waylaid

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

John Betjeman

If we could get the hang of it entirely
It would take too long;
All we know is the splash of words in passing
And falling twigs of song,
And when we try to eavesdrop on the great
Presences it is rarely
That by a stroke of luck we can appropriate
Even a phrase entirely.

If we could find our happiness entirely
In somebody else’s arms
We should not fear the spears of the spring nor the city’s
Yammering fire alarms
But, as it is, the spears each year go through
Our flesh and almost hourly
Bell or siren banishes the blue
Eyes of Love entirely.

And if the world were black or white entirely
And all the charts were plain
Instead of a mad weir of tigerish waters,
A prism of delight and pain,
We might be surer where we wished to go
Or again we might be merely
Bored but in the brute reality there is no
Road that is right entirely.

Louis MacNeice

I'll sing you one o
Green grow the rushes o
What is your one o?
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I'll sing you two o; Green grow the rushes o
What is your two o?
Two, two the lily white boys, cloth-ed all in green o
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I'll sing you three o; Green grow the rushes o
What is your three o?
Three, three the rivals
Two, two the lily white boys, cloth-ed all in green o
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I'll sing you four o
Green grow the rushes o
What is your four o?
Four for the gospel makers
Three, three the rivals
Two, two the lily white boys, cloth-ed all in green o
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I'll sing you five o
Green grow the rushes o
What is your five o?
Five for the symbols on your door
Four for the gospel makers
Three, three the rivals
Two, two the lily white boys, cloth-ed all in green o
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I'll sing you six o
Green grow the rushes o
What is your six o?
Six for the six proud walkers
Five for the symbols on your door
Four for the gospel makers
Three, three the rivals
Two, two the lily white boys, cloth-ed all in green o
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I'll sing you seven o
Green grow the rushes o
What is your seven o?
Seven for the seven stars in the sky
Six for the six proud walkers
Five for the symbols on your door
Four for the gospel makers
Three, three the rivals
Two, two the lily white boys, cloth-ed all in green o
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I'll sing you eight o
Green grow the rushes o
What is your eight o?
Eight for the April rainers
Seven for the seven stars in the sky
Six for the six proud walkers
Five for the symbols on your door
Four for the gospel makers
Three, three the rivals
Two, two the lily white boys, cloth-ed all in green o
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I'll sing you nine o
Green grow the rushes o
What is your nine o?
Nine for the nine bright shiners
Eight for the April rainers
Seven for the seven stars in the sky
Six for the six proud walkers
Five for the symbols on your door
Four for the gospel makers
Three, three the rivals
Two, two the lily white boys, cloth-ed all in green o
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I'll sing you ten o; Green grow the rushes o
What is your ten o?
Ten for the ten commandments
Nine for the nine bright shiners
Eight for the April rainers
Seven for the seven stars in the sky
Six for the six proud walkers
Five for the symbols on your door
Four for the gospel makers
Three, three the rivals
Two, two the lily white boys, cloth-ed all in green o
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I'll sing you eleven o
Green grow the rushes o
What is your eleven o?
Eleven for the eleven that went to heaven
Ten for the ten commandments
Nine for the nine bright shiners
Eight for the April rainers
Seven for the seven stars in the sky
Six for the six proud walkers
Five for the symbols on your door
Four for the gospel makers
Three, three the rivals
Two, two the lily white boys, cloth-ed all in green o
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I'll sing you twelve o
Green grow the rushes o
What is your twelve o?
Twelve for the twelve apostles
Eleven for the eleven that went to heaven
Ten for the ten commandments
Nine for the nine bright shiners
Eight for the April rainers
Seven for the seven stars in the sky
Six for the six proud walkers
Five for the symbols on your door
Four for the gospel makers
Three, three the rivals
Two, two the lily white boys, cloth-ed all in green o
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

Traditional


There is also another version...

Green grow the rushes o

There's naught but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes, O;
What signifies the life o' man
If it were not for the lasses, O?

Chorus:
Green grow the rushes, O!
Green grow the rushes, O!
The sweetest hour that ever I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O!

