The Map and the Clock

by Carol Ann Duffy

In the heat

  Of Midsummer:

  Strange as the races

  Of dead and unborn:

  Strange and sweet

  Equally,

  And familiar,

  To the eye,

  As the dearest faces

  That a man knows,

  And as lost homes are:

  But though older far

  Than oldest yew, –

  As our hills are, old. –

  Worn new

  Again and again:

  Young as our streams

  After rain:

  And as dear

  As the earth which you prove

  That we love.

  Make me content

  With some sweetness

  From Wales

  Whose nightingales

  Have no wings, –

  From Wiltshire and Kent

  And Herefordshire,

  And the villages there, –

  From the names, and the things

  No less.

  Let me sometimes dance

  With you,

  Or climb

  Or stand perchance

  In ecstasy,

  Fixed and free

  In a rhyme,

  As poets do.

  EDWARD THOMAS

  What shall I give?

  What shall I give my daughter the younger

  More than will keep her from cold and hunger?

  I shall not give her anything.

  If she shared South Weald and Havering,

  Their acres, the two brooks running between,

  Paine’s Brook and Weald Brook,

  With pewit, woodpecker, swan, and rook,

  She would be no richer than the queen

  Who once on a time sat in Havering Bower

  Alone, with the shadows, pleasure and power.

  She could do no more with Samarcand,

  Or the mountains of a mountain land

  And its far white house above cottages

  Like Venus above the Pleiades.

  Her small hands I would not cumber

  With so many acres and their lumber,

  But leave her Steep and her own world

  And her spectacled self with hair uncurled,

  Wanting a thousand little things

  That time without contentment brings.

  EDWARD THOMAS

  Tall Nettles

  Tall nettles cover up, as they have done

  These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough

  Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:

  Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.

  This corner of the farmyard I like most:

  As well as any bloom upon a flower

  I like the dust on the nettles, never lost

  Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.

  EDWARD THOMAS

  The Nightingale Near the House

  Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:

  It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond

  Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond

  Stares. And you sing, you sing.

  That star-enchanted song falls through the air

  From lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,

  Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;

  While all the night you sing.

  My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee,

  As all night long I listen, and my brain

  Receives your song, then loses it again

  In moonlight on the lawn.

  Now is your voice a marble high and white,

  Then like a mist on fields of paradise;

  Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,

  Then breaks, and it is dawn.

  HAROLD MONRO

  Overheard on a Saltmarsh

  Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?

  Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?

  Give them me.

  No.

  Give them me. Give them me.

  No.

  Then I will howl all night in the reeds,

  Lie in the mud and howl for them.

  Goblin, why do you love them so?

  They are better than stars or water,

  Better than voices of winds that sing,

  Better than any man’s fair daughter,

  Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

  Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

  Give me your beads, I want them.

  No.

  I will howl in a deep lagoon

  For your green glass beads, I love them so.

  Give them me. Give them.

  No.

  HAROLD MONRO

  The Lion and Albert

  There’s a famous seaside place called Blackpool,

  That’s noted for fresh air and fun,

  And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom

  Went there with young Albert, their son.

  A grand little lad was young Albert,

  All dressed in his best; quite a swell

  With a stick with an ’orse’s ’ead ’andle,

  The finest that Woolworth’s could sell.

  They didn’t think much to the Ocean:

  The waves, they was fiddlin’ and small,

  There was no wrecks and nobody drownded,

  Fact, nothing to laugh at at all.

  So, seeking for further amusement,

  They paid and went into the Zoo,

  Where they’d Lions and Tigers and Camels,

  And old ale and sandwiches too.

  There were one great big Lion called Wallace;

  His nose were all covered with scars –

  He lay in a somnolent posture,

  With the side of his face on the bars.

  Now Albert had heard about Lions,

  How they was ferocious and wild –

  To see Wallace lying so peaceful,

  Well, it didn’t seem right to the child.

  So straightway the brave little feller,

  Not showing a morsel of fear,

  Took his stick with it’s ’orse’s ’ead ’andle

  … And pushed it in Wallace’s ear.

