Lyra Westecott
Coo coo, cuckoo, so goes the cuckoo’s song,
coo coo, cuckoo, all day and all night long.
Place a pebble on your head and run as quickly as you can,
when it falls, go on home, but remember where you ran.
Gold and silver for all of those who ably trace their steps
and a coo coo, cuckoo, cuckoo, from the cuckoo in his nest.
Missus “Maddy” Madeline was the youngest of three girls,
her nose was crowed and crooked, her hair was brown and curled.
The eldest was a timid type and could never not be vague.
She’d worry, worry, worry and give herself an ache.
The second was a dancer, best in ballroom and in tap.
But mother never noticed her until her spine went snap.
The third was “Maddy” Madeline who wasn’t spoken of,
as if she were behind the dresser, a single saddened glove.
Her title Missus “Maddy” came not from just her name,
but also from the something soured they said was in her brain.
What exactly, I don’t know, I never once was told…
All I know is my great aunt Maddy is now sixty-years-old.
This giant wore a crown of eight great columns,
he’d two twinning eyes and one that was solemn.
A body of brick bore many more eyes,
some deeper in colour, some bigger in size.
He kept a watch on his head and his feet on the floor.
In lieu of two lips, his mouth had a door.
Up his great ankles of which, too, there were eight,
grew so many roses they mangled his gait.
This giant wore a crown made out of stone.
Stone too was his heart and so too was his throne.
I’ll place a single strand of hair between my finger and my thumb
May time showers pitter patter like sticks upon a drum
Four cawing crows piled neatly in a stack
Telling of a woman with a wickedly hunched back
The nuddy speckled trail did not know my name
But it gobbled up my fridgid feet greedy all the same
Eleven flattened broken hearts joined by one green stem
I thought of what dismal deeds must’ve broken them
I’ll place my lips onto my thumbs and puff an awful tune
Then I’ll close my eyes, click my heels, and hope to go home soon
A tired old gray with one rotten hoof
A heinous blackhound with a horrible woof
Up at the top of a rather tall hill
The mare and the mutt stood rather still
The horse wasn’t much more than a sack full of bones
and the dog’s little teeth were made out of stones
Watched by none other than a black and white cat
Sat by himself on his masters doormat
Hark, here comes the man with a necklace of keys
In his coat which is black and infested with fleas
He approaches the door and unlatches the lock
Then bends down to fetch something out of his sock
He pulled out one small silver smelly raw herring
Oh, what more morsels might he be bearing?
Oh, that herring did stink but the cat did not care
He didn’t care who brought it, how they’d got it, or where
First he looked up with eyes full of greed
Then he stated to moan, grumble and plead
So the man with the keys, coat, and the fish
Bid him farewell then bid him his wish
Gobble and gobble did do that cat
Gobble and gobble till that was just that
Vicious gnarled and twisted sat sad David in his cave
I’ll use my uncle’s hands to dig us four a grave.
Burials aren’t for the damned, says the hag with a crooked nose
She’d cursed a wretched restless sleep on the ones who’d spoke to crows.
It was known by all that our hounds hunted horses by the herd.
And our lunacy grew nasturtiums that were wicked and absurd.