The worldly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, O;
An though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
(Chorus)

But gie me a quiet hour at even,
My arms around my dearie, O;
An' worldly cares, and worldly men,
May all go topsy-turvy, O;
(Chorus)

For you sober fool, ye sneer at this,
Ye're naught but senseless asses, O;
The wisest man the worl' saw
He dearly loved the lasses, O!
(Chorus)

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her 'prentice hand she tried on man,
An then she made the lasses, O.
(Chorus)

Who was too Freely Moved to Tears, and thereby ruined his Political Career

Lord Lundy from his earliest years
Was far too freely moved to Tears.
For instance if his Mother said,
"Lundy! It's time to go to Bed!"
He bellowed like a Little Turk.
Or if his father Lord Dunquerque
Said "Hi!" in a Commanding Tone,
"Hi, Lundy! Leave the Cat alone!"
Lord Lundy, letting go its tail,
Would raise so terrible a wail
As moved His Grandpapa the Duke
To utter the severe rebuke:
"When I, Sir! was a little Boy,
An Animal was not a Toy!"
His father's Elder Sister, who
Was married to a Parvenoo,
Confided to Her Husband, Drat!
The Miserable, Peevish Brat!
Why don't they drown the Little Beast?"
Suggestions which, to say the least,
Are not what we expect to hear
From Daughters of an English Peer.
His Grandmamma, His Mother's Mother,
Who had some dignity or other,
The Garter, or no matter what,
I can't remember all the Lot!
Said "Oh! That I were Brisk and Spry
To give him that for which to cry!"
(An empty wish, alas! For she
Was Blind and nearly ninety-three).
The Dear Old Butler thought-but there!
I really neither know nor care
For what the Dear Old Butler thought!
In my opinion, Butlers ought
To know their place, and not to play
The Old Retainer night and day.
I'm getting tired and so are you,
Let's cut the poem into two!

Second Canto

It happened to Lord Lundy then,
As happens to so many men:
Towards the age of twenty-six,
They shoved him into politics;
In which profession he commanded
The Income that his rank demanded
In turn as Secretary for
India, the Colonies, and War.
But very soon his friends began
To doubt is he were quite the man:
Thus if a member rose to say
(As members do from day to day),
"Arising out of that reply . . .!"
Lord Lundy would begin to cry.
A Hint at harmless little jobs
Would shake him with convulsive sobs.
While as for Revelations, these
Would simply bring him to his knees,
And leave him whimpering like a child.
It drove his colleagues raving wild!
They let him sink from Post to Post,
From fifteen hundred at the most
To eight, and barely six--and then
To be Curator of Big Ben!. . .
And finally there came a Threat
To oust him from the Cabinet!
The Duke -- his aged grand-sire -- bore
The shame till he could bear no more.
He rallied his declining powers,
Summoned the youth to Brackley Towers,
And bitterly addressed him thus--
"Sir! you have disappointed us!
We had intended you to be
The next Prime Minister but three:
The stocks were sold; the Press was squared:
The Middle Class was quite prepared.
But as it is! . . . My language fails!
Go out and govern New South Wales!"
The Aged Patriot groaned and died:
And gracious! how Lord Lundy cried!


Hillaire Belloc

It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Always those rusting Volkswagens.
At one time she'd almost married a baker.
First she read Hesse, then Handke.
Now often she does crosswords in bed.
With her, men take no liberties.
For years, she was a Trotskyist, but in her own way.
She's never handled a ration card.
When she thinks of Kampuchea she feels quite sick.
Her last lover, the professor, always wanted her to beat him.
Greenish batik dresses, always too wide for her.
Greenflies on her Sparmannia.
Really she wanted to paint, or emigrate.
Her thesis, Class Struggles in Ulm 1500
to 1512 and References to Them in Folksong:
Grants, beginnings, suitcases full of notes.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her money.
Tentative dances in her bathroom, little grimaces,
cucumber juice for hours in front of the mirror.
When she weeps she looks 19.

