The St Stephen’s Hymn

[May be sung to the tune, Aurelia – ‘The Church’s one foundation’] 

St Stephen’s congregation
Is feeling rather cold.
Much to their consternation
The boilers have grown old.
The system has been drainéd
So heating is there none
And so we are constrainéd
To pray for lots of sun.

Before it was the heating,
We’d trouble overhead.
The roofs, they were all leaking
‘Cos someone stole the lead.
The church had pools of water
All covering the floor
But we gave them no quarter…
We’re water-tight once more!

There are some brand new speakers
To make our voices heard
We ought to call them ‘squeakers’ –
They shriek and whistle like birds.
And then there’s the Rose window
Breaking its stone away
We have to make it safe, so
It won’t fall out one day.

O Lord, we have this trouble
And we work hard to stop
Our church becoming rubble
With just a cross on top.
If this became reality,
Your Church would yet be whole
Because we would still praise thee
With heart and voice and soul.

[I wrote this as a filler for our parish magazine.]

Echoes from behind the Duty Room door

‘I’ve a sneezle and a snuffle
And a headache and the ‘flu
I’ve a bellyache, an earache
And constipation too.
A day in bed is what I need
To bring back all my pep.
What do you mean – it’s just because
I haven’t done my prep?’

‘Mother Nature’s come a-calling
And I really can’t do Gym
Just write me out a sick note;
I’ll be sure to hand it in.
Oh, did I say that last week?          
And the week before that too?
Me, ducking out of P.E.?
Oh no, that isn’t true.’

The Year Ten boys so big and tough
And really very cheeky
Are suddenly reduced to tears
And looking very peaky.
The girls are crying loudly
In a state of consternation
‘Oh what doth ail thee, one and all?’
The influenza vaccination!

‘I’ve come to you complaining
Of a nasty kind of bug
But what, in fact, I really need
Is a big maternal hug.
The problem isn’t caused
By the pimples on my bum
It’s that I’m really missing
Just being home with Mum.’

‘I made a flying tackle
And it’s caused my leg to break
Or maybe I’ve just sprained it?
I know it don’t half ache.
I do so like to see your face
Light up with joy and glee
At the thought of spending half the day
Down at the A & E.’

So, ****, your time is over
For dealing with the mumps,
The aches and pains and sickness
And all the lumps and bumps.

The halt, the lame and blind
Shall find they queue no more
To see our own **** *********
Behind the wooden door.

[I wrote this poem to mark the retirement of a school nurse. I have removed her name to spare her blushes. The ‘Duty Room’ was where morning surgery took place.]

Maiden Aunt

“Parents are not worthy,” cries the voice of Maiden Aunt.
“You never give them freedom. You just tell them that they can’t
Do what they desire, so to me you must entrust
The dear ones for an hour, for express themselves they must.”

There’s jelly on the carpet; Play-Doh smears the door.
Water from the kitchen has soaked the bedroom floor.
The cat won’t leave the pantry; the hi-fi’s in the loo.
There’s crayon on the lino and on the ceiling too.

“Such fun we had together and what inspiring play!
Children really flourish when you don’t tell them ‘nay’.
To be much less oppressive you really ought to try.
 – Stay and help you clear up? – Oh no, my dear, not I!”

Maths, Maths, Maths…

Down with old Pythagoras
And down with rotten Maths,
Down with Archimedes
And drown him at the baths.

If anyone had to do it,
I’d make sure it was me.
Firstly I’d wholly immerse him.
Then kick him up a tree.

When he had been disposed of,
I’d turn on old Pythag.
I’d drag him through a holly bush
And he’d come out like a rag.

 Now my pipe dream’s over
And I’ve nothing more to say
Except that Maths. still lives on
To be taught another day.

This poetic ‘gem’ I have just rediscovered because someone has posted an archive of school magazines from my senior school. This poem was in the 1967 magazine when I was in Form 2, the equivalent of Year 8.

Ode to a Lost Pantry

Oh! Former home of refreshment,
Provider of coffee and tea,
Oh! Haven for all weary souls,
Whoever they may be.

 Oh! Solace to many a driver,
Returned from jammed contra-flows
Oh! Refuge for careworn teachers
Taking time-out from classroom woes.

Here once all mop-weary cleaners
Could rest and take off their shoes
And have a bit of a chin-wag
And share all their Moyles Court blues.

Here high and lowly would mingle
From Bursar down to his hound.
A place for all to gather
And pass their mugs around.

And where are you now, dear Pantry?
Will we see your like again?
Or must the thirsty and weary
Be left out in the rain?

Another ‘school-inspired’ poem. The Pantry was a place where people could go to make tea and coffee, and socialize in their free moments. It has now been lost to redevelopment. I was asked to write a lament for its passing.

A Sonnet

The sonnet form is one so false and poor
That no-one but a fool would tackle it.
I fear that it defies all Nature’s law
To try to make the lines of verse to fit.
To those who cannot think in rhyme, it hurts
To force and mangle words to fit a verse
So firm in its demands. To ‘Fred’s and ‘Bert’s
Of good poetic bent, the dreadful curse
Of over-stringent rules applied to works
So full of thought and passionate declaim
Would seem rather the realm of plodding berks
Than that of men of literary fame.
Moral: (and this verse is based upon it)
Never, ever try to write a sonnet.

Salisbury Cathedral 1974

Past times a tale could tell
Of dedication, sacrifice;
Of days spent chipping,
Banging, carving,
The unrelenting rock.

What remains is nothing.

I am the hollow shell,
The empty tomb,
The all-adorned monument…
But celebrating nothing.

