This is a complete prescribed poetry text by WAEC as contained in the 2026-2030 syllabus. The poetry is for the Literature students in SS1 as from September 2023.
The poems are expected to be used by the examining body to set questions from year 2026. By implication, the current syllabus terminates in 2025. The National Examination Council (NECO), an examining body in Nigeria also makes use of the syllabus.
African Poetry
These are African poetry composed by African Poets and recommended by WAEC.
Once Upon a Time- Gabriel Okara
Once upon a time, son
they used to laugh with their hearts
and laugh with their eyes:
but now they only laugh with their teeth
while their ice-block-cold eyes
search behind my shadow.
There was a time indeed
they used to shake hands with their hearts:
but that’s gone, son.
Now they shake hands without hearts:
while their left hands search
my empty pockets.
‘Feel at home!’ ‘Come again:’
they say, and when I come
again and feel
at home, once, twice
there will be no thrice-
for then I find doors shut on me.
So I have learned many things, son.
I have learned to wear many faces
like dresses-home face,
office face, street face, host face,
cocktail face, with all their conforming smiles
like a fixed portrait smile.
And I have learned too
to laugh with only my teeth
and shake hands without my heart.
I have also learned to say, ‘Goodbye,’
when I mean ‘Good-riddance.’
to say ‘Glad to meet you,’
without being glad: and to say ‘It’s been
nice talking to you,’ after being bored.
But believe me, son
I want to be what I used to be
when I was like you. I want
to unlearn all these muting things.
Most of all, I want to unlearn
how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror
shows only my teeth like a snake’s bare
fangs !
So show me, son,
how to laugh; show me how
I used to laugh and smile
once upon a time when I was like you
New Tongue by Elizabeth L.A Kamara
They speak in a new tongue
And dance new dances
Minds battered into new modes and shapes
Their eyes revel in the wonder of the new
Embraced and bound hearts with impregnable chains
The old songs as disregarded dreams
Remnants of post.
Ties of family and friendship
Loosened, broken burnt
The ashes strewn into the bottomless sea
As fishes swim by
Careless of the loss
Mindful of where they dare
A new generation
Careless of bonds
Of family
Of tradition
Of heritage
They care not
Nor revere the old
Their minds turn inwards
Only inwards
Like the insides of clothes
That marry the bodies of mankind
Nor room for elders
No,
Not even on the edge of their minds
Their ears blocked to the old tongue
And ways of doing things
Glorifying in their newness of a borrowed tongue and culture
Every man
For himself
By himself of himself
A strange coldness descending like snow covered mountain
Or like bathing at the back of the house
On a rainy July day
The guts of wind falling trees
Carting roofs away
Tugging skirts
And swirling debris in the air
The borrowed shoes dance
Their borrowed minds parted the red sea long again
They hang the last lock on their culture
And glide into the future
Without a backward glance
Night by Wole Soyinka
Your hand is heavy, Night upon my brow.
I bear no heart mercuric like the clouds to dare
Exacerbation from your subtle plough
Woman as a clam, on the sea’s crescent.
I saw your jealous eye quench the sea’s
Fluorescence, dance on the pulse incessant
Of the waves, And I stood, drained
Submitting like the sands, blood and brine
Coursing to the roots. Night you rained
Serrated shadows through dank leaves
Till bathed in warm suffusion of your dappled cells
Sensations pained me, faceless, silent as night
Hide me now, when night children haunt the earth
I must hear none! These misted cells will yet
Undo me; naked, unbidden, at Night’s muted birth.
Not My Business by Niyi Osundare
They picked Akanni up one morning
Beat him soft like clay
And stuffed him down the belly
Of a waiting Jeep.
What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?
They came one night
Booted the whole house awake
And dragged Danladi out,
Then off to a lengthy absence.
What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?
Chinwe went to work one day
Only to find her job was gone:
No query, no warning, no probe-
Just one neat sack for a stainless record
What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?
And then one evening
As I sat down to eat my yam
A knock on the door froze my hungry hand.
The jeep was waiting on my bewildered lawn
Waiting, waiting in its usual silence.
Hearty Garlands by S.O.H Afriyie-Vidza
For a person who has lived as long
And one who, as well, has done much
As you
Life’s whole process blooms into stark beauty
And failures give no trite, crippling regrets
Yet. On occasion, shamed, horrid green-eyed
Envy fights benign Felicitation exclusively couched
For you
By us who won’t be left out of today’s joy
And must send you warn hearty birthday garlands
You must, you wondrous mentor of rogues like us,
Receive copious blessings today; the stay well blessed
To you
Age eighy-five is life’s smiley, cloudless dawn
It is the gainful twilight of fulfilled dreams
Hope now nods in contented concert with spent desires.
