PENGUINS ORANGE, PENGUINS GREEN :

(Verse written in part-payment for detective fiction bought from Mrs Ann Green)

 

Of all the things that come to me in boxes :

Tea, books, crockery, certain parts of foxes,

Postcards of Margate; stage awnings of Ben Nevis,

Or small still-animate occupants of corner, fold or crevice -

There's one that stirs the pen and makes its bid for glory,

Squawks, softly jabs to beg a few lines for its story :

 

Neither bird nor biscuit, superbeing nor plane,

Entirely flightless though it bears an avian name ;

Its colour quite unnatural : often orange

(That word, oh rhymer, such a challenge to your inge-

nuity, smelling of the lamp and creaking like a door hinge).

 

In another guise the creature's sometimes seen,

        And thus brings joy to one who likes

                      Her Penguins white

                             An' Green.  

                                                                                      JOHN  HEPWORTH,  1998

 

(Wishing yesterday to consult the controverial Bronte-theorising in chapter 9 of Cold Comfort Farm, I found myself with a charming pre-war Penguin edition, vividly reminding me of the time when I bought a collection of vintage green-and-white Penguin detective fiction after tough negociation : eventually this poem was successfully offered in addition to the cash.)