by Allie Esiri
Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells of St Clement’s.
You owe me five farthings,
Say the bells of St Martin’s.
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.
When I grow rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.
When will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.
I’m sure I don’t know,
Says the great bell of Bow.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
Chip chop, chip chop, the last man is dead.
19 May • One Art • Elizabeth Bishop
At the beginning of this poem, Bishop half-jokingly suggests that you should practise ‘the art of losing’ by losing small, material things like house keys and watches, so you’re prepared for the larger, more difficult losses to come.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practise losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
20 May • Courage • Amelia Earhart
On 20 May 1932 Amelia Earhart made history as the first female to complete a transatlantic flight. Departing from Harbour Grace, Newfoundland, in the morning, Earhart flew for 14 hours and 56 minutes before landing just north of Derry in Northern Ireland. Famed for her daring and ambition, it is perhaps no surprise that this poem by Earhart takes courage as its topic.
Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace.
The soul that knows it not knows no release
From little things:
Knows not the livid loneliness of fear,
Nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear
The sound of wings.
How can life grant us boon of living, compensate
For dull gray ugliness and pregnant hate
Unless we dare
The soul’s dominion? Each time we make a choice, we pay
With courage to behold the resistless day,
And count it fair.
20 May • The Mouse’s Tale • Lewis Carroll
‘The Mouse’s Tale’ from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is perhaps the most well-known example of a picture poem in English – a poem that is shaped like its subject matter. Appearing early on in the novel, a mouse begins to tell Alice a sad story, its ‘tale’. All Alice can focus on is its real tail, and the two soon are woven together in a classic nonsense poem.
21 May • Friends • Polly Clark
Poems take their source material from many places. Some draw on the poet’s own experiences, some are about the lives of others, and some focus on previous poems or other works of literature. And, in some cases, poems turn to the American sitcom Friends for inspiration.
It showed how friendship
doesn’t end (like when
Emma and I watched
eight episodes in one go)
though outside my window
the climate was changing
and in my experience
people found each other
quite easy to take or leave.
The day after the last episode
they ran them all again,
protecting me, it seems.
I keep just one from
Two-hundred-and-thirty-six.
It’s the one where Ross says,
but this can’t be it,
and Rachel says,
then how come it is?
and he sinks to his knees with his arms
around her legs and the camera
moves slowly back
and they hold the shot
for a long time
before the theme tune begins.
21 May • Little Orphant Annie • James Whitcomb Riley
This poem, which was first published in 1885, is based in part on an orphan who lived with the poet’s family, and told stories about children being snatched away by goblins and elves if they didn’t behave well. It is written in ‘Hoosier dialect’, which originates from Indiana in America.
Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,
An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;
An’ all us other childern, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun
A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ’at Annie tells about,
An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gits you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
Onc’t they was a little boy wouldn’t say his prayers,–
So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an’ his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wasn’t there at all!
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was thist his pants an’ roundabout–
An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
An’ one time a little girl ’ud allus laugh an’ grin,
An’ make fun of ever’one, an’ all her blood an’ kin;
An’ onc’t, when they was ‘company’, an’ ole folks was there,
She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em, an’ said she didn’t care!
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,
They was two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ’fore she knowed what she’s about!
An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
An’ little Orphant Annie says when the blaze is blue,
An’ the lamp-wick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away,–
You better mind yer parents, an’ yer teachers fond an’ dear,
An’ churish them ’at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ’at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
22 May • Today Is Very Boring • Jack Prelutsky
Boredom is a state of mind – sometimes if you decide you are bored, then you might miss the truly exciting stuff in life. That is Jack Prelutsky’s message, and he pushes it to some extreme examples.
Today is very boring,
it’s a very boring day,
there is not
hing much to look at,
there is nothing much to say,
there’s a peacock on my sneakers,
there’s a penguin on my head,
there’s a dormouse on my doorstep,
I am going back to bed.
Today is very boring,
it is boring through and through,
there is absolutely nothing
that I think I want to do,
I see giants riding rhinos,
and an ogre with a sword,
there’s a dragon blowing smoke rings,
I am positively bored.
Today is very boring,
I can hardly help but yawn,
there’s a flying saucer landing
in the middle of my lawn,
a volcano just erupted
less than half a mile away,
and I think I felt an earthquake,
it’s a very boring day.
22 May • Jim, Who Ran Away from his Nurse and Was Eaten by a Lion • Hilaire Belloc
A ‘nurse’ is a word that was used for the women who looked after small children, just as nannies and childminders do nowadays. In this poem, Hilaire Belloc tells the cautionary tale of Jim, who ran away from his nurse. Although the subject of the poem is a scary one, the rhyming couplets and the humorous tone make it very funny.
