Barnabas Rhymes Read online



  BARNABAS RHYMES

  by

  JOHN WOOD.

  Copyright 2014 John Wood.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction and Words

  In Irritation on being Disturbed by Noisy Churchmen

  Write Something!

  Church of St. Peter & St. Paul, Weobley

  Kate’s Funeral, Weobley

  Herefordshire and the West Country

  Slow-moving Hereford

  The Cotswold Line, October

  Returning Home from an Evening Event in London

  An Ageing Herefordshire Lad

  Photographing Sunflowers grown for the Pheasants

  Behind Village Events are the Femmes Fete-alls

  October Onwards

  To add Fluoride or Not?

  Solidly Built

  A Hoot of Hate or my Unfavourite Things

  Home and Hearth

  Morning’s First Love

  Prospects are so Changeable

  Missing from the Top Drawer

  Tiger Worms, or Composting for Beginners

  Hoping for Inspiration from the Computer

  Home Sweet Home

  Squirrel

  Youth and Love and all that

  Early School

  But Somewhat Later – William’s Lament

  The First Dance

  Adolescence

  Basic Philosophy

  Night Out

  Fleeting Encounter

  A Happier Ending

  Hero and Leander

  The Conductor’s Tale – In Love with the First Violin

  Woman!

  Strife and Worse

  A Miracle on the Western Front

  Prayer

  Listening

  Sport

  The Par Hole

  Snow

  World Cup Week

  A School Sport – the Non-Boxer’s View

  Feeling Iffy

  The Heads on a Small Yacht

  Home Port

  While on Another Board – Strife Personified

  Inland in a Norwegian Winter

  Life can be Very Hard

  Mother and Son

  Recipe for a New Mother

  Flight of the Empress

  Culture and Science

  Sfumato and the Mona Lisa

  A Mixed-up Lady

  All Life is Messages

  Anonymous Critic at the Globe

  A Real Discovery

  An Easy Riddle

  The Hedge-Layer’s Tale

  Dinosaur He Say

  John Snow

  Character Flaws

  Obsessions

  Bridesmaid’s Smiles

  Fear Walking into a Wood on a Winter Night

  The Golf Captain and His Lady

  Ghosts – Now You See Them, Now You Don’t

  The Gambler’s Final Fling

  Age and Experience lead to Cynicism

  Management Numbers or the Hospital Telephone Book

  Beauty in the City – the Bottom Line

  Bankers – March 2009

  Down the Strand

  The Old School

  Financial Transparency – Windows in the Square Mile

  Sky-Diving

  An Old Shopper

  Avarice

  Breakfasts after College Reunions

  Six Songs to Explain a Quango

  Happenings once Current

  Limericks after the 2005 Election

  Gleneagles, 2005

  Parting

  Parting Again

  Last Holiday Night

  In Memoriam

  An Absent Friend

  A Good Innings, Some Said

  Older Age

  Rag Bag

  Winter Snow – Limericks

  A Tricky Matter to Decide

  Sad Safari Tale

  Haikus

  Sonnetomania

  An Examination Taken in Middle Life

  A Legal Discussion – Many Words – How Much Sense?

  The Student of English Takes a Country Walk with his Girl.

  An Illegal Immigrant’s Life

  Further Loose Limericks

  Dormington

  Autumn Friends

  An Old American Organ in December

  Christmas Eve

  May 05 – Dormington Churchyard

  Bartestree Fete – 2009

  Family Stories and Recollections

  Mountain Walk

  Great Uncle George

  Winifred at Lyme View

  In the Council Chamber

  January 2000

  70s

  Fishing Today

  For Angus – Sept 09

  Gold is

  Penguins - Tom

  Theatre at Bath

  BWoo

  October 1999

  Holidays

  The Brown Pelican of Florida

  The Shuttle Leaves from Florida – 04.00 hours

  Iceland Water

  First Foss

  At the Althing, Iceland – 999

  Thorsmork

  The Great Skua – Now and Then

  Thanks to Maria and Helgi – Iceland

  Tallinn – Baltic Honeypot

  Thanks to Kath or Carry On Up the Madeira Picos

  Flight Delayed – A Long Farewell to Greece

  Breeze in the Gulf of Corinth

  Turkish Flotilla

  Lipari

  Declamations

  The Rock of Gibraltar

  To Minorca Mary - Ramblers’ Leader – Birds and Flowers

  Bush Rhymes from Brisbane

  The Karen Village Hut in Northern Thailand

  Crumpled High-Tension Pylons between Eperney and Troyes

  AOT – 2002

  Spanish Inn – 2010

  To the United Arab Emirates with Open University Geologists – 2001

  The Gulf – 2007

  The Beetle

  Zanzibar Shore

  The Turkish Pirate

  Dark Night in the Med.