in the garden with the pixies who gnawed on children’s toes
but where foxes roam, pigeons purr, and everything still grows
On the twenty third of the second month something odd occurred
Though to call it odd mightn’t do it justice, it was terribly absurd
To provide a proper frame of reference, it had been an early spring
The daffodils had begun to bloom, the chicks had learned to sing
It was early in the afternoon when their sing-song first had stopped
when the jingling bluebells jangles hushed and the daffodils heads dropped
A pit then pat then rat-a-tat was how it first begun
Pit-a-pat pitter-patter like sticks upon a drum
Beads of hardened hailstones fell faster from the heavens
First in groups of threes and fours, then in sevens and elevens
An a thousand feathered figure was wailing up above
A sorry sallow sobbing sad great enormous dove
Ba-dum-dum-dum drummed the tremendous beat
As the gigantic forlorn fowl grizzled grieved and greet
A rumble and a grumble then a great big loud crack
It was wet hard and cold, a bitter and bad black
Till as sudden as it had started, suddenly it had ceased
And nowhere to be seen was that poor heartbroken beast
The daffodils lifted their little heads and the blue bells rang once more
And the chicks started to sing just as they had done before
So thence it was all over, but twas not to be forgotten
That’s how this here poem did come to be begotten
A little yellow buttercup tucked under your bonny wee chin
Soon you’ll have an answer that’ll surely make you grin
Whether it is true is not is not for me to say
But the tickles and the giggles will surely make your day
There is somewhere up in the mountains where grows a wood of pine
Where mummies send their little ones who kick and cry and whine
Where the winds blow loud from the west and there are swallows from the east
Where skulks in a black feathered coat a part-woman, part-bird, part-beast
Her feet are big and wide and cracked in the map of a long lost maze
and leave monstrous marks on the forest floor as she stomps around to graze
Her eyes are round and yellow too, she’s got a third one on her back
which peeks around for bits of bones to pile in a stack
Waltzing and waltzing and waltzing to you
With two left feet and a pebble in my shoe
Curtesy and spin, with a slide here and there
My hands up to dance the ol’ grizzly bear
Twisting and twiddled, trot trot trot trot
My heels turned bloody and smelling of rot
Pat pat pat thump go my toes on the floor
My ankles are purple and can’t take much more
What was that snap? My shoe or my bone?
Crunch crunch crunch crack, I've trod on a stone
Spinning and spinning, step step step slip
Was that just your hand or a crack in my rib?
Shimmy and clap and crimson footprints
In circles and circles, my shins turn to splints
Out of my heart blood continues to spout
This waltzing of mine is tiring me out
Waltzing and waltzing and waltzing to you
Waltzing and waltzing with flesh turning blue
In a big o’ pot goes a glug of oil and so starts the nettle soup
Stirred thrice to the left, once to the right, then nine times in a loop
An onion for life, a carrot for luck, and a leek from the mountains of Wales
Next a potato, grown in the garden that houses the worms beetles and snails
tender and sweet, then in with the stock, a drop of blood, and for salt, of sweat
and of course, two of your tears, this you cannot forget
then it’s time for the nettles, picked and washed, by your hands they’ve left itchy and red
and a foot from a crow found in the field where a king used to bury his dead
last, a knob of butter, for good measure, and a clockwise stir from your wooden spoon
carved by your lover, under a tree, as he whistled a devoted tune
Then it’s time to serve up, with a loaf of bread so that your stomach really settles
And that is that, the grand old recipe for a splendid soup made of nettles
Sweet sterlings sing songs on ol’ Southover Street
Where little ladies lay dirt on their ol’ little feet.
They rub and they rub, then swallow the mud
Then jump off the hill and land with a thud
Fine fellows swap stories down ol’ Finsbury Road
Where a little ol’ lady once swallowed a toad
She chewed and she chewed then spat him back out
gave him a pat on the cheek and a kiss on his snout.
There once was a woman who lived in a bog
Who slept with the toads the flies and the frogs
She was in love with a man who didn’t love her
It was the saddest of sorrows that ever were
Every night she would cry wail and weep
And the bog went from shallow to deeper to deep
She had long silver hair that went to the ground
It dragged her down under and one day she drowned
Then years later there grew a black stump
That grew and grew into a trunk
Out of the trunk grew long silver hair
It was just like the woman’s, lovely and fair.
That is how the tale came to be
Of the weeping willow, the silver lady
“Caw caw” said one crow one day to the other
Then he plucked out one feather then two then another
He plucked and he plucked till there were none left
From the tip of his right wing to the tip of his left
Until he was naked, bleeding and pink
He jumped in the pond and started to sink
When he got to the bottom he took his last breath
And with that mister crow met mister death
I remember the horse and I remember it’s grave
and I remember it’s master, the poor man in his cave
I remember the sound of its body hitting stone
and I remember how its death left poor master all alone.
