Of jocund birds a single plaintive bleat.

And, turning, saw, as one sees in a dream,

It was a Sheep had broke the moorland peace

With his sad cry, a creature who did seem

The blackest thing that ever wore a fleece.

I walked towards him on the stony track

And, pausing for a while between two crags,

I asked him, ‘Have you wool upon your back?’

Thus he bespake, ‘Enough to fill three bags.’

Most courteously, in measured tones, he told

Who would receive each bag and where they dwelt;

And oft, now years have passed and I am old,

I recollect with joy that inky pelt.

A Nursery Rhyme

as it might have been written by T. S. Eliot

Because time will not run backwards

Because time

Because time will not run

Hickory dickory

In the last minute of the first hour

I saw the mouse ascend the ancient timepiece,

Claws whispering like wind in dry hyacinths.

One o’clock,

The street lamp said,

‘Remark the mouse that races towards the carpet.’

And the unstilled wheel still turning

Hickory dickory

Hickory dickory

dock

Waste Land Limericks

I

In April one seldom feels cheerful;

Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful;

Clairvoyantes distress me,

Commuters depress me –

Met Stetson and gave him an earful.

II

She sat on a mighty fine chair,

Sparks flew as she tidied her hair;

She asks many questions,

I make few suggestions –

Bad as Albert and Lil – what a pair!

III

The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep;

Tiresias fancies a peep –

A typist is laid,

A record is played –

Wei la la. After this it gets deep.

IV

A Phoenician called Phlebas forgot

About birds and his business – the lot,

Which is no surprise,

Since he’d met his demise

And been left in the ocean to rot.

V

No water. Dry rocks and dry throats,

Then thunder, a shower of quotes

From the Sanskrit and Dante.

Da. Damyata. Shantih.

I hope you’ll make sense of the notes.

Triolet

I used to think all poets were Byronic –

Mad, bad and dangerous to know.

And then I met a few. Yes it’s ironic –

I used to think all poets were Byronic.

They’re mostly wicked as a ginless tonic

And wild as pension plans. Not long ago

I used to think all poets were Byronic –

Mad, bad and dangerous to know.

Emily Dickinson

Higgledy-piggledy

Emily Dickinson

Liked to use dashes

Instead of full stops.

Nowadays, faced with such

Idiosyncrasy,

Critics and editors

Send for the cops.

Proverbial Ballade

Fine words won’t turn the icing pink;

A wild rose has no employees;

Who boils his socks will make them shrink;

Who catches cold is sure to sneeze.

Who has two legs must wash two knees;

Who breaks the egg will find the yolk;

Who locks his door will need his keys –

So say I and so say the folk.

You can’t shave with a tiddlywink,

Nor make red wine from garden peas,