Now restful Hope neither nags nor raves nor rants
At you
But your heart sits on garlanded satis shores
Looking out to sea for health delivering vessels
From the subdued heights of your lofty conquered toils
And from flights of vanquished steps, at five and eighty,
Must you
Watch us strive and beat your mahogany chest in pride
You must shake your own hands like iroko agama
Match on, old boy, do, and clinch yonder untamed gain
For you lies mop-up work and higher tasks still
By you
To be accomplished; then must you hear trumpet sound
That to a guru must blow solo musical bravo
As you give yourself a cozy comfy treat today
Reclining in reminiscing and fondling a lingering smile
Could you
A certain style of locomotion all your own recall,
Best and aptly but simply dubbed ‘poetic walking’?
The Breast of the Sea by Syl Cheney-Coker
After our bloody century, the sea will groan
Under its weight, somewhere between breasts and
anus
Filled with toxins, her belly will not yield new islands
even though the orphans of East Timor wish it so.
The sea is only capable of so much history:
Noah’s monologue, the Middle Passage’s cargoes,
Darwin’s examination of the turtles shit,
the remains of the Titanic, and a diver’s story
about how the coelacanth was recaptured.
Anything else is only a fractured chela
we cannot preserve, once the sea’s belly
has washed itself clean of our century’s blight.
Throbbing, the sea’s breasts will console same
orphans,
but Sierra Leone won’t be worth a raped woman’s cry,
despite her broken back, this shredded garment,
her hands swimming like horrors of red corals.
But do you, O Sea, long-suffering mistress,
have the balm to heal the wound of her children,
hand to foot the axe, alluvial river flowing into you?
NON-AFRICAN POETRY
These are Non-African poems composed by the Non-African Poets and recommended by WAEC.
She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron
She walks in in beauty,like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell the days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent !
The Nun’s Priest’s Tale by Geoffrey Chaucer
Once, long ago, there dwelt a poor old widow
In a small cottage, by a little meadow
Beside a grove and standing in a dale.
This widow-woman of whom I tell my tale
Since the sad day when last she was a wife
Had led a very patient, simple life.
Little she had in capital or rent.
But still, by making do with what God sent.
She kept herself and her two daughters going.
Three hefty sows-no more-were all her showing
Three cows as well; there was a sheep called Molly.
Sooty her hall, her kitchen melancholy,
And there she ate full many a Slender meal;
There was no sauce piquante to spice her veal,
No dainty morsel ever passed her throat,
According to her cloth she cut her coat
Repletion never left her in disquiet
And all her physic was a temperate diet,
Hard work for exercise and heart’s content.
And rich man’s gout did nothing to prevent
Her dancing, apolexy struck her not;
She drank no wine, nor white, nor red had got.
Her board was mostly served with white and black.
Milk and brown bread,in which she found no lack;
Broile bacon or an egg or two were common,
She was in fact a sort of dairy-woman.
She had a yard that was enclosed about
By a stockade and a dry ditch without,
In which she kept a cock called Chanticleer.
In all the land for crowing he’d no peer;
His voice was jollier than the organ blowing
In church on Sundays, he was great at crowing.
Far, far more regular than any clock
Or abbey bell the crowing of this cock.
The equinoctial wheel and its position
At each accent he knew by intuition;
At every hour-fifteen degrees of movement-
He crowed so well there could be no improvement.
His comb was redder than fine coral, tall
And battlemented like a castle wall,
His bill was black and shone as bright as jet,
Like azure were his legs and they were set
On azure toes with nails of lily white,
Like burnished gold his feathers, flaming bright.
This gentle cock was master in some measure
Of seven hens,all there to do his pleasure.
They were his sisters and his paramours,
Colored like him in all particulars;
She with the loveliest dyes upon her throat
Was known as gracious Lady Pertelote.
Courteous she was, discreet and debonair,
Companionable too, and took such care
In her deportment, since she was seven days old
She held the heart of Chanticleer controlled,
Locked up securely in her every limb;
What a happiness his love to him!
And such a joy it was to hear them sing,
As when the glorious sun began to spring.
In sweet accord, my love is far from land
-For in those far off days I understand
All birds and animals could speak and sing (shortened)
Now it befell, as dawn began to spring,
When Chanticleer and Pertelote and all
His wives were perched in this poor widow’s hall
(Fair Pertelote was next him on the perch),
This Chanticleer began to groan and lurch
Like someone sorely troubled by a dream,
And Pertelote who heard him roar and scream
Was quite aghast and said, “O dearest heart,
What’s ailing you? Why do you groan and start?