  You could see that the Lion didn’t like it,

  For giving a kind of a roll,

  He pulled Albert inside the cage with ’im,

  And swallowed the little lad ’ole.

  Then Pa, who had seen the occurence,

  And didn’t know what to do next,

  Said ‘Mother! Yon Lion’s ’et Albert’,

  And Mother said, ‘Well I am vexed!’

  Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom –

  Quite rightly, when all’s said and done –

  Complained to the Animal Keeper,

  That the Lion had eaten their son.

  The keeper was quite nice about it;

  He said ‘What a nasty mishap.

  Are you sure that it’s your boy he’s eaten?’

  Pa said ‘Am I sure? There’s his cap!’

  The manager had to be sent for.

  He came and he said ‘What’s to do?’

  Pa said ‘Yon Lion’s ’et Albert,

  And ’im in his Sunday clothes, too.’

  The Mother said, ‘Right’s right, young feller;

  I think it’s a shame and a sin,

  For a lion to go and eat Albert,

  And after we’ve paid to come in.’

  The manager wanted no trouble,

  He took out his purse right away,

  Saying ‘How much to settle the matter?’

  And Pa said ‘What do you usually pay?’

  But Mother had turned a bit awkward

  When she thought where her Albert had gone.

  She said ‘No! someone’s got to be summonsed’ –

  So that was decided upon.

  Then off they went to the P’lice Station,

  In front of the Magistrate chap;

  They told ’im what happened to Albert,

  And proved it by showing his cap.

&nbs
p; The Magistrate gave his opinion

  That no one was really to blame

  And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms

  Would have further sons to their name.

  At that Mother got proper blazing,

  ‘And thank you, sir, kindly,’ said she.

  ‘What waste all our lives raising children

  To feed ruddy Lions? Not me!’

  MARRIOTT EDGAR

  Mrs Reece Laughs

  Laughter, with us, is no great undertaking,

  A sudden wave that breaks and dies in breaking.

  Laughter with Mrs Reece is much less simple:

  It germinates, it spreads, dimple by dimple,

  From small beginnings, things of easy girth,

  To formidable redundancies of mirth.

  Clusters of subterranean chuckles rise

  And presently the circles of her eyes

  Close into slits and all the woman heaves

  As a great elm with all its mounds of leaves

  Wallows before the storm. From hidden sources

  A mustering of blind volcanic forces

  Takes her and shakes her till she sobs and gapes.

  Then all that load of bottled mirth escapes

  In one wild crow, a lifting of huge hands,

  And creaking stays, and visage that expands

  In scarlet ridge and furrow. Thence collapse,

  A hanging head, a feeble hand that flaps

  An apron-end to stir an air and waft

  A steaming face. And Mrs Reece has laughed.

  MARTIN ARMSTRONG

  The Fired Pot

  In our town, people live in rows.

  The only irregular thing in a street is the steeple,

  And where that points to, God only knows,

  And not the poor disciplined people!

  And I have watched the women growing old,

  Passionate about pins, and pence, and soap,

  Till the heart within my wedded breast grew cold,

  And I lost hope.

  But a young soldier came to our town,

  He spoke his mind most candidly.

  He asked me quickly to lie down,

  And that was very good for me.

  For though I gave him no embrace –

  Remembering my duty –

  He altered the expression of my face,

  And gave me back my beauty.

  ANNA WICKHAM

  Meditation at Kew

  Alas! for all the pretty women who marry dull men,

  Go into the suburbs and never come out again,

  Who lose their pretty faces, and dim their pretty eyes,

  Because no one has skill or courage to organise.

  What do these pretty women suffer when they marry?

  They bear a boy who is like Uncle Harry,

  A girl, who is like Aunt Eliza, and not new.

  These old dull races must breed true.

  I would enclose a common in the sun,

  And let the young wives out to laugh and run;

  I would steal their dull clothes and go away,

  And leave the pretty naked things to play.

  Then I would make a contract with hard Fate

  That they see all the men in the world and choose a mate,

  And I would summon all the pipers in the town

  That they dance with Love at a feast, and dance him down.

