“Shall we go Parranda, Miranda?”
“Shall we go Parranda, Miranda?”
asked Prospero, with a wry smile.
“Father, you are all a lather,
if you think we can spend a while
in doing so. The answer, it is, ‘No!’ “
“Shall we go Parranda, Miranda?”
asked Prospero, with a wry smile.
“Father, you are all a lather,
if you think we can spend a while
in doing so. The answer, it is, ‘No!’ “
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Miranda, #poetry. #poem, #Prospero, #TheTempest, @Shakespeare
I hear your words,
as if they were echoes,
spiralling down
through the centuries;
and then realise that only days have past,
since your words were cast.
Douglas wrote it for Arthur to say,
that he couldn’t get the hang of any Thursday;
and I know what they meant,
and I know what they felt,
that upon a Thursday
all sense does melt,
and things seem all out of kilter –
perhaps the week
should have a Thursday filter.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #ArthurDent, #douglasadams, #poetry. #poem, #Thursdays, #Towels, h2g2
Small, with a long tale,
that it tells to its children
on cold Winter nights.
.
マウス俳句
小さく、長い物語があり、
それが子供たちに伝えること
寒い冬の夜に。
.
Mausu haiku
chīsaku, nagai monogatari ga ari, sore ga
kodomo-tachi ni tsutaeru koto
samui fuyunoyo ni.
As I was going to St. Ives,
I took a train,
where husbands, wives,
children, pets,
long lost goats,
mediaeval gents
with castles, moats;
and sundry other various types,
and then it rained,
it poured, and ‘Cripes!’
we all got wet,
and yet, we all were still upon that train –
open top?
Well, whether it was,
I’d still go there again.
One fine day,
towards the end of May,
Mouse was just wandering lonely,
‘like a cloud’ thought Mouse,
when all at once she spied
a Dandelion.
‘When is a lion
not a lion?’ asked Mouse,
of no-one in particular.
‘When it is a Dandelion.’
came a voice from above.
‘What is a ‘Dandelion?’
asked Mouse, ‘if it pleases you to tell me’ –
for Mouse was a very polite mouse.
‘I, am a dandelion.’ said the voice.
‘As any young mouse should know.’
Mouse looked up at the golden flower,
marvelling at the beauty.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mouse, ‘but I never went to Mouse School, and so I don’t know many things.’
‘Ah!’ said the Dandelion, ‘I never went to school, either; but, I talk to all the creatures
that pass by, and learn about the wide world from them.’
‘I don’t know any creatures, and nobody ever talks to me.’ said Mouse sadly – a tear in her eye..
‘I am talking to you’, said the Dandelion, ‘and I can be your friend. I will tell you of all the things that I have been told.’
Mouse looked up at Dandelion, with a different tear in her eye. ‘Could you? Would you? That would be so nice of you.’
Dandelion looked fondly at the Mouse, ‘I am only here for a short time – much shorter than your time will be – so I shall firstly tell you the names of all the birds and other creatures of flight, the insects, flowers, and the growing things that are nearby, then you can say hello to them by their names, and they will also talk to you.’
‘Thank you.’ said Mouse.
And the lesson began.
The Bee sat upon the Flower
for just under an hour,
which was longer than usual, by far;
The Bee sang a song,
the Flower sang along,
(she joined in the chorus, ‘La la!’)
.
When the Bee flew away,
it was a much duller day,
thought the Flower, with a sigh and a tear;
‘but Bees must buzz on,
and the memory’s not gone’,
thought the Flower,
‘and the song was so lovely to hear.’
.
Then she sang the chorus
of that song once again,
much quieter than before,
and she sang it to all those that passed
in the Sun and the rain,
it could softly be heard
all day long, until night fell at last.
‘La la,
la la,
la la…’
Let the dandelions grow,
and let their seeds fly
wherever they wish to go;
and let the dandelions flourish,
nourish the tiny critters
that pop by to say ‘Hello!’.
Please, let the dandelions grow.
Sometimes,
a single word
is more than I can manage.
I saw a butterfly flying by;
flying by without a care;
flying by to I don’t know where –
I looked again,
he wasn’t there.
Mother?
What is it, Grace, darling?
What sort of bird are we?
I think that we are called, ‘starlings’, my dear.
Oh.
Is there a problem, Grace?
No. I just wanted to grow up and be a kingfisher.
Ah, the fisher king – such a fine colouring, almost as beautiful as yours, Grace.
Beautiful? I am a dull shade of slate grey.
Not when you are in the sunlight, Grace; then you are without doubt the most beautiful of all birds.
Really?
Definitely.