Fie, what a sleeper! What a noise to make!”
“Madam,” he said, “I beg you not to take
Offense, but by the Lord I had a dream
So terrible just now I had to scream;
I still can feel my heart racing from fear.
God turn my dream to good and guard all here,
And keep my body out of durance vile!
I dreamt that roaming up and down a while
Within our yard I saw a kind of beast,
A sort of hound that tried or seemed at least
To try and seize me . . . would have killed me dead!
His color was a blend of yellow and red,
His ears and tail were tipped with sable fur
Unlike the rest; he was a russet cur.
Small was his snout, his eyes were glowing bright.
It was enough to make one die of fright.
That was no doubt what made me groan and swoon.”
“For shame,” she said, “you timorous poltroon!
Alas, what cowardice! By God above,
You’ve forfeited my heart and lost my love.
I cannot love a coward, come what may.
For certainly, whatever we may say,
All women long—and O that it might be!—
For husbands tough, dependable and free,
Secret, discreet, no niggard, not a fool
That boasts and then will find his courage cool
At every trifling thing. By God above,
How dare you say for shame, and to your love,
That there was anything at all you feared?
Have you no manly heart to match your beard?
And can a dream reduce you to such terror?
Dreams are a vanity, God knows, pure error.
Dreams are engendered in the too-replete
From vapors in the belly, which compete
With others, too abundant, swollen tight.
“No doubt the redness in your dream tonight
Comes from the superfluity and force
Of the red choler in your blood. Of course.
That is what puts a dreamer in the dread
Of crimsoned arrows, fires flaming red,
Of great red monsters making as to fight him,
And big red whelps and little ones to bite him;
Just so the black and melancholy vapors
Will set a sleeper shrieking, cutting capers
And swearing that black bears, black bulls as well,
Or blackest fiends are haling him to Hell.
And there are other vapors that I know
That on a sleeping man will work their woe,
But I’ll pass on as lightly as I can.
“Take Cato now, that was so wise a man,
Did he not say, ‘Take no account of dreams’?
Now, sir,” she said, “on flying from these beams,
For love of God do take some laxative;
Upon my soul that’s the advice to give
For melancholy choler; let me urge
You free yourself from vapors with a purge.
And that you may have no excuse to tarry
By saying this town has no apothecary,
I shall myself instruct you and prescribe
Herbs that will cure all vapors of that tribe,
Herbs from our very farmyard! You will find
Their natural property is to unbind
And purge you well beneath and well above.
Now don’t forget it, dear, for God’s own love!
Your face is choleric and shows distension;
Be careful lest the sun in his ascension
Should catch you full of humors, hot and many.
And if he does, my dear, I’ll lay a penny
It means a bout of fever or a breath
Of tertian ague. You may catch your death.
“Worms for a day or two I’ll have to give
As a digestive, then your laxative.
Centaury, fumitory, caper-spurge
And hellebore will make a splendid purge;
And then there’s laurel or the blackthorn berry,
Ground-ivy too that makes our yard so merry;
Peck them right up, my dear, and swallow whole.
Be happy, husband, by your father’s soul!
Don’t be afraid of dreams. I’ll say no more.”
“Madam,” he said, ‘I thank you for your lore,
But with regard to Cato all the same,
His wisdom has, no doubt, a certain fame,
But though he said that we should take no heed
Of dreams, by God, in ancient books I read
Of many a man of more authority
Than ever Cato was, believe you me,
Who say the very opposite is true
And prove their theories by experience too.
Dreams have quite often been significations
As well of triumphs as of tribulations
That people undergo in this our life.
This needs no argument at all, dear wife,
The proof is all too manifest indeed.
“One of the greatest authors one can read
Says thus: there were two comrades once who went
On pilgrimage, sincere in their intent.
And as it happened they had reached a town
Where such a throng was milling up and down
And yet so scanty the accommodation,
They could not find themselves a habitation,
No, not a cottage that could lodge them both.
And so they separated, very loth,
Under constraint of this necessity
And each went off to find some hostelry,
And lodge whatever way his luck might fall.
“The first of them found refuge in a stall
Down in a yard with oxen and a plough.
His friend found lodging for himself somehow
Elsewhere, by accident or destiny,
Which governs all of us and equally.
