BARNABAS RHYMES
by
JOHN WOOD.
Copyright 2014 John Wood.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction and Words
In Irritation on being Disturbed by Noisy Churchmen
Write Something!
Church of St. Peter & St. Paul, Weobley
Kate’s Funeral, Weobley
Herefordshire and the West Country
Slow-moving Hereford
The Cotswold Line, October
Returning Home from an Evening Event in London
An Ageing Herefordshire Lad
Photographing Sunflowers grown for the Pheasants
Behind Village Events are the Femmes Fete-alls
October Onwards
To add Fluoride or Not?
Solidly Built
A Hoot of Hate or my Unfavourite Things
Home and Hearth
Morning’s First Love
Prospects are so Changeable
Missing from the Top Drawer
Tiger Worms, or Composting for Beginners
Hoping for Inspiration from the Computer
Home Sweet Home
Squirrel
Youth and Love and all that
Early School
But Somewhat Later – William’s Lament
The First Dance
Adolescence
Basic Philosophy
Night Out
Fleeting Encounter
A Happier Ending
Hero and Leander
The Conductor’s Tale – In Love with the First Violin
Woman!
Strife and Worse
A Miracle on the Western Front
Prayer
Listening
Sport
The Par Hole
Snow
World Cup Week
A School Sport – the Non-Boxer’s View
Feeling Iffy
The Heads on a Small Yacht
Home Port
While on Another Board – Strife Personified
Inland in a Norwegian Winter
Life can be Very Hard
Mother and Son
Recipe for a New Mother
Flight of the Empress
Culture and Science
Sfumato and the Mona Lisa
A Mixed-up Lady
All Life is Messages
Anonymous Critic at the Globe
A Real Discovery
An Easy Riddle
The Hedge-Layer’s Tale
Dinosaur He Say
John Snow
Character Flaws
Obsessions
Bridesmaid’s Smiles
Fear Walking into a Wood on a Winter Night
The Golf Captain and His Lady
Ghosts – Now You See Them, Now You Don’t
The Gambler’s Final Fling
Age and Experience lead to Cynicism
Management Numbers or the Hospital Telephone Book
Beauty in the City – the Bottom Line
Bankers – March 2009
Down the Strand
The Old School
Financial Transparency – Windows in the Square Mile
Sky-Diving
An Old Shopper
Avarice
Breakfasts after College Reunions
Six Songs to Explain a Quango
Happenings once Current
Limericks after the 2005 Election
Gleneagles, 2005
Parting
Parting Again
Last Holiday Night
In Memoriam
An Absent Friend
A Good Innings, Some Said
Older Age
Rag Bag
Winter Snow – Limericks
A Tricky Matter to Decide
Sad Safari Tale
Haikus
Sonnetomania
An Examination Taken in Middle Life
A Legal Discussion – Many Words – How Much Sense?
The Student of English Takes a Country Walk with his Girl.
An Illegal Immigrant’s Life
Further Loose Limericks
Dormington
Autumn Friends
An Old American Organ in December
Christmas Eve
May 05 – Dormington Churchyard
Bartestree Fete – 2009
Family Stories and Recollections
Mountain Walk
Great Uncle George
Winifred at Lyme View
In the Council Chamber
January 2000
70s
Fishing Today
For Angus – Sept 09
Gold is
Penguins - Tom
Theatre at Bath
BWoo
October 1999
Holidays
The Brown Pelican of Florida
The Shuttle Leaves from Florida – 04.00 hours
Iceland Water
First Foss
At the Althing, Iceland – 999
Thorsmork
The Great Skua – Now and Then
Thanks to Maria and Helgi – Iceland
Tallinn – Baltic Honeypot
Thanks to Kath or Carry On Up the Madeira Picos
Flight Delayed – A Long Farewell to Greece
Breeze in the Gulf of Corinth
Turkish Flotilla
Lipari
Declamations
The Rock of Gibraltar
To Minorca Mary - Ramblers’ Leader – Birds and Flowers
Bush Rhymes from Brisbane
The Karen Village Hut in Northern Thailand
Crumpled High-Tension Pylons between Eperney and Troyes
AOT – 2002
Spanish Inn – 2010
To the United Arab Emirates with Open University Geologists – 2001
The Gulf – 2007
The Beetle
Zanzibar Shore
The Turkish Pirate
Dark Night in the Med.
