Revisiting a blog post from 2012 in memory of my Dad, with new drawings from Janis Goodman…
A poem by Alfred Lord Table-Tennyson
On one side of the river lie
Long beds of turnips and of rye
(‘tis used as green manure, that’s why)
And past KwikFit the road runs by
From wint’ry Camallotment
Where gale-force winds and snowy showers
Have killed off all the cauliflowers
And where the silent shed imbowers
The Lady of Shallot.
Only the postie, walking early
Down the river path to Burley,
Hears a song that echoes cheerly
From the nearest shed quite clearly,
Across be-wintered Camallotment:
And by the moon, dogwalkers weary,
Bagging turds in uplands airy,
Listening, whisper, ‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shallot.’
There she sits by night and day
Waiting for winter to go away.
She heard The Reluctant Gardener say
Her looks will fade if she should stray
out onto frozen Camallotment.
One knows not what the weather may be,
And so she sits there steadily.
But cooped-up in the shed feels she,
The Lady of Shallot.
Through the window most unclear
That’s there before her half the year,
A man in a flat cap doth appear
And there she sees the A65 near
Winding down to Camallotment:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly council-churls,
And tail of Dog MS unfurls
Outside on Camallotment.
And then one day near her shed-eaves,
Some tools from out the car are heaved,
And sun comes through the wych elm leaves,
And flames upon the brazen greaves
Of Sir MS Lancelotment.
Up to the shed he boldly stumbles
When asked to dig the earth he grumbles
‘I can only stay an hour,’ he mumbles
‘On this freezing Camallotment.’
His furrowed brow in sunlight glows
(On burnish’d tyres he usually goes)
Beneath his baseball cap there flows
His greying hair, and rose-red nose
On perishing Camallotment.
From the bank and from the river
The cold air really makes him shiver
‘It’s brassic by this bloody river,’
Sings Sir MS Lancelotment.
She hops three paces thro’ the shed,
A knight like this she’d planned to wed
And take unto her turnip bed
On forsaken Camallotment.
But down she falls, and flat she lies
The window cracks from side to side;
‘I forgot I wasn’t real!’ sighs
The Lady of Shallot.
In the stormy east wind straining
On other plots, the workers waning
The broad stream in its banks complaining
Heavily the low sky raining
Over lonely Camallotment.
And bold Sir MS looks quite flurried
‘Has a bird got in that shed?’ he worries
And to the padlocked door he hurries
To the Lady of Shallot.
And there she gives him quite a fright
Lying, robed in black and white
That loosely blows from left to right
Her skirt being made to catch the light;
Scare pests from Camallotment.
But undeterred, he takes her hand
And as he brings her out to stand
He hears a craz’d humming sound
From The Lady of Shallot.
He hears a pop song, not quite holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted slowly,
‘By heck’ he breathes, and ‘Holy Moly!’
And quickly pegs her in the lowly
Soil of Camallotment.
It’s done. He puts his tools away
And lives to dig another day
Relief. It’s been a bad spade day
For Sir MS Lancelotment.
But he gets over it. Now she stands
Upon the Parish Council lands
In rain and snow and river sands
Holding sunlight in her hands
On chilly Camallotment.
And though the birds shit on her dress
And rain has made her face a mess
She wears the smile of someone blessed,
The Lady of Shallot.
Brilliant, and more musical than the Laureat, is the clay-caked maid of Wharfe.
But will the soil ever again be warm enough to hold the humble bulb of shallot?
omg it is brilliant!
xxxxxxx
Oh Mandy you are SO funny. That made me laugh a lot(ment). What a great skit! Jxx
Brilliant. Your best to date, Mandy. Shrieks of laughter!
Hilarious… Camallotment Rules.
Genius Mand! Love it.
Lord Alfred Tenniscourt! Didn’t he also write the one about those scoundrels who demand more money than their manure is worth: “The Charge of the S—e Brigade”?
….Sorry.
You are clever MS Allotment
Love the necklace too! Thoroughly enjoyed that M.
Nice one, Mitra Girl!!
What a gem – you were inspired Mandy!
I’ve fallen for Sir Lancallotty
his brazen greaves and guile
but how to get rid of the totty
or at least her blessed smile
PERFECT!!
Love ALL of it and especially Lady S with her soulful eyebrows furrowing at Sir Lance..as the cold air makes him shiver ,’It’s brassic by this bloody river’,(WICKED rhyme!) fluttering her lashes with a quiver,with dog MS running hivher n thiver, she smiles’love you fur eva’,the lady of Shallott.
