by Wendy Cope
Never to return. And it could come
Quite suddenly – the news that either one
Of us is ill, unlikely to recover.
How will we deal with that – day after day
Of grief and sickness? Will we both be brave
And kind in everything we do and say
And, failing that, be able to forgive?
We’ll have to do our best to stay afloat,
Despite our anger, tiredness and fear,
Trusting in our love, a sturdy boat
That’s served us pretty well, year after year.
We’ll hope it can survive the stormy weather
And bring us safely into port, together.
The Tree
We had to leave our home. We travelled here
With all our worldly goods – box after box
Of crockery and books, our furniture,
Our pictures, mirrors, lamps and rugs and clocks.
In its pot our precious Christmas tree,
A straggly adolescent, four years old,
Survived the journey, waited patiently
Till it was time to come in from the cold.
Now it’s lit up in all its annual glory,
Hung with treasures taken out of store.
Every little trinket tells a story,
A memoir of the life we had before.
We got through the disruption and the pain.
The tree is telling us we’re home again.
Here We Are
Here we are
in our small, chosen city,
happy to watch the ducks,
the narrowboats, the changing trees.
On the other side of the river
long goods trains trundle past.
Maersk, China Shipping,
China Shipping, Maersk.
Big world out there.
Ports, oceans, shopping districts.
We could be anywhere
but this is where we find ourselves,
happy to sit beside the river
and watch the trains go by.
Ely
for Mac Dowdy, historian
We thought our little city got its name
From eels. They have been caught and traded here
For centuries. The Isle of Eels became
The Isle of Ely. We liked that idea.
But there’s a problem, since the word for eel,
Back when the early settlement was founded,
Was anguilla or schlippen-fisch or aal,
And no-one spoke of eels till 1300.
A newer theory, out of academe:
In ancient times this place was venerated
As holy, as a paradise. Its name,
As years went by, became abbreviated.
We like this even better: our new home
Is in a city called Elysium.
March 2013
The winter’s going on and on.
The daffodils refuse to flower.
Like us, they’re waiting for the sun.
They hug themselves inside the green
Through every icy gale and shower –
Through winter, going on and on.
St David’s day has come and gone
And still they’re waiting for the hour
When they can open in the sun.
One afternoon last week it shone
And briefly cheered us up before
It vanished. Winter’s going on.
The sick and dying wonder when
The spring will come. Will they be here
When it arrives, with flowers and sun?
They hoped to see another one.
The skies aren’t answering their prayer.
The winter’s going on and on.
Like us, they’re waiting for the sun.
Haiku: Willows
Willows white with frost:
like fireworks that whooshed, sparkled
and froze in the air.
Naga-Uta
Clearest of clear days:
frozen leaves under my feet,
frost on bare branches,
blue sky, smoke from the funnel
of a narrowboat,
and on the quiet river
great slicks of pale gold sunlight.
By the River
The day is so still
you can almost hear the heat.
You can almost hear
that royal blue dragonfly
landing on the old white boat.
Shakespeare at School
Forty boys on benches with their quills
Six days a week through almost all the year,
Long hours of Latin with relentless drills
And repetition, all enforced by fear.
I picture Shakespeare sitting near the back,
Indulging in a risky bit of fun
By exercising his prodigious knack
Of thinking up an idiotic pun,
And whispering his gem to other boys,
Some of whom could not suppress their mirth –
Behaviour that unfailingly annoys
Any teacher anywhere on earth.
The fun was over when the master spoke:
Will Shakespeare, come up here and share the joke.
The Marriage
Married at eighteen to a pregnant bride
Eight years your senior, did you think that you
Had spoiled your life before you’d even tried
To make your way and show what you could do?
Perhaps you loved each other and were glad
To tie the knot. Perhaps, each time you left
Your Anne, your little daughters and the lad
To set out on the road, you were bereft.
Perhaps you were relieved to get away.
Perhaps she was relieved to see you go.