“Now it so happened, long ere it was day,
This fellow had a dream, and as he lay
In bed it seemed he heard his comrade call,
‘Help! I am lying in an ox’s stall
And shall tonight be murdered as I lie.
Help me, dear brother, help or I shall die!
Come in all haste!’ Such were the words he spoke;
The dreamer, lost in terror, then awoke.
But, once awake, he paid it no attention,
Turned over and dismissed it as invention,
It was a dream, he thought, a fantasy.
And twice he dreamt this dream successively.
“Yet a third time his comrade came again,
Or seemed to come, and said, ‘I have been slain!
Look, look! my wounds are bleeding wide and deep.
Rise early in the morning, break your sleep
And go to the west gate. You there shall see
A cart all loaded up with dung,’ said he,
‘And in that dung my body has been hidden.
Boldly arrest that cart as you are bidden.
It was my money that they killed me for.’
“He told him every detail, sighing sore,
And pitiful in feature, pale of hue.
This dream, believe me, Madam, turned out true;
For in the dawn, as soon as it was light,
He went to where his friend had spent the night
And when he came upon the cattle-stall
He looked about him and began to call.
“The innkeeper, appearing thereupon,
Quickly gave answer, ‘Sir, your friend has gone.
He left the town a little after dawn.’
The man began to feel suspicious, drawn
By memories of his dream—the western gate,
The dung-cart—off he went, he would not wait,
Towards the western entry. There he found,
Seemingly on its way to dung some ground,
A dung-cart loaded on the very plan
Described so closely by the murdered man.
So he began to shout courageously
For right and vengeance on the felony,
‘My friend’s been killed! There’s been a foul attack,
He’s in that cart and gaping on his back!
Fetch the authorities, get the sheriff down
—Whosever job it is to run the town—
Help! My companion’s murdered, sent to glory!’
“What need I add to finish off the story?
People ran out and cast the cart to ground,
And in the middle of the dung they found
The murdered man. The corpse was fresh and new.
“O blessed God, that art so just and true,
Thus thou revealest murder! As we say,
‘Murder will out.’ We see it day by day.
Murder’s a foul, abominable treason,
So loathsome to God’s justice, to God’s reason,
He will not suffer its concealment. True,
Things may lie hidden for a year or two,
But still ‘Murder will out,’ that’s my conclusion.
“All the town officers in great confusion
Seized on the carter and they gave him hell,
And then they racked the innkeeper as well,
And both confessed. And then they took the wrecks
And there and then they hanged them by their necks.
“By this we see that dreams are to be dreaded.
And in the selfsame book I find embedded,
Right in the very chapter after this
(I’m not inventing, as I hope for bliss)
The story of two men who started out
To cross the sea—for merchandise no doubt—
But as the winds were contrary they waited.
It was a pleasant town, I should have stated,
Merrily grouped about the haven-side.
A few days later with the evening tide
The wind veered round so as to suit them best;
They were delighted and they went to rest
Meaning to sail next morning early. Well,
To one of them a miracle befell.
“This man as he lay sleeping, it would seem,
Just before dawn had an astounding dream.
He thought a man was standing by his bed
Commanding him to wait, and thus he said:
‘If you set sail tomorrow, as you intend,
You will be drowned. My tale is at an end.’
“He woke and told his friend what had occurred
And begged him that the journey be deferred
At least a day, implored him not to start.
But his companion, lying there apart,
Began to laugh and treat him to derision.
‘I’m not afraid,’ he said, ‘of any vision,
To let it interfere with my affairs;
A straw for all your dreamings and your scares.
Dreams are just empty nonsense, merest japes;
Why, people dream all day of owls and apes,
All sorts of trash that can’t be understood,
Things that have never happened and never could.
But as I see you mean to stay behind
And miss the tide for willful sloth of mind
God knows I’m sorry for it, but good day!’
And so he took his leave and went his way.
“And yet, before they’d covered half the trip
—I don’t know what went wrong—there was a rip
And by some accident the ship went down,
Her bottom rent, all hands aboard to drown
In sight of all the vessels at her side,
That had put out upon the selfsame tide.
“So, my dear Pertelote, if you discern
The force of these examples, you may learn
One never should be careless about dreams,
For, undeniably, I say it seems
That many are a sign of trouble breeding.
“Now, take St. Kenelm’s life which I’ve been reading;
He was Kenulphus’ son, the noble King
Of Mercia. Now, St. Kenelm dreamt a thing
Shortly before they murdered him one day.
He saw his murder in a dream, I say.
His nurse expounded it and gave her reasons
On every point and warned him against treasons
But as the saint was only seven years old
All that she said about it left him cold.
