Hello treason….

Just a brief postscript to the comments (thank you!) on the previous post:

Emily’s Ghost is at home in the attic
(She neglected to ask, which is undemocratic)
Looking on is the Picture of Dorian Gray
His inscrutable eyes can See Emily Play….

Oscar, Emily & Pink Floyd, eh….?

****

Moving swiftly on….we all know what is meant by the “hello trees, hello sky” school of poetry. Heck, I used the disparaging phrase myself recently. Yet a google search returns not a single poem with those words. I’ve been trying to write something doggerely beginning with that phrase for a while, but just can’t. It seems unparodiable to me.

It appears that “hello trees, hello sky” is anyway a corrupted version of fotherington-tomas’s [sic] alleged “hullo clouds, hullo sky” in Willans’s superb Molesworth books. But the same principle applies: is there a single poem out there which includes either of these phrases, or a recognisable variant thereof? I shall be so disappointed if the concept has never been used, knowingly or otherwise….

Pickin’ on Dickinson….

Once more lacking original ideas, but nonetheless keen to maintain the illusion of a guiding intelligence behind the doggerel blog, I will allow myself the luxury of a rant.

Emily Dickinson, eh? The marmite of the literary world. She’s this week’s choice on the GU’s Poem of the Week slot.

Amongst the commenters there, Dickinson is much appreciated. To my mind, amazingly and incomprehensibly so. We all know individual tastes vary: many poets featured there have left me cold, but able to understand why others feel differently. And sometimes it’s been the other way around. Dickinson, however, induces in me such a visceral contempt that I can’t just move on with a “meh”.

Pretentiousness is an ever present spectre in poetry, which, if it has any ambition, lives on the edge. Poets are tightrope walkers. Make the mistake of reading even your most beloved poem on the wrong day, in the wrong mood, and it can seem like affected twaddle. For me, every day is the wrong day for Dickinson, and no mood can mitigate. I think she stands on the far side of the line which separates the ambitious and profound from pretentious tosh, a speck on the horizon.

We are encouraged to see her slant rhymes as clever and subtle, whereas I see them as akin to the slant penalty easily saved. I might believe more in her subtlety if she didn’t mix’n'match the slant with the crass: take for example the famous “I could not stop for Death.” Here, for the 2/4 rhymes, we have successively, “for me”/”Immortality”; “away”/”civility”; “in a ring”/”setting sun”; “ground”/”mound”; “the day”/”eternity”. She does love those -ty rhymes in the last line (which is invariably the fourth line; Emily likes her ABAB.) Either you rhyme, or you don’t. If you can’t be arsed to rijig your words to get the tricky rhymes, then don’t bother with the easy ones; it just looks sloppy. Yet one girl’s sloppy, it seems, is another’s subtle. (The word “immortality”, BTW, I found ten times in eight different ED poems; and “immortal” in seven others….)

Tack on those Bewildering Capitalisations, throw in a dash of dashes – and I haven’t the heart to take on the gnomic gnonsense – and what do we have? There are a couple of daguerrotypes which purport to show Ms Dickinson, each time adorned in prim Victorian black – or are these the first photographic images of the Empress’s New Clothes….?

Rant over; here’s a pair of parodies….I have not only taken a potshot at Bambi’s maiden aunt, but initiated her into the dogging scene….I warned you I was in a funny mood….

******************

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
He’d spotted I was out of breath,
And lacked morality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My rape alarm, my spray of mace,
And prayed he wasn’t gay.

We passed the school where children played
At wrestling in a ring;
We headed for the dogging glade -
Oh! Death, where is thy thing?

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
He smiled at me, I felt redeemed;
Ms Dickinson ungowned.

Since then, ‘t is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I lay beneath that ancient beech;
Death took my breath away….

******************

I Was A poet – was That was
Immortal Nonsense brews -
No ordinary Sense, because
It’s open – to abuse.

From the – yes, Mortal! – jiffy
That perished in a Crash;
My Punctuation’s – iffy -
I overuse – the Dash -

Discerning Poets – they be we;
I dash – you dash – dash Time! -
My pet word – Immortality -
Can salvage any Rhyme -

- dashed odd that – some – have Queries -
I write with – rare – Panache -
Those – dashes – are Immortal – Bees -
Amidst the – Balderdash – - – -

The consequences of it….

After the previous post’s ultra-silliness, down to earth with a bang. M & I live in an old house, which we share with two invited guests, black & white moggies, and an unknown number of uninvited ones. We know there are bats somewhere in the house, but that’s ok. We have had birds nesting under floorboards and under the eaves (years ago we lifted a floorboard in the bedroom to investigate mysterious scratching noises, and out flew a blue tit.) We do try to discourage them, but don’t worry when they win. There is always the odd mouse about, which I unapologetically deal with in the old-fashioned way.

