You can’t trust a single bloody one of them.
Call me prejudiced if you like,
They’re all the same,
Those lanky, long-legged buggers.
Can’t trust em an inch, I tell you.
“Oh, beware the afanc!” they say
“Terrifying he is, with his great beaver’s tail
And his horrible snapping teeth!”
Tell me
What did I ever do to them?
Oh, that.
Well that’s trespass, see?
you come into my lake,
you’re invading my property!
I’m well within my rights
To eat what I like in my own house!

Just like humans, that is,
Thinking they own the place.
I’d have heard about it pretty quick
If I barged into one of their houses
without a by-your-leave.
Where’s the story
of when the dreadful afanc decided
that since it was a hot day,
and since he’d had a few beers,
and since he wanted to impress his mates,
he’d jump through a human’s front window
and piss in its living room?
Never heard that one, have you?
No.
Me neither,
but have you seen Llangorse lake on a sunny Saturday?
Yeah, well, I rest my case.

And when I say not one of them can be trusted
I mean it.
It’s not just the obvious bastards, like,
it’s the do-gooders:
“Oh look at this magnificent beast!
I’m sure he’s harmless really:
he’s probably more scared of us than we are of him!”
The condescending little shits!
First of all,
I’m not a bloody tourist attraction.
Magnificent, my arse!
Second of all,
I’m not scared of the likes of them.
I know their type.
Sing you to sleep and then clap you in irons soon as look at you.
And who came off worse last time they tried that, eh?
And who’s still here?
Think I’m scared, just because I’ve got the sense to know a bunch of bastards when I see ’em?
Wait a minute…

OI! Humans!
I know you’re there,
eavesdropping,
So listen up:
I don’t like you,
and I don’t trust you,
but I’m certainly not bloody afraid of you.
Now get the hell out of my lake.

Listen, I’m just upset, ok? Not gonna lie.
Can’t a woman sit up here and have a good cry?
I mean, Jesus, who am I supposed to be harming?
I’m sorry you find my distress so alarming!
I’ll try to be quieter, but “Howling and screeching”?
I got a bit teary, but you’re… kinda reaching.

Look, sometimes I just really get in my feelings:
You’re under a curse, and you’re not even dealing!
And no, I’m not sad! This is simply frustration:
You know, correlation’s not always causation!
But still, on the day that your doom comes upon you
You’ll swear it’s the banshee that brought it all on you!

They once called me Will
And that name I’ve got still
Too wicked for heaven
But locked out of hell

I caused no end of strife
Cutting throats with my knife
And I knew that I’d pay
At the end of my life

And so when my turn came
I suggested a game
For the rights to my soul
Which the devil had claimed

And he fell for my trick
(He’s surprisingly thick)
Now I’ve nowhere to go
Cause I outfoxed Old Nick

So I wander about
Spreading mischief and doubt.
I’ve a bit of hellfire
And it never goes out.

It’s so easy to take
the wrong path, to mistake
A deep bog for dry land
Or to fall in a lake…

Not to worry, my friend
I don’t mean to offend
Just you follow Will’s light
To your own journey’s end.

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Audio version (performed by Niamh) here!

Do I look like a bloody health and safety officer to thee?
“A cautionary tale to keep children away
From dangerous waters”?
Fuck off with that shit!
Stop telling your your sons and your daughters
Not to play by the stream, stay away from the lake, ’cause of me!
Some of us round here have got to eat!

You don’t even like the little buggers!
I’ve heard you:
“Stop plaguing my life out!”
“Be quiet! Go sit over there!”
There’s so many running about
I’m sure you’ve got plenty to spare
So no more of this
“Don’t go near old Jenny Greenteeth”
“Don’t play on slippery banks”
“Beware of that pondweed that looks like a meadow”
Tell them to come see the lovely green fairy.

I’ll take them all off your hands.

These spectral hounds have an unsavoury reputation,
But with the proper dedication, they make great family pets.
So let’s break it down.