Within these walls
Our God dwelt once
At peace among his people;
They, forgetful,
Admiring stone,
Overlooked his glory,

But through the flash lamp’s lightning gleam
The face of God could still be seen.

II

A ticket issuing Judas
Counts silver into moneybags
And those who take the widow’s mite
Would also strip her of her rags.

Now our God has quit the place
And left inside a void and space
Once more our God has been betrayed
And once again good profit’s made.

Act of a Roman soldier can
Our blame no longer hide.
The Church has shown itself and plunged
The spear into His side.

Anthony S.Clarke (31.5.74)

Stonehenge

On a misty plain
They stand,
Gaunt, grey stones,
Listening,
Listening to the sounds around them,
The peaceful sounds of nature.

Night falls,
Night, dark night,
And speaks to the stones
And together they talk of older times,
When the stones, newly hewn,
Were erected by a primitive mind,
Which feared all,
Even the now quietly-whispering night.

A mind now dead,
The stones its only memorial.

Anthony S. Clarke  (1971)

Stonehenge Reborn

The night was cold,
The sky dark, forboding,
The rain drove, beating
At the stones
As they stood
Gaunt, grey and proud
In the lowering darkness.

The wind laughed:
“What fools you all are
To stand erect now.
You’re useless,
Unneeded.
Why don’t you
All lie down and die.”

The stones stood mute.

“Who worships here now?”
Continued the wind,
“Nobody…
Nobody.”

The voice faded
Away, into the night.

Dawn was breaking:
The light of day shone
With an awesome beauty.

People came,
Stood wondering
In the shadow
Of the towering stones.
Away from their work,
Away from their troubles,
People sat, and felt
The wonder
Of the place
Feeling the awe
And great power there.

The stones, quiet still,
Stood and thought on them:
“We are old and ugly.
No worship,
No godhead
Is seen here now,
But we still serve men,
As a temple
To their spirited mind.
Gone are the days of Pagan love,
But, through us,
Man still finds peace
In mind and spirit.”

The day had gone ,
The people with it,
And night had blacked
The open sky.

The wind came
And jeered again.
The stones stood silent.

Anthony S. Clarke   (March 1973)

The Shoppe-steward’s tale

Whanne that Aprille with hir over-time
Hadde maad us sike ynough to screme
We called durynge our seconde tee breke
A meetynge in whiche oure mindes to speke
So when we hadde alle our compaignye
Ygathered in the place where we have our tee,
l stoode up, and quod I thus,
“l thinke that what they’re payinge us
Deserveth nat that we shoulde worke
(Although we do our best to shirke)
And therefore I do you beseeche
That, until a paye agreement we reeche,
We shalle stage an officialle strike,
(And have a reste for a weeke)”
“Yes, yes, cried they, that shalle we do

For, indeed we are harde done to”
And so, alle, with one intente
Downed tooles and oute they wente.

A. S. CLARKE, VIB

This poem comes from a 1971 school magazine. By this stage I was in the Lower Sixth and studying Chaucer (badly). That’s Year Ten in new money.

The Snooker Player’s Valentine

Your lips are luscious ruby red.
Your hair is raven black.
Your skin, it glows a healthy pink.
Your cheeks no colour lack.
Your freckles are a golden brown.
Your eyes shine blue and bright.
No green about your nose is seen
No yellow teeth, just white.
Oh do not baulk my true desire.
Come meet me, right on cue.
For I am potted, stunned and racked
By my true love of you.

The Suki Cat

Suki’s the enigma cat, friend of ‘The Hidden Paw’,
For she’s the squint-eyed college cat that guards the college door.
She came from out of nowhere and soon became installed
As ‘Keeper of the College Porch’ (or so the job is called).

Her quest for erudition knows scarcely any bound
In any History lecture she is certain to be found
In seminars on Eliot she likes to take her part
She’s aiming for her S. P. A. (or Single Puss of Art).

She came to choir practice once, but didn’t stay for long
She really didn’t see the point of bursting into song,
But when the moon is in the sky and midnight’s past and gone,
Then Tom and she will wake the dead with songs both loud and long.

Her presence is a mystery, but never, never ask
The purpose of her mission; it’s a very secret task.
She’s not an 007 with fast, flashy cars to drive
She’s really best considered as a feline M.I.5.

Don’t let the purr deceive you – or the innocent demean’.
She’s an agent from the government, appointed by the Queen,
On a fact-finding mission­ aimed to make investigation
Of what happens to the money that they spend on education.

So, always be polite it you pass her at the door
And don’t make a fuss if she trips you on the floor.
Say ‘Sorry, Puss’ or ‘Pardon me’ and make no ‘if’s or ‘but’s
And B.C.T. won’t suffer from those education cuts.

Anthony S. Clarke (1975)

B.C.T is Bournemouth College of Technology. Suki, a stray, took up residence and was fed and watered by the students. 

To those who cannot wait their turn

The shadows of the dead crept by,
All coming from the War,
Not one of them did moan or cry,
At God and his vast weapon store.
While God upon his he’anly throne
Looked down with hardened eye
At all the souls, once flesh and bone
In life, which now had passed them by.

He showed them to a mighty room
Which had of doors, but two,
One to joy and one to doom
But which was which no-one yet knew.
With orders curt, he stood them up
In lines, one good, one damned
And all those who had drunk his cup,
Went right, into the he’anly band.

But, alas, those lesser souls
Whose faults were only mortal
Went left, down into fiery bowls,
Which stood without he’an’s mighty portal.

And so, all men (and ladies too),
Take heed of what I say:
When in he’an you join the queue,
Don’t barge and push others out the way,
Lest in your haste, you take a wrong turning
And spend eternity, slowly burning.

Anthony S. Clarke  (I973)