No.125

When They Begin The Beguine

Cole Porter  1891-1964

When they begin the beguine,

It brings back the sound of music so tender,

It brings back a night of tropical splendour,

It brings back a memory ever green.

I'm with you once more under the stars

And down by the shore an orchestra's playing

And even the palms seem to be swaying,

When they begin the beguine.

To live it again is past all endeavour

Except when that tune clutches my heart,

And there we are swearing to love forever

And promising never, never to part.

What moments divine, what rapture serene,

Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted

And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted,

I know but too well what they mean.

So don't let them begin the beguine,

Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember,

Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember,

When they begin the beguine.

Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play

Till the stars that were there before return above you,

Till you whisper to me once more, darling I love you,

And we suddenly know what heaven we're in,

When they begin the beguine.

-o0o-

No.124

Warning

Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people's gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

-o0o-

No.123

Lucy

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh,

The difference to me!

-o0o-

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods

 George Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 

There is society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 

I love not man the less, but Nature more, 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 

From all I may be, or have been before, 

To mingle with the Universe, and feel 

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

-o0o-

The Monday Monologue

If You'll Pardon My Saying So

(Watkins the family butler addresses his young master who is still in bed)

A lady to see you, Mr. Archibald, sir.

The matter appears to be pressing.

Luncheon was served quite an hour ago,

I didn’t awaken you, sir, as you know.

There are times, sir, when sleep is a blessing.

I have here some ice, sir, to put on your head,

And also a whisky and 'polly'.

I don't know what time you retired to bed,

But the party sir, must have been jolly…

…If you'll pardon my saying so.

The lady in question a-waiting below,

Is accompanied, sir, by her mother,

And also a prize-fighting gentleman, sir,

A pugnacious character one might infer,

Whom the lady describes as her brother.

The elderly female is quite commonplace,

A most vulgar person, I fear, sir,

Who shouts in a nerve wracking falsetto voice,

And her language is painful to hear, sir…

…If you'll pardon my saying so.

The prize-fighter person is burning with hate.

He refers to you, sir, as a 'twister.'

He threatens to alter the shape of your 'clock,'

To break you in half, sir, and knock off your 'block,'

Unless you do right by his sister.

The young lady says, sir, with trembling lips,

That you made her a promise of marriage.

She wants to know why she should eat fish and chips,

While you, sir, ride by in your carriage…

…If you'll pardon me saying so.

Sir John has a dreadful attack of the gout,

He is fuming to beat all creation.

My lady, your mother, is up in the air.

She is having hysterics and tearing her hair,

And borders on nervous prostration.

Would you wish me to pack your portmanteau at once,

And look up the times of the trains, sir?

Or perhaps you would rather I brought you a drink,

And a pistol to blow out your brains, sir…

…If you'll pardon my saying so.

Another monologue next Monday

No.120

The Road Goes Ever On

J.R.R. Tolkien 1892-1973

The Road goes ever on and on

   Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

   And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

   Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

   And whither then? I cannot say.

-o0o-

No.119

Life has Loveliness to Sell

Sara Teasdale 1884-1933

Life has loveliness to sell,

     All beautiful and splendid things,

Blue waves whitened on a cliff,

     Soaring fire that sways and sings,

And children's faces looking up

Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,

     Music like a curve of gold,

Scent of pine trees in the rain,

     Eyes that love you, arms that hold,

And for your spirit's still delight,

Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,

     Buy it and never count the cost;

For one white singing hour of peace

     Count many a year of strife well lost,

And for a breath of ecstasy

Give all you have been, or could be.

-o0o-

No.118

Ye Banks and Braes 

Robert Burns 1759-96

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn!

Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Departed, never to return.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon

To see the rose and woodbine twine;

And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And fondly sae did I o' mine;

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree!

And my fause luver stole my rose -

But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

-o0o-

No.117

A BIRD FROM THE WEST

Dora Sigerson Shorter 1866-1918

At the grey dawn, amongst the falling leaves,

   A little bird outside my window swung,

High on a topmost branch he trilled his song,

   And "Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!" ever sung.

Take me, I cried, back to my island home;

   Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings;

For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,

   And home and home and home he ever sings.

We lingered over Ulster stern and wild.

   I called: "Arise! doth none remember me?"

One turnèd in the darkness murmuring,

   "How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!"

We rested over Connaught – whispering said:

   "Awake, awake, and welcome! I am here."

One woke and shivered at the morning grey;

   "The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear."

We flew low over Munster. Long I wept:

   "You used to love me, love me once again!"

