Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

It has been a while since I posted on this blog, and with the chance of snow in the air I thought this may be appropriate.








Snow Day by Billy Collins


Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows


the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried,
the post office lostunder the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,t
he world fallen under this falling.


In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.


But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news


that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children's School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with -- some will be delighted to hear -


-the Toadstool School, the Little School
,Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and -- clap your hands -- the Peanuts Play School.


So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.


And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

Time to get the wellies out.


Angus

Angus Dei on all and sundry

Angus Dei-NHS-THE OTHER SIDE

Angus Dei politico

Macavity - The Mystery Cat

This reminds me of my own bad tempered, moaning Mog.

By T S Eliot

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 on 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 finds a Treaty's gone astray,

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

There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair--

But it's useless of 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 Macacity,

There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.

He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:

And 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!

Good old macavity.

Angus

Angus Dei on all and sundry

Angus Dei-NHS-THE OTHER SIDE

Angus Dei politico

Procrastination-again

I haven’t posted here for a few days, I think it is the time of year, the “summer” has gone, the trees are changing and my reserves of energy seem to have run out.

But here is a poem By Thomas Bailey Aldrich which looks forward to spring.

When first the crocus thrusts its point of gold

Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould,

And folded green things in dim woods unclose

Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes

Into my veins and makes me kith and kin

To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows.

Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire,

Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din,

Far from the brambly paths I used to know,

Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine

Where the Neponset alders take their glow,

I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar And inarticulate ardors of the vine.

And one By Denis Florence MacCarthy about the autumn.

I can’t find a picture of the poet, only a gravestone.

The weary, dreary, dripping rain,

From morn till night, from night till morn,

Along the hills and o'er the plain,

Strikes down the green and yellow corn;

The flood lies deep upon the ground,

No ripening heat the cold sun yields,

And rank and rotting lies around

The glory of the summer fields!

How full of fears, how racked with pain,

How torn with care the heart must be,

Of him who sees his golden grain

Laid prostrate thus o'er lawn and lea;

For all that nature doth desire,

All that the shivering mortal shields,

The Christmas fare, the winter's fire,

All comes from out the summer fields.

I too have strayed in pleasing toil

Along youth's and fertile meads;

I too within Hope's genial soil

Have, trusting, placed Love's golden seeds;

I too have feared the chilling dew,

The heavy rain when thunder pealed,

Lest Fate might blight the flower that grew

For me in Hope's green summer field.

Ah! who can paint that beauteous flower,

Thus nourished by celestial dew,

Thus growing fairer, hour by hour,

Delighting more, the more it grew;

Bright'ning, not burdening the ground,

Nor proud with inward worth concealed,

But scattering all its fragrance round

Its own sweet sphere, its summer field!

At morn the gentle flower awoke,

And raised its happy face to God;

At evening, when the starlight broke,

It bending sought the dewy sod;

And thus at morn, and thus at even,

In fragrant sighs its heart revealed,

Thus seeking heaven, and making heaven

Within its own sweet summer field!

Oh! joy beyond all human joy!

Oh! bliss beyond all earthly bliss!

If pitying Fate will not destroy

My hopes of such a flower as this!

How happy, fond, and heaven-possest,

My heart will be to tend and shield,

And guard upon my grateful breast

The pride of that sweet summer field!


Funny time of year isn't it?

Angus

Angus Dei on all and sundry

Angus Dei-NHS-THE OTHER SIDE

Angus Dei politico

Obscure poetry or maybe not.

“Proper” poets today, well sort of:

The first is by Horatio Alger Jr.

Places Where Mortals Dine.

The case, too, was urgent, for there stood a sinner,

Whose fate hung on chance--a chance for his dinner;

A chance for all mortals, with truth I assert,

Who eat where his chance was, to counteract fate,

"To eat during life each a peck of pure dirt"

By eating at once the whole peck from one plate.

