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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2673
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, July 04, 2004 - 5:36 pm: | 
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Thanks Natalie. Yes Suzi, nice one.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1177
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, July 11, 2004 - 12:07 pm: |
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Super-b
Strange craft whisper and sigh through the sky
Transporting people to some place to die
Some great beast strokes him gently with a feather
And damns his blasted soul forever and forever
And in that superb silence
Comes the absolute violence
The ripping in and the ripping out
The mud, the earth, and that clout
The colour of clay in the rain
The colour of woman just the same
In some great riddle, some great game
Where the blasted bit
Don’t blasted fit
But he shoves it in like a key
So blind he can almost see
And just like that unlocks the whore
And heaven closes at smashing of door
So the silent craft descend from space
Moving people from place to place
Each and every soul has place to take
As the messages new souls do make
Time is jam that is hot to slither
And he feels that slime to shiver
The signals fly back from now to then
And time is but a long curving bend
Where the deed becomes word written down
And word becomes deed in hand of clown
Somewhere a mute clock ticks like slow thunder
And when it strikes it rips the sky asunder
Feathers spiral and float to the ground
And smash the earth with fearful sound
Whilst the pens scratch at paper in screams
Throwing fuel into the hot fire of dreams
As the scum slice and pick away at the nit
Each one determined to get his own bit
As he feeds,
As she bleeds,
To fulfil their needs
He watches as the blood turns to ink
Until he vomits because of the stink
But the disease moves fast
From future to past
Kept in the hand of the pure and clean
Advancing like some great machine
With a fondness to blindly stroke
And that great machine to stoke
Until its stack brushes the sky
And all who see it must surely die
The clock ticked then
And the clock ticks now.
To wake the boy from his sleep.
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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2691
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, July 11, 2004 - 1:31 pm: |
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Fantastic poem, AP, full of memorable imagery, about how the slick and the sick combine to create a loop in time and make of the word and the thing an Egyptian unity. It's eerie, relentless and prophetic.
That one's been a long time coming, but it was worth the wait.
Robert |
Natalie Severn
Chief Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 942
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, July 11, 2004 - 4:02 pm: |
|
I found this fascinating AP the way time moves and dissolves in space[?]along with a human"s concept of law and order while at the same time primeval forces seem to reign supreme.
Brilliant anyway' |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1178
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, July 11, 2004 - 5:17 pm: |
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Thanks Robert & Natalie
It was about a third of what I wanted to do, but the bottle ran dry. One day I'll find a bigger bottle.
Yes Robert, I was trying to capture that loop in time, but someone is winding that watch too fast for me to catch it.
I have a feeling that the ancient Egyptians bothered not with the concept of time but saw everything as 'connected' by concept rather than time. I think they were clever with that.
And Natalie, I have always thought that Jack watched craft descending through the sky to land at what we now call Heathrow, he sort of knew what was going to happen and tried to proclaim it.
I'll make sense of that one day.
Thanks again. |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1189
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 19, 2004 - 5:35 pm: |
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I thought it might be jolly to have an absolutely genuine piece of poetry and artwork inspired by the Cutbush clan, so here we are ( a rare find):
'April Love was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1865 with a quotation from one of the songs in Tennyson's 'The Miller's Daughter', in which the young lovers fear the passing of their love ('Love that hath us in the net, can he pass, and we forget?'
Love is hurt with jar and fret.
Love is made a vague regret,
Eyes with idle tears are wet.
Idle habits link us yet.
What is love? for we forget:
Ah. no! no!
Although Hughes uses this passage to underline his own depiction of fragile young love, his painting is not conceived as an illustration to Tennyson's poem. In place of the poet's mill-stream, chestnut trees and forget-me-nots, Hughes sets the lovers in an ivy-clad arbor or summerhouse with lilac seen through the window and rose petals strewn on the stone floor. As with many of his works, ivy is also used to decorate the frame.
Hughes was married at Maidstone on 26th November 1855 to 'his early and only love' Tryphena Foord, whose father was the manager of a local plumbing and decorating business owned by Robert Cutbush. On his death in 1854 Robert left his business and property to his brother Thomas Robert Cutbush in whose garden at Maidstone April Love was painted. Much of the painting however appears to have been done at 6 Upper Belgrave Place, Pimlico, where Hughes shared a studio with the sculptor Alaxander Munro. The latter is said to have been the model for the man in the picture (letter from Margaret Munro, 20th August 1959, in Tate Gallery files. According to Hughes' pupil Alec Goodwin, writing in 1916, writing in 1916, the face of the girl was originally modelled by a country girl who disliked the way Hughes was painting her and promptly left. Tryphena appears to have become the model for the girl.'
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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2721
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 19, 2004 - 5:52 pm: |
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A very interesting discovery, AP. It's a shame these Cutbushes don't seem to have been quite in the "I'm important enough to have my picture painted" class, or we could get an idea of what they looked like.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1191
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 19, 2004 - 5:59 pm: |
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I'm trying Robert.
