Here we are again, on yet another foray into the strange, but not forbidden land of mildly humorous, or even thought-provoking poetry.
The latest – seventh – book in our series is 'Too Many Cooks have a Silver Lining'. We take it that any book with this title would just have to be written, if only to alleviate the suffering of all the cooks in all the world who are labouring unrecognised, oppressed by the sad condition of their lining, turning silver as it has – and at such a young age in most cases. We are proud to place them at front and centre in the healing rays of our spotlight.
Our tradition is of writing about such annoying afflictions, and other unusual ideas, as a possible defence against the recent dreadful encroachments of so many modern concepts and devices, which care little for the real human suffering of a prematurely aged silver lining most likely – and which militate mercilessly against our common humanity.
In this context I would mention all forms of computing, the internet, mobile phones, and of course the ubiquitous social media. Now we are also faced with the menace of artificial intelligence (A I). Well, when I was young, A I was something pigs received occasionally, but we need say little more about that I expect! Instead of talking to a robot though, or 'chatbot' even, on the phone, say – all of which seem singularly badly informed and practically useless - would you not prefer a cheery chat with a real specimen of Homo sapiens, one of your own kind? As we all know, such genuine communications become daily more difficult to achieve, and we are left angry, screaming and staring at an empty whisky bottle.
The answer is to rise above all this and reach for the exalted realm of genuine humour – something better understood by pigs (receiving A I) than by robots no doubt. You could be reading about making tea on the moon, or about the lady who lived in an apple tree, or about what to do if your doctor is really a vampire in disguise – likely if they are attracted to red liquids!
The 33 poems in the book are brilliantly illustrated in full colour by Reine Mazoyer, the excellent French artist, and there are explanations in French of all the poems at the back, for those who want to test out their French skills.
We really hope you enjoy our latest book – and are even able to banish that unwanted silver lining perhaps!
DOCTOR DOCTOR
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
I may be very ill – I just don't know;
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
Lovesickness strikes at every time of day;
Let's hope in this dark room it fails to show.
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
I think about you when the sky is grey,
And when the setting sun's an orange glow;
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
But now I see you acting in that play,
And when you speak, my heart thumps to and fro.
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
Sometimes you seem to smile and look my way;
In all those faces, do you see me though?
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
I want to shout: 'I love you, come what may';
Rip off your things – make love in this back row!
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
This poem is a villanelle; it has an interesting form that Dylan Thomas used in his famous poem that begins: 'Do not go gentle into that good night', which he wrote in Florence in 1947.
A VILLAGE IDYLL
Oh, sing me a song of Carlton Scroop,
Or tell me a tale from Sibford Gower;
These have I seen and surely loved,
Caught by the clock at the wishing hour.
The wind may rise and the rain may fall –
But Sutton Courtenay's without compare,
And in the glad heart of Great Budworth now,
You're sure to encounter a smile, not a glare.
Whitchurch Canonicorum I say –
But in a hushed whisper, quiet as a ghost;
It's calm and serene, a secret retreat,
And time drops off slowly on corner and close.
Pass me your flute, that I might play a note
In praise of a place that's so seldom seen:
The old White Swan's open, and calling to all
Who follow their footsteps to Gressenhall Green.
Clodock, Hoarwithy, ancient Port Isaac,
Sixpenny Handley and Piddletrenthide –
Aged in old bitter, and willow and leather;
No, never just give them a berth that is wide.
Zeal Monachorum, Castle Combe and Broad Chalke,
Langton Matravers and Wootton Fitzpaine –
Music and dancing round maypoles at Whitsun,
With singing and quaffing in sun or in rain.
These and such places are left of old England:
Choirs in flint churches, good beer at the pub –
Cricket on Sundays, summer fields full of wheat;
But how long can they last? Well aye, there's the rub.
As soon there'll be robots, marching in step,
In charge of our country, up hill and down dale –
But what will they do with a bat and a ball,
And how will they deal with a pint of old ale?
THE LOVE OF MONEY
Money talks, it's often said,
But can it hear as well?
And can it see all day and night,
And have a sense of smell?
If so, it's close, you must agree,
To being humankind –
Even if it has no legs,
No arms or cute behind.
But money's hard to find these days,
And fails to grow on trees –
Nor is it glinting in the grass,
Or tinkling on the breeze.
So can we hope, if hope it is,
That in a secret place,
Our money has those special bits
You don't find on your face?
You know the bits I mean, I'm sure;
They're always in the news –
And they're the ones they'll have to use,
To help them reproduce.
I do hope there are not many readers out there who need to rely on the rather desperate method described above for attempting to improve their financial situation. It would indeed be the triumph of hope over experience!
