Classic and Contemporary Poetry
NEW YEAR'S DAY, by JOHN DAVIDSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: This trade that we ply with the pen Last Line: Drinc hael! Subject(s): Drinks & Drinking; Holidays; New Year; Wine | ||||||||
Brian This trade that we ply with the pen, Unworthy of heroes or men, Assorts ever less with my humour: Mere tongues in the raiment of rumour, We review and report and invent: In drivel our virtue is spent. Basil From the muted tread of the feet, And the slackening wheels, I know The air is hung with snow, And carpeted the street. Brian Ambition, and passion, and power Come out of the north and the west, Every year, every day, every hour, Into Fleet Street to fashion their best; They would shape what is noble and wise; They must live by a traffic in lies. Basil Sweet rivers of living blood Poured into an ocean of mud. Brian Newspapers flap o'er the land, And darken the face of the sky; A covey of dragons, wide-vanned, Circle-wise clanging, they fly. No nightingale sings; overhead The lark never mounts to the sun; Beauty and truth are dead, And the end of the world begun. Basil Far away in a valley of peace, Swaddled in emerald, The snow-happed primroses Tarry till spring has called. Sandy And here where the Fleet once tripped In its ditch to the drumlie Thames, We journalists, haughty though hipped, Are calling our calling names. Brian But you know, as I know, that our craft Is the meanest in act and intention; You know that the Time-spirit laughed In his sleeve at the Dutchman's invention: Old Coster of Haarlem, I mean, Whose print was the first ever seen. Basil I can hear in that valley of mine, Loud-voiced on a leafless spray, How the robin sings, flushed with his holly wine, Of the moonlight blossoms of May. Brian These dragons that hide the sun! The serpents, flying and fiery, That knotted a nation in one Writhen mass; the scaley and wirey, And flame-breathing terror the saint Still manfully slays on our coins; The reptile hedge-artists paint On creaking tavern-signs; Gargouille, famous in France That entered Rouen to his sorrow; The dragon, Petrarca's lance Overthrew in defence of his Laura; The sea-beast Perseus killed; Proserpine's triple team; Tarasque whose blood was spilled In Rhone's empurpled stream; For far-flying strength and ire And venom might never withstand The least of the flourishing quire In Fleet Street stalled and the Strand. Basil Through the opening gate of the year Sunbeams and snowdrops peer. Brian Fed by us here and groomed In this pestilent reeking stye, These dragons I say have doomed Religion and poetry. Sandy They may doom till the moon forsakes Her dark, star-daisied lawn; They may doom till doomsday breaks With angels to trumpet the dawn; While love enchants the young, And the old have sorrow and care, No song shall be unsung, Unprayed no prayer. Brian Leaving the dragons alone - I say what the prophet says - The tyrant on the throne Is the morning and evening press. In all the land his spies, A little folk but strong, A second plague of flies, Buzz of the right and the wrong; Swarm in our ears and our eyes - News and scandal and lies. Men stand upon the brink Of a precipice every day; A drop of printer's ink Their poise may overweigh; So they think what the papers think, And do as the papers say. Who reads the daily press, His soul's lost here and now; Who writes for it is less Than the beast that tugs a plough. Basil Round happy household fires I hear sweet voices sing; And the lamb's-wool of our sires, Spiced ale, is a draught for a king. Sandy Now, journalist, perpend. You soil your bread and butter: Shall guttersnipes pretend To satirise the gutter? Are parsons ever seen To butt against the steeple? Brian, I fear you've been With very superior people. We, the valour and brains of the age The brilliant, adventurous souls, No longer in berserkir rage - Brian Spare us the berserkir rage! Sandy Not I; the phrase outrolls As freshly to me this hour, As when on my boyish sense It struck like a trumpet-blare. You may cringe and cower To critical pretence; If people will go bare They may count on bloody backs; Cold are the hearts that care If a girl be blue-eyed or black-eyed; Only to souls of hacks Are phrases hackneyed. - When the damsel had her bower, And the lady kept her state, The splendour and the power That made adventure great, Were not more strong and splendid Than the subtle might we wield; Though chivalry be ended, There are champions in the field. Nor are we warriors giftless: Deep magic's in our stroke; Ours are the shoes of swiftness: And ours the darkling cloak; We fear no golden charmer; We dread no form of words; We wear enchanted armour, We wield enchanted swords. To us the hour belongs; Our daily victory is O'er hydras, giant wrongs, And dwarf iniquities. We also may behold, Before our boys are old, When time shall have unfurled His heavy-hanging mists, How the future of the world Was shaped by journalists. Basil Sing hey for the journalist! He is your true soldado; Both time and chance he'll lead a dance, And find out Eldorado. Brian Sing hey for Eldorado! Basil A catch, a catch, we'll trowl! Brian Sing hey for Eldorado! Sandy And bring a mazer-bowl, With ale a-frothing brimmed. Brian We may not rest without it. Sandy With dainty ribbons trimmed, And love-birds carved about it. Basil With roasted apples scented And spiced with cloves and mace. Brian Praise him who ale invented! Sandy In heaven he has a place! Basil Such a camarado Heaven's hostel never missed! Brian Sing hey for Eldorado! Sandy Sing ho for the journalist! Basil We drink them and we sing them In mighty humming ale. Brian May fate together bring them! Sandy Amen! Basil Wass hael! Brian Drinc hael! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CUP OF TREMBLINGS by JOHN HOLLANDER VINTAGE ABSENCE by JOHN HOLLANDER SENT WITH A BOTTLE OF BURGUNDY FOR A BIRTHDAY by JOHN HOLLANDER TO A CIVIL SERVANT by EDMUND JOHN ARMSTRONG WINE by FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON BODENSTEDT THE GOOD FELLOW by ALEXANDER BROME WHEN A WOMAN LOVES A MAN by DAVID LEHMAN A BALLAD OF HELL by JOHN DAVIDSON |
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