25 december mmvi

in time the rain will halt the golden sun
return to brighten both the sky and mind
what we do this day though is remind
ourselves of all the good that we have won
the course of the year we know is nearly run
but we do not yet look at what's behind
nor recollect for now each tiring daily grind
for now our tasks are completed and done
to rest to take our ease is not a simple job
we want to do to act in some way to create
the things that remind us that duty's ever near
but today it's different we should not play hob
with matters of our destiny we must leave fate
to her own service but for now put off all fear

listening to the radio

the day's a sort of magic time-machine
in which a host of memories appear
an ancient sort of dance perhaps beguine
appropriate for this chill time of year
outside the grey continues unrelieved
not shadows form on any of our walls
but somehow we know all undeceived
that we are on the path to fairy halls
let rain fall spirits will not be damped
nor ills and fevers reach us on this day
instead unease will be here firmly clamped
and there'll be time enough for fun and play
let us now in this fine moment pause
listen to the pleasant music give applause

les belles dames du temps jadis

Where's Juliet, that Italian dame,
whom Shakespeare gave immortal fame?
Where's Gloriana, the bard's great Queen?
It's a long time since ever she was seen.
Where's Ninon whose memoirs seem to burn?
None of these ladies now will ever return.
Where's the Armouress? And, as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's Aphra Behn, who once so fine did write?
Where's Milton's wife, who the great poet did spite?
Where's Lady Winchelsea? I must enquire.
It seems that all have gone into the fire.
Where's Fanny Burney, who though rather short,
gave finest service to the King at court?
Where's that barmaid? And, as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's George Sand, who disguised as a man,
seduced both women and that chap Chopin?
Where's George Eliot, who, and it's a loss,
covered up the name of Mary Ann Cross?
Where's Harriet Stowe, who thought slavery a sin
and told us all in Uncle Tom's Cabin?
Where's that hot whore? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's Hanna Arendt, who against the night
looked to the ancient Greeks for proper light?
Where's Beauvoir, who continues still to vex
all sexists who must read The Second Sex
Where's Angela Carter, she who lightly wrote
such things as many men would blush to quote?
Where's Anaïs Nin? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Princess, who sits and watches at the gate,
keep us from falling into most ignoble fate.
We wish we'd known great ladies such as these,
but Dame Nature has set us as she must please.
Where's dear Mae West? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?