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    Lost Magic: The Very Best of Brian Moses
    Lost Magic: The Very Best of Brian Moses
    Lost Magic: The Very Best of Brian Moses
    Ebook208 pages1 hour

    Lost Magic: The Very Best of Brian Moses

    By Brian Moses

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    About this ebook

    A beautiful hardback collection of the very best poems by Brian Moses. Includes 'Walking with My Iguana' 'The Lost Angels', 'Aliens Stole My Underpants', 'Behind the Staffroom Door', 'Lost Magic', 'The Sssnake Hotel', 'A Feather from an Angel', 'Cakes in the Staffroom' and many, many more.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPan Macmillan
    Release dateSep 8, 2016
    ISBN9781509838752
    Lost Magic: The Very Best of Brian Moses
    Author

    Brian Moses

    Brian Moses spends much of his time visiting schools, where he runs workshops sessions and performs his poetry. He has compiled numerous collections for Macmillan (total sales of over 750,000 copies), including The Works 2 and The Secret Lives of Teachers. He lives in Sussex with his wife and two daughters.

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      Book preview

      Lost Magic - Brian Moses

      AN INDIAN PYTHON WILL WELCOME YOU . . .

      THE SSSSNAKE HOTEL

      An Indian python will welcome you

      to the Ssssnake hotel.

      As he finds your keys he’ll maybe enquire

      if you’re feeling well.

      And he’ll say that he hopes you survive the night,

      that you sleep without screaming

      and don’t die of fright

      at the Ssssnake hotel.

      There’s an anaconda that likes to wander

      the corridors at night,

      and a boa that will lower itself on to guests

      as they search for the light.

      And if, by chance, you lie awake

      and nearby something hisses,

      I warn you now, you’re about to be covered

      with tiny vipery kisses,

      at the Ssssnake hotel.

      And should you hear a chorus of groans

      coming from the room next door,

      and the python cracking someone’s bones,

      please don’t go out and explore.

      Just ignore all the screams

      and the strangled yells

      when you spend a weekend

      at the Ssssnake hotel.

      GOING SOUTH

      Word gets round

      by word of mouth

      or word of beak,

      ‘We’re going south.’

      And everyone gathers

      on telephone wires,

      on tops of trees

      on roofs or church spires.

      No security checks,

      no passport, no cases.

      No border controls

      closing off places.

      The skies are ours,

      we go where we please,

      away from the damp

      and the winter freeze.

      And even though

      they’ve only just come,

      a party of swifts

      on runway number one

      are given priority

      so everyone waits

      while there’s last minute preening

      or chatting with mates

      till the skyway clears

      and it’s time to go,

      ‘See you in Spain,’

      ‘Meet you in Rio.’

      We went there last year,

      we know where we’re going,

      stretch out, lift off,

      feel the air flowing.

      Over the mountains,

      the buildings and trees,

      we’re going south

      on the pull of the breeze.

      WALKING DOGS, CHRISTMAS DAY

      (Yorkshire Moors, 2009)

      One dog guides us through the fields

      on a route she’s followed for years.

      No matter the track has disappeared

      under layers of snow, Old-timer Charlie

      still knows which way to go.

      Fern just wants to play, to bullet herself

      through drifting snow. Six months old,

      she’s never seen the fields white out

      like this before. Suddenly her world becomes

      a wet and wacky playground she can’t ignore.

      Lucy wants to confide in us.

      She knows this place, has seen it change,

      summer gold to winter white.

      She holds us spellbound, hints at secrets

      only dogs discover, closer to the ground.

      Bruno cracks us up, part dachshund

      part terrier, long narrow face

      like Uncle Bulgaria, barely bigger

      than the depth of snow, squeezes his shape,

      cartoon-like, into spaces he shouldn’t go.

      But Scampi stays at home, snug in her own

      small hiding hole. Nothing we say

      can persuade her to come, the snow too deep,

      the ice too cold. She’ll hibernate

      till old bones feel a warmer season unfold.

      MISSING – GREY-AND-WHITE CAT, ANSWERS TO THE NAME OF FREDDY

      Why is it

      I find it hard to believe

      that Freddy will come

      when you call?

      Even if you threw open your windows

      and bawled out his name,

      not once, not twice,

      but for a full fifteen minutes

      of neighbourhood fame,

      I just don’t think that Freddy

      will answer.

      Cats roam, we know.

      Cats find a welcoming mat

      on the sunnier side of the road.

      He’ll have his paws

      tucked under someone else’s table

      by now.

      Or maybe he’s eloped

      with some cat he duetted with

      on the corner one night.

      Maybe she turned his head,

      poor Fred, he’s hooked by now,

      couldn’t come back

      if he wanted to.

      So it’s no good

      you putting up posters

      all over Camden Town

      for even if you bawl and yell

      each night for a week,

      you may find an Eddie

      or even a Teddy

      trying your cat flap for size.

      But whatever answers

      won’t be Freddy.

      You can bet nine lives

      that Freddy’s gone

      till he’s ready

      to stroll back home.

      WALKING WITH MY IGUANA

      (Words in brackets to be replaced by another voice or voices)

      I’m walking (I’m walking)

      with my iguana (with my iguana)

      I’m walking (I’m walking)

      with my iguana (with my iguana)

      When the temperature rises

      to above eighty-five,

      my iguana is looking

      like he’s coming alive.

      So we make it to the beach,

      my iguana and me,

      then he sits on my shoulder

      as we stroll by the sea . . .

      and I’m walking (I’m walking)

      with my iguana (with my iguana)

      I’m walking (I’m walking)

      with my iguana (with my iguana)

      Well if anyone sees us

      we’re a big surprise,

      my iguana and me

      on our daily exercise,

      till somebody phones

      the local police

      and says I have an alligator

      tied to a leash

      when I’m walking (I’m walking)

      with my iguana (with my iguana)

      I’m walking (I’m walking)

      with my iguana (with my iguana)

      It’s the spines on his back

      that make him look grim,

      but he just loves to be tickled

      under his chin.

      And my iguana will tell me

      that he’s ready for bed

      when he puts on his pyjamas

      and lays down his sleepy (Yawn) head.

      And I’m walking (I’m walking)

      with my iguana (with my iguana)

      still walking (still walking)

      With my iguana (with my iguana)

      with my iguana . . .

      with my iguana . . .

      and my piranha

      and my chihuahua

      and my chinchilla,

      with my groovy gorilla

      my caterpillar . . .

      and I’m walking . . .

      with my iguana . . . . . .

      ELEPHANTS CAN’T JUMP

      Elephants can’t jump, and that’s a fact.

      So it’s no good expecting an elephant to jump for joy

      if you tell him some good news.

      You won’t make an elephant jump

      if you sound a loud noise behind him –

      elephants can’t jump.

      You won’t see an elephant skipping or pole-vaulting.

      It wasn’t an elephant that jumped over the moon

      when the little dog laughed,

      and contrary to popular belief

      elephants do not jump when they see mice.

      Elephants, with their great bulk,

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