i have a wonderful christmas poem
from a guest poet. i know you will
enjoy it. his name is Arthur W. Seeley.
he is 74, lives, as he says,
"on the edge of his beloved Yorkshire Moors,
three miles from Wuthering Heights."
he has 2 sons and 4 grandchildren, 2 boys, 2 girls
and 1 great grandson.

he is an ex-teacher, ex-lecturer in
Mathematical Education and spent 2 years
in the Solomon Islands in the VSO, which
would be akin to the peace corps here.

arthur says he's a grumpy old man but benign and caring.
i know that he is the latter. i'll take his word
on the grumpy part. he is also a very good writer
and a grand poet. i always look forward to new
works from him.

so, here is his poem for the holiday:


Time for a Rhyme

Bashing out a carol
beside an empty barrel
in a kitchen hotter than the Isthmusis
no way to be spending Christmas.
The turkey's overdone
and the spuds not yet begun,
the Cashew and Stilton stuffing's a disaster
that tastes like walling plaster,
I bought it special from Tesco
but not to use for fresco,
the sprouts have gone all soggy
and Grandad's feeling groggy.
Someone bought him slippers
that smell like Whitby kippers
as they smoulder from the heat
where he tries to warm his feet
before a yule log fire
blazing like a Hindu pyre.
The telly 's on the blink
and all that's left to drink
is something that is pink
or a filthy foreign gin
with a splash of orange in.
There's nothing for the singers
for the wassail that they bring us.
They wont enjoy just tinsel;
perhaps these pies of mince'll
satisfy their greeds-
unless they've other needs.

What a wondrous festive day
when everything I say
in some peculiar way
seems to rhyme
every time.
I must be a poet
and don't know it!


Arthur W. Seeley