I've put a price on the head of the Cutbush clan with the biggest photo agency in the world, so let's see if they can come up with at least uncle Charles. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2724
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 19, 2004 - 6:14 pm: |
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AP, anyone who told Uncle Charles "We just want a few shots" was playing with fire.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1195
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, July 21, 2004 - 6:14 pm: |
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Some more Cutbush poetry.
Lord Grimthorpe used this poem as the basis for his chimes at Big Ben:
I Know That My Redeemer Liveth
Job 19:25
Words, Jessie Brown Pounds, 1893
Tune HANNAH, James H. Fillmore, 1893
I know that my Redeemer liveth, And on the earth again shall stand;
I know eternal life He giveth, That grace and power are in His hand.
I know, I know (I know, I know) that Jesus liveth,
And on the earth (And on the earth) again shall stand;
I know, I know (I know, I know) that life He giveth,
That grace and power (That grace and power) are in His hand.
I know His promise never faileth, The word He speaks, it cannot die;
Though cruel death my flesh assaileth, Yet I shall see Him by and by.
I know, I know (I know, I know) that Jesus liveth,
And on the earth (And on the earth) again shall stand;
I know, I know (I know, I know) that life He giveth,
That grace and power (That grace and power) are in His hand.
Now we must understand what this poem means:
"For I Know That My Redeemer Lives"
By Robert Hamerton-Kelly
Scripture: Job 19:23-27; Luke 20: 27-38
"For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at last he will stand upon the earth; and after my skin has been thus destroyed, then from my flesh I shall see God, whom I shall see on my side, and my eyes shall behold, I and no other."
-- Job 19:25-27.
This famous text is a traditional part of our Christian burial service and G.F. Handel made it a beautiful part of our most treasured Christmas Oratorio, The Messiah. Who has not been moved by the marvelous soprano solo, "I know that my Redeemer liveth?" Handel was following the tradition that makes this a prophecy of Jesus the Messiah, - which it is, - but we are not limited to that interpretation. There is much to be learned by considering it within its original context in the book of Job in particular and in the religion of the Bible in general.
Understanding our NT reading today depends on knowing the biblical law, that if a man died without a son his brother had to impregnate his widow until a son was born and so perpetuate his dead brother’s name. This was known as the levirate law and is set out in Deuteronomy 25:5-10.
I think what it means is that Thomas Cutbush was fathered by uncle Charles.
If you’re lost perhaps Robert might explain about the Cutbush family of Maidstone who designed and built turret and tower clocks in the early Victorian period - Maidstone apparently being the best place in the world to build gravity escapement mechanisms like Grimthorpe’s Big Ben because of its unique geology and geography, ah, I’m tired, looked at too many clocks.
Thomas seems to have been his uncle’s sin. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2732
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, July 21, 2004 - 6:31 pm: |
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Hi AP
I see where you're going, but surely Thomas Taylor Cutbush didn't die, only did a bunk. Mind you, if that's what happened then I can see why he put the maximum possible distance between himself and Albert St.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1197
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 22, 2004 - 2:33 pm: |
|
I'm glad you can see where I'm going, Robert, as I'm lost in a wood of cuckoo clocks.
I suppose I'm thinking it possible that the rest of the family thought TTC was dead - or at least wished he was - and I do seem to remember a reference that confirms that belief.
Thank god you told me about 'bookmarking' sites of interest, at least now I know where I read this stuff.
As you do know I have always smelt some kind of incestous - or close to that - relationship to be at the heart of the Cutbush problems.
Let's see. |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1203
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 26, 2004 - 4:39 pm: |
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For whom the bell tolls
In 1888 Thomas Hayne Cutbush wrote a letter to Lord Grimthorpe, content as yet unknown.
Lord Grimthorpe designed and engineered our beloved Big Ben.
The bell for Big Ben was cast by the Whitechapel Foundary.
Big Ben is what is known as a turret or tower clock.
Scotland Yard also featured a tower clock designed and engineered by Lord Grimthorpe.
The Cutbush family of Maidstone, Kent were innovative clock makers and engineers, involved in the design and construction of turret and tower clocks; and were in the forefront of clock technology in the Early- to -Late Victorian period.
This expertise in clock making certainly plays a role in the American connection between the Hayne and Cutbush families.
It is very likely - considering the little information we have available - that Thomas Hayne Cutbush was intimately related to the Maidstone Cutbush clock-makers - and that his letter to Lord Grimthorpe concerned the unique gravity escapement movement that Lord Grimthorpe employed in his unique design for Big Ben… which he probably nicked from the Cutbush clan in Kent, so every time the bell rang little Tom Tom went out and slit a throat.
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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2744
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 26, 2004 - 5:43 pm: |
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Hi AP
I dare say he was related to the Maidstone Cutbushes, though precisely how, the devil only knows.
If there was a clock connection, one can see how angry he'd have been at lack of money forcing his mother to take in lodgers - that is, if the mysterious Mr Petrolei was on the scene by 1888.
