All right on the night (Bonfire Night in the UK)

Member Name: duncantorr

Product:	Bonfire Night in the UK
Date:	02/11/08 (590 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: Fireworks Night

Disadvantages: Fireworks Month

Poor old Guy Fawkes had rotten luck;
At parliamentary blowing-up
He averaged a paltry duck.
His downfall came from showing up
In person to ignite the fuse
And thus be caught without excuse,
Red-handed when the plot was grassed.
A false accomplice blew the gaff
And Guy, whose efforts had surpassed
All previous plots, found they were naff
When faced with Jacobean plod -
Ye Olde Antye-Terror Squadde.

Thys Swatte Teame thwarted poor Guy's caper.
Although his kegs chock-full of powder
Were primed and set, the blue touch paper
Stayed unlit. His howls were louder
Than the hoped-for detonation
As he was urged to recantation
And afterwards hung, drawn and quartered.
His cronies waiting at the inn
Were rounded up and likewise slaughtered
(For treason can't be seen to win;
Or if it wins for any reason,
History will never call it treason.)

You might say Guy deserved his fate;
Papists like him were apt to take
Excessive steps to curb debate
And burn dissenters at the stake.
Although such practices have dwindled
Ironically old Guy's still kindled,
His effigy on bonfires flamed.
Thus he's the man we have to thank:
The fiery festival that's named
After his abortive prank
Now lights up each November 5
To make us glad to be alive.

* * *


When I was young we made our guy
From worn-out rags and paper mask:
Black-crayoned beard and evil eye,
As villainous as you could ask.
Put on display, per view a penny,
A good guy would elicit many,
Which grew to shillings, maybe pounds,
Enough to buy (with stifled squeals,
For our excitement knew no bounds)
Roman candles, Catherine wheels
And bangers. Sometimes even rockets
Might not prove beyond our pockets.

Then came the day. Our own bonfire
Waits in the garden, piled high
With twigs and sticks, a hungry pyre
All ready to consume the guy,
Who sits despondently atop it -
Looks like he knows he's going to cop it.
The evening darkens, and the kittens
Have been shut in to quell their fright;
Meanwhile, we kids in woolly mittens
Impatiently await the night
While pale autumn sunlight wanes,
Excitement tingling through our veins.

Darkness descends, just for a while
For very soon a ruddy glow
Warms the horizon, as each pile
Of sticks is lit and bonfires grow
With billowing smoke and pungent haze.
We watch entranced as our own blaze
Consumes poor Guy, but spare no tears
(Unless some soot gets in our eyes)
To mourn his passing, for - cue cheers -
The highpoint of the night is nigh,
The truly wizard, frabjous bit,
Which is to have our fireworks lit.

Sparklers first, like sizzling snowflakes
Magnified a thousand times,
Waved around until the arm aches,
Patterning the air with mimes.
The garden's then illuminated
By soft slow-burners, understated:
Vesuvius, a molten mountain,
With rainbow colours, none the same,
And then erupts a Golden Fountain,
Or Ruby Fire or Emerald Flame -
Such jewels all enrich the brain,
And set us right as Silver Rain.

The Catherine Wheels fizz and whirl,
Squibs jump and crackle, bangers bang,
Rockets and Roman Candles hurl
Their fierce explosions up to hang
A stellar moment in the sky
Before they falter, dim and die.
Of course it's over all too quickly.
Bedazzled, we sip our hot fruit punch,
With food to follow, nothing sickly,
But sizzling sausages to munch,
And chestnuts baked in bonfire embers
On all those past Fifth of Novembers.

* * *


It doesn't matter how you name them -
Bastille Day or Independence -
Or on what past event you blame them
(In our case poor old Guy's suspendence)
Fireworks nights help every nation
Let off steam in celebration.
But now what once was Guy Fawkes' Night
Is Guy Fawkes' Fortnight, often more.
Week after week we all ignite
Our pyrotechnics by the score
In bigger, fancier displays
Far noisier than in former days.

I'm all for fun, and I adore
The chance to light a festive flame,
But fireworks become a bore
When night after night's more of the same,
And Guy's burned not just once a year,
But many times. That seems severe -
Severe not only on old Guy,
But all the cats and dogs that hate
The bangs and crackles in the sky
That half November punctuate.
To spare them their extended fright
Let's rediscover that delight:
A single, special Bonfire Night.


© Also published under the name torr on Ciao UK, 2008

Summary: A splendid festival in danger of being overdone