He was so holy how could visions hurt?
“By God, I willingly would give my shirt
To have you read his legend as I’ve read it;
And, Madam Pertelote, upon my credit,
Macrobius wrote of dreams and can explain us
The vision of young Scipio Africanus,
And he affirms that dreams can give a due
Warning of things that later on come true.
“And then there’s the Old Testament—a manual
Well worth your study; see the Book of Daniel.
Did Daniel think a dream was vanity?
Read about Joseph too and you will see
That many dreams—I do not say that all—
Give cognizance of what is to befall.
“Look at Lord Pharaoh, king of Egypt! Look
At what befell his butler and his cook.
Did not their visions have a certain force?
But those who study history of course
Meet many dreams that set them wondering.
“What about Croesus too, the Lydian king,
Who dreamt that he was sitting in a tree,
Meaning he would be hanged? It had to be.
“Or take Andromache, great Hector’s wife;
The day on which he was to lose his life
She dreamt about, the very night before,
And realized that if Hector went to war
He would be lost that very day in battle.
She warned him; he dismissed it all as prattle
And sallied forth to fight, being self-willed,
And there he met Achilles and was killed.
The tale is long and somewhat overdrawn,
And anyhow it’s very nearly dawn,
So let me say in very brief conclusion
My dream undoubtedly foretells confusion,
It bodes me ill, I say. And, furthermore,
Upon your laxatives I set no store,
For they are venomous. I’ve suffered by them
Often enough before, and I defy them.
“And now, let’s talk of fun and stop all this.
Dear Madam, as I hope for Heaven’s bliss,
Of one thing God has sent me plenteous grace,
For when I see the beauty of your face,
That scarlet loveliness about your eyes,
All thought of terror and confusion dies.
For it’s as certain as the Creed, I know,
Mulier est hominis confusio
(A Latin tag, dear Madam, meaning this:
‘Woman is man’s delight and all his bliss’),
For when at night I feel your feathery side,
Although perforce I cannot take a ride
Because, alas, our perch was made too narrow,
Delight and solace fill me to the marrow
And I defy all visions and all dreams!”
And with that word he flew down from the beams,
For it was day, and down his hens flew all,
And with a chuck he gave the troupe a call
For he had found a seed upon the floor.
Royal he was, he was afraid no more.
He feathered Pertelote in wanton play
And trod her twenty times ere prime of day.
Grim as a lion’s was his manly frown
As on his toes he sauntered up and down;
He scarcely deigned to set his foot to ground
And every time a seed of corn was found
He gave a chuck, and up his wives ran all.
Thus royal as a prince who strides his hall
Leave we this Chanticleer engaged on feeding
And pass to the adventure that was breeding.
Now when the month in which the world began,
March, the first month, when God created man,
Was over, and the thirty-second day
Thereafter ended, on the third of May
It happened that Chanticleer in all his pride,
His seven wives attendant at his side,
Cast his eyes upward to the blazing sun,
Which in the sign of Taurus then had run
His twenty-one degrees and somewhat more,
And knew by nature and no other lore
That it was nine o’clock. With blissful voice
He crew triumphantly and said, “Rejoice,
Behold the sun! The sun is up, my seven.
Look, it has climbed forty degrees in heaven,
Forty degrees and one in fact, by this.
Dear Madam Pertelote, my earthly bliss,
Hark to those blissful birds and how they sing!
Look at those pretty flowers, how they spring!
Solace and revel fill my heart!” He laughed.
But in that moment Fate let fly her shaft;
Ever the latter end of joy is woe,
God knows that worldly joy is swift to go.
A rhetorician with a flair for style
Could chronicle this maxim in his file
Of Notable Remarks with safe conviction.
Then let the wise give ear; this is no fiction.
My story is as true, I undertake,
As that of good Sir Lancelot du Lake
Who held all women in such high esteem.
Let me return full circle to my theme.
A coal-tipped fox of sly iniquity
That had been lurking round the grove for three
Long years, that very night burst through and passed
Stockade and hedge, as Providence forecast,
Into the yard where Chanticleer the Fair
Was wont, with all his ladies, to repair.
Still, in a bed of cabbages, he lay
Until about the middle of the day
Watching the cock and waiting for his cue,
As all these homicides so gladly do
That lie about in wait to murder men.
O false assassin, lurking in thy den!
O new Iscariot, new Ganelon!
And O Greek Sinon, thou whose treachery won
Troy town and brought it utterly to sorrow!