I remember its brittle bones and how they shattered right away
when master shot it dead that fateful night in May.
In Eva’s garden, in just a robe, on the island in the sea
Its ground has swallowed both my feet, its swallows sing to me
The blackbirds whisper their secrets into the poet’s little ear,
then he’ll scribble them down and recite them for everyone to hear
I’ll run around the warren that’s said to bring me home
and barefoot through the sister woods I’ll soon set out to roam
On the house that smells of saffron grows pink roses that’ll die,
so for now we’ll sit and watch the geese flying in the sky
The familiar nip of a night I knew when I was just a girl
Where the trees bore leaves of eleven ends that each end in a curl
The familiar flutter of copper flies nested in my gut
Who lined my throttle with rashes red and marked my mouth with cuts
The familiar twinge of the twisted bones of the woman in a velvet gown
Who lay on leaves that turned from green to red and then from red to brown
The familiar crunch of branches broke under the white wolves’ tread
Who ran along the river Humber which under did run red
The skies here are wider and swing back and forth
the black in the blue must come from up north
The ground here pulses under my cold little feet
and I ponder the monsters who under I’d meet
The green here is greener, must be the damp and the cold
I’ll count up the rings on the trees that are old
The roses here on their houses grow tall and grow vain
best beware of the curses their thorns do contain
The foxes here make noises that chill to the bone
but the wolf growls back and turns them to stone.
Young lovers waltzed in a circle of two
they danced and they danced, it was all they could do.
In the church at the top of too many stairs
they danced to the song, to the song that was theirs.
Their shoes were alive and wearing down quick
the attic was cold for the building was brick
the young lovers waltzed, I’d wish we’d waltz too
for now we both know that we’ll have to make do.
A craze of witches ran about.
From their throats came foul screams, for their mother, they’d shout.
For they’d seen the blood that perpetually ran.
They’d found the river beneath the river and, in it, they’d swam.
They’d slayed the beast and skinned him too.
But what to do with his corpse, they hadn’t a clue.
He had no bones, only great claws and a snout.
No fat, only muscles, and the rot throughout.
Soon mother arrived, stomach fat and feathers black.
Great wings that’d span the seas grew out of her back.
She’d take one look at the stiff and baneful soul.
And with one terrific gulp she’d swallow him whole.
O little one, don’t be afraid
The flowers will bring your color and the trees will bring your shade.
O little one, there’s no need to fret
The trees will protect you, don’t you forget
O little one, please do not cry
For the birds are your friends; crow, sparrow, and Mr. Magpie
O little one, I know the world seems big and you seem so small
but stay with me, little one, tucked under my shawl
in my garden where stones stick and witches sing their song
where the plums are so sweet and the days are so long
the pixies daren’t enter to nibble your toes, for I’d slay them, rest easy, this everyone knows.
O little one, there’s no need to weep
Shut your little eyes now and drift off asleep
There once was a lady who felt quite alone
Who made friends with the floorboards as she heard them groan
She’d tilt her feet up and down and scuttle about
The house on the hill was alive, ‘twasn't a doubt
It creaked and cawed, and tilted to one side
But it would pat her and coo her whenever she cried
It’s cupboards gave cwtch’s, it’s walls would wassail
But the cold from the windows would turn her skin pale
She plumped her pillows and made her bed
then snuggled beneath and rested her head.
She sewed pretty poppies with red on white
then she sewed all the birds she’d heard in the night.
She prodded her finger with a needle quite grim
then threaded glum birds all over her skin.
She soon fell asleep to dream a horrible dream
that her room’d filled with water from a sinistrous stream.
When she awoke she’d found that it had
so she cried and she cried, so terribly sad.
It flooded some more and turned into a sea
it soon gobbled up her every plea.
The weight of the tides soon splintered her bones
and the pillows she’d plumped turned quickly to stones.
Macerated and rotten was what she’d become
all because the needle of death pricked her poor pretty thumb.