Buying Your Barguest
Avoid back-alley Barguest breeders.
These are often unscrupulous:
Will try to sell you the whelp sight unseen
and instead of a demonic beast
with eyes like glowing saucers
There you are, having been sold, instead,
a rottweiler
with conjunctivitis
from all the glow-in-the-dark paint.
A reputable breeder can be found
on your local haunted lane
desolate moor
or ancient bier.
Look for a small and evil tempered gnome.
Bring gold.
For god’s sake be polite.

Settling In
Barguests are not often known to be lap dogs.
They prefer to be outdoors.
Make sure your new pet has access to food, water
And a secluded spot
Where mortals fear to walk at night.
That said,
A cosy basket by the fire
Will be appreciated on colder evenings.

Training Your Barguest
The normal dog training commands
Sit, fetch, roll over, stay,
Are ineffective with this type of breed.
“Back, fiend!” “Begone!” “Come, my dread minion!” “Kill!”
It may sound harsh, But barguests respond well
To their demonic nature being acknowledged.
It is important to
Build a bond with your pet.
An unholy bond. Light candles.
(Homemade, with human tallow, is the best. Store-bought will do.)
Chanting and dark magicks every night
will help your pet to trust you.
Barguests love routine.
Ritual.
Rites.

Enrichment Activities
Walks should be long,
Take place on misty nights.
Remember: barguests enjoy playing games
As much as any other kind of dog.
Enrichment is important:
Unwary lovers walking home,
Lost travelers
and local tall tale tellers
Can all provide much-needed excercise
and stimulation.

Health
Barguests prefer a raw food diet.
The great advantage is, this breed’s self-feeding.
Try not to think about that part too much.
Being spectral,
Barguests are not heir to ills of the flesh.
A regular check up at the vets is therefore
Quite unnecessary.
But it’s fun.

Remember, above all,
Your barguest is a Very Good Boy
Oh yes.
Oh yes he is.

A friend suggested I write a poem about a dragon legend local to Sheffield. There is already a poem about this , so I decided to write a response from the dragon’s perspective.

The Dragon of Wantley
(an alternative perspective)

You sing the praises of St George
And how he slew a dragon
You’d think sending my kind extinct
Was something you should brag on

And Hercules killed one of us
Poor persecuted creatures
In stories told by humankind
Our genocide oft features.

Though I’ve been clean forgot about
I never let it haunt me
But if you’d like, I’ll tell my tale:
The dragon killed at Wantley

A mighty beast I was although
The story was inflated
I was, of course, no Trojan horse:
That bit’s exaggerated.

They said I swallowed sheep and cows
And well, perhaps I did.
Though I am sure a carnivore
I never ate no kids!

And all the dreadful things they said
About my sinus issues!
But have you heard of such a thing
As flame retardant tissues?

More of More Hall! By gum! of all
The sneaky little blighters!
St George and Hercules at least
Were honourable fighters!

But this young toff, how he’d sound off
About his skill and prowess
When all he ever seemed to do
Was blether on for hours.

Some farmers who were quite upset
because I’d ate their cattle,
Started a proper smear campaign
And More believed their tattle.

He’d take no gold from them, he said
To rid them of my presence
But claimed instead the right to bed
A girl. He was unpleasant!

And these here farmers, they agreed!
He’d have her, should he want her
And put some poor lass up to it
And they called ME a monster

And when he’d had enough of her
He went to Sheffield town
And bought some armour made of steel
he looked a proper clown.

And had this knight proposed to fight
Me, Aye! I’ve got my pride, cock!
I’d have at least agreed to feast
No more upon their livestock.

But no, this sneaky little sod
It pains me now to tell
Instead of honest combat he
Ambushed me, from a well!

Though I’d been taken by surprise
I fought him hell for leather
Until he hit below the belt
And kicked me in the nethers.