O Chanticleer, accursed be that morrow
That brought thee to the yard from thy high beams!
Thou hadst been warned, and truly, by thy dreams
That this would be a perilous day for thee.
But that which God’s foreknowledge can foresee
Must needs occur, as certain men of learning
Have said. Ask any scholar of discerning;
He’ll say the Schools are filled with altercation
On this vexed matter of predestination
Long bandied by a hundred thousand men.
How can I sift it to the bottom then?
The Holy Doctor St. Augustine shines
In this, and there is Bishop Bradwardine’s
Authority, Boethius’ too, decreeing
Whether the fact of God’s divine foreseeing
Constrains me to perform a certain act
—And by “constraint” I mean the simple fact
Of mere compulsion by necessity—
Or whether a free choice is granted me
To do a given act or not to do it
Though, ere it was accomplished, God foreknew it,
Or whether Providence is not so stringent
And merely makes necessity contingent.
But I decline discussion of the matter;
My tale is of a cock and of the clatter
That came of following his wife’s advice
To walk about his yard on the precise
Morning after the dream of which I told.
O woman’s counsel is so often cold!
A woman’s counsel brought us first to woe,
Made Adam out of Paradise to go
Where he had been so merry, so well at ease.
But, for I know not whom it may displease
If I suggest that women are to blame,
Pass over that; I only speak in game.
Read the authorities to know about
What has been said of women; you’ll find out.
These are the cock’s words, and not mine, I’m giving;
I think no harm of any woman living.
Merrily in her dust-bath in the sand
Lay Pertelote. Her sisters were at hand
Basking in sunlight. Chanticleer sang free,
More merrily than a mermaid in the sea
(For Physiologus reports the thing
And says how well and merrily they sing).
And so it happened as he cast his eye
Towards the cabbage at a butterfly
It fell upon the fox there, lying low.
Gone was all inclination then to crow.
“Cok cok,” he cried, giving a sudden start,
As one who feels a terror at his heart,
For natural instinct teaches beasts to flee
The moment they perceive an enemy,
Though they had never met with it before.
This Chanticleer was shaken to the core
And would have fled. The fox was quick to say
However, “Sir! Whither so fast away?
Are you afraid of me, that am your friend?
A fiend, or worse, I should be, to intend
You harm, or practice villainy upon you;
Dear sir, I was not even spying on you!
Truly I came to do no other thing
Than just to lie and listen to you sing.
You have as merry a voice as God has given
To any angel in the courts of Heaven;
To that you add a musical sense as strong
As had Boethius who was skilled in song.
My Lord your Father (God receive his soul!),
Your mother too—how courtly, what control!—
Have honored my poor house, to my great ease;
And you, sir, too, I should be glad to please.
For, when it comes to singing, I’ll say this
(Else may these eyes of mine be barred from bliss),
There never was a singer I would rather
Have heard at dawn than your respected father.
All that he sang came welling from his soul
And how he put his voice under control!
The pains he took to keep his eyes tight shut
In concentration—then the tiptoe strut,
The slender neck stretched out, the delicate beak!
No singer could approach him in technique
Or rival him in song, still less surpass.
I’ve read the story in Burnel the Ass,
Among some other verses, of a cock
Whose leg in youth was broken by a knock
A clergyman’s son had given him, and for this
He made the father lose his benefice.
But certainly there’s no comparison
Between the subtlety of such a one
And the discretion of your father’s art
And wisdom. Oh, for charity of heart,
Can you not emulate your sire and sing?”
This Chanticleer began to beat a wing
As one incapable of smelling treason,
So wholly had this flattery ravished reason.
Alas, my lords! there’s many a sycophant
And flatterer that fill your courts with cant
And give more pleasure with their zeal forsooth
Than he who speaks in soberness and truth.
Read what Ecclesiasticus records
Of flatterers. ’Ware treachery, my lords!
This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes,
He stretched his neck, his eyes began to close,
His beak to open; with his eyes shut tight
He then began to sing with all his might.
Sir Russel Fox leapt in to the attack,
Grabbing his gorge he flung him o’er his back
And off he bore him to the woods, the brute,
And for the moment there was no pursuit.
O Destiny that may not be evaded!
Alas that Chanticleer had so paraded!
Alas that he had flown down from the beams!
O that his wife took no account of dreams!
And on a Friday too to risk their necks!
O Venus, goddess of the joys of sex,
Since Chanticleer thy mysteries professed
And in thy service always did his best,
And more for pleasure than to multiply
His kind, on thine own day, is he to die?
