Barking doggerelists….

‘“Is there any other point to which you would wish to draw my attention?”
“To the curious incident of the doggerelist in the night-time.”
“The doggerelist did nothing in the night-time.”
“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.‘

(After, and with apologies to, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.)

I seem to have written mostly self-indulgent meta-doggerel in this blog….doggerel about writing doggerel(and here), about the unfortunate necessity of readers, about posting on forums under different names, and about blogging….I suppose there’s a peculiar logic in completing the theme with a piece about promoting one’s blog….after this, the cupboard is bare; not even the meta-whisper of a self-referential idea remains….

Having written your blog, and clicked “publish”, you’re damned
If you can’t attract punters to read it.
It matters not whether you’re praised or you’re slammed -
You’ve created the beast, now must feed it.

Promotion’s the name of the game at this stage;
Being shy and retiring won’t work.
Necessity forces you out to engage
With a public who’ll think you a jerk.

Wafting around like a decanted genie,
You stop at a suitable forum.
Do you shamelessly plug a la oscarmacsweeny,
Or whisper your name with decorum?

Outrageous is best when you’re looking for fame,
So you write something witty and bold.
You’re a fisher of men at this point in the game,
And your hook must be baited with gold.

You don’t even need to believe what you write -
All that matters is raising a stink.
You need to stand out from the rest of the site
(And remember to type in your link.)

Repeat as required (it’s a tedious task).
But try not to go overboard.
It occasionally helps if you sport a good mask
To prevent you from being ignored.

“Doggerel For Dummies” by cynicalsteve
A guide to the curse of our time:
“How to make sensible people believe
That the best things in life are in rhyme….”

Come the revolution….

A new day is dawning, the fawning will cease,
You’ll soon get a call from the Bardic Police.
They wander around like a Cumbrian cloud;
Their remit is simple: no poems allowed.

The first thing they’ll do is, they’ll jail all the poets,
The free-versers, free-cursers, go-with-the-flowets,
Sad tree-huggers, mad buggers, plods and emoters,
Those limerick loonies, and I’ll-get-my-coaters,

De-dum, de-dum merchants, the ones who can’t spell,
The nuts who write epics on heaven and hell,
The angries, the Musies, the minimalists,
Declaimers who froth at the mouth and shake fists,

The delicate flowers on a spiritual high,
Unspeakable egotists, pregnant with “I”,
The ones who write verses in praise of their dogs,
Back-of-an-envelope types with crap blogs,

The ones that on reading inspire you to think,
The ones you daren’t read lest they drive you to drink,
The beardies, the weirdos, the hermits in caves,
Radical poets who fail to make waves,

The rhymers, good timers (and good-timers too),
The ones you can’t read unless feeling quite blue,
The ranters, the ravers, the cravers of fame,
The ones only published because of their name,

The naturists (naturists? Not them in the buff;
The greeters of tweeters and all that there guff),
Outdoorsers who chronicle beauty in midges,
Modernists copying notes left on fridges,

The adjective addicts and those who use none,
Depressive metricians, those just having fun,
War poets, poor poets (wholesale and retail),
Those who describe anatomical detail,

Those who hide poems in densely packed prose,
Those who write vertically, those who use rows,
Sky-writers, wry skitters, MySpace abusers,
Prize-winners, runners-up, also-rans, losers,

Brutalists, Fruitalists, isn’t-this-cute-alists,
Original Beats with their varied offshootalists,
Kid-bards, yard-bards, older-is-betterists,
Chip-on-the-shoulderists, bold crossword-setterists,

Embarrassing teenagers, lovelorn and spotty,
Victorian throwbacks who frankly seem dotty,
Those who think writing’s a job for the pissed;
(They’re automatically top of the list.)

The dry wits, the sly gits, the two-fag-knock-offers,
I’ve-done-my-day’s-quota-it’s-time-to-clock-offers,
The sci-fis, the singers, the bringers of laughter,
The ones that confound you, becoming yet dafter,

Romantics, fanatics, ecstatics and hicks,
Visual poets with eye-catching tricks,
The druggies, the huggies, the bad ones who mug us,
The ones who think language is just there to bug us,

The doggerel dabblers, writers of vision,
The prolix, the proles and the Lords of Concision,
The chattering rappers who ape MC Hammer;
There’s room for them all in the ex-poets’ slammer.