Did you miss each other every day
And long for the return? We cannot know
The cost to you, your family, your wife.
We cannot wish you’d lived a different life.
On Sonnet 18
‘So long as men can breathe and eyes can see’ –
You don’t assume we’ll be around for ever.
You couldn’t know that ‘this gives life to thee’
Only until the sun goes supernova.
That knowledge doesn’t prove your words untrue.
Neither time nor the advance of science
Has taken anything away from you,
Or faced down your magnificent defiance.
That couplet. Were you smiling as you wrote it?
Did you utter a triumphant ‘Yes’?
Walking round the garden, did you quote it,
Sotto voce, savouring your success?
And did you always know, or sometimes doubt,
That passing centuries would bear you out?
The Worst Row
The worst row we two ever had concerned
The sonnets – Shakespeare’s. I expressed the view
I’d held for years: that no-one could have turned
Those lines unless he was in love. ‘Not true.
You’ll find that all the academics say
You’re wrong.’ That pompous tone – the one that you
Use when you’ll brook no argument. ‘And they
Know better than mere poets?’ ‘Yes, they do.’
It happened in the car. I nearly stopped
And asked you to get out. Now I concede
That both of us were partly right. We dropped
The sulks before too long. But we’re agreed
It was our worst dispute. The one we had
About a steak? That wasn’t quite as bad.
My Father’s Shakespeare
My father must have bought it secondhand,
Inscribed ‘To R. S. Elwyn’ – who was he?
Published 1890, leather-bound,
In 1961 passed on to me.
November 6th. How old was I? Sixteen.
Doing A level in English Lit.,
In love with Keats and getting very keen
On William Shakespeare. I was thrilled with it,
This gift, glad then, as now, to think
I had been chosen as the keeper of
My father’s Shakespeare, where, in dark blue ink,
He wrote, ‘To Wendy Mary Cope. With love.’
Love on a page, surviving death and time.
He didn’t even have to make it rhyme.
At New Place
Not the one he planted but its ‘scion’,
According to the plaque, which I peruse
Close up, absorbed. I fail to keep an eye on
My feet till mulberry juice has ruined my shoes.
Pale grey lace-ups. Dark red fallen fruit.
And it’s all Shakespeare’s fault. If only he
Had chosen something different for this spot –
An oak, a sycamore, an apple tree.
Suddenly I’m moved to tears, to think
Of Shakespeare with a sapling and a spade
And how this incident creates a link
Between us in the garden that he made.
I feel him smiling at me as he says
‘Oh yes. The Muse works in mysterious ways.’
Young Love
School outing, 1960: Romeo
And Juliet. First time I’d seen a play
By Shakespeare on the stage. We had to go
By bus to the Old Vic. A matinée.
Don’t know what I expected, probably
To find it rather boring. It was not.
Enchanted, I went back four times to see
The play again. I was in love. With what?
The characters (Mercutio!)? The actors –
Judi Dench and several dishy males?
The language? Maybe all of them were factors
Compelling me to boost the ticket sales
For Shakespeare plays as often as I could.
That teenage crush: I think it did me good.
If It Be Now
If it be now, ’tis not to come:
Hamlet, just before the fight
That sent him to eternal night.
It’s always there: a quiet drum
Sounding when I have a fright:
If it be now, ’tis not to come.
Choking, breathless, falling – numb
With mortal fear, I hear it right
On cue and silently recite,
If it be now, ’tis not to come.
In Memory of Max Adrian 1903–1973
It’s sad to think the actor never knew
About the teenage girl who saw him play
In As You Like It long ago and who
Can still recall his face and voice today:
His Jaques dignified, aloof and dry –
No bellowing, no sawing of the air,
Nothing that could offend the author’s eye
Or ear, if you imagined he was there.
More than fifty years have passed since then
But when I read the text it’s him I see,
And when I watch it on the stage again
Jaques doesn’t stand a chance with me.
Max nailed the part and no-one else will do.
And that, it’s possible to hope, he knew.