  St. James’ Park

  Up from the Tube after the London Bombings in July 2005

  Gatwick

  Introduction and Words

  In the nineties I discovered Kate Jones’ writing group, and remained an appreciative member until her death. The class met one morning each week during term-time. For the first hour Kate would set a theme for us to write a short piece, or put together plans for a play or longer text, or perhaps discuss grammar or the nuts and bolts of writing. After coffee for another hour Kate would bring out homework we had given her previously and then read some of our homework to the class. Naturally each of us hoped that one of our efforts would be chosen. At the end of the morning she set the subject for next week’s homework.

  These sessions were enormous fun. Over the years we all aged, just possibly matured, and our writing improved. But often homework was only started on the night before the class so offerings were brief, and perhaps a bit of doggerel or a pseudo-sonnet. Kate might choose it to read if it was short and she thought it might amuse the group. Many of the rhymes or ditties that follow were either homework or written during a class, and some are very short – scarcely more than snippets.

  Words were Kate’s passion. She had a degree in English from Oxford University, and for many years was the editor and indeed wrote much of “Young Writer – The Magazine for Children with Something to Say”. She also published books for budding children authors. Some of her passion rubbed onto us:-

  Words

  A single thought, like love or fame or greed

  Propels my pen to place upon the page

  Words to express hot passion, or the need

  To blow my trumpet, tell of hate or rage.

  A single word, no frills but still be
spoke,

  Set wisely in a stanza makes it sing.

  Another word - a puny punning joke

  Will give the phrase a light or silly ring.

  One single noun, or adjective, or verb

  Can twist the meaning of a line of verse.

  The tricky word requires a careful curb

  For wit begets mistrust - there’s nothing worse!

  The clearest single message - To be heard,

  Always select a plain and honest word.

  We usually met in St. Barnabas Church Hall in Hereford. For one term we shared the building with frail and elderly philosophers who were perfectly quiet and well-behaved, but one morning we were distracted by rowdy clergymen in the next room. Anything can provide the germ for a ditty.

  In Irritation on being Disturbed by Noisy Churchmen

  Canons to left of them, Canons to right of them

  Into the clerical novels they ride -

  Anthony Trollope, and also Joanna,

  Plus Barbara Pym keep the genre supplied.

  The cloisters are swirling with hot atmospherics,

  Benches of Bishops with lusty young Vicars,

  Pompous Archdeacons and Deans with hysterics,

  Thoughts of preferment, the glimpse of white knickers.

  The Bishop’s wife rules, getting fatter and fatter;

  Gloomy young curates, repressed and morose.

  Whatever the matter they intrigue and chatter -

  Barchester Towers is the world in a close.

  So what is the place of the Anglican empire -

  Historical home for heirarchical males?

  Is it truly a rock for salvation or hell-fire

  Or mainly a quarry for clerical tales?

  Rich in eccentrics, the Church is a Godsend -

  Some zany or saintly, or lazy, or zealous.

  Canons to left of them, Canons to right of them, -

  Masses of models for many best-sellers!

  During the summer break Kate sometimes arranged a writing reunion in the home of a member of the group. One sunny morning in a lovely garden led to –

  Write something!

  They drove to Eau Withington, Ron, Dot and Kate

  Down a tiny thin lane, then they turned in the gate,

  While the white house looked down in its Georgian way

  On the writers who’d come to relive their Thursday.

  In time they got settled, the sun brightly shone

  And Kate said “Write something on Eau Withington.”

  Then frowns and anxiety furrowed each brow

  And they said “We’ve forgotten – don’t really know how.”

  At that Kate grew stern and she raised her sweet voice

  “Now look here, you slackers, you haven’t a choice

  If you don’t buckle down I may give you a punch,

  Or, worse, I’ll ask Ann to deny you the lunch.”

  So we all applied noses to grindstones and ink

  And put pen to paper as quick as you blink.

  The product of haste is a problem with rhyme,

  But I think I’ve used up my available time.

  (In the years I knew her I cannot imagine Kate punching anyone, but a word was needed to rhyme with lunch - scribbler’s licence.)

  Another summer session was held in Weobley Church next door to Kate’s home where we tried to concoct something suitable.

  Church of St. Peter and St. Paul, Weobley.

  A hum of quiet chatter in the nave

  Searching as others have for inspiration

  Among these stones, these lists, each ancient grave,

  Each pious monument or dedication.

  The lists of dead – that war we still call Great -

  Old vicars going back to Norman years.

  These stones mark centuries of faith and fate

  Of weddings, christenings, and tears.

  Steep Weobley’s spire spears over Weobley town,

  A landmark on the Tudor Village Trail,

  Best seen from Wormsley Ridge when looking down

  Set in its green rich prosperous farming vale.

