A Christmas Game

Prince Woltan Çaid he’d be here at dawn

But never appeared.
Cerdig, Chief of the Saxons came inÌead.

Arthur, King of the Britons,
Always Çaid

Cerdig reminded him of Rupert Davies in Maigret.

He arrived like a peal of bells

When heavy Çnow
Has Ìranded the congregation in a church with no eleÀricity.

Cerdig Çaid when he was aÇked, “There’s always truth,

And behind it lurks
Another Çomehow more elusive truth”—

Like Jack the Ripper waiting for the Salvation Army band

To finiÇh Silent Night

Before he goes to add a little quiet to the evening.

Had Prince Woltan appointed Cerdig to appear

On his behalf,

Or had Cerdig Çeen to it that Woltan would never more

Come to Camelot at ChriÌmas time,

Nor e’er Çee the bright day break

Like a blessing o’er the Tomb of Gwaelod Gar?

His dagger was like a melting icicle

And he Çeemed as one

Who had drunk the fine ale of immortality.

“Thou art the lord of equivocation!”

Quoth Yorath,

Margrave of the Jutes-in-exile. “Sea-horses fear thee

More than men, la!” InÌead of Çilence,

Clear birdÇong

And the bleat of diÌant lambs Çeeped in

As from an older world that knew not men.

“It’s ChriÌmas,”

Whispered Cerdig. “I forgive all wrongs

Within my power to forgive—ay, Yorath,

E’en thine!”

Fate that day hung like a Ìring of indeciÇive pearls

On the throat of hiÌory—or nooÇe around

The neck of time.

The rising miÌ, the falling Çnow, the brazen Çmiles,

The rumpled Çheets, the blazing Çword, the hiÇÇ

Of resin flaring in the great hearth, 

The pealing bell, the broken limb, the healing kiÇÇ.

Casino Royale: Death Saves The Day

Brothels and baccarat: a fortune in figures,

A taste for the whip and a gift for addition:

Finances the union (all workers are liggers),

Pays for his pleasures and bankrolls ambition.

Arithmetic measures the pleasure of winning,

There’s no game to play if you know in advance;

It’s not Graham Greene, there’s no pleasure in sinning,

No sense of religion and an absence of chance.

But the law is not subject to rules he might play by;

The brothels are closed all over the nation.

World domination must wait in a lay-by,

Mr. No-Name takes stock with some stern masturbation.

With odds short against him he cleaves to the long game,

He’ll play at the table he knows he can’t leave,

Draw a bead on his quarry, James Bond—Mr. Wrong-Name.

Vesper Lynd is the card that he’ll keep up his sleeve.

SMERSH’s income sans brothels is vastly diminished:

The union laundered the money The Banker

(Their name for Le Chiffre) supplied—now he’s finished.

What use is he now that he’s nought but a wanker?

Death’s not familiar with Royale-les-Eaux,

Death loves a casino, Death loves a big bet—

And there’s something besides that Death doesn’t know:

Death has a double that Death’s never met.

James Bond laughs at fate and fears no man alive,

Obeys the dark summons with carefree aplomb;

Royale’s a long drive on D1015,
Just north of Dieppe, near the mouth of the Somme.

Vesper steps out of the cone of bright light

That sprays like a shower on the horseshoe-shaped table

As Death wanders in and sits at Bond’s right;

She’s unseen in the dark in her sheath of silk sable.

It goes badly for Bond from the very beginning,

Le Chiffre takes bank and he won’t be unseated;

The numbers keep coming, he knows that he’s winning

And he goes on and on until Bond is defeated.

“If you were a number I’d permit you to write a

Postdated cheque—to me all names are tox-

-ic, but especially yours— “ And up steps Felix Leiter

And bankrolls James Bond from the vaults at Fort Knox.

Bond seizes the moment—Fortune has spoken:

His cards are delivered from baccarat heaven

And in just ninety minutes Le Chiffre is broken:

“You wanted a wanted a number? How’s this—007?”

Death smiles with relief—there’s a plot at last shaping

That’ll give him the space to perform his stern duty.

But the flash of a gun in the dark leaves him gaping—

A glimpse of a scream, a terrible beauty!

