‘Just as you will, my dear,’ said I;
‘And I thank you for your gold.’
So here am I in the wattled copse
Where all the twigs are brown,
To find what I need, to brew my mead
As the dark of night comes down.
Primroses in my old hands,
Sweet to smell and young,
And violets blue that spring in the grass
Wherever the larks have sung.
With celandines as heavenly crowns
Yellowy-gold and bright;
All of these, O all of these,
Shall bring her love’s delight.
But orchids growing snakey-green
Speckled dark with blood,
And fallen leaves that sered and shrank
And rotted in the mud,
With nettles burning blistering harsh
And blinding thorns above;
All of these, O all of these
Shall bring the pains of love.
Shall bring the pains of love, my Puss,
That cease not night or day,
The bitter rage, nought can assuage
Till it bleeds the heart away.
Pillycock mine, my hands are full,
My pot is on the fire.
Purr, my pet, this fool shall get
Her fool’s desire.
Frances Cornford
Fire, Burn; and Cauldron, Bubble
from Macbeth
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter’d venom, sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’th’charmèd pot.
Double, double toil and trouble:
Fire, burn; and cauldron, bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing.
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble:
Fire, burn; and cauldron, bubble.
William Shakespeare
The Giantess
Where can I find seven small girls to be pets,
where can I find them?
One to comb the long grass of my hair
with this golden rake,
one to dig with this copper spade
the dirt from under my nails.
I will pay them in crab apples.
Where can I find seven small girls to help me,
where can I find them?
A third to scrub at my tombstone teeth
with this mop in its bronze bucket,
a fourth to scoop out the wax from my ears
with this platinum trowel.
I will pay them in yellow pears.
Where can I find seven small girls to be good dears,
where can I find them?
A fifth one to clip the nails of my toes
with these sharp silver shears,
a sixth to blow my enormous nose
with this satin sheet.
I will pay them in plums.
But the seventh girl will stand on the palm of my hand,
singing and dancing,
and I will love the tiny music of her voice,
her sweet little jigs.
I will pay her in grapes and kumquats and figs.
Where can I find her?
Where can I find seven small girls to be pets?
Carol Ann Duffy
CLOTHES
My Sari
Saris hang on the washing line:
a rainbow in our neighbourhood.
This little orange one is mine,
it has a mango leaf design.
I wear it as a Rani would.
It wraps round me like sunshine,
it ripples silky down my spine,
and I stand tall and feel so good.
Debjani Chatterjee
My Hat
Mother said if I wore this hat
I should be certain to get off with the right sort of chap
Well look where I am now, on a desert island
With so far as I can see no one at all on hand
I know what has happened though I suppose Mother wouldn’t see
This hat being so strong has completely run away with me
I had the feeling it was beginning to
happen the moment I put it on
What a moment that was as I rose up,
I rose up like a flying swan
As strong as a swan too, why see how
far my hat has flown me away
It took us a night to come and then a night and a day
And all the time the swan wing in my hat waved beautifully
Ah, I thought, how this hat becomes me.
First the sea was dark but then it was pale blue
And still the wing beat and we flew and we flew
A night and a day and a night, and by the old right way
Between the sun and the moon we flew until morning day.
It is always early morning here on this peculiar island
The green grass grows into the sea on the dipping land
Am I glad I am here? Yes, well, I am,
It’s nice to be rid of Father, Mother and the young man
There’s just one thing causes me a twinge of pain,
If I take my hat off, shall I find myself home again?
So in this early morning land I always wear my hat
Go home, you see, well I wouldn’t run a risk like that.
Stevie Smith
Purple shoes
Mum and me had a row yesterday,
a big, exploding
howdareyouspeaktomelikethatI’mofftostayatGran’s
kind of row.
It was about shoes.
I’d seen a pair of purple ones at Carter’s,
heels not too high, soft suede, silver buckles;
‘No,’ she said.
‘Not suitable for school.
I can’t afford to buy rubbish.’
That’s when we had our row.
I went to bed longing for those shoes.
They made footsteps in my mind,
kicking up dance dust;
I wore them in my dreams across a shiny floor,
under flashing coloured lights.
It was ruining my life not to have them.
This morning they were mine.
Mum relented and gave me the money.
I walked out of the store wearing new purple shoes.
I kept seeing myself reflected in shop windows
with purple shoes on,
walking to the bus stop,
walking the whole length of our street
wearing purple shoes.
On Monday I shall go to school in purple shoes.
Mum will say no a thousand furious times
But I don’t care.