All dragons have a secret spot
Where men can bring them low
And mine’s… embarrassingly placed.
He kicked it. Now you know.

So by this rascal’s lucky kick Here’s something you can think on –
The dragons of South Yorkshire were
All driven to extinction.

It’s that time of year again.

This time, I’m going to try to write a poem about a different monster every day, drawing from legends and folklore.

I’m starting where I grew up, so here’s Rombald, whose statue stands in Keighley town centre, or did last I checked.

Content warning for domestic abuse, however inept. I read up on the legend and it turns out Rombald’s a nasty little bully.

He stands in the corner of Coffee Delight
And the people around him all gasp at his height,
Because He’s the Big Man. He hopes all of them know it
And he’s got his boulder, but he’ll never throw it.

The great giant Rombald! The scourge of the moor,
Went down to the pub for a quick pint or four.
And soon four became eight, and then twelve, then sixteen.
And the sort of drunk Rombald became, we’d call mean.

They were used to his benders, the people round there,
They kept out of his way, and nobody much cared
When he blustered and shouted. All bark and no bite,
And they laughed as he staggered out into the night.

And out on the moor you could see where he’d thrown
Great boulders at shadows, while wobbling home.
This sheep looked at him funny! That gorsebush was staring!
His rages were common, and most found them wearing.

He got to his house, quite three sheets to the wind
In a terrible mood, not the least bit chagrined
Till his giantess wife, with a tut and a hiss
Shouted “Rombald! just what bloody time d’you call this?!”

Well he’d had quite enough of this rank disrespect
Why did his strength and size have so little effect?.
So he picked up a rock, slurred “tha knows what time this is!”
And hurled it as hard as he could
at his missus.

But his aim wasn’t great. The stone fell on the mat.
And you know Mrs Rombald’s not standing for that!
So she picked up the rock for a counter attack.
Feeling less of a big man, he took a step back…

He woke up next morning and wished he was dead.
Lying out on the moor, a great lump on his head.
And he dareden’t* go back with his wife still so vexed.
So he sat there and thought about what to do next.

He went down to the corner of Coffee Delight
In the hopes that someone would be scared by his height.
He still has his boulder, but he never throws it.
For Rombald’s a coward, and everyone knows it.

*this is a real word in Keighley, I swear.

It’s day 100! Thanks to everyone who has read these, and especially to Niamh for all the love and encouragement, and to Anathema, Keira, and Charlie for the consistent social media validation. It helped more than you know.

It’s been difficult for my to write a specifically dystopian poem given the circumstances, but I do like to have at least one of those in these 100 day things, so here you go.

To end with the cliché of the year, but in iambic pentameter:

Stay safe, in these unprecedented times.

x

Sez

In ten years time, what will the children ask us?
“What was Coronavirus like? Were you

A keyworker, and if so, was your task as
Dangerous as our teachers say, to do?”

“My homework’s about ‘Life in 2020’
And you’re quite old: you must have been alive!
So what was lockdown like? You must have plenty
Of anecdotes about how you survived!”

I hope that’s what they ask us, but I’m nearly
Sure: future generations will have more
Disturbing questions. “Wow, did people really
Touch other people, in the time before?

I read something online and I thought ‘This is
Really gross!’ So tell me: what on earth were “kisses“?”

The penultimate poem of this sequence is disgustingly soppy. Not sorry.

For two months now, we’ve been Netflix and chilling
(It’s something we did quite a lot before)
And if I’m honest, I would be quite willing
To keep Netflix and chilling even more.

And lots of people, (maybe this sounds smug)
Seem to be getting quite sick of the sight
Of those they’ve been locked down with. But hey, hugs
And bingeing entire seasons is alright

By me if it’s with someone I’m in love with.
Each day of this I’ve felt so fortunate:
I know that I’d be feeling pretty rough, if
Lockdown had made our feelings dissipate.

But I’m enjoying it too much to wonder
Why presence only made our hearts grow fonder.