For true when I think of the places we eat at,

Or rather the places by hunger when driven

We rush in and swallow our bread and our meat at,

A bushel good measure in life will be given

To those who are living a "boarding-house life,"

Or those who are driven by fortune to journey,

And eat when we must with so dirty a knife,

I wish't could be done by the power of attorney;

Or where you must eat in a place called "saloon;"

Or "coffee-house" synonym of whisky and rum;

(I wish all the breed were sent off to the moon,

And earth was well clear of the coffee-house scum;)

Or where "Restauration" hangs out for sign,

At bar-room or cellar or dirty back room,

Where dishcloths for napkins are thought extra fine,

And table cloths look as though washed with a broom;

Where knives waiters spit on and wipe on their sleeves,

And plates needing polish, with coat tails are cleaned;

Where priests dine with harlots, and judges with thieves,

And mayors with villains his worship has screened.

I think I have eaten there.

The next one is by Rose Hawthorn Lathrop

Broken Waves.

The sun is lying on the garden-wall,

The full red rose is sweetening all the air,

The day is happier than a dream most fair;

The evening weaves afar a wide-spread pall,

And lo! sun, day, and rose, no longer there!

I have a lover now my life is young,

I have a love to keep this many a day;

My heart will hold it when my life is gray,

My love will last although my heart be wrung.

My life, my heart, my love shall fade away!

O lover loved, the day has only gone!

In death or life, our love can only go;

Never forgotten is the joy we know,

We follow memory when life is done:

No wave is lost in all the tides that flow.

I think it gives a nice description of life and love.

And finally:

By Louisa May Alcott

Little Drops Of Water

"Little drops of water,

Little drains of sand,

Mate a might okum (ocean),

And a peasant land.

"Little words of kindness,

Pokin evvy day,

Make a home a hebbin,

And hep us on a way."

Maybe more tomorrow, maybe not.

Angus
Angus Dei on all and sundry

Angus Dei-NHS-THE OTHER SIDE

Angus Dei politico

Ordinary people

Post two, the verses below are not penned by the greats, Shelly, Keats etc, but by the “person” in the street (well we must be P.C).

I thought they were interesting, and as it’s my blog that is what you will get, maybe, just maybe I will acquiesce and put up some so called “proper” literature, and then again maybe not.

I will eventually get round to books, and things, but all in good time.

Anyway, the first poem is:

Once I'm in my bubble bath

Once I'm in my bubble bathI like to stir up more.

Half the suds go in my eyes

And half go on the floor.

The fun is in the bubbles 'cause

They giggle on my skin,

And when I stick them on my face

They dangle from my chin.

And when I splash them hard enough

They pop and disappear,

And then my bath time's over

'causeI've made the water clear.

Memories of childhood, or second childhood?


Next up is:

The perfect man

The perfect man is gentle

Never cruel or mean

He has a beautiful smile

And keeps his face so clean.

The perfect man likes children

And will raise them by your side

He will be a good father

As well as a good husband to his bride.

The perfect man loves cooking

Cleaning and vacuuming too

He'll do anything in his power

To convey his feelings of love for you.

Win a Mustang GT Convertible or $50,000!

The perfect man is sweet

Writing poetry from your name

He's a best friend to your mother

And kisses away your pain.

He has never made you cry

Or hurt you In any way

Oh, screw this stupid poem

The perfect man is gay

Issues to be addressed there.

Advice in Abundance

Unsolicited advice free and abundant:

So much of it there it’s often redundant.

When I was a lad and easily impressed:

I listened and nodded at the experts' behest.

Opinions they flaunted on a scale universal:

Expounding at length without forethought or rehearsal.

With style and emotion, each made a case:

Of factual content there was rarely a trace.

Middle age found me as the consummate cynic:

Quick to retort and given to mimic.

With the passage of time I relaxed my position:

Improvised wisdom doesn't require a logician.

In the twilight of life there is time for a chat:

I now render advice at the drop of a hat.

Sage advice for bloggers.

And to finish up a limerick or two by Edward Lear (OK so I gave in).

There was an Old Man in a tree,

Who was horribly bored by a Bee;

When they said, 'Does it buzz?

'He replied, 'Yes, it does!'

'It's a regular brute of a Bee!'

There was a Young Person of Crete,

Whose toilette was far from complete;

She dressed in a sack,

Spickle-speckled with black,

That ombliferous person of Crete

And one from my past:

There was a young lady from Ealing
Who had a peculiar feeling
So she lay...........

Well maybe not.

Angus

Angus Dei-NHS-THE OTHER SIDE

AnglishLit

Angus Dei politico