But yesterday it became apparent we had a more serious problem. Skittering in the roofspace above the bedroom interested the cats (good early warning system, cats, although ours have yet to catch anything bigger than a spider – admittedly, here the spiders are sometimes bigger than the mice….) They then heard it under the floorboards or in the walls. This morning, woken at 5am by a bad dream, I heard it scrabbling in the cob wall of the bathroom downstairs. And I could see tiles moving. (I don’t think it is a poet, before anyone suggests it – read the previous post if you don’t get this joke….)

You will understand that both of us have been up since then, pottering to take our minds off it, waiting until a sensible hour to ring the pest control guys. This kind of anxiety exacerbates my illness, which already threatens our ability to stay here, with the huge garden which I can no longer maintain, and the few acres of soggy grass, for which we once had great plans. My inability to deal with it, either physically or mentally (a few years ago, I’d have simply gone out and bought a bag of itbait, and sorted the problem) brought into focus the reality of our situation. We can’t realistically stay here, yet the house is essentially unsaleable after several years of neglect.

The upshot of all this is that I’m hardly in the mood to write any doggerel. (And my real intention has always been to write something more substantial; whisper it softly, but cynicalsteve really wants to write a novel….trouble is, that my powers of concentration are poor….too frequent pain, constant discomfort, and, not surprisingly, Olympic standard depression. Hence the short funny stuff, the two-fag knockoffs, which is the best I can manage.) Nor do I feel up to bantering on external blogs.

I’ll probably write again about it; just don’t expect any funny stuff. And should I be so inconsiderate as to try to write more serious verse – don’t read it. It’ll be far too toxic to assimilate.

A mole by any other name….

I’ve written some quite silly stuff here previously, but this is undoubtedly dafter than most. So don’t read a word further if you like your verse pendulous with meaning, full of existentialist significance, or even if you’re looking for a “Hello trees! Hello sky!” moment-at-one-with-nature. All I have to offer are a few fripperies about moles and poets, with the odd obscure joke about agricultural subsidies. Be warned!

Two of the following pieces were written by Mishari Al-Adwani, and I am grateful for his permission to reproduce them here.

It all started when one of Carol Rumen’s GU Poem of the week threads careered out of control in the early hours of the morning. Carol herself had won the one-upmanship contest regarding the most bizarre animal discovered in one’s home with her account of a mole in the kitchen. We’d had a few examples of insect poetry, to commemorate less impressive invaders, and I continued the theme with:

A mole alone
And underground
His mobile phone
Makes not a sound
(There are no masts
Where velvet squirms)
No worm-news-casts
No news; just worms….

Mishari Al-Adwani responded with:

Laughter In The Dark

In darkness does
The humble mole
His own appointed
Rounds complete
In darkness,too
The poets role
To find the words
That make complete.

I loved the analogy between moles and poets, and replied:

Those wretched moles
Make quite a mess
When digging holes
Beneath your grass
But thank the Lord
Your daffodils
Are not disturbed
By poethills….

Mishari precisely captured the spirit I had been aiming for, but missed, with his next piece (a mere 28 minutes after my post….):

Ars Longa Vita Brevis

My garden’s infested with poets
All wandering lonely as clouds
When the bastards aren’t trampling the roses
They’re reciting,declaiming out loud

I’ve set traps and laid out
Poison bait for them
But they’re all refusing to bite
They’re driving us mad
There’s no sleep to be had
With them spouting half of the night

I’m getting myself a machine-gun
A language that they’ll understand
And though it seems hard
To slaughter a bard
There’s only so much I can stand.

I giggled a lot, then shamelessly nicked Mishari’s original theme with the following: (and I strongly urge the RHS to include poets alongside aphids and honey fungus in their next list of undesirable garden residents….):

A bard is at large in the garden
He’s hovering, eyeing the daffs
Do you think that his quill’s gonna praise the jonquils?
Or will he just play it for laughs?

There’s a serious bard in the garden
With a rapidly increasing girth
I’d put up with the one, for as long as he’s fun,
But I fear that he’s just given birth.

A brace of bards now haunt the garden
One suspects there’ll be four of them next.
(An abardic decision, though, binary fission -
They’re usually quite keen on sex.)

The bards have been barred from the garden
(I’m still claiming for thirty-two head.
I flat out insisted, that though they’re not listed,
No subsidy means they’re not fed.)

