Giants’ Shoulders

 

You are young, master William,

A brilliant man,

Because you consistently stand by the heads

Of giants who do not lie down in their beds,

Though their beds are their graves

Their minds are on staves

And so you contrive

To keep them alive.

And of course this is part of a wonderful plan.

For the shoulders of giants provide a good view,

As you look at the world and decide what to do,

And you learn so much more

From the giants before

Than you could if you started from somewhere quite new.

And giants, their shoulders, are strong as they’re wide,

And provide lovely places for babies to sleep on,

And if you’re in doubt or you cannot decide,

Then the giant you stand on, impels you to keep on,

And do more great things with things already tried.

But be wise as you look at the world from up there,

Remember this one fact and always take care,

Giants, their shoulders, need plenty of room,

And can blot out the light and can add to the gloom,

Remember their role should be one of support,

Do not feel that you are obliged to resort

To holding them up and spending your days,

Getting your living by singing their praise, 

in some kind of dreary endless rat race,

Earning the means of providing the space,

For all those huge shoulders 

Like weather worn boulders

You’ve strewn about the place.

Better they disappear without trace.

I Can’t Believe You Weren’t Already Dead

 

I can’t believe you weren’t already dead,

Had anyone asked I’d have said,

‘Died years ago, never very well’,

I suppose it just shows you can’t tell.

“I can’t believe you weren’t already dead”,

I thought you’d croaked it one cold night in bed,

I’ve often thought there ought to be a sympathy card

Bearing that legend, 

But to whom would you send it, 

A common acquaintance or friend?

To decide would be really quite hard,

And anyway 

One would have to change the pronoun to they 

or he or she, and could you defend it-

The choice you made to put it in the post?

Supposing the dead man came back as a ghost,

And saw the offending item on the mantlepiece

of his brother or son, or nephew or niece,

and realised you had written him off, a decade ago,

or so.

Imagine his wounded pride,

If he knew you had thought he had died. 

Reel To Reel

Music At Night, Radio 4, May 1st 1968

(A harpsichord recital by my father, Alan Cuckston)

From a cupboard full of memories I did not share,

A store of music hidden on a reel,

Not catalogued or stored with any care,

Some minutes of your life I can reveal.

Hearing what they speak and yet conceal

The brilliance, the intellect, the flair,

Beside a tension none must sense you feel,

From a cupboard full of memories I did not share,

Some damaged now, beyond repair?

An obsolete machine now turns the wheel

And winds the tape on to its empty pair,

A store of music hidden on a reel,

Your playing now the means deep grief to heal,

Yet no intention of that kind is there,

Just pure musicianship expressed via brass and steel

Not catalogued or stored with any care,

But yet retained and so I dare

To dull my pain as by the heap I kneel

And bag up tapes to take to where

Some minutes of your life I can reveal

And sense the intellectual appeal

So lacking in this present day, so rare

When all is ‘relative’ and there’s a zeal

For dumbing down. I’ll send you out once more upon the air,

From a cupboard full of memories.

I cannot stop

 

I cannot pause to think at all

Lest I should weep and break the spell

And so I stretch to paint the wall 

And stoop to dip my brush again

And reach and daub and slap and then

Repeat the process, never stop,

Use a pole to reach the top,

Climb the ladder to the ceiling

Fill the cracks to numb the feeling,

Decorating can be healing.

Dressing For The Collection Of A Teapoy

How to dress when taking collection

Of an item from an auction,

Is not a matter on which much reflection

Is usually required,

But one yearns to be admired,

When taking possession of a teapoy.

One wishes to convey the air

Of a connoisseur

Who knows that next season teapoys will be de rigueur.

So one must spend time deciding what to wear,

And yet take great care

Not to give the impression 

One has a mad obsession.

Tweed is essential as a foundation,

And various shades of green,

Should be given consideration,

For shoes, a sensible brown brogue

Think of our late queen,

Rather than something from Vogue.

For you wish to imply

The object you’ve come to collect

Will be the star of next month's magazine,

And yet,

Somewhere you know and regret,

That the publication in question

Is the Antiques Trade Gazette.