teabag

  by Peter Dixon

  (born 1937)

  I’d like to be a teabag,

  and stay at home all day

  and talk to other teabags

  in a teabag sort of way.

  I’d love to be a teabag,

  and lie in a little box

  and never have to wash my face

  or change my dirty socks.

  I’d like to be a Tetley bag,

  an Earl Grey one perhaps,

  and doze all day and lie around

  with Earl Grey kind of chaps.

  I wouldn’t have to do a thing,

  no homework, jobs or chores –

  just lie inside a comfy box

  of teabags and their snores.

  I wouldn’t have to do exams,

  I needn’t tidy rooms,

  or sweep the floor or feed the cat

  or wash up all the spoons.

  I wouldn’t have to do a thing –

  a life of bliss, you see …

  except that once in all my life

  I’d make a cup of tea!

  Horace

  by Monty Python

  (1971)fn4

  Much to his Mum and Dad’s dismay,

  Horace ate himself one day.

  He didn’t stop to say his grace,

  He just sat down and ate his face.

  ‘We can’t have this!’ His Dad declared,

  ‘If that lad’s ate, he should be shared.’

  But even as they spoke they saw,

  Horace eating more and more:

  First his legs and then his thighs,

  His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes …

  ‘Stop him someone!’ Mother cried,

  ‘Those eyeballs would be better fried!’

  But all too late, for they were gone,

  And he had started on his dong …

  ‘Oh! foolish child!’ the father mourns,

  ‘You could have deep fried that with prawns,

  Some parsely and some tartar sauce …’

  But H. was on his second course:

  His liver and his lights and lung,

  His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue;

  ‘To think I raised him from the cot,

  And now he’s going to scoff the lot!’

  His Mother cried: ‘What shall we do?

  What’s left won’t even make a stew …’

  And as she wept her son was seen,

  To eat his head, his heart, his spleen.

  And there he lay, a boy no more,

  Just a stomach, on the floor …

  None the less, since it was his,

  They ate it – that’s what haggis is.fn5

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Animal MagicWelcome to the menagerie

  Meow means ‘woof’ in cat.

  George Carlin (1937–2008)

  I’m with Anatole France: ‘Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.’

  I could have created a complete anthology of animal poems to learn by heart, but I have forced myself to settle on fifteen:

  Four poems about cats

  – by Thomas Gray, Eleanor Farjeon, T. S. Eliot and Brian Patten

  Three favourites, so well loved they could almost be described as poetic national treasures

  – by William Blake, Christina Rossetti and G. K. Chesterton

  Three verses to make you smile

  – by Ogden Nash (American), Theodore Roethke (American), and Flanders and Swann (English, very)

  Three great nature poems

  – by one American poet, Denise Levertov, and two English ones, Thom Gunn and Ted Hughes

  Plus a poem by the contemporary performance poet, Hollie McNish, about the possibility of becoming a butterfly, ‘Cocoon’ – and, as a playful bonus, a verse that’s definitely not for vegetarians: ‘Any Part of Piggy’ by Noël Coward

  Tuck in.

  ‘Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes’

  by Thomas Gray

  (1716-71)fn1

  ’Twas on a lofty vase’s side,

  Where China’s gayest art had dyed

  The azure flowers that blow;

  Demurest of the tabby kind,

  The pensive Selima, reclined,

  Gazed on the lake below.

  Her conscious tail her joy declared;

  The fair round face, the snowy beard,

  The velvet of her paws,

  Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,

  Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,

  She saw; and purred applause.

  Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide

  Two angel forms were seen to glide,

  The genii of the stream;

  Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue

  Through richest purple to the view

  Betrayed a golden gleam.

  The hapless nymph with wonder saw;

  A whisker first and then a claw,

  With many an ardent wish,

  She stretched in vain to reach the prize.

  What female heart can gold despise?

  What cat’s averse to fish?

  Presumptuous maid! with looks intent

  Again she stretch’d, again she bent,

  Nor knew the gulf between.