There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo—
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.
You know—or at least you ought to know,
For I have often told you so—
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim’s especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!
He hadn’t gone a yard when—Bang!
With open Jaws, a lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now, just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted ‘Hi!’
The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
‘Ponto!’ he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion’s name),
‘Ponto!’ he cried, with angry Frown,
‘Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!’
The Lion made a sudden stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage.
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper’s Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!
When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:—
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, ‘Well—it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!’
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James’s miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.
23 May • A Tragic Story • William Makepeace Thackeray
Thackeray’s poem gives a serious name and a sombre tone to what is actually a silly subject: a man trying to escape his own pigtail.
There lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore:
But wondered much, and sorrowed more,
Because it hung behind him.
He mused upon this curious case,
And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place,
And have it hanging at his face,
Not dangling there behind him.
Says he, ‘The mystery I’ve found –
Says he, ‘The mystery I’ve found!
I’ll turn me round,’ – he turned him round;
But still it hung behind him.
Then round and round, and out and in,
All day the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain – it mattered not a pin –
The pigtail hung behind him.
And right and left and round about,
And up and down, and in and out
He turned; but still the pigtail stout
Hung steadily behind him.
And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist, and twirl, and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back,
The pigtail hangs behind him.
23 May • Bookworm • Anon., translated by Michael Alexander
When we use the term ‘bookworm’ we generally mean a person who loves to read. Here, however, an anonymous medieval poet is playing on the double-meaning of the term: a bookworm can also be an actual worm, or maggot, that feeds on paper.
A worm ate words. I thought that wonderfully
Strange – a miracle – when they told me a crawling
Insect had swallowed noble songs,
A night-time thief had stolen writing
So famous, so weighty. But the bug was foolish
Still, though its belly was full of thought.
24 May • Buddha • Tony Mitton
Vesak, or Buddha Day, is celebrated on the full moon of the Indian lunar month of Vesakha, which is usually in May. It is one of the most important festivals in the Buddhist calendar as it commemorates three significant events in Gautama Buddha’s life – his birth, his enlightenment and his death.
The Buddha is not a god,
but human.
The Buddha’s image
is not an icon to be worshipped.
The Buddha is you,
is me.
The Buddha you see
is just a reminder.
It says, simply,
‘All you need is this,
this quiet sitting.
The answer is inside you.
You carry it like a seed.
Only listen inwardly
to stillness and to silence,
beneath all thought,
emotion and sensation,
to know the lotus
as its flower unfolds.’
24 May • A Riddle • Christina Rossetti
Can you guess the answer to this riddle by Christina Rossetti? (Answer underneath!)
There is one that has a head without an eye,
And there is one that has an eye without a head.
You may find the answer if you try;
And when all is said,
Half the answer hangs upon a thread.
The answer to this riddle is ‘a pin and a needle’.
25 May • The Riddle Song • Anon.
‘The Riddle Song’ contains four riddles in one poem. In the final verse, the poem surprisingly supplies all the answers to its own questions.
My love gave me a chicken, but it had no bone.
My love gave me a cherry, but it had no stone.
My love gave me a scare, without a single shiver.
My love showed me a bridge without a running river.
How can there be a chicken, without a bone?
How can there be a cherry, without a stone?
How can there be a scare, without a single shiver?
How can there be a
bridge, without a running river?
When the chicken is in the egg, there is no bone.
When the cherry is in the blossom, there is no stone.
When the scare is in the field, to frighten off the crows.
When the bridge is on the face and runs across the nose.
25 May • from The Ballad of Reading Gaol • Oscar Wilde
Wilde wrote these lines, a reflection on his two-year imprisonment, from exile in France. He was incarcerated because of his sexuality, and he endured terrible treatment as an inmate – hard labour and no luxuries such as books. In this extract, Wilde compares treatment in prison with the very crimes committed by prisoners.
I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.
But this I know, that every Law
That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother’s life,
And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
With a most evil fan.
This too I know – and wise it were
If each could know the same –
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.
With bars they blur the gracious moon,
And blind the goodly sun;
And they do well to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!
26 May • Full Moon • Vita Sackville-West
Vita Sackville-West was part of the illustrious Bloomsbury Group – a collective of writers, artists and intellectuals in the early twentieth century that included Virginia Woolf, E. M. Forster, and the economist John Maynard Keynes. There is a sense of both gaiety and mystery in this poem; we do not know what the brightly coloured woman is running to in the night, but we know she is carefree and in high spirits.