TWIGS
I have no dog, nor even cat,
Nor yet a plump and cuddly rat,
And goats just never come my way,
Though bison do, but never stay.
The only fish I ever see
Are fried or grilled in time for tea,
And camels, resting in a zoo
Might just as well be in Peru.
Sheep are weighed down with their wool –
A pity, as I think they're cool,
But never do they find the time
To just pop round – it's such a crime.
You'd think a lion might make a call;
The jungle after all, must pall –
But no, it seems too much to ask:
A one-bed flat's no place to bask!
I'd even take on board a while,
A friendly sort of crocodile –
Or could an elephant be good?
I think sometimes maybe it would.
Twigs (continued)
The more I mull my desperate plight
Of living with no sound or sight
Of animals to fill my day –
The more I'm grateful for my stray.
Not dog or cat, as said just now,
And not a mooing, milking cow,
But weirdly, beating all the odds –
There's one strange beast sent by the gods.
She came one day as darkness fell,
And did not seem completely well;
Her legs were twisted, thin and green,
But now they sport a handsome sheen.
She lives on lettuce leaves and love;
Her lifestyle fits her like a glove.
We always laugh and joke all day –
It seems the perfect life, I'd say.
My true companion, through the years –
She helps me face my doubts and fears.
She loves to climb my back and neck:
She's Twigs, my lovely stick insect.
DOCTOR DOCTOR
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
I may be very ill – I just don't know;
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
Lovesickness strikes at every time of day;
Let's hope in this dark room it fails to show.
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
I think about you when the sky is grey,
And when the setting sun's an orange glow;
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
But now I see you acting in that play,
And when you speak, my heart thumps to and fro.
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
Sometimes you seem to smile and look my way;
In all those faces, do you see me though?
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
I want to shout: 'I love you, come what may';
Rip off your things – make love in this back row!
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
This poem is a villanelle; it has an interesting form that Dylan Thomas used in his famous poem that begins: 'Do not go gentle into that good night', which he wrote in Florence in 1947.
A VILLAGE IDYLL
Oh, sing me a song of Carlton Scroop,
Or tell me a tale from Sibford Gower;
These have I seen and surely loved,
Caught by the clock at the wishing hour.
The wind may rise and the rain may fall –
But Sutton Courtenay's without compare,
And in the glad heart of Great Budworth now,
You're sure to encounter a smile, not a glare.
Whitchurch Canonicorum I say –
But in a hushed whisper, quiet as a ghost;
It's calm and serene, a secret retreat,
And time drops off slowly on corner and close.
Pass me your flute, that I might play a note
In praise of a place that's so seldom seen:
The old White Swan's open, and calling to all
Who follow their footsteps to Gressenhall Green.
Clodock, Hoarwithy, ancient Port Isaac,
Sixpenny Handley and Piddletrenthide –
Aged in old bitter, and willow and leather;
No, never just give them a berth that is wide.
Zeal Monachorum, Castle Combe and Broad Chalke,
Langton Matravers and Wootton Fitzpaine –
Music and dancing round maypoles at Whitsun,
With singing and quaffing in sun or in rain.
These and such places are left of old England:
Choirs in flint churches, good beer at the pub –
Cricket on Sundays, summer fields full of wheat;
But how long can they last? Well aye, there's the rub.
As soon there'll be robots, marching in step,
In charge of our country, up hill and down dale –
But what will they do with a bat and a ball,
And how will they deal with a pint of old ale?
THE LOVE OF MONEY
Money talks, it's often said,
But can it hear as well?
And can it see all day and night,
And have a sense of smell?
If so, it's close, you must agree,
To being humankind –
Even if it has no legs,
No arms or cute behind.
But money's hard to find these days,
And fails to grow on trees –
Nor is it glinting in the grass,
Or tinkling on the breeze.
So can we hope, if hope it is,
That in a secret place,
Our money has those special bits
You don't find on your face?
You know the bits I mean, I'm sure;
They're always in the news –
And they're the ones they'll have to use,
To help them reproduce.
I do hope there are not many readers out there who need to rely on the rather desperate method described above for attempting to improve their financial situation. It would indeed be the triumph of hope over experience!
TWIGS
I have no dog, nor even cat,
Nor yet a plump and cuddly rat,
And goats just never come my way,
Though bison do, but never stay.
The only fish I ever see
Are fried or grilled in time for tea,
And camels, resting in a zoo
Might just as well be in Peru.
Sheep are weighed down with their wool –
A pity, as I think they're cool,
But never do they find the time
To just pop round – it's such a crime.
You'd think a lion might make a call;
The jungle after all, must pall –
But no, it seems too much to ask:
A one-bed flat's no place to bask!