  (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled)

  The slippery verge her feet beguiled,

  She tumbled headlong in.

  Eight times emerging from the flood

  She mewed to every watery god,

  Some speedy aid to send.

  No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;

  Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard;

  A Favourite has no friend!

  From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,

  Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,

  And be with caution bold.

  Not all that tempts your wandering eyes

  And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;

  Nor all that glisters, gold.

  The Tygerfn2

  by William Blake

  (1757–1827)

  Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

  In the forests of the night;

  What immortal hand or eye,

  Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

  In what distant deeps or skies,

  Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

  On what wings dare he aspire?

  What the hand, dare seize the fire?

  And what shoulder, & what art,

  Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

  And when thy heart began to beat,

  What dread hand? & what dread feet?

  What the hammer? what the chain,

  In what furnace was thy brain?

  What the anvil? what dread grasp,

  Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

  When the stars threw down their spears

  And water’d heaven with their tears:

  Did he smile his work to see?

  Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

  Tyger Tyger burning bright,

  In the forests of the night:

  What immortal hand or eye,

  Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

  The Lambs of Grasmere

  by Christina Rossetti

  (1830–94)

  The upland flocks grew starved and thinned;

  Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs

  Whose milkless mothers butted them,

  Or who were orphaned of their dams.

  The lambs athirst for mother’s milk

  Filled all the place with piteous sounds:

  Their mothers’ bones made white for miles

  The pastureless wet pasture grounds.

  Day after day, night after night,

  From lamb to lamb the shepherds went,

  With teapots for the bleating mouths
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  Instead of nature’s nourishment.

  The little shivering gaping things

  Soon knew the step that brought them aid,

  And fondled the protecting hand,

  And rubbed it with a woolly head.

  Then, as the days waxed on to weeks,

  It was a pretty sight to see

  These lambs with frisky heads and tails

  Skipping and leaping on the lea,

  Bleating in tender, trustful tones,

  Resting on rocky crag or mound,

  And following the beloved feet

  That once had sought for them and found.

  These very shepherds of their flocks,

  These loving lambs so meek to please,

  Are worthy of recording words

  And honour in their due degrees:

  So I might live a hundred years,

  And roam from strand to foreign strand,

  Yet not forget this flooded spring

  And scarce-saved lambs of Westmoreland.

  The Donkey

  by G. K. Chesterton

  (1874–1936)

  When fishes flew and forests walked

  And figs grew upon thorn,

  Some moment when the moon was blood

  Then surely I was born.

  With monstrous head and sickening cry

  And ears like errant wings,

  The devil’s walking parody

  On all four-footed things.

  The tattered outlaw of the earth,

  Of ancient crooked will;

  Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,

  I keep my secret still.

  Fools! For I also had my hour;

  One far fierce hour and sweet:

  There was a shout about my ears,

  And palms before my feet.

  Cats sleep, anywhere

  by Eleanor Farjeon

  (1881–1965)

  Cats sleep, anywhere,

  Any table, any chair

  Top of piano, window-ledge,

  In the middle, on the edge,

  Open drawer, empty shoe,

  Anybody’s lap will do,

  Fitted in a cardboard box,

  In the cupboard, with your frocks –

  Anywhere! They don’t care!

  Cats sleep anywhere.

  Macavity: the Mystery Cat

  by T. S. Eliot

  (1888–1965)fn3

  Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw –

  For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.

  He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:

  For when they reach the scene of crime – Macavity’s not there!

  Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,

  He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.

  His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,

  And when you reach the scene of crime – Macavity’s not there!

  You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air –

  But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!

  Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;

  You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.

  His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;

  His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.

  He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;

  And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.

  Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,

  For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.

  You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square –

  But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!

  He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)

  And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.

  And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,

  Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,

  Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair –

  Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!

  And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty’s gone astray,

  Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,

  There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair –

  But it’s useless to investigate – Macavity’s not there!

  And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:

  ‘It must have been Macavity!’ – but he’s a mile away.

  You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,

  Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

  Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,

  There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.