The ancients, the moderns, the ones in between,
The ones whom you’ve heard of, the ones never seen.
The Day of the Philistine’s coming, my friend;
And it’s just you and me who’ll be free at the end….

Mr Pooter rides again….

Why blog? To show off, of course; to parade
One’s talent: “Look how clever I can be!”;
To distinguish oneself from those afraid
To try. Why not make the impassioned plea,
“Look at me! Over here! I’m worth reading!”
Disingenuous to deny the fact,
Egotists all, immodest hearts pleading,
We modestly boast with insincere tact.
But you wouldn’t like us in real life -
We are the ignored, corner table bores
With nothing good to say, only a knife
Held high, searching for a back to stab, wars
To fight, fine people to hang out to dry;
Yet so many come to read and comment – why?

Damned if he blogs, unknown if he’s quiet;
A question: is it nobler in hindsight
To find flames and arrows in the diet
Or to retire from the moreish limelight?
Fortunately, outrage favours the brave,
Rewards the shameless writer with the fame
Which he so desperately, nakedly craves;
No excuses; he wants to make his name.
The alternative, for a blogger who
Can’t write is to have fun with those who can:
Anodyne, meta-pieces, blue on blue,
The collapsed bubble reputation man.
Me? I just muck about, making bad rhymes,
Feigning humility for poetic crimes.

Abnormal service will be resumed as soon as possible….

We apologise for the break in continuity, but cynicalsteve’s brain has turned to mush. In the meantime, here are some pretty pictures….

Rhyme suspect….

In the comments to my last post, “The Craving”, I ventured this on its parent piece:

“It’s all those internal rhymes & repetitions that do it for me – it’s almost a song. And it’s so distinctive, that it’s absolutely impossible to employ the same rhyming scheme & metre without appearing to pastiche Poe (clearly mine here is a pastiche, but even if one didn’t nick lines wholesale, and wrote from scratch, one couldn’t avoid the comparison.)

Difficult it is to come up with an original rhyme scheme – anything new would have to be so complex or tricky just to avoid what’s been done. An interesting challenge, though.“

But now I wonder – has everything easily comprehensible been done? Is the only way to find an original metrical template to choose a large number of metrical feet and rhyme only prime numbered lines? I can’t believe there’s not a simple line with straightforward rhyming yet to be discovered. There’s obviously something very primeval in your standard iambic quadrameter/pentameter/heaxameter, ABAB, that hits the spot; limericks, sonnets (of various flavours) and villanelles aren’t immediately obvious forms, and yet they sound right, too. The patterns in “The Raven” aren’t a priori obvious either – but once heard, never forgotten.

Have we ticked all the boxes already, with only variations on known themes and free verse the options? I’ve only twice tried to escape from patterns already familiar to me (not counting crass attempts at free verse) – one was novel but atrocious (I know where it is, but it’s not reproduced on this site), the other I liked (and it lingers in a previous post; but its relative simplicity suggests it’s almost certainly not original….)

I suppose my real question is: would I be wasting my time trying to find an original form? I’d be grateful in the meantime for any examples of unusual (but reasonably regular) metres & rhyming schemes.

The Craving….

Once upon a midnight frisky, reminiscing ’bout malt whisky,
Remembering quaint and curious bottles of past allure.
While I suffered, nearly snapping, all my fingers started tapping,
Uncontrollably a-rapping, tapping on the cupboard door.
“‘Tis those damned DTs,” I muttered, feeling rotten to the core;
“Only that, and nothing more.”

Indistinctly, I remember, on that last day of December,
Empty bottles without number cluttered up the kitchen floor.
Apprehensive of the morrow, when I planned to plough that furrow,
Free from booze, accepting sorrow, sorrow for the nectar d’or,
For the rare and warming liquor which the angels only pour;
Absent here for evermore.

Yet this silly sot’s uncertain – as I closed the kitchen curtain,
Still it thrilled me with anticipation often felt before.
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“‘Tis those onions I’ve been eating; open not the cupboard door;
No surrender, no retreating: there’s no booze behind that door;
Sober now, I’ll drink no more.”

Presently desire grew stronger, hoped I’d cope without booze longer,
“Beer” I said “or whisky, truly your forgiveness I implore.
But the fact is, I was snapping, and my slender will collapsing,
And so sweetly were you tapping, tapping at that cupboard door,
That I couldn’t help but hear you.” Here I opened wide the door -
Bottles there – I counted four.