Wolfsbane deters wolves from my garden
And leopardsbane keeps down the ‘pards,
But you can’t immunise, horticulturalwise,
Against hordes of declamatory bards.

There’s a whole tribe of scribes in the garden
(It resembles a bad day in Hay.)
Organic be damned, if they won’t leave my land,
I’ll resort to a bardicide spray.

Verse is a curse in the garden
Silver linings, however, abound
All those poets (deceased) make good compost, at least,
Double dug, with a hug, in the ground….

Me and you (but let’s be frank: mostly me….)

I

Before the ink dries on my vacant verse
You, reckless reader, give it stolen meaning.
The commentary may be somewhat terse,
But who’s to know which way the writer’s leaning?

II

A doggerel’s planned with care, like choosing perfect plants,
To light successively, or in one brilliant flash.
Don’t look to me to find some remedy arcane.
(I don’t begrudge you if, by sheerest, random chance,
Some words reflect the dismal end of your last pash;
Just don’t assume intent to soothe your wretched pain.)

III

a mixed blessing, you readers; useful ears
to hear the tree fall in the solipsistic copse,
observers necessary to stop tears
when Schrodinger’s cat (perhaps) succumbs to the flops.
as diviners of the ultimate truth,
though, as seers, you leave a lot to be desired.
the writer hesitates to be uncouth,
but: you’re fired.

IIIa

A writer ponders, lone, unproud,
Today’s blog stats are reading: nil.
(Not all at once) he’s lost his crowd,
No guests at daffydoggerel.

IV

Some harmless suckers, friendly parasites,
Facilitate the wiser writer’s gnosis.
Let’s hope belated, grudging praise ignites
The flame of future fruitful symbiosis.

Hmmm….

Not quite the volte face intended, still:
I’m sure you sense humilty from steve.
He doesn’t wish his readers any ill,
(And can’t afford to see another leave.)

(tries again)

Okay! Admitted! I need you far more
Than you need me….I’m on my humble knee
And promise, further words, though they be raw,
Are aimed exclusively at thee….

An apology for Carol….

Anyone who knows me (far too few)
Knows I wouldn’t sell their fun for mine;
Mistakes are made, regretted, learnt from too -
A prank may sadly cross the undrawn line….

What to say about the Guardian Books blog Christmas poetry competition? It produced a worthy winner in Billy Mills’ miniature, and a few other interesting pieces (some dross as well, since I’m being honest here, and have plenty of mud clinging to me, crying out to be flung back….)

And a squabble in which I am cast as the villain of the piece. (On the spur of the moment, and just before the deadline, I submitted a second poem under an old screen name. It was deliberately inept (deliberately not even meeting the competition rules, which in the furore no-one noticed) and I just assumed it would be passed over with embarrassment by everyone, and taken as the ramblings of an illiterate fool (which the persona in question had sporadically acted out for the past few months elsewhere.)) No-one else knew of my dual nature (that seems clear from subsequent comments.) I even have other screen personas who could have (but didn’t) contribute, had disruption been my aim (it wasn’t; I was trying to win fairly with my own genuine, but also inept, entry….) It made no difference to the outcome of the competition.

Unfortunately, mischievousness on the part of one poster reacted explosively with a sense of grievance on the part of another. Rumours abounded concerning voting irregularities; sticks were grasped by the wrong end. Waters were muddied by other irrelevant suspicions and long-running jokes (am I alone in sometimes wondering whether entire threads are generated by a handful of posters with a menagerie of screen names….?) None of this had anything to do with my spoof entry (and it transpired that I wasn’t alone in submitting twice); but, stupidly, I volunteered that information in the hope and naive belief that it might calm the storm. If I’d kept schtumm, it would probably have blown over more quickly.

Carol had put in a great deal of thought to the process, which was for our benefit, not hers. I think everyone who contributed to the threads enjoyed at least some aspect, whether as writers or readers. Thank you, Carol. I feel sad that she has been upset by the fuss. I shouldn’t have spoofed; and I shouldn’t have mentioned it subsequently. I apologise to her with all humility for my contribution to the affair, and also to Billy for distracting attention from a worthy winner.

….or it could have gone this way….(How to make write II)….

Somewhere still inside resides a spark
Of inspiration: should it see the light?
The doggerel’s bite much tamer than its bark,
Let slip the pups of war to mock the fight.

The origin’s invariably a rhythm
(And not, as you’d suppose, a simple rhyme)
The fun is then to find some long words to go with’m,
Whilst keeping half an eye upon the timing.

Quotations next: you gotta have a few
(The literati, (bless ‘em!), need their smile.)
So welcome! well-thumbed friend, the ODQ;
Help me pretend to be that bibliophile.