On Sonnet 22
My glass can’t quite persuade me I am old –
In that respect my ageing eyes are kind –
But when I see a photograph, I’m told
The dismal truth: I’ve left my youth behind.
And when I try to get up from a chair
My knees remind me they are past their best.
The burden they have carried everywhere
Is heavier now. No wonder they protest.
Arthritic fingers, problematic neck,
Sometimes causing mild to moderate pain,
Could well persuade me I’m an ancient wreck
But here’s what helps me to feel young again:
My love, who fell for me so long ago,
Still loves me just as much, and tells me so.
A Wreath for George Herbert
Dear George, although I do not share your faith,
A faith expressed in poems I revere,
Revere and love, I offer you this wreath,
A wreath of words, like yours, although I fear,
I fear it won’t be worthy of the man,
The awe-inspiring man who loved to play,
To play with words, to make them rhyme and scan,
Scan and rhyme and at the same time say,
Say something true: the truth about your fear,
Your fear, your anger and your love. A wreath,
A humble wreath for someone I revere,
Revere and love, though I can’t share your faith.
A Poem about Jesus
When I find myself feeling sorry for the wrong people –
disgraced politicians, vilified bankers,
the victims of paedophile witch-hunts –
I remember that Jesus was the friend of sinners
and he would have felt sorry for them too.
I love him for that. And I love him
for being on the side of the wusses,
telling us the meek will inherit the earth.
I don’t know if he was the son of God.
I don’t know if he rose from the grave.
If he is a fiction,
the genius who created him
deserves all the love and the praise we can give.
Little Donkey
The children’s favourite. We had
to sing it in the Christmas concert
every year, plodding along
with me at the piano, and a child
going clip-clop with coconut shells
or woodblock: a coveted job.
It wasn’t my favourite.
After I left teaching
I forgot about it
for more than ten years
until one day, near Christmas,
in a busy high street
a Salvation Army band
began to play it. I stood still
with tears in my eyes.
Little Donkey. All those children
who loved it so much.
All those hands in the air
begging to be chosen
to make the sound of his hooves.
Lantern Carol
At the winter solstice,
Midnight of the year,
A lantern in a stable
Shows us He is here.
Shining through the ages,
Lighting up the place
Where we see the baby,
His little hands, his face,
A lantern in a stable
Centuries ago
Conquers time and darkness
With its gentle glow,
Calls us with the shepherds
And the eastern kings,
Offers us the Christ child
And the love He brings.
In the golden lamplight,
See him there asleep.
Ours if we will have Him.
Ours to love and keep.
Christmas Cards
Cards to the very old
go out like doves
who will bring back news
of one kind or another.
It may be a sign of life –
a few sentences
in a shaky hand,
I hope that you are well.
It may be a letter
from a friend or relative
who found my address on the back:
I am very sorry to tell you …
This year two cards,
both to widowers,
came winging back with labels:
Addressee gone away.
I open my Christmas list,
find their names
and type d.2016.
I could remove them
bu
t that would leave
no trace of them
and I am not quite ready
for them to disappear.
In Memory of Dennis O’Driscoll
After I heard that you had died
I went and found your Christmas card –
People round a tree.
Inside, a message written days
Before, and all in upper case,
Of course, for L. and me.
You mention ‘Our reunion
In Dublin’. That took place in June –
A reading on a date
When all of Ireland had to see
A football match. Our poetry
Could not compete with that.
It didn’t matter much to me.
I’d flown across the Irish Sea
Because you asked me to,
Though not imagining, dear friend,
That you had nearly reached the end
Until I looked at you –
So very thin, so very pale.
How could you not be gravely ill?
You said you were OK –
Some minor problem, sorted now.
Whatever else you feared or knew
You were not going to say.
No more envelopes from you,
Bold capitals announcing who
Had written us a letter.
Those letters were so generous
With warmth, intelligence and praise,
They made us both feel better.
I hope you knew how much it meant –