But now you've got me imagining Tom as Dennis Price, determined to recover the inheritance his family had been cheated out of. "I shot an arrow in the air, she fell to earth in Mitre Square."
Robert |
Natalie Severn
Chief Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 974
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 26, 2004 - 6:09 pm: |
|
Hi AP and Robert-fascinating bit of History.Thanks
Natalie |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2745
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 26, 2004 - 6:18 pm: |
|
CHIMES AT MIDNIGHT
Time jerked his hand, the great clock struck,
The lady trundled forth on wheels.
The proud knight, sporting her hanky for luck
Met her amid the chimes and the peals
And with his keen and noble lance
Gave fair lady one caress,
Slid discreetly from the dance
And the blood on the lady's dress.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1204
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, July 27, 2004 - 1:56 pm: |
|
Oh, nicely done, Robert.
Such a scenario was in my mind last night and you captured it perfectly with your little poesie.
Beautifully constructed and played.
I have just been absolutely assured by one of the foremost clock experts of all 'time' that if a Cutbush wrote to Lord Grimthorpe in the LVP then the subject must have been clocks, no doubt about it.
So time is on our side.
I'll post more as I get it. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2747
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, July 27, 2004 - 3:30 pm: |
|
Thanks AP. It looks as if everything is going well. Let's hope for some more good news.
Robert |
Natalie Severn
Chief Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 980
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, July 27, 2004 - 5:17 pm: |
|
Very neatly turned that one Robert.I enjoyed it.
Natalie |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2750
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, July 27, 2004 - 5:50 pm: |
|
Thanks Natalie. How's the painting going? Any more in the pipeline?
Robert |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1207
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, July 28, 2004 - 5:52 pm: |
|
Another Cutbush original poesie:
'Farmer Cutbush's Inscription
For the Lady's Museum
Copy of Farmer Cutbush's inscription (at the back of his wife's stone,) to the memory of a daughter, aged twenty, the last survivor of his ten children. These domestic afflictions affected the poor man's intellects, and he survived this last blow but a very short time.
Be still, ye birds! your notes to silence hush; For silent here lies, sweet-ton'd Ann Cutbush: Sweeter than all your tribes, by far, sung she; Her strains uniting sense with melody.
The Reverend Clark call'd her "The Church Lark;" And good Parson Davis, "The Kent Rara Avis."
Most rare, indeed, she was--her sex's partner, By none exceeded--but her mother Kattern! My weakness seems not wisdom's drift.
They'll not come to me, I must to them go; O when shall I see The end of my woe!
But till the time comes I'll hence watch and pray; Tho' slow the time moves, Most sure is the day!
|
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2753
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, July 28, 2004 - 6:34 pm: |
|
AP, he had that lot carved? He must have been fairly well off.
Maybe Tom could have had something like :
BLOODY BROOKS GOOFS AGAIN
Bury me not deep, I pray,
Where the sparrows hop and prance :
Soon I know I'll see the day -
'Tis but a catatonic trance.
Robert |
Natalie Severn
Chief Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 985
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, July 28, 2004 - 7:00 pm: |
|
Sounds a bit TOO intense-see what you mean AP about whiffs of incest in the Cutbush clan!
Hi Robert,yes,there is a composition of a meeting between JtR and Catherine Eddowes.I"ll try to post it within the next week.I haven"t got my spouse to help me as I am up in North Wales at the moment but I"ll try.I will be very interested in how it takes you.
Natalie |
Jon Smyth
Detective Sergeant
Username: Jon
Post Number: 133
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 29, 2004 - 11:13 am: |
|
An Unfortunate's Lament
(intended to be set to music)
If I could live my life all over,
I'd keep away from drinking, I would do without.
I do things that I'm not proud of,
And someday I'll regret this life, I have no doubt.
And as a matter of survival, I sell myself so cheap most every night,
Though my standards won't impress you, keep your lectures for the press,
and spare me fourpence for a bed Sir, ..if you can tonight.
I sell matches when I can dear,
And beg and steal and borrow anything I need.
Desperate times for desperate people,
especially them who also have their kids to feed.
I know you don't respect me, and my kind always drink and swear and fight.
I have needs you won't address, you keep your lectures for the press,
and spare me fourpence for a bed Sir, ..if you can tonight.
My best years are all gone now,
I can't survive much longer, but I'm not alone.
There's a thousand more besides me,
some sleeping in the graveyard that will be their home.
Now if you have a heart dear, you can give me something costly shining bright,
Though you see I'm in distress, you keep your lectures for the press,
and spare me fourpence for a bed Sir, ..if you can tonight.
If I'd listened to the preacher,
I'd likely not be in this state I'm living now
I thought I knew it all dear,
but now I see I should have kept the temperance vow.
This hard life just aint worth living, and the reaper stalks me every single night.
Though you think I should confess, save your opinions for the press,
and spare me fourpence for a bed Sir, ..if you can tonight.
Well the nights a rolling on dear,
and to earn a bed I should be on the streets I know.
If I can service any needs dear,
I'll take you to a spot somewhere along Bucks Row.