I'd even take on board a while,
A friendly sort of crocodile –
Or could an elephant be good?
I think sometimes maybe it would.
Twigs (continued)
The more I mull my desperate plight
Of living with no sound or sight
Of animals to fill my day –
The more I'm grateful for my stray.
Not dog or cat, as said just now,
And not a mooing, milking cow,
But weirdly, beating all the odds –
There's one strange beast sent by the gods.
She came one day as darkness fell,
And did not seem completely well;
Her legs were twisted, thin and green,
But now they sport a handsome sheen.
She lives on lettuce leaves and love;
Her lifestyle fits her like a glove.
We always laugh and joke all day –
It seems the perfect life, I'd say.
My true companion, through the years –
She helps me face my doubts and fears.
She loves to climb my back and neck:
She's Twigs, my lovely stick insect.
DOCTOR DOCTOR
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
I may be very ill – I just don't know;
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
Lovesickness strikes at every time of day;
Let's hope in this dark room it fails to show.
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
I think about you when the sky is grey,
And when the setting sun's an orange glow;
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
But now I see you acting in that play,
And when you speak, my heart thumps to and fro.
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
Sometimes you seem to smile and look my way;
In all those faces, do you see me though?
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
I want to shout: 'I love you, come what may';
Rip off your things – make love in this back row!
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
This poem is a villanelle; it has an interesting form that Dylan Thomas used in his famous poem that begins: 'Do not go gentle into that good night', which he wrote in Florence in 1947.
A VILLAGE IDYLL
Oh, sing me a song of Carlton Scroop,
Or tell me a tale from Sibford Gower;
These have I seen and surely loved,
Caught by the clock at the wishing hour.
The wind may rise and the rain may fall –
But Sutton Courtenay's without compare,
And in the glad heart of Great Budworth now,
You're sure to encounter a smile, not a glare.
Whitchurch Canonicorum I say –
But in a hushed whisper, quiet as a ghost;
It's calm and serene, a secret retreat,
And time drops off slowly on corner and close.
Pass me your flute, that I might play a note
In praise of a place that's so seldom seen:
The old White Swan's open, and calling to all
Who follow their footsteps to Gressenhall Green.
Clodock, Hoarwithy, ancient Port Isaac,
Sixpenny Handley and Piddletrenthide –
Aged in old bitter, and willow and leather;
No, never just give them a berth that is wide.
Zeal Monachorum, Castle Combe and Broad Chalke,
Langton Matravers and Wootton Fitzpaine –
Music and dancing round maypoles at Whitsun,
With singing and quaffing in sun or in rain.
These and such places are left of old England:
Choirs in flint churches, good beer at the pub –
Cricket on Sundays, summer fields full of wheat;
But how long can they last? Well aye, there's the rub.
As soon there'll be robots, marching in step,
In charge of our country, up hill and down dale –
But what will they do with a bat and a ball,
And how will they deal with a pint of old ale?
THE LOVE OF MONEY
Money talks, it's often said,
But can it hear as well?
And can it see all day and night,
And have a sense of smell?
If so, it's close, you must agree,
To being humankind –
Even if it has no legs,
No arms or cute behind.
But money's hard to find these days,
And fails to grow on trees –
Nor is it glinting in the grass,
Or tinkling on the breeze.
So can we hope, if hope it is,
That in a secret place,
Our money has those special bits
You don't find on your face?
You know the bits I mean, I'm sure;
They're always in the news –
And they're the ones they'll have to use,
To help them reproduce.
I do hope there are not many readers out there who need to rely on the rather desperate method described above for attempting to improve their financial situation. It would indeed be the triumph of hope over experience!
TWIGS
I have no dog, nor even cat,
Nor yet a plump and cuddly rat,
And goats just never come my way,
Though bison do, but never stay.
The only fish I ever see
Are fried or grilled in time for tea,
And camels, resting in a zoo
Might just as well be in Peru.
Sheep are weighed down with their wool –
A pity, as I think they're cool,
But never do they find the time
To just pop round – it's such a crime.
You'd think a lion might make a call;
The jungle after all, must pall –
But no, it seems too much to ask:
A one-bed flat's no place to bask!
I'd even take on board a while,
A friendly sort of crocodile –
Or could an elephant be good?
I think sometimes maybe it would.
Twigs (continued)
The more I mull my desperate plight
Of living with no sound or sight
Of animals to fill my day –
The more I'm grateful for my stray.
Not dog or cat, as said just now,
And not a mooing, milking cow,
But weirdly, beating all the odds –
There's one strange beast sent by the gods.
She came one day as darkness fell,
And did not seem completely well;
Her legs were twisted, thin and green,
But now they sport a handsome sheen.