They spoke from out the shadows wondering;

   "You'd think of tears, so bitter falls the rain."

Long over Leinster lingered we. "Good-bye!

   My best beloved, good-bye for evermore."

Sleepless they tossed and whispered to the dawn;

   "So sad a wind was never heard before."

Was it a dream I dreamt? For yet there swings

   In the grey morn a bird upon the bough,

And "Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!" ever sings.

   Oh! fair the breaking day in Ireland now.

No.116

When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly

Oliver Goldsmith 1730-74

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 

And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can sooth her melancholy, 

What art can wash her guilt away? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 

To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 

And wring his bosom—is to die. 

-o0o-

No.115

How to Make a Portrait of a Bird

Jacquet Prévert 1900-77

First paint a cage

with an open door

then paint

something pretty

something simple

something beautiful

something useful

for the bird

then place the canvas within a tree

in a garden

in a wood

or in a forest

hide behind the tree

without saying anything

without moving an inch…

Sometimes the bird arrives quickly

but he can also take many years

before deciding

do not become discouraged

wait

wait for years if you have to

the speed or the sluggishness of the bird’s arrival

has no effect

on the outcome of your painting

When the bird arrives

if it arrives

keep the most profound silence

wait for the bird to enter the cage

and when he is inside

gently close the door with the paintbrush

then

erase all of the bars one by one

while taking care not to touch any of the bird’s feathers

then do the tree’s portrait

choosing the most beautiful branch

for the bird

paint the greenery and the freshness of the wind as well

the spray of the sun

and the noise of the animals in the grass in the heat of summer

and then wait for the bird to decide to sing

If the bird doesn’t sing

it’s a bad sign

it’s a sign that your painting is bad

but if it sings it’s a good sign

it’s a sign that you can sign

Then you very gently pluck

one of the bird’s feathers

and you write your name in a corner of the canvas.

Prévert was a French poet and screenwriter. His poems became and remain popular in the French-speaking world, particularly in schools.

The Monday Monologue

Something About Mr.Henderson 

Anon

It was 2 am at the Blue Parrot Club,

I was tired - I was dead on my feet.

Then he walked in and gave me his coat

And my heart seemed to miss a beat.

I checked his hat - that was usually that,

Then he said "Can I walk home with you?"

Of course when a customer starts to get fresh

I usually know what to do.

But -

There was something about Mr. Henderson,

You know the feeling I guess,

I'm a girl who knows all of the answers,

But he made me feel like a princess.

Now a check girl gets plenty of chances

And I'd heard the old routine before.

There was something about Mr. Henderson

That I thought was worth waiting for.

We took a little apartment way up on the seventh floor.

We hadn't much money but I did my best

And I couldn't have asked for more.

We were happy alone up there on our own,

Just we two in our little flat.

I figured some day we'd get married

But we just didn't get round to that.

Still -

There was something about Mr. Henderson

Soon his career reached the heights

And he knew oh such elegant people

That we dared not be seen out at nights.

So I guess that I just didn't blame him

When he told me one day we were through.

There was something about Mr. Henderson,

If he said it was best - well, he knew.

Now, it's 2 am at the Blue Parrot Club

And I'm back where I started again,

But those years have made quite a difference

And I don't have much trouble with men.

This evening he came, he looked just the same,

And he smiled the same smile I had known.

There was nothing about him changed one little bit

Except that he wasn't alone.

And -

There was something about Mrs. Henderson

That seemed familiar to me,

I had somehow the feeling I knew her

Though she wasn't my sort I could see.

Then I glanced at us both in a mirror

And I realised why I felt so.

The was something about Mrs. Henderson,

She looked like me -  ten years ago.

Mr. Henderson, you were nice - to know.

-o0o-

Another Monologue next Monday

No.113

The Old Woman

 Joseph Campbell 1879-1944

(Seosamh MacCathmhaoil)

As a white candle  

  In a holy place,  

So is the beauty  

  Of an aged face.  

  

As the spent radiance     

Of the winter sun,  

So is a woman  

  With her travail done,  

  

Her brood gone from her,  

  And her thoughts as still   

As the waters  

  Under a ruined mill.  

-o0o-

No.112

The Little Vagabond

William Blake 1757-1827

Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, 

But the Ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm; 

Besides I can tell where I am use'd well, 

Such usage in heaven will never do well. 

   But if at the Church they would give us some Ale. 

And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale; 

We'd sing and we'd pray, all the live-long day; 

Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray, 

   Then the Parson might preach and drink and sing. 