Deep into the cupboard peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming drinks immortal, as I used to dream before.
But the seals were still unbroken, though the craving, it was choking,
And the only word unspoken was the whispered word:
“D’accord?” This I whispered, and an echo shouted back the word,
“D’accord!” Who could resist? Not me, no more.

So I opened that first bottle, and with many a gulp unsubtle,
Gave in to the raving craving, as in craven days of yore.
Not the least resistance made I, nevermore was I afraid, I
Couldn’t stop; I was a baby, chugging down that nectar d’or;
I emptied out that whisky palace, then I slammed the cupboard door.
Sat and drank, and drank shome more.

Now the cravin’, never fleetin’, nevermore will be retreatin’,
And the bottlesh keep increashin’ on the unshwept kitchen floor.
And my eyesh have all the sheemin’, though I shleep, of demonsh dreamin’,
With my troushersh soiled and shteamin’, leakin’ pish onto the floor.
Now my shoul’s gone from that shadow that liesh floatin’ on the floor:
I’m gonna drink – and drink shome more….

Bards in the garden II: the Readers’ revenge….

A bit more silliness….this follows on from the “Bards in the garden” piece, which is towards the end of this post.

I

Though colourful and rather droll,
Bucolic bards still roam like kine.
‘Tis time, I fear, to loose the bull,
Use biological control;
Reclaim the land that once was mine:
Let slip the native Philistine….

****

II

The Poet and the Philistine
Went blogging hand in hand.
Their conversation bounced around,
Criss-cross the book blog land:
Each wondered how much influence
The other could command.

“The time has come,” said Philistine,
“To talk of everything:
Of books and art and poetry,
(But not post-modern bling,)
And why are critics ignorant,
And why some poems sing.”

The angry Poet looked at him
But never a word he said.
He puffed his cheeks, threw up his arms,
And shook his wise old head.
At last he spluttered, with a curse:
“All poetry is dead!”

“It’s either ‘Fucking this and that!’
Or ‘Hello trees and sky!’
I weep for all the thoughtful lines
Unborn, and left to die.
You Philistines must wear the guilt.”
He finished with a sigh.

“Au contraire!” said Philistine,
“We’re not the ones who write,
Or guide the cultured Poet’s hand
Along the path of light.
You could say we are Darwin’s dogs;
We cull the weak on sight.”

“Not just the weak!” the Poet cried,
“But everything with heart,
All writings allegorical,
Or anything that’s tart;
You’ve either heard it all before,
Or else it just ain’t art!”

“My Dear Friend,” oozed the Philistine,
“Such influence we lack;
Pretension is our enemy,
Anathema, the hack:
We’re culture’s chars, not Commissars;
We don’t deserve this flak.”

Then suddenly, the skies were full;
A murmur swelled the air.
A flock of migrant Readers swooped
And landed by our pair;
Identically dressed and groomed
(Much to their shared despair).

“O Readers, come and talk with us!”
Our argument’s not done:
Pray tell us where the problem lies,” -
But answer came there none -
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’re brain-dead, every one….

****

III

Harmless, tame, yet rather dull,
The Anencephalic run free,
My Bardless garden their patrol:
Though Philistine fulfilled his role,
With typical efficiency;
Those Bards were far more fun to me….

Roses are red, Poppies are….?

I promised angela some pics of Michele’s stained glass poppies and here they are. Well, I say “poppies” – these are actually various species of the genus Meconopsis, so not true poppies (Papaver), although closely related.

Splendid flowers, Meconopsis, and famously difficult to grow outside their natural habitat, which is for all bar one species, the Himalayas and China. Damp summers and cold, dry winters are their preference; failing that, hard work with the watering can is required, and, for the very fussiest, home-made umbrellas to keep off the winter rains. I doubt they’re a goer in Australia, though, however ingenious and dedicated the gardener. Cumbria, Devon and Ireland are places which allow the gardener a sporting chance of success, but wherever you live, success is never guaranteed with these capricious beauties.

There’s barely a colour not available somewhere in the genus; red, blue, violet, white, purple, yellow….and the blues are of an intensity to which no picture ever does justice. They range in size from 2m+ to delicate beauties less than 15cm tall. Many species die after flowering, adding poignancy to the display. We have grown each of the three species depicted here (and many others besides), although M delavayii never flowered; some plants just seem to have a death wish….we were particularly proud one year to have dozens of separate examples of M punicea in flower; it’s a tricky one.

