John Whitworth: Five Poems

Lonesome 
(I stole line 10 from John Betjeman)

There’s a girl lives in the forest,
In the cottage of All Alone,
Her skin as white as far starlight,
And her face as sharp as bone.

In the dreaming depths of the forest,
She croons her lin-lan-lone,
Her voice as free as deep blue sea
Where winds and waters moan,

Where great firs of the forest
Coniferously moan,
Where a pale moon shines and pines repine
Their mournful monotone,

Where creatures of the forest,
The Whiskered Barbitone
And the Lonesome Loris, dance nine men’s morris
To an ancient gramophone.

Cambera bambera borist.
Humbela bumbela squoan.
Skippenham parva boodelam carva.
Phurbera phuntera phoan.

Ah the sadness of the forest,
Unkempt and overgrown,
Now the gods of Avalon are gone
To the wastes of the great unknown.

Skippenham parva boodelam carva.
Phurbera phuntera phoan.

John Whitworth

No Man Can Do Enough for Ireland

The following verse was found written on a bus ticket and trodden into the mud of a byre at the back of a Hotel in County Donegal. There is no proof that it was from the holy hand of Seamus Famous himself, but then there is no proof that it wasn’t.

Now the leprechauns are out

And Jameson’s is on the table,

Now you’ve drunk four quarts of stout

And belched as hard as you are able,

Now’s the time for Celtic fire,

Now’s the time for Celtic mist,

Now’s the time to whack the lyre,

It sounds much better when you’re pissed.

John Whitworth

Tennyson’s Beard

Tennyson’s beard was decidedly weird,

Being bushy and long and luxuriant.

It was hideous, hairy and utterly scary,

Most certainly not for the prurient.

 

Rub-a-dub-dub, he would give it a scrub

In the hope that the soap made it curly.

Though he might be a poet his looks didn’t show it

For nothing about him was girly.

 

It might happen perhaps that he turned up the taps

Thus increasing the volume of steam,

Then that yardage of beard was a thing to be feared

And quite the reverse of a dream.

 

His beard it was bushy, his life it was cushy.

He wrote about Arthur and Maud,

And his popular verse put so much in his purse

That he ended up rich and a Lord.

John Whitworth

 

Tiffin with a Griffin

My Griffin wanders through a dream

Of strepitations and stramashes.

His honest countenance agleam,

He twirls his elegant moustaches,

And turns to me, his lady Griffin,

So sweet and serendipitous:

My love, says he, it’s time for tiffin.

One world is much too small for us.

Beyond the inconstant moon we’ll stray

And stroll among the scattering stars,

Quaff milkshakes from the Milky Way,

Munch chocolate bars deep-fried from Mars,

Then ride like astral charioteers

To where the Choir of Angels sings,

And dance to Music of the Spheres

Upon the great Saturnian Rings.

John Whitworth

Voices of a Distant Star

It’s lonely in the garden here, there’s no one but the cat.

There’s nothing but the footsteps and you’ve had enough of that.

You know they’re out to get you now, you know they’re on your case.

It’s starting to unwind, you know they’re bound to play the ace.

There’s a whiff of desolation in the air, in the air.

There’s a whiff of desolation in the air.

 

It’s lonely in the garden here, there’s no one but the snails

Criss-crossing in the darkness leaving phosphorescent trails.

You know they’ll never let you go; you’re just a waste of space.

They’re out to rob you blind, you know they’re barely off the pace.

There’s a flittermouse entangled in your hair, in your hair.

There’s a flittermouse entangled in your hair.

 

It’s lonely in the city here, there’s nothing but the stones,

The echoes in the shadows and the rattle of the bones.

You plead to Heaven for succour and you cry to God for grace.

It’s something in your mind, you know its insolent embrace.

There’s a screaming like a rabbit in a snare, in a snare.

There’s a screaming like a rabbit in a snare.

 

It’s lonely in the city here, there’s nothing but the tombs.

You give an inch, they take a yard: they’re in your sitting rooms.

You don’t trust any bugger, or you’re gone without a trace.

They’re never far behind, you know they’re cutting to the chase.

There’s a humming like a hypocrite at prayer, horrid prayer.

There’s a humming like a hypocrite at prayer.

 

It’s lonely in the universe, there’s nothing but the stars;

They hum about their courses like celestial trolley cars.

There isn’t any time, they said, there isn’t any place.

They’re scarcely humankind, you know they’re from another race.

There’s a shadow at the elbow of the stair, of the stair,

There’s a shadow at the elbow of the stair.

 

It’s lonely in the universe, there’s nothing but the God.

I knew him when his brother was a crawling chilopod.

You know the voices in your head, you know the heart’s grimace,

The footsteps in your mind, you know you’ll soon be face to face.

There’s an overarching darkness everywhere, everywhere.

There’s an overarching darkness everywhere.

John Whitworth