  Preserved and cherished by the faithful few –

  (Much bigger congregations would be good)

  Although it lacks facilities – a loo –

  This splendid pile of stone and glass and wood

  Begun by Wibba at a frontier post,

  Originally timber, thatch and turfs,

  Was built again, t’would shock old Wibba’s ghost,

  In stone by Hugh de Lacy’s masons, serfs.

  Maintained and loved over a thousand years

  Today its spire stands high, foursquare and tall,

  Tribute to faith despite all sceptics’ jeers,

  The door below stands open - welcomes all.

  And it was at St. Peter and St. Paul’s Church, Weobley that early in 2011 we attended Kate’s funeral, to share our grief with her family and remember a wonderful person, friend and teacher.

  Our Kate was buried here one winter’s day

  The pews packed tight by many grieving friends,

  Beneath the trees across the churchyard lay

  White untouched snow, which black dug soil offends.

  We grieved for Kate’s young life, her sparkling wit,

  Constrained by wretched lungs, a struggling heart.

  We grieved for our own loss – those who would sit,

  Enjoy Kate’s writing class – play our small part

  As skilfully she led each writing day,

  Amused, instructed, coaxed each student’s spark

  To grow into a story, verse or play -

  Freed our imaginations, light or dark.

  This church, this graveyard, holds a mighty life,

  Outstanding teacher and a loving wife.

  So this collection of ditties, reflections and nonsense brings together many old personal memories and scribbles. Scarcely any would have been written without the pleasure and lift given by her teaching genius and friendship or if there been no classes and homework. A number reflect the cynicism and world-weariness of age. The many vulgarities and awkward rhymes are mine – parts that work better owe an enormous amount to Kate. A few items appeared in 2003 in “More Voices of Herefordshire - Anthology of Verse and Stories”, a collection of works from Kate’s group, and others in my local Parish Magazine.

  The second part includes family and holiday ditties with a few by family members who, like me, would probably never have tried without Kate’s direct or indirect stimulus.

  Herefordshire and the West Country

  Herefordshire is deep farming countryside which grows apples, hops, and cattle particularly well. Along the Welsh border stand the remains of Norman castles which protected rich English villages from the Welsh who might descend from the heights of the Black Mountains and behind these defences slumber black and white half-timbered villages. The county’s main roads radiate from Hereford, and the city has lamentably failed to deal with ever-growing traffic.

  Slow-Moving Hereford

  There are few things more pathetic than a city glued in gridlock,

  With traffic stopped on Whitecross Road, at Belmont, Aylestone Hill,

  Cars queueing down at Redhill, and at Edgar Street a roadblock.

  The problem’s been discussed for years – the jams are with us still.

  Around the ancient City Walls the Wye flows west to east

  Spanned by one narrow ancient bridge and a single busy road.

  But one modern crossing’s one too few – there’s need for two at least

  With a north-south road to ease the jams, reduce the excess load.

  We must address this crisis and express our indignation,

  The trade will go to other towns where movement’s less impeded

  While countless hours in Hereford are wasted with frustration.

  So please insist to those with power, repeat until we’re heeded -

  “If you want to be rememb
ered for one single worthy deed,

  A bypass round this city is our first and foremost need.”

  The railways are less congested. Two lines serve Herefordshire, a north-south route and the Cotswold Line running east to Worcester, Oxford and London. To reach London by rail offers two choices – to travel via Newport and change to the speedy South Wales expresses, or take the gentler, slower, more civilised Cotswold Line. Some of this is single track and very liable to delays, while the last train home to Hereford leaves Paddington ridiculously early each evening, but the journey across the Cotswolds is far more attractive than the Newport alternative. There is no Adelstrop on the Cotswold line, but small stations which are quite similar.

  The Cotswold Line - October.

  Leaves on the line, dawn lifts reluctantly,

  Trees bare and windblown, grey, red and brown.

  Newspapers, workpapers, coffee and hot brunch rolls,

  Many asleep on the way up to town.

  Foregate Street, Shrub Hill, the buffet car opens,

  Pershore and Evesham and flooded Port Meadow,

  Oxford with dreaming towers, Didcot with steaming towers,

  Reading for Heathrow, John Betjeman’s Slough.

  Darker and greyer, more urban, industrial,

  Maidenhead, Ealing and Acton flash by -

  Approaches to Paddington, walls with graffiti on,

  “Take your belongings.” the loudspeakers cry.

  Commuters engulfing Brunel on his pedestal,

  Tides of pedestrians flood underground.

  The Bakerloo’s purple line, District and Circle Line,

  Deep under London, they squeeze round and round.

  City of Johnson, of Pepys, Wren and Wilberforce -

  Capital’s confidence written in stone,

  Engulfed by humanity, commerce and vanity,

  Ruled and abused by the portable phone.

  Once in the office, the shop or the factory

  Commuters endeavours have barely begun.

  Surrounded by millions and millions of Londoners,

  How many find that their labours are fun?

  At the end of the day on the train going westward,