O Geoffrey, thou my dear and sovereign master
Who, when they brought King Richard to disaster
And shot him dead, lamented so his death,
Would that I had thy skill, thy gracious breath,
To chide a Friday half so well as you!
(For he was killed upon a Friday too.)
Then I could fashion you a rhapsody
For Chanticleer in dread and agony.
Sure never such a cry or lamentation
Was made by ladies of high Trojan station,
When Ilium fell and Pyrrhus with his sword
Grabbed Priam by the beard, their king and lord,
And slew him there as the Aeneid tells,
As what was uttered by those hens. Their yells
Surpassed them all in palpitating fear
When they beheld the rape of Chanticleer.
Dame Pertelote emitted sovereign shrieks
That echoed up in anguish to the peaks
Louder than those extorted from the wife
Of Hasdrubal, when he had lost his life
And Carthage all in flame and ashes lay.
She was so full of torment and dismay
That in the very flames she chose her part
And burnt to ashes with a steadfast heart.
O woeful hens, louder your shrieks and higher
Than those of Roman matrons when the fire
Consumed their husbands, senators of Rome,
When Nero burnt their city and their home;
Beyond a doubt that Nero was their bale!
Now let me turn again to tell my tale;
This blessed widow and her daughters two
Heard all these hens in clamor and halloo
And, rushing to the door at all this shrieking,
They saw the fox towards the covert streaking
And, on his shoulder, Chanticleer stretched flat.
“Look, look!” they cried, “O mercy, look at that!
Ha! Ha! the fox!” and after him they ran,
And stick in hand ran many a serving man,
Ran Coll our dog, ran Talbot, Bran and Shaggy,
And with a distaff in her hand ran Maggie,
Ran cow and calf and ran the very hogs
In terror at the barking of the dogs;
The men and women shouted, ran and cursed,
They ran so hard they thought their hearts would burst,
They yelled like fiends in Hell, ducks left the water
Quacking and flapping as on point of slaughter,
Up flew the geese in terror over the trees,
Out of the hive came forth the swarm of bees;
So hideous was the noise—God bless us all,
Jack Straw and all his followers in their brawl
Were never half so shrill, for all their noise,
When they were murdering those Flemish boys,
As that day’s hue and cry upon the fox.
They grabbed up trumpets made of brass and box,
Of horn and bone, on which they blew and pooped,
And therewithal they shouted and they whooped
So that it seemed the very heavens would fall.
And now, good people, pay attention all.
See how Dame Fortune quickly changes side
And robs her enemy of hope and pride!
This cock that lay upon the fox’s back
In all his dread contrived to give a quack
And said, “Sir Fox, if I were you, as God’s
My witness, I would round upon these clods
And shout, ‘Turn back, you saucy bumpkins all!
A very pestilence upon you fall!
Now that I have in safety reached the wood
Do what you like, the cock is mine for good;
I’ll eat him there in spite of every one.’”
The fox replying, “Faith, it shall be done!”
Opened his mouth and spoke. The nimble bird,
Breaking away upon the uttered word,
Flew high into the treetops on the spot.
And when the fox perceived where he had got,
“Alas,” he cried, “alas, my Chanticleer,
I’ve done you grievous wrong, indeed I fear
I must have frightened you; I grabbed too hard
When I caught hold and took you from the yard.
But, sir, I meant no harm, don’t be offended,
Come down and I’ll explain what I intended;
So help me God I’ll tell the truth—on oath!”
“No,” said the cock, “and curses on us both,
And first on me if I were such a dunce
As let you fool me oftener than once.
Never again, for all your flattering lies,
You’ll coax a song to make me blink my eyes;
And as for those who blink when they should look,
God blot them from his everlasting Book!”
“Nay, rather,” said the fox, “his plagues be flung
On all who chatter that should hold their tongue.”
Lo, such it is not be on your guard
Against the flatterers of the world, or yard,
And if you think my story is absurd,
A foolish trifle of a beast and bird,
A fable of a fox, a cock, a hen,
Take hold upon the moral, gentlemen.
St. Paul himself, a saint of great discerning,
Says that all things are written for our learning;
So take the grain and let the chaff be still.
And, gracious Father, if it be thy will
As saith my Savior, make us all good men,
And bring us to his heavenly bliss.
Digging by Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbed
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was lowered firmly.
He rooted out all tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper.
He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head
But I have no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The square pen rests.
I II dig with it.
Still I Rise by Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I ‘ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean,leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise
The Telephone Call by Fleur Adcock
They asked me ‘Are you sitting down?