And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring: 

And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church, 

Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch. 

   And God like a father rejoicing to see, 

His children as pleasant and happy as he: 

Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel 

But kiss him and give him both drink and apparel.

-o0o-

No.111

The Slave's Dream
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land. 

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
And fell into the sand. 

And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion's flank. 

Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream. 

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away! 

-o0o-

No.110

Afternoon in School - The Last Lesson

D. H. Lawrence 1885-1930

When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?

How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart

My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start

Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,

I can haul them and urge them no more.

No more can I endure to bear the brunt

Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score

Of several insults of blotted pages and scrawl

Of slovenly work that they have offered me.

I am sick, and tired more than any thrall

Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.

And shall I take

The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul

Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume

Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll

Of their insults in punishment? - I will not!

I will not waste myself to embers for them,

Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot,

For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep

Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep

Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell

It all for them, I should hate them -

- I will sit and wait for the bell.

-o0o-

No.109

These Foolish Things

(Remind Me Of You)

Eric Maschwitz 1901-69

A cigarette that bears a lipstick's traces,

An airline ticket to romantic places,

Still my heart has wings,

These foolish things remind me of you.

A tinkling piano in the next apartment,

Those stumbling words that told you what my heart meant,

A fair ground painted swings,

These foolish things remind me of you.

You came, you saw, you conquered me,

When you did that to me

I knew somehow this had to be.

The winds of march that made my heart a dancer,

A telephone that rings but who's to answer,

Oh, how the ghost of you clings,

These foolish things remind me of you.

-o0o-

No.108

Nettles

Vernon Scannell

My son aged three fell in the nettle bed.

'Bed' seemed a curious name for those green spears,

That regiment of spite behind the shed:

It was no place for rest. With sobs and tears

The boy came seeking comfort and I saw

White blisters beaded on his tender skin.

We soothed him till his pain was not so raw.

At last he offered us a watery grin,

And then I took my billhook, honed the blade

And went outside and slashed in fury with it

Till not a nettle in that fierce parade

Stood upright any more. And then I lit

A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead,

But in two weeks the busy sun and rain

Had called up tall recruits behind the shed:

My son would often feel sharp wounds again.

-o0o-

No.107

Quiet Night Thoughts

Li Bai 701-62

I wake, and moonbeams play around my bed,

Glittering like hoar-frost to my wandering eyes;

Up towards the glorious moon I raise my head,

Then lay me down - and thoughts of home arise.

-o0o-

No.106

Upon the Snail

John Bunyan 1628-88

She goes but softly, but she goeth sure,

She stumbles not, as stronger creatures do.

Her journey's shorter, so she may endure

Better than they which do much farther go.

She makes no noise, but stilly seizeth on

The flower or herb appointed for her food,

The which she quietly doth feed upon

While others range and glare, but find no good.

And though she doth but very softly go,

However, 'tis not fast nor slow, but sure;

And certainly they that do travel so,

The prize they do aim at they do procure.

-o0o-

No.105

Elegy for a Walnut Tree

W.S. Merwin b.1927

Old friend now there is no one alive

who remembers when you were young

it was high summer when I first saw you

in the blaze of day most of my life ago

with the dry grass whispering in your shade

and already you had lived through wars

and echoes of wars around your silence 

through days of parting and seasons of absence

with the house emptying as the years went their way

until it was home to bats and swallows

and still when spring climbed toward summer

you opened once more the curled sleeping fingers

of newborn leaves as though nothing had happened

you and the seasons spoke the same language 

and all these years I have looked through your limbs 

to the river below and the roofs and the night

and you were the way I saw the world

-o0o-

No.104

Let me die a young man's death

Roger McGough b.1937

Let me die a youngman's death

not a clean and inbetween

the sheets holywater death

not a famous-last-words

peaceful out of breath death.

When I'm 73

and in constant good tumour

may I be mown down at dawn

by a bright red sports car

on my way home

from an allnight party.

Or when I'm 91

with silver hair

and sitting in a barber's chair

may rival gangsters

with hamfisted tommyguns burst in

and give me a short back and insides.

Or when I'm 104

and banned from the Cavern

may my mistress

catching me in bed with her daughter

and fearing for her son

cut me up into little pieces

and throw away every piece but one.

Let me die a youngman's death

not a free from sin tiptoe in

candle wax and waning death

not a curtains drawn by angels borne

'what a nice way to go' death.