Apologies for the quality of the photographs; despite its appearance, the third panel is rectangular….the first two panels are approx 22cm tall, the third, 55cm.

Meconopsis delavayii

Meconopsis punicea

Meconopsis grandis

See Emily Display….

Who says grime doesn’t pay….? The graph above shows recent blog stats, and the big arrow indicates the date of publication of my Dickinson diatribe (dates for some peculiar wordpress reason are in the American style, month first); lo! those gently rolling hills become veritable Alps….of course it’s all relative; absolute figures are nothing to shout about, which is I why I removed the scale on the vertical axis….

When William met William, who met William….(intro, outro….)

It has hitherto been assumed that William Wordsworth was on his tod when he found those daffodils which he so memorably (if tweely) described in verse. Recently, however, some obscure but diligent literary scholars have unearthed other offerings by various poets which challenge this naive assumption; and I am proud to have the honour to be the first to publish their evidence. Their conclusions (and I think the evidence is pretty compelling), are that WW was merely one of a group of time-travelling poets out walking that day: judge for yourselves:

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

I saw this morning morning’s minion, Mork and Mindy,
On Dawnbreak TV; dappled daffs are drugged down debonnaires.

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

“What is a daff?” – Our ur-botanist tells,
“‘Tis a tall plant, with a flower like a bell.”

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

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
“Are we there yet?” we asked,
Yet further Bill wandered….

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

Don’t walk too fast now: Hey Bill!
Who’s let the side down before
The poets even arrive? The crap
That’s yellow on yonder moor
Seems (yawn) too familiar. But that hill
(Tosser!) isn’t marked on my map.

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

The poets in their stations gazing stood,
Whilst jonquils rose up fucking jubilant.
Open, ye everlasting blooms, they sang,
Open, ye heavens, your living doors; and lo!
The great creator from his work returned
With bladder full, and micturated well.

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

Good-nature and good-sense must ever join;
Our human bards forgive urine divine.

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

The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, but more’s to come:
Young Wordsworth and his urban rabble
Will soon be soaked from head to bum.

******************
Though they go dull, they shall be bright,
Though they die down, they shall rise again;
They shall bloom anew with the golden light:
And the daffs shall have no dim in them.

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

March is the kindest month, leading
Daffs out of the dead land, mixing -
Dylan! Stop that! I told you before:
I never carry booze when I’m working.

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

Once upon a hike most weary (Tom and Dylan acting dreary),
Over many a hill and cloudy dale we tramped the moor.
While I clenched, almost a-crapping, Bill “The Dill” broke out in clapping,
Em “The Fem”, her arms a-flapping, (my chapping thighs were awful sore):
“‘Tis some bloody flowers,” I muttered, “drooping on the bloody floor -
- only that, and nothing more”….

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

Where are the blooms of spring? Bill, where are they?
Think not of us, thou hast thy motive too, -
We bards droop bored after a long hard day -
(And, by the way, young Edgar needs the loo.)

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

I have picked
the daffodils
that were growing
in the glade

and which
you were probably
hoping
to photograph

forgive me, officer
I didn’t realise it was illegal
under the wildlife and countryside act
(1981)

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

There was a yellow floral idyll, then young Carlos picked a bunch,
Now the silly man is cross he’s lost his daffs.
There’s a broken-hearted woman only here to make our lunch;
But the Yellow Blooms are gone – I hope Bill laughs.

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

I wandered alone on the moor on an overcast day,
And felt as though my feet never touched the ground below.
Suddenly, I saw a group of flowers, I’m happy to say;
They were daffodils, I think. Certainly they were yellow.

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

Beware the Jabberdil, my son!
The jaws that bite, the eyes that see!
Beware the buzzing bees and shun
Those students flogging LSD.

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

This is my letter to the world -
We saw some yellow flowers -
(Not me, my eyesight’s somewhat gnarled
From all those indoor hours.)

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

I would spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, Bill, lest you tread on your daffs.

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

A poet could not remain gay,
In such a dismal company:
I gazed – and gazed – but little thought
Those other poets, nature-frit,
Are not bucolic naturalists;
Let’s find a pub, and get well pissed….