Vesper Lynd has been kidnapped, Bond goes to save her,

He’s captured and tortured by Le Chiffre, who’d kill him, 

But an agent from SMERSH comes and murders Le Chiffre:

Before killing the agent, Bond takes time to grill him.

Vesper comes to visit, Bond slowly recovers—

Healing takes time and she takes the trouble;

Bond takes the bait and soon they are lovers;

And when Death comes to visit, he encounters his double.

                     *            *            *

The road out of Samarra has only one lay-by,

Le Chiffre awaits you with his whip and his bell.

It was Death who created the rules that you play by;

The road from Samarra will take you to hell.

Vesper Lynd is a dish that’s best eaten cold.

In the morning she’s lying quite cold in her bed,

And Death’s having breakfast, a pleasure untold,

And Bond’s on the blower to London: “The bitch is dead.”

One For Robert Aickman

We moved here in June two years ago,

When the leaves were thick on the boughs

Of the oak tree in my neighbour’s garden.

The tree’s much older than the neighbourhood.

Maybe there was once a forest here,

Or a park belonging to great house that’s disappeared.

When winter came, I noticed the remains of an old tree house

High up in its bare branches. My neighbour took a long ladder

And pushed the pieces down with an old hockey stick.

This winter I saw the ruins of another ancient dwelling in the tree.

This time I was standing below when my neighbour went up the ladder.

He shouted, “Heads!” and showered me with fragments.

Scattered amongst the debris there were bones

And three human skulls. My neighbour came down the ladder

And poked about with his hockey stick. “Three this year,” he said.

“Most years there are only two. Once there were four.

Never one.” He picked up a little shinbone - “Children, you see” -

And put it in a nearby wheelbarrow.

We piled the other human remains into the wheelbarrow

And took them to a large shed at the bottom of the garden.

He opened the door and turned on the light. “Look,” he said.

On every wall there were shelves from floor to ceiling

And neat little piles of bones in rows on every shelf.

Each skull faced out, with forearms crossed in front,

And each collection - each child - was labelled: date and gender.

My neighbour’s lived there all his life - his father built the house.

“There’s not much else I can do, is there?” he said,

And I told him I thought he’d done everything he could.

Roger Moore In Octopussy

The queue to see Roger Moore in Octopussy

Swells in the rain like a corpse left in a swimming-pool.

When night falls like a bad hand of cards,

Provoking in some an inexplicable fear of catastrophic loss,

In others a thirst for strong drink

Followed by Roger Moore in Octopussy,

I wait outside the Essoldo, squinting

In the rain, as one would squint in disbelief at Sean Connery,

If the ticket booth were an Aston Martin DB III and he were at the wheel,

And I say, “One in the stalls for Roger Moore in Octopussy, please,                 Mr. Bond.”

The Queue Outside The Essoldo

The queue outside the Essoldo is praying that Hugo Drax

Will succeed in his efforts to provide an amusing death for Roger Moore.

When night falls like Roger Moore's trousers

Over a pair of well-polished Oxford shoes,

Awakening in some an interest in Argyll socks

And coaxing others to queue outside the Essoldo,

I head for the saloon bar of the Lamb & Flag, entering

Warily, as one would enter a centrifuge chamber,

If the centrifuge chamber were Les Misérables and Victor Hugo were                behind the bar,

And I say, "Mon vieux, I can no longer queue outside the Essoldo."

August: A Time For Cheese

We know he hates Shelley and Byron and Keats

But harbours a soft spot for Milton;

So what does he eat when he reads, one may ask:

Ricotta, Manchego or Stilton?

Possibly the Abbaye du Mont des Cats

Or else a Port Salut;

Or, if he’s going for pungency,

A Chaumes or the Danish Blue.

He’s known to loathe Leerdammer

But takes a Camembert

On those occasions when they’re out

Of Pouligny Saint Pierre.

Caerphilly he’s indifferent to

But nothing makes him ruder

Than dinner parties where the host

Forgets to serve the gouda.

In short, his tastes are catholic,

Like Jesus in the manger;

The cheeses make him strong so he

Can shield us all from danger.