I’m not going to give in.
Irene Rawnsley
Red Boots On
Way down Geneva,
All along Vine,
Deeper than the snow drift
Love’s eyes shine.
Mary lou’s walking
In the winter time.
She’s got
Red boots on, she’s got
Red boots on,
Kicking up the winter
Till the winter’s gone.
So
Go by Ontario,
Look down Main,
If you can’t find Mary lou,
Come back again.
Sweet light burning
In winter’s flame.
She’s got
Snow in her eyes, got
A tingle in her toes
And new red boots on
Wherever she goes
So
All around Lake Street,
Up by St Paul,
Quicker than the white wind
Love takes all.
Mary lou’s walking
In the big snow fall.
She’s got
Red boots on, she’s got
Red boots on,
Kicking up the winter
Till the winter’s gone.
Kit Wright
Warning
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay the rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Joseph
BIRDS AND ANIMALS
The Prayer of the Little Ducks
Dear God,
give us a flood of water.
Let it rain tomorrow and always.
Give us plenty of little slugs
and other luscious things to eat.
Protect all folk who quack
and everyone who knows how to swim.
Amen.
Carmen Bernos de Gasztold,
translated from the French
by Rumer Godden
A Melancholy Lay
Three Turkeys fair their last have breathed,
And now this world forever leaved,
Their Father and their Mother too
Will sigh and weep as well as you,
Mourning for their offspring fair,
Whom they did nurse with tender care.
Indeed the rats their bones have crunch’d,
To eternity are they launch’d;
Their graceful form and pretty eyes
Their fellow fowls did not despise,
A direful death indeed they had,
That would put any parent mad,
But she was more than usual calm,
She did not give a single dam.
Here ends this melancholy lay:
Farewell poor Turkeys I must say.
Marjory Fleming
The Swallow
Fly away, fly away, over the sea,
Sun-loving swallow, for summer is done.
Come again, come again, come back to me,
Bringing the summer and bringing the sun.
Christina Rossetti
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!’
Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?’
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
‘Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?’ Said the Piggy, ‘I will.’
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
Edward Lear
The Frog Who Dreamed She Was an Opera Singer
There once was a frog
who dreamed she was an opera singer.
She wished so hard she grew a long throat
and a beautiful polkadot green coat
and intense opera singer’s eyes.
She even put on a little weight.
But she couldn’t grow tall.
She just couldn’t grow tall.
She leaped to the Queen Elizabeth Hall,
practising her sonata all the way.
Her voice was promising and lovely.
She couldn’t wait to leapfrog on to the stage.
What a presence on the stage!
All the audience in the Queen Elizabeth Hall
gasped to see one so small sing like that.
Her voice trembled and swelled
and filled with colour.
That frog was a green prima donna.
Jackie Kay
The Singing Cat
It was a little captive cat
Upon a crowded train
His mistress takes him from his box
To ease his fretful pain.
She holds him tight upon her knee
The graceful animal
And all the people look at him
He is so beautiful.
But oh he pricks and oh he prods
And turns upon her knee
Then lifteth up his innocent voice
In plaintive melody.
He lifteth up his innocent voice
He lifteth up, he singeth
And to each human countenance
A smile of grace he bringeth.
He lifteth up his innocent paw
Upon her breast he clingeth
And everybody cries, Behold
The cat, the cat that singeth.
He lifteth up his innocent voice
He lifteth up, he singeth
And all the people warm themselves
In the love his beauty bringeth.
Stevie Smith
The Song of the Jellicles
Jellicle Cats come out tonight,
Jellicle Cats come one come all:
The Jellicle Moon is shining bright –
Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats are rather small;
Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,
And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul.
Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces,
Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes;
They like to practise their airs and graces
And wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise.
Jellicle Cats develop slowly,
Jellicle Cats are not too big;
Jellicle Cats are roly-poly,
They know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.
Until the Jellicle Moon appears
They make their toilette and take their repose:
; Jellicles wash behind their ears,
Jellicles dry between their toes.
Jellicle Cats are white and black,
Jellicle Cats are of moderate size;
Jellicles jump like a jumping-jack,
Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes.
They’re quiet enough in the morning hours,
They’re quiet enough in the afternoon,
Reserving their terpsichorean powers
To dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon,
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats (as I said) are small;
If it happens to be a stormy night
They will practise a caper or two in the hall.
If it happens the sun is shining bright
You would say they had nothing to do at all:
They are resting and saving themselves to be right
For the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball.
T. S. Eliot