The Master Poet
Custom Poetry for All Occasions
How it works

To a brand-new grandson

Welcome to the world, you little star.
It’s magical to look into your eyes:
unfocussed still, bewildered and surprised,
as if you aren’t sure who or where you are.
You’re my new grandson! Oh, we’ll have some fun
as you grow up! I’ll push you on the swing,
make chocolate fudge, and dance with you, and sing,
and tell you tales of when your dad was young.
Years later, when you’ve grown into a man,
you’ll tell your children of the things we did,
and say “I had the best times as a kid,
when I would spend the weekends with my Gran.”

Acrostic love poem to Felicity
The first letters of each line spell her name.

Felicity, I catch my breath each time I speak your name.
Eyes bright as diamonds beckon and compel.
Luminous your hair, like midnight set aflame;
If any man looks twice, he lives in hell;
Caught by your charms that drive all men insane,
Innocent victims of your fatal spell.
Though I’m a victim too, I feel surrender to be sweet;
You’ve chosen me to conquer, and I glory in defeat.

For Anne’s hen night

You’ve had Tom and Dick and Harry, and at least a hundred more.
When we count the men we’ve mounted none of us can top your score.
But now the fun is over, and the field is down to one.
On this one last night of freedom raise your glass to good times gone!
It’s too late to find a fellow for a final frantic night.
Here girls alone are gathered – not a bachelor in sight.
But the alcohol is flowing. Have a top-up! White or red?
Let us drink up and be merry, for tomorrow you’ll be wed!

Valentine to a Narnia fan, from the White Witch

I have returned and Cair Paravel’s burned,
and folk are beginning to shiver.
As for Peter and Sue and Edmund and Lu,
I’ve dropped them head-first in the river.
Seated alone on my ice-covered throne
with Narnia laid waste before me,
I suddenly thought, “I must have a consort
to flatter and woo and adore me.”
I scouted around, but the men that I found
had been turned into statues or frozen.
So I’ll offer my hand to a man from your land
and you are the man I have chosen.
Don’t trouble your head that you’re already wed.
Prepare yourself, dear, for a shock –
I’ve already arranged for your wife to be changed
to a small lump of igneous rock.
Find a wardrobe today, I will brook no delay.
With anticipation I tingle.
We’ll sleigh-ride all night scoffing Turkish Delight,
and making those harness-bells jingle!

Medieval poems written for the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA)

The Wearing of the Garb
Written for an Irish-themed St Patrick's Day event, and sung to the Irish melody "The Wearing of
the Green".

Historically authentic garb is worn in SCA.
I planned to make a stunning gown and show it off today.
No more cotton, no synthetics, silk and linen are for me,
For garb should mingle elegance with authenticity.

I went to all the fabric shops, I searched all over town,
And bought expensive fabric for a grand Renaissance gown.
But I spilled my cup of coffee, and it left an ugly stain.
Alas for my Venetian gown with sweeping skirt and train!

Then I made a linen tunic. It wasn't very grand,
But at least it was authentic, for I sewed it all by hand.
But I used last summer's pattern, and I've put some kilos on,
And the tunic didn't fit me when I came to try it on.

I still had scraps of fabric, so I made a Tudor hat,
But when I wasn't looking it was eaten by the cat.
No more fabric, no more money, I was tearing out my hair.
I couldn't face St Patrick's Day with no new garb to wear.

Then up popped a leprechaun, who said, "Why this distress?
You already have authentic garb beneath your modern dress.
Come, lay aside your needle, and let your spirits lift.
Medieval girls wore skin like yours beneath the linen shift."

As you see, my dress is cotton, my shift's sewn by machine.
But the layer beneath's authentic, although it can't be seen.
It was good enough in time gone by, it's good enough for me.
Skin was worn by everyone in every century.

Medieval-themed limericks

I look like a mangy old stray.
I trudge and I travel all day,
with a cross on my back
and saint’s bones in my sack.
I’m a pilgrim. Get out of my way.

Oh, who knows the trouble I’ve seen?
My wife’s a strong fighter, and mean.
My path’s getting thorny –
she’s won the Crown Tourney.
So now I shall have to be Queen.

A rapier fighter am I,
Strong of arm and deadly of eye.
Whenever I’m bored,
I reach for my sword.
Today is a good day to die.

How it works