As I have no doubt said many times on the blog, I don’t really celebrate any of the popular festivals and holidays, religious or otherwise. Other people do, of course, and I get the impression that this year a lot of people decided to take extra time off to recoup after a difficult year. Certainly many of our clients have been very quiet over the Christmas period, which has meant that the last couple of weeks has seemed rather like yet another pandemic lockdown.
Or perhaps it actually is another lockdown.
The five-day super-spreader event that the government had planned for Christmas was reduced to a single day and, since New Year’s Eve, most of England is under the tightest level of restrictions, making “Happy New Tier” as good a catchphrase as any for entering 2021.
Despite this, and despite the illegality of parties and gatherings, I imagine that plenty of people have still been making their New Year resolutions and celebrating at home with champagne and other “fizz”.
And that seems as good an excuse as any to post a very old poem as the first poem of the year, even if the bubbles are of a different sort.
The bubbles in my bath are white;
try as I might
they never change
despite a range
of gels and goos in rainbow hues —
pinks, greens and blues.
The chemists say
it’s child’s play
to reproduce the scent of fruits,
herbs, flowers and roots.
But still the foam
Some readers will know that “Bubbles” was published back in 2008 as a bilingual poetry picture book. Here’s the Spanish version:
Cada noche en mi baño brotan
pompas de jabón,
Añado geles: rosas, verdes,
pero siguen blancas.
Los expertos saben duplicar
el dulce olor
de cualquier flor,
raíz o planta.
Pero no cambian de color
las pompas blancas.