She lives on lettuce leaves and love;
Her lifestyle fits her like a glove.
We always laugh and joke all day –
It seems the perfect life, I'd say.
My true companion, through the years –
She helps me face my doubts and fears.
She loves to climb my back and neck:
She's Twigs, my lovely stick insect.
DOCTOR DOCTOR
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
I may be very ill – I just don't know;
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
Lovesickness strikes at every time of day;
Let's hope in this dark room it fails to show.
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
I think about you when the sky is grey,
And when the setting sun's an orange glow;
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
But now I see you acting in that play,
And when you speak, my heart thumps to and fro.
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
Sometimes you seem to smile and look my way;
In all those faces, do you see me though?
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
I want to shout: 'I love you, come what may';
Rip off your things – make love in this back row!
Is there a doctor in the house? Please say.
The pain in my heart just won't go away.
This poem is a villanelle; it has an interesting form that Dylan Thomas used in his famous poem that begins: 'Do not go gentle into that good night', which he wrote in Florence in 1947.
A VILLAGE IDYLL
Oh, sing me a song of Carlton Scroop,
Or tell me a tale from Sibford Gower;
These have I seen and surely loved,
Caught by the clock at the wishing hour.
The wind may rise and the rain may fall –
But Sutton Courtenay's without compare,
And in the glad heart of Great Budworth now,
You're sure to encounter a smile, not a glare.
Whitchurch Canonicorum I say –
But in a hushed whisper, quiet as a ghost;
It's calm and serene, a secret retreat,
And time drops off slowly on corner and close.
Pass me your flute, that I might play a note
In praise of a place that's so seldom seen:
The old White Swan's open, and calling to all
Who follow their footsteps to Gressenhall Green.
Clodock, Hoarwithy, ancient Port Isaac,
Sixpenny Handley and Piddletrenthide –
Aged in old bitter, and willow and leather;
No, never just give them a berth that is wide.
Zeal Monachorum, Castle Combe and Broad Chalke,
Langton Matravers and Wootton Fitzpaine –
Music and dancing round maypoles at Whitsun,
With singing and quaffing in sun or in rain.
These and such places are left of old England:
Choirs in flint churches, good beer at the pub –
Cricket on Sundays, summer fields full of wheat;
But how long can they last? Well aye, there's the rub.
As soon there'll be robots, marching in step,
In charge of our country, up hill and down dale –
But what will they do with a bat and a ball,
And how will they deal with a pint of old ale?
THE LOVE OF MONEY
Money talks, it's often said,
But can it hear as well?
And can it see all day and night,
And have a sense of smell?
If so, it's close, you must agree,
To being humankind –
Even if it has no legs,
No arms or cute behind.
But money's hard to find these days,
And fails to grow on trees –
Nor is it glinting in the grass,
Or tinkling on the breeze.
So can we hope, if hope it is,
That in a secret place,
Our money has those special bits
You don't find on your face?
You know the bits I mean, I'm sure;
They're always in the news –
And they're the ones they'll have to use,
To help them reproduce.
I do hope there are not many readers out there who need to rely on the rather desperate method described above for attempting to improve their financial situation. It would indeed be the triumph of hope over experience!
TWIGS
I have no dog, nor even cat,
Nor yet a plump and cuddly rat,
And goats just never come my way,
Though bison do, but never stay.
The only fish I ever see
Are fried or grilled in time for tea,
And camels, resting in a zoo
Might just as well be in Peru.
Sheep are weighed down with their wool –
A pity, as I think they're cool,
But never do they find the time
To just pop round – it's such a crime.
You'd think a lion might make a call;
The jungle after all, must pall –
But no, it seems too much to ask:
A one-bed flat's no place to bask!
I'd even take on board a while,
A friendly sort of crocodile –
Or could an elephant be good?
I think sometimes maybe it would.
Twigs (continued)
The more I mull my desperate plight
Of living with no sound or sight
Of animals to fill my day –
The more I'm grateful for my stray.
Not dog or cat, as said just now,
And not a mooing, milking cow,
But weirdly, beating all the odds –
There's one strange beast sent by the gods.
She came one day as darkness fell,
And did not seem completely well;
Her legs were twisted, thin and green,
But now they sport a handsome sheen.
She lives on lettuce leaves and love;
Her lifestyle fits her like a glove.
We always laugh and joke all day –
It seems the perfect life, I'd say.
My true companion, through the years –
She helps me face my doubts and fears.
She loves to climb my back and neck:
She's Twigs, my lovely stick insect.
TOO MANY COOKS HAVE A SILVER LINING
NOW AVAILABLE FROM
