Heave Ho!

Talking of poems: our poet laureate is back from his holiday. Here are his thoughts:

We set off in Balmoral
for our cruise to the Canaries.
It was November after all
and the weather often varies.

The passengers were elderly
(some even more than I);
The wind was gusting 30 knots,
black clouds across the sky.

The wind howled through the rigging –
to stay upright we fought,
Waves broke across the fo’c’sle –
people hoped we soon make port.

The Bay of Biscay was quite rough,
but once we steamed off Spain
The passengers appeared once more
and we saw smiles again!

Some had worn their wrist bands
some took seasick pills,
They didn’t come for meals
(it didn’t help their ills).

Dengie Fever in Madeira –
(Mosquito Spray sales good);
But nobody has caught it –
I didn’t think they would!

The rain came off the mountains,
the sun won’t come just yet,
So we stayed in our cabin
and thus did not get wet.

My medicine was whisky
(supplied free in our suite).
There was good espresso coffee,
and endless food to eat.

Two weeks of total idleness
(I didn’t go ashore)
Just reading, eating, drinking –
now who could ask for more!!

Mike Pennell

November

There are those that do not like November, claiming it is a non-space between the autumn and depth of winter (aka Christmas). Thomas Hood, the author of that wonderful poem The Song of the Shirt (Stitch — stitch — stitch/ In poverty, hunger, and dirt,/ Sewing at once with a double thread,/ A Shroud as well as a Shirt.) puts it well in his poem No!

No!

No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--no "t'other side this way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!
No traveling at all--no locomotion--
No inkling of the way--no notion--
"No go" by land or ocean--
No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No Park, no Ring, no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds--
November!

Not The Gasman

Adaptation of a song, by Richard Adams

'Twas on a Monday morning a volunteer dropped by,
They'd put him in the boat crew, he didn't know quite why.
He thought he'd use a hammer, and chisels, saws and planes,
But they put him in a dinghy, to clean some window panes.

Oh it all makes work for the volunteer to do.

He pushed off from the pontoon and he paddled past Aileen,
He took his mop and brushes, and scrubbed the windows clean.
He saw somebody waving, from in the tidal zone,
He waved back and overbalanced, and did the viewers groan.

Oh it all makes work for the volunteer to do.

He surfaced with a splutter, the sea squirts did their worst,
The old soak splashed and shouted, and ranted, and he cursed.
He climbed back in the dinghy and he paddled past Aileen,
He buggered off completely, and never more was seen.

Oh, it's all more work for us volunteers to do.