Poems
by Tony Dawson

The True Story of Noah’s Ark

 

Noah was in his six-hundredth year

and had decided that the time was near

for him to put his feet up and enjoy a rest

from sweat and toil. Hadn’t he been blessed

with virtue all his life? Now for some quality time

with the wife. Working longer would be a crime.

 

Just as he was warming to this idea

and stretching out to grab his beer,

A booming Voice echoed out of the blue:

“Put the beer down, I have a job for you.”

“I’ve decided I’m resetting planet earth;

when I look around there’s not much worth

saving. So, I’ve decided to wash everyone away

except for you and yours. Get ready for the fray.”

 

“Would you Adam and Eve it!” groaned Noah,

rolling his eyes as his spirits sank lower.

(By invoking his forbears, ‘A & E and the Gang’

he’d recouped prelapsarian rhyming slang.)

“Damn it”, cried Noah. “Can’t you find another mug

to do your bidding and let me finish off this jug

of ale and do the Sudoku and the Sabbath crossword?

After all, I am pretty old.” “You old? Don’t be absurd.

I’ve been running this shit show for an eternity.

Why, I still remember your mother in the maternity

ward.” “OK,” said Noah. “Whatever floats your boat!”

“In view of what’s coming, you’d better get a raincoat,

You’re about to find out that this is no laughing matter,

which is exactly why I’ve dropped by to have a natter.

 

You have to save your family and creatures of every stripe,

meaning you must accommodate animals of every type.

First, you have to build an ark for creatures of every species.

The only drawback I can see will be the piling up of faeces,

but that can be sorted later. Meanwhile, gather up the wood

to build an ark three hundred cubits long. Understood?

It will also be fifty cubits wide, and thirty high with three decks.

Plenty of room for you and the animals as long as you stick to the specs.”

 

“What kind of wood did you have in mind? There aren’t many trees round here.”

“Gopher wood,” came the reply, “and carpentry’s your new career.”

“Gopher wood? What’s gopher wood?” asked a puzzled Noah.

“It’s wood you have to go for. Your wife tells me you’re something of a goer…

And don’t forget the side door and the roof on top. You also have to smear

it inside and out with bitumen, or else your ark will disappear

beneath the flood waters with which I plan to float your boat.

Well, that’s about it, I think. Oh, and don’t forget your raincoat.

 

Once you’ve uploaded the animals, I’ll download the rain.

So, you’d better get a move on. I won’t tell you again.”

“How much rain will you download? Can you give me some idea?”

“It’s going to rain for forty days and forty nights, but never fear;

if you follow my instructions, you will survive it all.

In fact, I’d bet my shirt on it. You’re going to have a ball.”

Noah’s family spent endless weeks looking for gopher wood,

hammering planks, the occasional thumb, and also stockpiling food.

Ham said, “Measuring everything in cubits is really rather dumb.

My forearm’s sore from hammering and so is my ruddy thumb.

All this elbow-to-finger-tip nonsense is such a pantomime.

Having a proper tape-measure would save a hell of a lot of time.”

 

Eventually the ark was built, and the animals duly boarded,

caged in twos below each deck, away from the food they’d hoarded.

Once more the Voice boomed from a passing cloud about an imminent download.

With a clap of his hands, the heavens opened, and the water flowed and flowed,

pouring down in torrents like a summer’s day in Manchester.

Meanwhile, Noah strode the deck wearing a brand-new sou’wester.

 

Below decks, as the dung built up, the stench was overpowering;

but on the plus side, a thousand tomato plants were flowering.

At long last, the download finished, and then the sun came out.

That made the stink even worse, yet Noah longed for drought.

Although the rain had stopped, there was water as far as the eye could see.

No land in sight, supplies ran short, starvation wracked the family.

Noah and sons looked hungrily at the animals they’d saved from drowning

and began to imagine choice cuts of meat dipped in lovely browning.

“How about some honeyed ham and nice roast lamb, a dish of rhyming cutlets,

growled Noah. “Quite frankly, I’ve had my fill of ruddy rhyming couplets!”

 

They had to eat on the upper deck so as not to gag on the stench below.

Shem and Japheth finally decided there was no more room to stow

the ordure, so they took it in turns to shovel it all towards the stern,

where old Noah, high as a kite, was quaffing a bottle of Sauternes

as he declared, “I name this the ‘poop deck’, just for a lark.

Check it in any dictionary. It all goes back to Noah’s ark.

When all the manure was piled high, even nudging a passing cloud,

and a wasted Noah was staggering about, sozzled but unbowed,

the whole family shoved it overboard, spreading it over a distance.

For thousands of years, not a soul was aware of its existence,

until, sailing the Ocean Sea, some intrepid voyager, and his crew

came across it, quite by chance, in fourteen hundred and ninety-two.

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday’s Child 16 July 1967

 

An avatar for a medieval knight,

I was the Death-defying Antonius Block,

returning from a Crusade, no less,

but my Black Death was a skidding car,

rather than a deadly game of chess.

With reactions slowed by alcohol,

I fought the wheel from lock to lock,

As I tried to save my life and soul.

In seventy-miles-per-hour slow motion,

accompanied by a deafening timpani crescendo,

mind befuddled, with only the vaguest notion

that this foolhardy risk-taker was en route

to meet his Maker. Except that…

 

He fell silent, not a word was spoken,

for He was no longer concentrating

as the Seventh Seal was broken.

The rotating Wheel of Fortune

had spun just enough for me

to avoid the danse macabre.

The car eventually smashed to a halt

against the stanchion of a road sign,

warning of a dangerous bend ahead.

Even my inebriate self knew it was my fault

and that I could easily have ended up dead.

Still conscious, my heart was pumping fast

and my passenger was in a state of shock.

That moment could have been my last,

yet I’d eluded the fate of Antonius Block.

The shattered windscreen lay on the grass,

The car roof thrust down, level with my eyes.

My hand had been cut by flying glass,

but the seat belts had saved both our lives.

Then the driver’s door swung open wide

and a stranger outside was yelling:

“I was certain you must have died!”

And you, my quasi-posthumous daughter,

entered this world soon after I had nearly

abandoned it… You were the sunrise,

after your father’s quasi-sunset.

You were the summer fruits of Eros,

While I was warding off Thanatos.

Born at home, you were Sunday’s child,

and sucking in your first breath

on blood-soaked sheets…

soon after I had cheated Death.

 

 

 

 

 

Hispania a Land of Drunkards

 

Hi, Scipio, I wonder why the local yokels

keep confusing their bowels with their vowels.

I read somewhere on an old wax tablet:

“Beati Hispani, quibus vivere bibere est”.

Some clever sod like Gnaeus Naevius

probably came up with the that little quip,

though nobody knows for sure, of course.

Living for drinking’s not a bad motto,

especially here in the depths of Baetica.

Perhaps that’s why they confuse their vats

with their bats, but how can that possibly be?

And Scipio said, “Whateber. I don’t give a vugger.”

 

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