Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house Nothing was stirring, except a woodlouse Crawling out of its hole in the trunk of the tree That we’d put in the lounge – it was Christmas, you see. It was already rotten and structurally weak It began to lean over, an ominous creak Could be heard, then soon after, an almighty crash. As the tree hit the floor and the baubles were smashed. At the sound of the racket we came down the stairs And surveyed the grim tableau in utter despair Could we rescue our tree, now reduced to a shrub? Concluding we couldn’t, we went to the pub.

Every so often at Yorkshire Writers' Lunch we like to collaborate in some way. In the past this has manifested as episodic narratives to which multiple lunchers contributed: The Year of Darkness, Passport, Platform 3 and Collier's Creek to name but a few. However last Christmas we tried something new: a poetry challenge. As the title of this post suggests, we took the opening lines of A Visit From St Nicholas by Clement Clark-Moore and penned a new verse, one that imagined a different creature that wasn't stirring. In time for this year's Christmas, we will be posting the resulting poems for your amusement. After all, a silly poem deserves to show off in public. If you'll permit the early festivities, here follows the first adaptation of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas as penned by Tim Taylor...

  I’m not sure about this. I’ve done it often enough before, but this time, ideas seem a bit elusive. Maybe they’ve gone on a walk without telling me. Typical! Just because my walks are shorter than they used to be, They’ve decided to go on their own and have more fun. Mind you it’s easy for them, floating on a breeze or down the river. Not even the lock gates on the canal will hold them back. And with all that freedom, they won’t be back for a while. But what about genre ? So many. Which to choose? Committing a crime? ‘Sergeant Jerome Clerkenwell Investigates’ or ‘Chief Inspector Alexandra Spottiswood and the Ludgate Gang.’ (It looks like some of the ideas might be back from their walk!) Crime sure is tempting, but it’s my default genre. Maybe I should have a change. Hunting for horror? Ghosts, ghouls, wolves (were or not). That locked room, the plunging lift. The two-headed monster. Well, maybe not. I’ve got a feeling with me at the helm it would...

The story was in perfect prose, Though Greeks would have their little joke. While actors to their fortune rose, The chorus answered nowt but ‘Croak’. Then songs galore were ushered in With divas, bass and baritones. Those glorious notes! Or raucous din, The chorus gets the dirge and drones. Then on a lighter note there came Some speech as well as song. And still the principals found fame, The chorus still just ‘merry throng’. Along came G & S and Ronnies Two, who had a special sense of humour that needed singers and the chorus, who encored again this new consumer. But though we tried to raise our profile We’re just the echo, mirror image. Costume, make-up, dance and smile, Then stow the backdrops, fetch the luggage. Though half the time, we just repeat, Repeat the lines in half the time, We make the musical complete: Some choruses are quite sublime.

In this place was a lake, where the rivers once came with the soil they had scoured from the mountains above. Here they joined, became still and relinquished their load, so their brown, rushing water became blue and clear and the pine trees grew tall by the wave-caressed shore.   Over time, those same rivers, the rain and the ice ground the mountains to hills and the hills into plains and the water was filled with the dust of their bones. Then the trees and the rivers all faded away as the lake became mud, and the mud became stone.   Underneath, the old earth gave a shrug in her sleep. The plain was now folded and thrust to the sky and the sandstone laid down in the lake that had died, made from dust of forgotten hills long worn away would be moulded like clay into peaks of its own.   And of course, there is rain, there is ice, there is snow and the flesh of the mountain is bitten once more by the streams that emerge, like the sweat...

  Time moves slowly – tick tick tock Staring at that hospital clock.   The days are long and endlessly boring The nights even worse, ‘cos everyone’s snoring. It’s supposed to be a restful place But the level of noise is an utter disgrace. Nurses talking all night long And soon the dawn chorus will break into song.   6 am – night staff still chattering 8 am – breakfast trolley comes clattering. Blood pressure, temperature readings again Followed by tablets to mask the pain.   The new admission has never stopped talking I’ll try and escape, but it’s so hard walking. I suppose I could hobble across to the loo. I don’t really want to, but it’s something to do. Better not fall whilst dragging my drip Last thing I need is a broken hip.   Back watching the clock – soon be visiting time A little nap, and I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s 8 pm – I’ve slept too long Just been informs my visitor’s gone. Another long night now l...