Line breaks also feature on steve’s check
List: I’m told it’s infra dig to need a
Break at the end of each phrase; you might wreck
The metre for the discerning reader.
(steve clears his head and gently starts to hum:
de dum, de dum, de dum, de dum, de dum.
Aaaah! That’s better!)

Okay, that’s rhythm, rhyme, some quotes and line
Breaks all in order – stir fry in a pun
Or two: relief! The damned thing’s done!

How to make write….

Somewhere still inside resides a spark of inspiration.
That’s where it should stay: hidden,
Cowering in the safe dark place,
Never released to the line of day.

Far too unreliable
To be freed into safe society -
Could you bear releasing yours, asking strangers to read,
Knowing it deserves only the black square?

The fear is if I freely, clearly
Write from (what used to be) my heart,
It would sear black (what used to be) your soul;
No light, no hope; I could – but do you think I should?

oddments….

Still no thoughts – wherewhither inspiration?

A few fripperies have been accumulating, though; all from sundry GU books blog threads. There’s no connection between the majority, save my infantile sense of humour….they’re not even relevant to the threads on which they were posted….

Let’s get the Wordsworth parodies out of the way first: this, which I like, unaccountably appeared on Lindesay Irvine’s Poem of the Week piece about Bill’s plums (which I’ve previously parodied here (although there are many better ones, including this one):

I walked alone
Just north of Staffs
Then wrote a poem
About some daffs

More narcissism, from a Ben Marshall thread:

I wandered, pondered, cloud’ly spied
Those hosty things, which stirred my muse.
But herbicide, and verbicide,
Have spoilt the scene: so what’s the use?
I’ll leave bucolic for Ted Hughes.

******************

Whilst the Bill’s plums thread (above) was running, our computer was playing up (it eventually needed to be totally wiped and reloaded, thanks for asking.) I took out my frustrations in the only way possible….substantial stick came my way for assigning the wretched machine the feminine gender; my defence that this was solely determined by rhyming considerations fell on deaf ears….it’s a terrible piece, anyway:

Bloody Windows! Vile computer!
(Nearly took her out to shoot her)
Blew a gasket checking email
(Proving that the damned thing’s female)
Couldn’t post or kick a poet
(Although improved, she’s still so-so) yet
Happily, despite this curse
I can still write my deathless verse….

******************

This one’s very silly – from here:

An icy-hearted coster lass
Of glacially cold beauty
Had problems spelling words, Alas!
We called her two-t fruitty….

******************

In another of Carol Rumen’s Poem of the Week spots, she showcased a lesser known piece by Gerard Manley Hopkins. Some other examples of Hopkins’ work were posted by the hoi polloi, and his variations on the sonnet and limerick briefly mentioned.

Hopkins, a poet and priest,
Thought the sonnet too much of a feast:
“It oughta be shorter,
By roughly a quarter;
The limerick, though, should have its lines increased.”

And this spoof, which had its origins in a barney between me and another poster, was on the same thread….but it really isn’t worth explaining the context….readers of a sensitive disposition should scroll on by….

The quality of bullshit ain’t constrained,
It drops as fundamental rain from hell
Upon the place beneath; the shitter’s name
Means nothing to the guy on whom it fell:
What’s in a name? That which we call a turd
From any other name would seem absurd….

Who shall I be today….?

You’ve found a virgin forum
Where you’re desperate not to bore ‘em,
And you’d really like to jump in with a splash.
You choose a posting name
To draw attention, bringing fame;
A hint of fun, a subtle pun, with some panache.

Enarmoured by your title,
Fantasising that this site’ll
Be the one where every comeback’s laughter frilled,
You dip a toe into the fray,
Then check the thread eight times a day,
Hoping this time they’ll admit you to their guild.

Yet on that cold ungrateful board
Your every comment is ignored:
“Scroll on by, forget this guy, he’ll only bore us.“
So you dab away a tear,
Light a fag and crack a beer
As you plan how best to infiltrate the chorus.

“Who do I want to be today?
What’s the way to be not grey?
Can I build from scratch a personality
Which in reality I lack?
I have no essence, lost the knack:
Who shall I be to be me?

Peering deep into my soul I find
Description of my all
But will it
Do?
I don’t know who I want to be….
Am I really good enough to be
Accepted for my stuff?
Can I bluff my way to false fraternity?“

Well, you can’t sit there all night,
Saying nothing, getting tight,
So you pick a name, proclaim your writing skill.
Far less subtlety this time;
More a pseudonymic crime.
Thus armed your new persona goes in for the kill….