Easter. I go to church
to proclaim with my fellows
I believe in the Ressurection -
of what? Here everything
is electric and automatic.
In April a myriad bulbs
are switched on as flowers
incandesce; a new generation
of creatures rehearses
its genetic code. All this is easy.
Earth is a self-regulating
machine; everything happens
because it must. My faith
is in the inevitability
of creation. There will come a day -
dust under a dry sun,
ashes under its incineration...
is there somewhere in all
the emptiness of the universe
a fertile star where the old
metaphors wil apply, where
the bugling daffodil will sound
abroad not the last post, but
a gush of music out of an empty tomb?
by R.S. Thomas
from Unpublished Poems
Electric Fred has wires in his head
And one hundred watt light bulbs for eyes,
Which means, of course, he can talk in morse
Or flash, red, white and blue with surprise.
Just for a lark, he can shoot a spark
For three hundred feet out of his nose.
Wear rubber bands, if you shake his hands,
Or the current will tingle in your toes.
Sometimes he chews a fifteen amp fuse,
Or recharges himself via the fire.
Just give him jolts of thousands of volts
And you’ll find he’s a really live wire!
– by Derek Stuart