Thats all my spirit has to tell you, what happened next is not a pretty sight
But the reason for redress was also mentioned by the press,
....because of fourpence for a bed dear, .....I lay here tonight.
In honour of the Whitechapel victims, inspired by Mary Ann Nichols.
Regards, Jon
(Message edited by Jon on July 29, 2004) |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2754
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 29, 2004 - 11:29 am: |
|
Hi Jon
Lovely to see a new poet! I really enjoyed this. I thought it was very cleverly done, and struck the right balance between sympathy for the victims and preachy sentimentality. Great stuff, Jon.
Robert |
Natalie Severn
Chief Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 990
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 29, 2004 - 5:04 pm: |
|
Beautiful Jon.This is how I too feel about the victims.And so sensitively felt.
You have made my day!
Natalie |
Jon Smyth
Detective Sergeant
Username: Jon
Post Number: 136
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Friday, July 30, 2004 - 9:16 am: |
|
Thankyou Robert and thankyou Natalie, if it made your day then it was all worth while.
Robert
I'm glad it came across how I intended it to.
I suspect many 'unfortunate's' couldn't care less about words of sympathy and criticizm.
If you offered help they would prefer something tangible, or you're wasting their time.
I tried to reflect that, also the price of life, how significant four simple pennies were, whether you have them, or whether you don't.
Regards, Jon |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1208
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Friday, July 30, 2004 - 12:52 pm: |
|
Robert
I enjoyed your 'Bloody Brooks' entirely, and yes, you are quite right, it is nice to have new blood on board this creaky ship as she barely floats towards the nearest reef.
So welcome abroad Jon with your excellent broadside.
My own cannons have fallen strangely quiet of late.
Ah well, I busy me good self with trivia and nonsense, such is the good world of Jack and Tom Tom. |
Natalie Severn
Chief Inspector
Username: Severn
Post Number: 997
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Friday, July 30, 2004 - 1:01 pm: |
|
Robert-I missed that yes a lovely line that too-catatonic trance-Quite!Fine words.
Natalie |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2757
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, July 30, 2004 - 4:40 pm: |
|
Thanks folks. Jon, I hope you'll post some more.
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2758
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, July 31, 2004 - 6:10 am: |
|
IN MEMORIAM
The bitch with the insolent face comes by
And shameless looks me in the eye
Now should she live, or should she die?
The tick of a clock will decide.
Her eyes they stare but cannot see
For now I have her as empty as me
A hole where someone used to be
And a wound that's gaping wide.
They took a while, but found her name
Who she was and whence she came
And gave her a tiny moment of fame
Then slung her away without trace.
And now she's known as the third or the fifth
A Whitechapel whore, a Spitalfields stiff
A lost soul and an unanswered "if"
For having an insolent face.
Robert |
Jon Smyth
Detective Sergeant
Username: Jon
Post Number: 139
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, July 31, 2004 - 8:06 pm: |
|
This may border on taking a liberty but back in the early 70's I visited Whitechapel twice, before it was 'violated' (such is progress).
Two years later, in 1974 Ralph McTell released what was for me a uniquely memorable song, 'Streets of London'.
The lyrics are intended as a suitable antidote for one of those sudden attacks of self pity ..
---------------
Streets of London, - Ralph McTell, 1974.
Have you seen the old man
In the closed-down market
Kicking up the paper,
with his worn out shoes?
In his eyes you see no pride
And held loosely at his side
Yesterday's paper telling yesterday's news
So how can you tell me you're lonely,
And say for you that the sun don't shine?
Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind
Have you seen the old girl
Who walks the streets of London
Dirt in her hair and her clothes in rags?
She's no time for talking,
She just keeps right on walking
Carrying her home in two carrier bags.
So how can you tell me you're lonely,
And say for you that the sun don't shine?
Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind
In the all night cafe
At a quarter past eleven,
Same old man is sitting there on his own
Looking at the world
Over the rim of his tea-cup,
Each tea last an hour
Then he wanders home alone
So how can you tell me you're lonely,
And say for you that the sun don't shine?
Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind
And have you seen the old man
Outside the seaman's mission
Memory fading with
The medal ribbons that he wears.
In our winter city,
The rain cries a little pity
For one more forgotten hero
And a world that doesn't care
So how can you tell me you're lonely,
And say for you that the sun don't shine?
Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind
----------------
Regards, Jon |
Jon Smyth
Detective Sergeant
Username: Jon
Post Number: 140
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, July 31, 2004 - 8:38 pm: |
|
Robert, you want more?
(shades of Oliver Twist?) 
You guy's and gals do know of the 'Games & Diversions' section on this site?, I ask because I have not seen your names listed as contributors in the poetry section.
Actually Robert, if you are a glutton for punishment, I contributed several poems some years ago..
This one is basically an overview of the murders without the gore, I detailed the murder of Mary Nichols to basically set the mood, it wasn't necessary to overdo it with details of the other crimes.
http://casebook.org/diversions/fiction.smyth3.html
And one venture into whit was my sarcastic review of Shirley Harrisons, The Diary of Jack the Ripper.