St. James’ Park
Up from the Tube after the London Bombings in July 2005
Gatwick
Introduction and Words
In the nineties I discovered Kate Jones’ writing group, and remained an appreciative member until her death. The class met one morning each week during term-time. For the first hour Kate would set a theme for us to write a short piece, or put together plans for a play or longer text, or perhaps discuss grammar or the nuts and bolts of writing. After coffee for another hour Kate would bring out homework we had given her previously and then read some of our homework to the class. Naturally each of us hoped that one of our efforts would be chosen. At the end of the morning she set the subject for next week’s homework.
These sessions were enormous fun. Over the years we all aged, just possibly matured, and our writing improved. But often homework was only started on the night before the class so offerings were brief, and perhaps a bit of doggerel or a pseudo-sonnet. Kate might choose it to read if it was short and she thought it might amuse the group. Many of the rhymes or ditties that follow were either homework or written during a class, and some are very short – scarcely more than snippets.
Words were Kate’s passion. She had a degree in English from Oxford University, and for many years was the editor and indeed wrote much of “Young Writer – The Magazine for Children with Something to Say”. She also published books for budding children authors. Some of her passion rubbed onto us:-
Words
A single thought, like love or fame or greed
Propels my pen to place upon the page
Words to express hot passion, or the need
To blow my trumpet, tell of hate or rage.
A single word, no frills but still be
spoke,
Set wisely in a stanza makes it sing.
Another word - a puny punning joke
Will give the phrase a light or silly ring.
One single noun, or adjective, or verb
Can twist the meaning of a line of verse.
The tricky word requires a careful curb
For wit begets mistrust - there’s nothing worse!
The clearest single message - To be heard,
Always select a plain and honest word.
We usually met in St. Barnabas Church Hall in Hereford. For one term we shared the building with frail and elderly philosophers who were perfectly quiet and well-behaved, but one morning we were distracted by rowdy clergymen in the next room. Anything can provide the germ for a ditty.
In Irritation on being Disturbed by Noisy Churchmen
Canons to left of them, Canons to right of them
Into the clerical novels they ride -
Anthony Trollope, and also Joanna,
Plus Barbara Pym keep the genre supplied.
The cloisters are swirling with hot atmospherics,
Benches of Bishops with lusty young Vicars,
Pompous Archdeacons and Deans with hysterics,
Thoughts of preferment, the glimpse of white knickers.
The Bishop’s wife rules, getting fatter and fatter;
Gloomy young curates, repressed and morose.
Whatever the matter they intrigue and chatter -
Barchester Towers is the world in a close.
So what is the place of the Anglican empire -
Historical home for heirarchical males?
Is it truly a rock for salvation or hell-fire
Or mainly a quarry for clerical tales?
Rich in eccentrics, the Church is a Godsend -
Some zany or saintly, or lazy, or zealous.
Canons to left of them, Canons to right of them, -
Masses of models for many best-sellers!
During the summer break Kate sometimes arranged a writing reunion in the home of a member of the group. One sunny morning in a lovely garden led to –
Write something!
They drove to Eau Withington, Ron, Dot and Kate
Down a tiny thin lane, then they turned in the gate,
While the white house looked down in its Georgian way
On the writers who’d come to relive their Thursday.
In time they got settled, the sun brightly shone
And Kate said “Write something on Eau Withington.”
Then frowns and anxiety furrowed each brow
And they said “We’ve forgotten – don’t really know how.”
At that Kate grew stern and she raised her sweet voice
“Now look here, you slackers, you haven’t a choice
If you don’t buckle down I may give you a punch,
Or, worse, I’ll ask Ann to deny you the lunch.”
So we all applied noses to grindstones and ink
And put pen to paper as quick as you blink.
The product of haste is a problem with rhyme,
But I think I’ve used up my available time.
(In the years I knew her I cannot imagine Kate punching anyone, but a word was needed to rhyme with lunch - scribbler’s licence.)
Another summer session was held in Weobley Church next door to Kate’s home where we tried to concoct something suitable.
Church of St. Peter and St. Paul, Weobley.
A hum of quiet chatter in the nave
Searching as others have for inspiration
Among these stones, these lists, each ancient grave,
Each pious monument or dedication.
The lists of dead – that war we still call Great -
Old vicars going back to Norman years.
These stones mark centuries of faith and fate
Of weddings, christenings, and tears.
Steep Weobley’s spire spears over Weobley town,
A landmark on the Tudor Village Trail,
Set in its green rich prosperous farming vale.
Preserved and cherished by the faithful few –
(Much bigger congregations would be good)
Although it lacks facilities – a loo –
This splendid pile of stone and glass and wood
Begun by Wibba at a frontier post,
Originally timber, thatch and turfs,
Was built again, t’would shock old Wibba’s ghost,
In stone by Hugh de Lacy’s masons, serfs.