-o0o-

No.103

The Thrush's Nest

John Clare 1793-1864

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush

That overhung a mole-hill large and round,

I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush 

Sing hymns to sunrise, while I drank the sound

With joy; and, often an intruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day - 

How true she warped the moss to form a nest,

And modelled it from within with wood and clay;

And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,

There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,

Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;

And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,

A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,

Glad as that sunshine and the laughing sky.

-o0o-

No.102

Meeting at Night 

Robert Browning 1812-89

The grey sea and the long black land; 

And the yellow half-moon large and low; 

And the startled little waves that leap 

In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 

As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 

And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; 

Three fields to cross till a farm appears; 

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 

And blue spurt of a lighted match, 

And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, 

Than the two hearts beating each to each! 

-o0o-

No.101

The Colour of His Hair

A.E. Housman 1859-1936

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?

And what has he been after, that they groan and shake their fists?

And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?

Oh they’re taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

‘Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;

In the good old time ’twas hanging for the colour that it is;

Though hanging isn’t bad enough and flaying would be fair

For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he’s taken and a pretty price he’s paid

To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;

But they’ve pulled the beggar’s hat off for the world to see and stare,

And they’re haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now ’tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,

And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,

And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare

He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.

-o0o-

No.100

I'm Going To See You Today

Joyce Grenfell 1910-79

This is our red letter day

It's come at last, you see

Couldn't really be a better day

It's meant for you and me

This day we've been awaiting patiently

It is perfection to me, for - 

I'm going to see you today

All's well with my world

And the people that I meet

As I hurry down the street

Seem to know I'm on my way

Coming to you -

This is a beautiful day

I'm treading on air

And my feet have taken two wings

My heart with happiness sings

I'll see you today.

-o0o-

No.99

Nursery Rhyme of Innocence and Experience

Charles Causley 1917–2003

I had a silver penny

And an apricot tree

And I said to the sailor

On the white quay

‘Sailor O sailor

Will you bring me

If I give you my penny

And my apricot tree

‘A fez from Algeria

An Arab drum to beat

A little gilt sword

And a parakeet?’

And he smiled and he kissed me

As strong as death

And I saw his red tongue

And I felt his sweet breath

‘You may keep your penny

And your apricot tree

And I’ll bring your presents

Back from sea.’

O the ship dipped down

On the rim of the sky

And I waited while three

Long summers went by

Then one steel morning

On the white quay

I saw a grey ship

Come in from sea

Slowly she came

Across the bay

For her flashing rigging

Was shot away

All round her wake

The seabirds cried

And flew in and out

Of the hole in her side

Slowly she came

In the path of the sun

And I heard the sound

Of a distant gun

And a stranger came running

Up to me

From the deck of the ship

And he said, said he

‘O are you the boy

Who would wait on the quay

With the silver penny

And the apricot tree?

‘I’ve a plum-coloured fez

And a drum for thee

And a sword and a parakeet

From over the sea.’

‘O where is the sailor

With bold red hair?

And what is that volley

On the bright air?

‘O where are the other

Girls and boys?

And why have you brought me

Children’s toys?’

-o0o-

No.98

The Inchcape Rock

Robert Southey 1774-1843

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,

The ship was still as she could be,

Her sails from heaven received no motion,

Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock

The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock;

So little they rose, so little they fell,

They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;

On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,

And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,

The mariners heard the warning bell;

And then they knew the perilous Rock,

And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The Sun in heaven was shining gay,

All things were joyful on that day;

The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d round,

And there was joyaunce in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen

A darker speck on the ocean green;

Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck,

And he fix’d his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,

It made his whistle, it made him sing;

His heart was mirthful to excess,

But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;

Quoth he, ‘My men, put out the boat,

And row me to the Inchcape Rock,

And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.’

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row,

And to the Inchcape Rock they go;

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound,

The bubbles rose and burst around;

Quoth Sir Ralph, ‘The next who comes to the Rock

Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.'

Sir Ralph the Rover sail’d away,

He scour’d the seas for many a day;

And now grown rich with plunder’d store,

He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky

They cannot see the Sun on high;

The wind hath blown a gale all day,

At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,

So dark it is they see no land.

Quoth Sir Ralph, ‘It will be lighter soon,

For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.’

‘Canst hear,’ said one, ‘the breakers roar?

For methinks we should be near the shore.’

‘Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.’

They hear no sound, the swell is strong;

Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,―

‘Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!’

Sit Ralph the Rover tore his hair;

He curst himself in his despair;

The waves rush in on every side,

The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,

The Devil below was ringing his knell.

-o0o-