In that I attempted to raise the issues in sequence as I remembered reading them, and the startling about-face at the end, that she tried to sell to the public.
http://casebook.org/diversions/fiction.smyth2.html
..well, you asked
Regards, Jon |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2762
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, August 01, 2004 - 7:45 am: |
|
Hi Jon
So you're not a new poet but an old one!  Anyway, I enjoyed both of those. I'm not sure if I've ever done a poem about the Diary - I prefer my head to be attached to my body.
Robert |
Jon Smyth
Detective Sergeant
Username: Jon
Post Number: 144
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, August 01, 2004 - 9:52 am: |
|
Hi Robert.
Yes, 'old' as in 'long in the tooth' and also a longtime resident of the Casebook, I just take the odd year off every now and then.
I have other pursuits but I keep drifting back home you might say, though you are correct in that I have never contributed anything to this thread before. I do though read all your (everybodies) contributions, you do well Robert.
Have you ever read any of George Sims work?, the 19th century journalist,..
http://casebook.org/press_reports/dagonet.html
...his presentation and outlook I appreciate, he wrote some clever stuff.
Get this....a snippet from one of his poems about frustration over the Ripper crimes:
"Do something - do something!" Lord Salisbury cried.
"We've done all we can!" Worried Warren replied;
"We keep on arresting as fast as we can,
And we hope soon or late we shall get the right man."
Now isn't that just brilliant, Sims captures the inherent panic and frustration of the officials in a believably comic fashion.
I love good lyrics, simplicity is very difficult, the simplest rhymes conceal the most hard work.
Lyrics have to run smooth and be easy to remember.
All the best, Jon
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Jon Smyth
Detective Sergeant
Username: Jon
Post Number: 145
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, August 01, 2004 - 10:03 am: |
|
Ok, I've been tempted, this you have just GOT to read, it's long so go for a 'pit-stop' then grab a drink and sit down and read this, guarranteed it will bring tears (of laughter) to your eyes.
THE BLOODHOUNDS. - (BY A LUNATIC LAUREATE)
The brow of Sir Charles it was gloomy and sad,
He was slapped by the Tory and kicked by the Rad.;
His inspectors were all of them down in the dumps,
And his staff of detectives were clean off their chumps.
The populace clamoured without in the yard
For Matthews, Home Sec., to be feathered and tarred;
When Matthews peeped out of a window hard by,
And grinned at the mob with a leer in his eye.
"Do something - do something!" Lord Salisbury cried
"We've done all we can!" Worried Warren replied;
"We keep on arresting as fast as we can,
And we hope soon or late we shall get the right man."
Then, goaded by taunts to the depths of despair,
The poor First Commissioner tore at his hair,
And fell upon Matthews's breast with a sob -
But the Whitechapel Vampire was still on the job.
At last when the city was maddened with fears,
And the Force had dissolved into impotent tears,
A sweet little boy who had dog stories read
Put the bloodhound idea in C.W.'s head.
They brought of him bloodhounds the best to be found,
And the "tecs" and the dogs sought the murderer's ground;
Then the bow-wows were loosed, and with noses to earth
They trotted away 'mid the bystanders' mirth.
The bloodhounds ran east, and the bloodhounds ran west,
Enjoying the sport with an infinite zest;
The bloodhounds ran north, and the bloodhounds ran south,
While Matthews looked on with a wide-open mouth.
"Good heavens!" he cried, "are you dotty, Sir Charles?"
As a hound smelt his calf with two ominous snarls.
"Is it possible you, with your stern common sense,
Believe in this melodramatic pretence?"
But he followed the bloodhounds - he'd sworn that he would
While Sir Charles ran beside them as well as he could;
And so Warren and Matthews, though both out of breath,
Ran about with the hounds to be in at the death.
They followed to Clapham, they followed to Kew;
Away through the streets of Whitechapel they flew.
They dodged in and out of the slums of St. Giles,
And they followed the hounds for some hundreds of miles.
They followed in ‘buses, they followed in trams;
Our Charles was all groans, and our Matthews all "damns."
They dodged into houses, they popped into shops,
They jumped over hedges, and damaged the crops.
The bloodhounds grew gay with the fun of the chase,
And they ran like two thoroughbreds running a race;
They leaped o'er the wall, and they swam o'er the stream,
Their tongues lolling out and their eyeballs agleam.
But Warren and Matthews kept up with them still
They followed through valley, they followed o'er hill;
Then darkness came down, and afar in the haze
Hounds, Warren, and Matthews were lost to our gaze.
And never since then, though they're much overdue,
Have those hounds or officials returned to our view;
But a legend relates that in lands far away
They are still running on in pursuit of their prey.
And at eve, when the citizens gather to drink,
They speak of the lost ones, and say, with a wink,
"'Twas an excellent thing to put hounds on the track,
Since it took off two men who are not wanted back."