Maintained and loved over a thousand years
Today its spire stands high, foursquare and tall,
Tribute to faith despite all sceptics’ jeers,
The door below stands open - welcomes all.
And it was at St. Peter and St. Paul’s Church, Weobley that early in 2011 we attended Kate’s funeral, to share our grief with her family and remember a wonderful person, friend and teacher.
Our Kate was buried here one winter’s day
The pews packed tight by many grieving friends,
Beneath the trees across the churchyard lay
White untouched snow, which black dug soil offends.
We grieved for Kate’s young life, her sparkling wit,
Constrained by wretched lungs, a struggling heart.
We grieved for our own loss – those who would sit,
Enjoy Kate’s writing class – play our small part
As skilfully she led each writing day,
Amused, instructed, coaxed each student’s spark
To grow into a story, verse or play -
Freed our imaginations, light or dark.
This church, this graveyard, holds a mighty life,
Outstanding teacher and a loving wife.
So this collection of ditties, reflections and nonsense brings together many old personal memories and scribbles. Scarcely any would have been written without the pleasure and lift given by her teaching genius and friendship or if there been no classes and homework. A number reflect the cynicism and world-weariness of age. The many vulgarities and awkward rhymes are mine – parts that work better owe an enormous amount to Kate. A few items appeared in 2003 in “More Voices of Herefordshire - Anthology of Verse and Stories”, a collection of works from Kate’s group, and others in my local Parish Magazine.
The second part includes family and holiday ditties with a few by family members who, like me, would probably never have tried without Kate’s direct or indirect stimulus.
Herefordshire and the West Country
Herefordshire is deep farming countryside which grows apples, hops, and cattle particularly well. Along the Welsh border stand the remains of Norman castles which protected rich English villages from the Welsh who might descend from the heights of the Black Mountains and behind these defences slumber black and white half-timbered villages. The county’s main roads radiate from Hereford, and the city has lamentably failed to deal with ever-growing traffic.
Slow-Moving Hereford
There are few things more pathetic than a city glued in gridlock,
With traffic stopped on Whitecross Road, at Belmont, Aylestone Hill,
Cars queueing down at Redhill, and at Edgar Street a roadblock.
The problem’s been discussed for years – the jams are with us still.
Around the ancient City Walls the Wye flows west to east
Spanned by one narrow ancient bridge and a single busy road.
But one modern crossing’s one too few – there’s need for two at least
With a north-south road to ease the jams, reduce the excess load.
We must address this crisis and express our indignation,
The trade will go to other towns where movement’s less impeded
While countless hours in Hereford are wasted with frustration.
So please insist to those with power, repeat until we’re heeded -
“If you want to be rememb
ered for one single worthy deed,
A bypass round this city is our first and foremost need.”
The railways are less congested. Two lines serve Herefordshire, a north-south route and the Cotswold Line running east to Worcester, Oxford and London. To reach London by rail offers two choices – to travel via Newport and change to the speedy South Wales expresses, or take the gentler, slower, more civilised Cotswold Line. Some of this is single track and very liable to delays, while the last train home to Hereford leaves Paddington ridiculously early each evening, but the journey across the Cotswolds is far more attractive than the Newport alternative. There is no Adelstrop on the Cotswold line, but small stations which are quite similar.
The Cotswold Line - October.
Leaves on the line, dawn lifts reluctantly,
Trees bare and windblown, grey, red and brown.
Newspapers, workpapers, coffee and hot brunch rolls,
Many asleep on the way up to town.
Foregate Street, Shrub Hill, the buffet car opens,
Pershore and Evesham and flooded Port Meadow,
Oxford with dreaming towers, Didcot with steaming towers,
Reading for Heathrow, John Betjeman’s Slough.
Darker and greyer, more urban, industrial,
Maidenhead, Ealing and Acton flash by -
Approaches to Paddington, walls with graffiti on,
“Take your belongings.” the loudspeakers cry.
Commuters engulfing Brunel on his pedestal,
Tides of pedestrians flood underground.
The Bakerloo’s purple line, District and Circle Line,
Deep under London, they squeeze round and round.
City of Johnson, of Pepys, Wren and Wilberforce -
Capital’s confidence written in stone,
Engulfed by humanity, commerce and vanity,
Ruled and abused by the portable phone.
Once in the office, the shop or the factory
Commuters endeavours have barely begun.
Surrounded by millions and millions of Londoners,
How many find that their labours are fun?
At the end of the day on the train going westward,