Hi folks, thanks so much for your comments! This was one of those posts that took forever (The Lady of Shallot just wouldn’t keep still for her photos) so I really appreciate your great remarks.
You are a witty bunch! Indeed, the clay-caked maid of Wharfe laughed a lot(ment) at the idea of Alfred Lord Tenniscourt’s lesser known poem about fertilizer, Liz’s extra lines and Maria’s daring intro of the word ‘totty’. Great stuff!
loved it Mandy, what a treat – what a star!Took me back to the cough!cough! 50’s at the Convent Speech Day when myself and other brown serge clad gels climbed atop the ‘erection'(don’t know who thought that one up to describe a moveable stage,) to perform the Lady herself, who shal(ott) from this day on, be known as the Patron Saint of Allotments. More please! Monty x
She is fair of face
I pray the Lord will give her grace.
You are the poet laureate of Camallotment!
Wonderfully inspired! I hope the Lady of Shallot survives the weather and anyone who might want to pinch her lovely stripy shirt which looks much too posh to be exposed to the elements. Is she going to have any adventures over the next few weeks? Hope so.
relieves the suffering of having to learn the original at school. by the way LOVE her shirt!
jx
Lament for a Haggis
Fair fa yer honest sonsie face
great chieftain o the puddin race
but noo a rival for yer place
has staked a claim
from oot the shed-eaves sly she came
the Lady of Shallot’s her name
She’ll push yer neeps and tatties aside
dance on yer plate like a bonny bride
strike a blow at yer Scottish pride
So hang in there dear Haggis trusty
yon Shallot quine maun soon be rusty
winter winds can be right gusty.
Hysterical as ever & I have absolutely no witty reply – no chance of competing with that !
I’m with your friend Charmaine on that one, Mandy … what can one say?! Just BRILLIANT. thank you so much x
Hello Mandy, What an eulogy. I love the ‘lady’. Is that really your Dad? He doesn’t look eighty…..
Thanks for that story Monty! And Sheila, I’ve never read a poem addressed to a haggis before, nor will again: utterly brilliant. Lamar, Charmaine and Glynis, thanks! Janie and Emma, the shirt is a size 8, and had languished long in the charity shop. The Lady loved it on sight, and had the figure for it. Otley totty – Sir MS Lancelotment may FEEL eighty at times, but he is a mere stripling compared to Dad, who is now nearly 88 but still gets out onto his flat roof extension to clear leaves out of the guttering.
I don’t know how you can keep this standard up – we’ll be expecting an entire novel next time!
Thanks, Pete. But I promise to spare you that!
wondrous funny
Marilyn
Thanks Marilyn!
As the poet laureate of our Botanic Garden in Bristol I appreciate your humour immensely. My poems sometimes go in the Friends magazine or get pinned up on the Potting Shed door for staff and volunteers to read and sometimes contribute. Weeding or path clearing are jobs that do not need a lot of concentration once you know your plants so the creative juices can flow freely then. Look forward to more verses from the allotment, Mandy. Robert Burns, the Scottish bard, wrote “Address To a Haggis” and it is recited at Burns Suppers (haggis,tatties and neeps) on his birthday, Jan.25th, all round the world.
Thanks, Marion: glad you enjoyed it. Yes, in ‘Becoming a Writer’ (1934), Dorothea Brande said that repetitive non-strenuous physical activity produces the perfect state of mind for writing.
I forgot I meant to tell you about the scarecrow at the Bristol University Botanic garden who would be a very romantic knight for the Lady of Shallot. He has a wicker head and a second hand garden staff uniform, and he is jointed. The staff move his arms and legs into different positions each day to scare off the wood pigeons from the mini plantation of cereals in the Mediterranean Bank. A label tells visitors his name – Anthoneo Mediterraneo – and he sits nonchalantly on a sandstone rock. So far he has done a good job.
Marion, a wicker head? Jointed? It doesn’t get much better than that. I will tell the Lady, and I fully expect her to be delighted.
And I should also mention that, like most of us, The Lady loves a man in a uniform…
A work of genius! “Imbowers” – what a wonderful word!!
Thank you John! Much appreciated as ever.
This is so brilliant Mandy. I hope you have done some more famous poems in the same style. Is the Lady of Shallot still going strong? Hope so…..
Thanks Emma. Glad you enjoyed it. The Lady has a few more adventures to come, albeit not in rhyme! See you soon x