On the little old island hugged by a cloud
Trotted foxes and magpies, the wood pigeons sung loud
Atop the big hill in the town by the sea
Sat a little old house, my granny, and me
The wooden balcony creaked and squeaked
from which, every night, every morning, I peaked
Tonight, behind the clouds, erupted a fire
then I saw the land and I heard a choir
“Ooh, ooh, ooh, oooh” whistled a western wind,
of a pair of red shoes and the wee one who, in them, sinned.
“Woosh, woosh, woosh, woosh” went the leaves up above,
dancing an old dance called The Heinous Turtledove.
“Caw, caw, caw, caw” caws the crow sat in the field
he sings of your bad fortune and a secret not revealed.
“Yip, yip, yip, yip” shouts old Mr. Fox,
He shounts and shouts and shouts and shotus for he’s lost both his socks.
“Wriggle, wriggle, wriggle” squirm the beasties down below,
as they check to see your laces are tied into a bow.
“Quack, quack, quack, quack” go the ducks in the pond,
they’ll show you their fine feathers and ask you if you’re fond.
“Eentsie, beetsie, eentsie” sings the spider from his web,
you think it’s you whose scared but it’s really him instead.
“Whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo” belts the pigeon of the wood,
about the things that used to be and the things that never could.
“Pat, pat, pat, pat” comes down the morning mist,
searching for a face like yours to lay its tender kiss.
“Clop, clop, clop, clop” go my feet upon the ground,
I stop to listen, but once I do, there’s no more clopping sound.
“My, my, my, my” I mutter to no one except for me
how miraculous a moment, how not at all lonely.
I eat my onions as if they were apples, they make my breath smell truly vile
When my teeth fall out I make sure to make a pretty pile
I eat my onions in their entirety, bite by bite by bite
Their skins are brown and peeling, their insides are raw and white
I wipe my face red and blotted, and munch skin, flesh, and root
‘cause I eat my onions as if they were apples, my own condemnable fruit
My fingers are green and my innards are gross
The fox in my garden is sitting too close
My grandad is cursed and I am as well
it’s a secret I swore that I would not tell
I’ve got snot in my veins and gunk on my tongue
My shadow ran away and the birds haven’t sung
Such deeds have been done under the tree growing figs
Where we set fire to the bones as if they were twigs
But I think of them not, I think just of myself
My grandad doesn’t either, he thinks of himself
Seven pretty tits make a family like ours
Six redbreast robins in the cat weeds’ blonde flowers
Five chirping sparrows in their hedge by the house
Four little owls munch on a mouse
Three frilly parakeets make for the ficklest of friends
Two portly pigeons with with handsome black ends
One kawking crow sat all alone
Up in the tree on his evergreen throne
Stood on the brick under greek gray and great green
Under great ghosts who linger from days unseen
Stood in the hall where the dead are kissed
Before they take rest in the fog and the mist
Stood in the park with the birds that are green
With the Queen’s horses and soldiers who all have been
Stood in the city which is lonely and gray
Tappin’ my foot, hopin’ to stay.
Something sinister ate my stomach but left me the rest
It left me my lungs and my heart in my chest
It left me my hands which quickly turned dead
It left me my legs, my feet, and my head
Then it ran to the woods just west of the house
And gobbled an owl who’d just gobbled a mouse
Then it ate a babbling baby right out of its cot
Something sinister ate my stomach but I don’t know what
When the shadows here are long the birds jump into the sky
Carnations are alit ‘fore the sun’ll say goodbye
Mother gull soars across and the littleuns flutter about
A rumble comes from the snore out mama hog’s little snout
her babes winge and whine and drink from their mother’s teet
and the girl climbs up the mountain and dirties her little feet
The ants on the ground climb up her toe to make a mountain of their own
and the sun with all her might settles into her throne
It’s a wonderful time to be in England,
Hark, the coming of spring
when snowdrops tip hats to friendly daffodils and the little babe birdies sing
great rains come down to pull up the violets and the worms wriggling in the mud
and supper is served for the wee little birds and they get their first taste of blood
what a wonderful time in jolly old England when winter first turns to spring
and up comes the green, the grass and meadows, the nettles with leaves that sting