Right? This is universal Lotteries,’
they said. ‘You’ve won the top prize,
the Ultra-super Global Special.
What would you do with a million pounds?
Or, actually, with more than a million
not that it makes a difference
once you are a millionaire.’ And they laughed
‘Are you OK? they asked – ‘Still there?
Come on, now, tell us, how does it feel?’
I said ‘I just…I can’t believe it!’
They said ‘That’s what they all say.
Whatelse? Go on, tell us about it.’
I said ‘I feel the top of my head
has floated off, out through the window,
revolving like a flying saucer.’
That’s unusual’ they said. ‘Go on.’
I said ‘I’m finding it hard to talk.
My throat’s gone dry,my nose it tingling.
I think I’m going to sneeze – or cry.’
‘That’s right’ they said, ‘don’t be ashamed
of giving way to your emotions.
It isn’t every day you hear
you ‘re going to get a million pounds.
Relax, now, have a little cry;
we ‘ll give you a moment…’Hang on!’ I said
‘I haven’t bought a lottery ticket
for years and years. And what did you say
the company‘s called?’ They laughed again.
‘Not to worry about a ticket.
We are Universal. We operate
A retrospective Chances Module.
Nearly everyone’s bought a ticket
in some lottery or another,
once at least. We buy up the files,
feed the names into our computer,
and see who the lucky person is.’
‘Well, that’s incredible’ I said.
‘It’s marvelous. I still can’t quite…
I’ll believe it when I see the cheque’
‘Oh, they said, ‘there’s no cheque.’
‘But the money?’ We don’t deal in money.
Experiences are what we deal in.
You’ve had a great experience, right?
Exciting? Something you’ll remember?
That’s your prize. So congratulations
from all of us at Universal.
Have a nice day!’ And the line went dead.
The Stone by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
“And will you cut a stone for him,
To set above his head?
And will you cut a stone for him
A stone for him?” she said.
Three days before, a splintered rock
Had struck her lover dead
Had struck him in the quarry dead,
Where, careless of a warning call,
He loitered, while the shot was fired
A lively stripling, brave and tall,
And sure of all his heart desired…
A flash, a shock,
A rumbling fall…
And, broken ‘neath the broken rock,
A lifeless heap, with face of clay,
And still as any stone he lay,
With eyes that saw the end of all.
I went to break the news to her:
And I could hear my own heart beat
With dread of what my lips might say;
But some pure fool had sped before;
And, flinging wide her father’s door,
Had blurted out the news to her,
Had struck her lover dead for her,
Had struck the girl’s heart dead in her,
Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,
And dropped it at her feet:
Then hurried on his witless way,
Scarce knowing she had heard.
And when I came, she stood alone
A woman, turned to stone:
And, though no word at all she said,
I knew that all was known
Because her heart was dead,
She did not sigh nor moan.
His mother wept:
She could not weep.
Her lover slept:
She could not sleep.
Three days, three nights,
She did not stir:
Three days, three nights,
Were one to her,
Who never closed her eyes
From sunset to sunrise,
From dawn to evenfall
Her tearless, staring eyes,
That, seeing naught, saw all.
The fourth night when I came from work,
I found her at my door.
“And will you cut a stone for him?”
She said: and spoke no more:
But followed me, as I went in,
And sank upon a chair;
And fixed her grey eyes on my face,
Will still, unseeing stare.
And, as she waited patiently,
I could not bear to feel
Those still, grey eyes that followed me,
Those eyes that that plucked the heart from me,
Those eyes that sucked the breath from me
And curdled the warm blood in me,
Those eyes that cut me to the bone,
And cut my marrow like cold steel.
And so I rose and sought a stone;
And cut it smooth and square:
And, as I worked, she sat and watched,
Beside me, in her chair.
Night after night, by candlelight,
I cut her lover’s name:
Night after night, so still and white,
And like a ghost she came;
And sat beside me, in her chair,
And watch with eyes aflame.
She eyed each stroke,
And hardly stirred:
she never spoke
A single word:
And not a sound or murmur broke
The quiet, save the mallet stroke.
With still eyes ever on my hands,
With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,
My wincing, over wearied hands
She watched, with bloodless lips apart,
And silent, indrawn breath:
And every stroke my chisel cut,
Death cut still deeper in her heart:
The two of, us were chiselling,
Together, I and Death.
And when at length my job was done,
And I had laid the mallet by,
As if, at last, her peace were won,
She breathed his name, and, with a sigh,
Pass slowly through the open door:
And never crossed my threshold more.
Next night I laboured late, alone,
To cut her name upon the stone.