------------
Excellent stuff - they don't come much better than that.
Regards, Jon |
Natalie Severn
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Severn
Post Number: 1013
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, August 01, 2004 - 10:18 am: |
|
Hi Jon,I was a Ralph McTell enthusiast so we must be about the same age[dont want to think about it-start to do morbid things like say"I remember when my mother was this age and it was only twenty two years ago etc" and that really freaks me out now!So I prefer to "forget about it".My favourite from the seventies though I am ashamed to say is dear old Rod Stewart-Hell how uncool can you get?I have some favourites from the sixties too-say no more...well why not Dillon wasnt bad especially when he sang"the times They Are A Changing"---they didnt though did they---its still the same old song dressed up!
Natalie |
Natalie Severn
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Severn
Post Number: 1014
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, August 01, 2004 - 10:38 am: |
|
Our posts must have crossed Jon!that was hillarious!had me laughing out loud!
Some of the Victorian poets were really fabulous.I love Ernest Dowson"s non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae:[this one for some reason makes me think of Mary Kelly
All night upon her heart I felt her warm heart beat
Night long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee Cynara! in my fashion
[oh sure!]
and Swinburne and all the poems "du Mal".
Fantastic!
Natalie[dont go away we need you here] |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2765
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, August 01, 2004 - 11:27 am: |
|
Hi Jon
Yes, I love this sort of boisterous, exuberant humour. I have a couple of books which contain some of Sims's non-Ripper articles about London, and I'll have to type them up for the Boards some time. I think at one time Sims was actually listed as a comedian on his census return.
Natalie, when I hear "It's all over now Baby Blue" I think of Kelly.
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2766
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, August 01, 2004 - 12:31 pm: |
|
Sims has got me going now, so I've just knocked this one up.
ID
I am a professional witness
And though I mustn't boast
I'm blest with health and fitness
For I'm always on the coast.
And I've no cause to grumble
Wherever I may roam
Be it ever so humble
There's no place like a Seaside Home.
I've spotted Jack at Hove
And I've spotted Jack at Dover
I'm such a sharp-eyed cove
I've spotted Jack all over.
I've been where milk and honey flow
The playgrounds of the rich
I saw Jack once, but do you know,
I can't recall at which.
Now if this dream should ever end
And I'm without a sou
Have pity on me, gentle friend
Or I might just spot you.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1210
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, August 01, 2004 - 5:35 pm: |
|
So much going on here, and I'm enjoying every word, especially Robert's master-blasters but I have my face in a book of clocks and am trying to see what makes a Cutbush tick
tock.
But I am working on a Jack at Brighton poesie. |
Natalie Severn
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Severn
Post Number: 1015
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, August 01, 2004 - 5:58 pm: |
|
Hi Robert,a light witty delight this!Good on yer!
Natalie |
Natalie Severn
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Severn
Post Number: 1016
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, August 01, 2004 - 6:23 pm: |
|
AP so good to see you pop up again.I hope you are going to give Thomas another good airing!
Robert-yes Baby Blue is apt too! |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2769
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, August 02, 2004 - 3:23 am: |
|
Thanks folks. Yes, looking forward to more mayhem at Brighton.
Robert |
Donato Fasolini
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Saturday, August 07, 2004 - 12:18 pm: |
|
The man who is walking
with a packet
in his hands
is he carrying nothing?
But else…….
A knife, beautiful knife,
under that head
that thinks
bloody images
of death
It’s wonderful laugh
when a cry runs
above the roof,
butcher’s house,
it insn’t true?
A pale, smashed face,
as a broken looking-glass,
alas!
Sorrow and Pain.
Dear Boss, head of police-ass.
Holy, dirty snake,
smashed face pale;
only two eyes safe,
blue lakes.
I see, yes I see you,
my beautiful moon
red loot
in the sky:
now and forever
bye,
my doom.
Donato Fasolini |
Natalie Severn
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Severn
Post Number: 1028
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, August 07, 2004 - 1:22 pm: |
|
Hi Donato.Loved the imagery and especially the line From "Blue Lakes to red loot in the sky".Compelling and mysterious.
Natalie |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2788
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, August 07, 2004 - 3:09 pm: |
|
I enjoyed that too, Donato. Welcome to the poetry thread.
Robert |
Donato Fasolini
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Saturday, August 07, 2004 - 4:20 pm: |
|
Thank Natalie and Robert
I enjoyed that you had enjoyed it
Donato |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2791
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, August 07, 2004 - 6:48 pm: |
|
A CHILD'S EYE VIEW
I don't like Jack the Ripper
He was a naughty man
He walked around in fog all night
And tried to kill my gran
He had a big top hat
He had a Batman cape
And I know who he was
'Cause I've got him on my tape
I don't like Jack the Ripper
He had a nasty knife
He had some horrid habits
And he never had a wife
I think by now he's very old
Or maybe he is dead
His shoes were rubber soled
And he wore them in his bed
I'm glad he's gone away
And won't be coming back
But if he ever does
I hope he gets a smack
Robert |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1286
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, August 21, 2004 - 5:41 pm: |
|
I do like olde English faery tales, this one demands very close scrutiny:
'The History of Jack the Giant-Killer
N the reign of the famous King Arthur there lived in Cornwall a lad named Jack, who was a boy of a bold temper, and took delight in hearing or reading of conjurers, giants, and fairies; and used to listen eagerly to the deeds of the knights of King Arthur's Round Table.