  From the gay unions of choice

  We’d have a race of splendid beauty, and of thrilling voice.

  The World whips frank gay love with rods,

  But frankly gaily shall be got the gods.

  ANNA WICKHAM

  Survivors

  No doubt they’ll soon get well; the shock and strain

  Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.

  Of course they’re ‘longing to go out again,’ –

  These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk.

  They’ll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed

  Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died, –

  Their dreams that drip with murder; and they’ll be proud

  Of glorious war that shatter’d all their pride …

  Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;

  Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.

  SIEGFRIED SASSOON

  The General

  ‘Good-morning; good-morning!’ the General said

  When we met him last week on our way to the line.

  Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,

  And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.

  ‘He’s a cheery old card,’ grunted Harry to jack

  As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

  . . .

  But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

  SIEGFRIED SASSOON

  Everyone Sang

  Everyone suddenly burst out singing;

  And I was filled with such delight

  As prisoned birds must find in freedom,

  Winging wildly across the white

  Orchards and dark-green fields; on – on –

  and out of sight.

  Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted;

  And beauty came like the setting sun:

  My heart was shaken with tears; and horror

  Drifted away … O, but Everyone

  Was a bird; and the song was wordless;

  the singing will never be done.

  SIEGFRIED SASSOON

  Falling Asleep

  Voices moving about in the quiet house:

  Thud of feet and a muffled shutting of doors:

  Everyone yawning. Only the clocks are alert.

  Out in the night there’s autumn-smelling gloom

  Crowded with whispering trees; across the park

  A hollow cry of hounds like lonely bells:

  And I know that the clouds are moving across the moon;

  The low, red, rising moon. Now herons call

  And wrangle by their pool; and hooting owls

  Sail from the wood above pale stooks of oats.

  Waiting for sleep, I drift from thoughts like these;

  And where to-day was dream-like, build my dreams.

  Music … there was a bright white room below,

  And someone singing a song about a soldier,

  One hour, two hours ago: and soon the song

  Will be ‘last night’; but now the beauty swings

  Across my brain, ghost of remembered chords

  Which still can make such radiance in my dream

  That I can watch the marching of my soldiers,

  And count their faces; faces; sunlit faces.

  Falling asleep … the herons, and the hounds …

  September in the darkness; and the world

  I’ve known; all fading past me into peace.

  SIEGFRIED SASSOON

  August 1914

  What in our lives is burnt

  In the fire of this?

  The heart’s dear granary?

  The much we shall miss?

  Three lives hath one life –

  Iron, honey, gold.

  The gold, the honey gone –

  Left is the hard and cold.

  Iron are our lives

  Molten right through our youth.

  A burnt space through ripe fields,

  A fair mouth’s broken tooth.

  ISAAC ROSENBERG

  Break of Day in the Trenches

  The darkness crumbles away –

  It is the same old druid Time as ever.

  Only a live thing leaps my hand –

  A queer sardonic rat –

  As I pull the parapet’s poppy

  To stick behind my ear.

  Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew

  Your cosmopolitan sympathies

  (And God knows what antipathies).

  Now you have touched this English hand

  You will do t
he same to a German –

  Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure

  To cross the sleeping green between.

  It seems you inwardly grin as you pass

  Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes

  Less chanced than you for life,

  Bonds to the whims of murder,

  Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,

  The torn fields of France.

  What do you see in our eyes

  At the shrieking iron and flame

  Hurled through still heavens?

  What quaver – what heart aghast?

  Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins

  Drop, and are ever dropping;

  But mine in my ear is safe,

  Just a little white with the dust.

  ISAAC ROSENBERG

  Lunch Hour

  Withdrawn for a little space from the confusion

  Of pulled potatoes littered on broken earth,

  We lay in the shadowed ditch, a peaceful circle

  Of food, drink, smoke, and mirth.

  The smell of the ditch was hot and sweet, and heavy

  With poppy flowers, and tangled with nettle-weed.

  In the grass a cricket chirped his eternal question,