  He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:

  At whatever time the deed took place – MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!

  And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known

  (I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)

  Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time

  Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

  Any Part of Piggy

  by Noël Coward

  (1899–1973)

  Any part of piggy

  Is quite all right with me

  Ham from Westphalia, ham from Parma

  Ham as lean as the Dalai Lama

  Ham from Virginia, ham from York,

  Trotters, sausages, hot roast pork.

  Crackling crisp for my teeth to grind on

  Bacon with or without the rind on

  Though humanitarian

  I’m not a vegetarian.

  I’m neither crank nor prude nor prig

  And though it may sound infra dig

  Any part of darling pig

  Is perfectly fine with me.

  The Turkey

  by Ogden Nash

  (1902–71)fn4

  There is nothing more perky

  Than a masculine turkey

  When he struts he struts

  With no ifs or buts.

  When his face is apoplectic

  His harem grows hectic,

  And when he gobbles

  Their universe wobbles.

  The Sloth

  by Theodore Roethke

  (1908–63)

  In moving-slow he has no Peer.

  You ask him something in his Ear,

  He thinks about it for a Year;

  And, then, before he says a Word

  There, upside down (unlike a Bird),

  He will assume that you have Heard –

  A most Ex-as-per-at-ing Lug.

  But should you call his manner Smug,

  He’ll sigh and give his Branch a Hug;

  Then off again to Sleep he goes,

  Still swaying gently by his Toes,

  And you just know he knows he knows.

  To the Snake

  by Denise Levertov

  (1923–97)

  Green Snake, when I hung you round my neck

  and stroked your cold, pulsing throat

  as you hissed to me, glinting

  arrowy gold scales, and I felt

  the weight of you on my shoulders,

  and the whispering silver of your dryness

  sounded close at my ears –

  Green Snake – I swore to my companions that certainly

  you were harmless! But truly

  I had no certainty, and no hope, only desiring

  to hold you, for that joy,

  which left

  a long wake of pleasure, as the leaves moved

  and you faded into the pattern

  of grass and shadows, and I returned

  smiling and haunted, to a
dark morning.

  The Hippopotamus Song

  by Michael Flanders (1922–75) and Donald Swann (1923–94)fn5

  A bold hippopotamus was standing one day

  On the banks of the cool Shalimar

  He gazed at the bottom as he peacefully lay

  By the light of the evening star

  Away on the hilltop sat combing her hair

  His fair hippopotami maid

  The hippopotamus was no ignoramus

  And sang her this sweet serenade

  Chorus:

  Mud, mud, glorious mud

  Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood

  So follow me follow, down to the hollow

  And there let me wallow in glorious mud

  The fair hippopotama he aimed to entice

  From her seat on that hilltop above

  As she hadn’t got a ma to give her advice

  Came tiptoeing down to her love

  Like thunder the forest re-echoed the sound

  Of the song that they sang when they met

  His inamorata adjusted her garter

  And lifted her voice in duet

  Chorus

  Now more hippopotami began to convene

  On the banks of that river so wide

  I wonder now what am I to say of the scene

  That ensued by the Shalimar side

  They dived all at once with an ear-splitting sposh

  Then rose to the surface again

  A regular army of hippopotami

  All singing this haunting refrain

  Chorus

  (Extra verse:)

  The amorous hippopotamus whose love song we know

  Is now married and father of ten,

  He murmurs, ‘God rot ’em!’ as he watches them grow,

  And he longs to be single again!

  He’ll gambol no more on the banks of the Nile,

  Which Nasser is flooding next spring,

  With hippopotamas in silken pyjamas

  No more will he teach them to sing …

  Chorus

  Considering the Snail

  by Thom Gunn

  (1929–2004)

  The snail pushes through a green

  night, for the grass is heavy

  with water and meets over

  the bright path he makes, where rain

  has darkened the earth’s dark. He

  moves in a wood of desire,

  pale antlers barely stirring

  as he hunts. I cannot tell

  what power is at work, drenched there