In those days there lived on St. Michael's Mount, off Cornwall, a huge giant, eighteen feet high and nine feet round; his fierce and savage looks were the terror of all who beheld him.
He dwelt in a gloomy cavern on the top of the mountain, and used to wade over to the mainland in search of prey; when he would throw half a dozen oxen upon his back, and tie three times as many sheep and hogs round his waist, and march back to his own abode.
The giant had done this for many years when Jack resolved to destroy him.
Jack took a horn, a shovel, a pickaxe, his armor, and a dark lantern, and one winter's evening he went to the mount. There he dug a pit twenty-two feet deep and twenty broad. He covered the top over so as to make it look like solid ground. He then blew his horn so loudly that the giant awoke and came out of his den crying out: "You saucy villain! you shall pay for this I'll broil you for my breakfast!"
He had just finished, when, taking one step further, he tumbled headlong into the pit, and Jack struck him a blow on the head with his pickaxe which killed him. Jack then returned home to cheer his friends with the news.
Another giant, called Blunderbore, vowed to be revenged on Jack if ever he should have him in his power. This giant kept an enchanted castle in the midst of a lonely wood; and some time after the death of Cormoran Jack was passing through a wood, and being weary, sat down and went to sleep.
The giant, passing by and seeing Jack, carried him to his castle, where he locked him up in a large room, the floor of which was covered with the bodies, skulls and bones of men and women.
Soon after the giant went to fetch his brother who was likewise a giant, to take a meal off his flesh; and Jack saw with terror through the bars of his prison the two giants approaching.
Jack, perceiving in one corner of the room a strong cord, took courage, and making a slip-knot at each end, he threw them over their heads, and tied it to the window- bars; he then pulled till he had choked them. When they were black in the face he slid down the rope and stabbed them to the heart.
Jack next took a great bunch of keys from the pocket of Blunderbore, and went into the castle again. He made a strict search through all the rooms, and in one of them found three ladies tied up by the hair of their heads, and almost starved to death. They told him that their husbands had been killed by the giants, who had then condemned them to be starved to death because they would not eat the flesh of their own dead husbands.
"Ladies," said Jack, "I have put an end to the monster and his wicked brother; and I give you this castle and all the riches it contains, to make some amends for the dreadful pains you have felt." He then very politely gave them the keys of the castle, and went further on his journey to Wales.
As Jack had but little money, he went on as fast as possible. At length he came to a handsome house. Jack knocked at the door, when there came forth a Welsh giant. Jack said he was a traveler who had lost his way, on which the giant made him welcome, and let him into a room where there was a good bed to sleep in.
Jack took off his clothes quickly, but though he was weary he could not go to sleep. Soon after this he heard the giant walking backward and forward in the next room, and saying to himself:
"Though here you lodge with me this night,
You shall not see the morning light;
My club shall dash your brains out quite."
"Say you so?" thought Jack. "Are these your tricks upon travelers? But I hope to prove as cunning as you are." Then, getting out of bed, he groped about the room, and at last found a large thick billet of wood. He laid it in his own place in the bed, and then hid himself in a dark corner of the room.
The giant, about midnight, entered the apartment, and with his bludgeon struck many blows on the bed, in the very place where Jack had laid the log; and then he went back to his own room, thinking he had broken all Jack's bones.
Early in the morning Jack put a bold face upon the matter, and walked into the giant's room to thank him for his lodging. The giant started when he saw him, and began to stammer out: "Oh! dear me; is it you? Pray how did you sleep last night? Did you hear or see anything in the dead of the night?"
"Nothing to speak of," said Jack, carelessly; "a rat, I believe, gave me three or four slaps with its tail, and disturbed me a little; but I soon went to sleep again."
The giant wondered more and more at this; yet he did not answer a word, but went to bring two great bowls of hasty-pudding for their breakfast. Jack wanted to make the giant believe that he could eat as much as himself, so he contrived to button a leathern bag inside his coat, and slip the hasty-pudding into this bag, while he seemed to put it into his mouth.
When breakfast was over he said to the giant: "Now I will show you a fine trick. I can cure all wounds with a touch; I could cut off my head in one minute, and the next put it sound again on my shoulders. You shall see an example." He then took hold of the knife, ripped up the leathern bag, and all the hasty-pudding tumbled out upon the floor.
"Ods splutter hur nails!" cried the Welsh giant, who was ashamed to be outdone by such a little fellow as Jack, "hur can do that hurself"; so he snatched up the knife, plunged it into his own stomach, and in a moment dropped down dead.