Hans Magnus Enzensberger

He was a friend of mine

He was a friend of mine
He was a friend of mine
Every time I think about him now
Lord I just can't keep from cryin'
'Cause he was a friend of mine

He died on the road
He died on the road
He never had enough money
To pay his room or board
And he was a friend of mine

I stole away and cried
I stole away and cried
'Cause I never had too much money
And I never been quite satisfied
And he was a friend of mine

He never done no wrong
He never done no wrong
A thousand miles from home
And he never harmed no one
And he was a friend of mine

He was a friend of mine
He was a friend of mine
Every time I hear his name
Lord I just can't keep from cryin'
'Cause he was a friend of mine.

Bob Dylan

In my childhood trees were green
And there was plenty to be seen.

Come back early or never come.

My father made the walls resound,
He wore his collar the wrong way round.

Come back early or never come.

My mother wore a yellow dress;
Gentle, gently, gentleness.

Come back early or never come.

When I was five the black dreams came;
Nothing after was quite the same.

Come back early or never come.

The dark was talking to the dead;
The lamp was dark beside my bed.

Come back early or never come.

When I woke they did not care;
Nobody, nobody was there.

Come back early or never come.

When my silent terror cried,
Nobody, nobody replied.

Come back early or never come.

I got up; the chilly sun
Saw me walk away alone.

Come back early or never come.


Louis Macneice

Next time you speak to you-know-who
I’ve got a message for him.
Tell him that I have lost a stone
Since the last time I saw him.
Tell him that I’ve got three new books
Coming out soon, but play it
Cool, make it sound spontaneous.
Don’t say I said to say it.

He might ask if I’ve mentioned him.
Say I have once, in passing.
Memorise everything he says
And, no, it won’t be grassing
When you repeat his words to me –
It’s the only way to play it.
Tell him I’m toned and tanned and fine.
Don’t say I said to say it.

Say that serenity and grace
Have taken root inside me.
My top-note is frivolity
But beneath, dark passions guide me.
Tell him I’m radiant and replete
And add that every day it
Seems I am harder to resist.
Don’t say I said to say it.

Tell him that all my ancient faults
Have been eradicated.
I do not carp or analyse
As I might have when we dated.
Say I’m not bossy any more
Or, better still, convey it
Subtly, but get the point across.
Don’t say I said to say it.

Sophie Hannah

Weldon Kees (see post below) is something of a cult figure. He lived as an obscure poet in San Francisco. His cat was called Lonesome. He disappeared in 1955; later, his car was found under the Golden Gate Bridge with the keys in the ignition.

Read a really fascinating article on the man by Anthony Lane in the New Yorker.

Robinson at cards at the Algonquin: a thin
Blue light comes down once more outside the blinds.
Gray men in overcoats are ghosts blown past the door.
The taxis streak the avenues with yellow, orange, and red.
This is Grand Central, Mr. Robinson.

Robinson on a roof above the Heights; the boats
Mourn like the lost. Water is slate, far down.
Through sounds of ice cubes dropped in glass, an osteopath,
Dressed for the links, describes an old Intourist tour.
—Here’s where old Gibbons jumped from, Robinson.

Robinson walking in the Park, admiring the elephant.
Robinson buying the Tribune, Robinson buying the Times.
Robinson Saying, “Hello. Yes, this is Robinson. Sunday
At five? I’d love to. Pretty well. And you?”
Robinson alone at Longchamps, staring at the wall.

Robinson afraid, drunk, sobbing Robinson
In bed with a Mrs. Morse. Robinson at home;
Decisions: Toynbee or luminol? Where the sun
Shines, Robinson in flowered trunks, eyes toward
The breakers. Where the night ends, Robinson in East Side bars.

Robinson in Glen plaid jacket, Scotch-grain shoes,
Black four-in-hand and oxford button-down,
The jeweled and silent watch that winds itself, the brief-
Case, covert topcoat, clothes for spring, all covering
His sad and usual heart, dry as a winter leaf.


Weldon Kees