Jack, having hitherto been successful in all his under- takings, resolved not to be idle in future; he therefore furnished himself with a horse, a cap of knowledge, a sword of sharpness, shoes of swiftness, and an invisible coat, the better to perform the wonderful enterprises that lay before him.
He traveled over high hills, and on the third day he came to a large and spacious forest through which his road lay. Scarcely had he entered the forest when he beheld a monstrous giant dragging along by the hair of their heads a handsome knight and his lady. Jack alighted from his horse, and tying him to an oak tree, put on his invisible coat, under which he carried his sword of sharpness.
When he came up to the giant he made several strokes at him, but could not reach his body, but wounded his thighs in several places; and at length, putting both hands to his sword and aiming with all his might, he cut off both his legs. Then Jack, setting his foot upon his neck, plunged his sword into the giant's body, when the monster gave a groan and expired.
The knight and his lady thanked Jack for their deliverance, and invited him to their house, to receive a proper reward for his services. "No," said Jack, "I cannot be easy till I find out this monster's habitation." So, taking the knight's directions, he mounted his horse and soon after came in sight of another giant, who was sitting on a block of timber waiting for his brother's return.
Jack alighted from his horse, and, putting on his invisible coat, approached and aimed a blow at the giant's head, but, missing his aim, he only cut off his nose. On this the giant seized his club and laid about him most unmercifully.
"Nay," said Jack, "if this be the case I'd better dispatch you!" so, jumping upon the block, he stabbed him in the back, when he dropped down dead.
Jack then proceeded on his journey, and traveled over hills and dales, till arriving at the foot of a high mountain he knocked at the door of a lonely house, when an old man let him in.
When Jack was seated the hermit thus addressed him: "My son, on the top of this mountain is an enchanted castle, kept by the giant Galligantus and a vile magician. I lament the fate of a duke's daughter, whom they seized as she was walking in her father's garden, and brought hither transformed into a deer."
Jack promised that in the morning, at the risk of his life, he would break the enchantment; and after a sound sleep he rose early, put on his invisible coat, and got ready for the attempt.
When he had climbed to the top of the mountain he saw two fiery griffins, but he passed between them without the least fear of danger, for they could not see him because of his invisible coat. On the castle gate he found a golden trumpet, under which were written these lines:
"Whoever can this trumpet blow
Shall cause the giant's overthrow."
As soon as Jack had read this he seized the trumpet and blew a shrill blast, which made the gates fly open and the very castle itself tremble.
The giant and the conjurer now knew that their wicked course was at an end, and they stood biting their thumbs and shaking with fear. Jack, with his sword of sharpness, soon killed the giant, and the magician was then carried away by a whirlwind; and every knight and beautiful lady who had been changed into birds and beasts returned to their proper shapes. The castle vanished away like smoke, and the head of the giant Galligantus was then sent to King Arthur.
The knights and ladies rested that night at the old man's hermitage, and next day they set out for the Court. Jack then went up to the King, and gave his Majesty an account of all his fierce battles.
Jack's fame had now spread through the whole country, and at the King's desire the duke gave him his daughter in marriage, to the joy of all his kingdom. After this the King gave him a large estate, on which he and his lady lived the rest of their days in joy and contentment.[1]
[1] Old Chapbook.'
I can imagine young Tom-Tom watching this at one of the Whitechapel music halls in absolute wonder.
The timing is right:
'This story is from the 1898 English Fairy Tales collected by Joseph Jacobs, pages 102-116 in my edition.
Jacobs says in his notes on pages 255-256 that his source is two chapbooks at the British museum (London, 1805; Paisley, 1814? [Jacob's dates]). Jacobs says that he has taken some 'hints' from an 1845 source and ommitted the incident of the giant dragging the lady along by her hair. This is an example of his Victorian morality altering the content of the original.'
And this could have been Tom-Tom's Mary... or Jack:
'Adelaide Mary (Ada) Reeve, was born in London on March 3rd, 1876 (some sources say 1874). As both of her parents were actors (her father being Charles Reeve) it was inevitable that Ada would be groomed for the stage from an early age, and she made her first theatrical appearance at just four years old. That was in the pantomime "Red Riding Hood" at the Pavilion Theatre in Whitechapel, London on Boxing Day 1878. Two years later, she made her 'straight' dramatic debut came at Dewsbury in West Yorkshire when she played 'Willie Carlyle' in "East Lynne" with Fred Wright's company of which her parents were members. Her talent, even at so early an age was obvious and Ada soon became the family meal ticket.
She first appeared in London at the Pavilion Theatre, Mile End, over Christmas 1883 when she played 'The Old Man of the Sea' in the pantomime "Sinbad the Sailor". Over the next few years she appeared in a number of productions at the same theatre, including the role as the boy 'Jacques Martel' in "The Crimes of Paris" in the summer of 1884 which she made a considerable success. At christmas 1884 she played 'Fairy Kindness' in the pantomime "Little Red Riding Hood" and the following christmas was in "Jack the Giant Killer".'
Maybe Jack was killing giants?
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