Seven ages….

All the web’s a page
And all the poets and man-poets merely dabblers:
They have their exegeses and their epiphanies.
Each poet in his time apes many styles,
Passing through seven ages

The rhyming infant pukes and mewls,
De-dum de-dummies through his verse
Constrained by nursie’s simple rules:
At least, we think, he can’t get worse.

Schoolboy verse interminably creeps
And leaves its shiny slimy morning trail.
(Maturity looks back and softly weeps
Attempts to draw a veil to no avail.)

Proud upstanding lines are covered by the lover
Deeply delving into soft moist poetic clefts.
His verse internally slurps; eyebrows? Not bothered -
His sights, sighs, are set much lower; it is undeft.

War poems? The canon impotently bubbles;
Verse and curses stop no bullets, nor ever will
Despite Will’s best: a soldier’s poetry is but
A reaction; never a prescription for peace

ah, sage justice
mature Jedi with cheesey saws to hand
more free in verse than belt
more free in belt than thought

long
lean
pantaloon
discovers
verticalitiness
and
concisionity

Second childhood dribbles round once more
Oblivion falls on the evening star
You’re yet again a metronomic bore
Though toothlessness may make your rhymes bizarre….

Nature Notes….

We saw our first pair of swallows yesterday – they may have arrived earlier; yesterday was the first day I looked out for them. In any case, they’ve come too early – it’s been so cold recently that the cows aren’t out yet, hence few bugs for the birds.

The arrival of spring is confirmed by the under floor scrabbling of nesting blue tits – still haven’t worked out how they gain entrance, but no longer worry about it. Also, this morning, the first pair of low-flying jets blessed us with their cacophonous mating flight – no idea where they nest, just very grateful it’s not here.

Cock pheasants squawking all over the garden to defend their territory and harems – noisy indignant things, but pretty….and destructive….although not as destructive as the hind and fawn who are cheeky enough frequently to come within a few yards of the house. We generally allow ourselves a couple of minutes of awed contemplation before swearing at them and chasing them off – although only to a part of the garden where we can pretend they’re doing no damage.

Spring also heralds an influx of dozy wasps and hornets into the office….to be replaced later by the nightshift of wood-boring beetles and moths, which have an unfortunate habit of falling into one’s liquid refreshments.

Yes, this is a desperation post….to add a little overdue relevance, I’ll wish WS many happy returns….

anonymphs II….

Having just trivialised the issue of anonymity vs full nominal disclosure for commenters on blogs in the previous post “anonymphs”, I feel pomposity mode taking over….

An argument I’ve made before is why shouldn’t people choose to keep different facets of their lives separate from each other by donning one or more pseudonyms online? Some have perfectly ordinary interests in arts, sports, politics or other pursuits that they simply don’t wish to discuss at work or in particular areas of their lives. Yet this eminently reasonable desire is frequently seen as threatening by those who use their real names online – the argument usually being that anonymity encourages abuse. Well, I see little evidence that using one’s real name is much of a deterrence in that respect. Not that we should be afraid of a bit of robustness or feistiness in online debate – one can show oneself to be a fool whether named or cloaked; and both entities should be free to call a fool a fool. Heaven forfend that all online debates should emulate the vicar’s tea party.

For some (certainly not all) of those who choose to use their real names, especially on the literary-type blogs which are the arenas we’re mainly talking about, self-publicity is a factor. And why not? Nothing wrong with that; nor is my use of my pseudonym any different in that each post elesewhere could be construed as a shameless plug for this blog. But not everyone has something to sell or promote. Another subset of names hope that their comments are somehow given extra weight because of who they are. This reader, however, pays more attention to the comment than the author (I did warn you I was feeling pompous….) I’ve no doubt I’m not alone in this; on the other hand, I’m sure many readers ignore the pseudonymous and hang on every word of the named.

Yet there’s a real person behind each pseudonym….and for all the reader knows, the pseudonym may well belong to someone even more celebrated than the revered names; someone, perhaps, who feels confident enough to let his/her words speak for themselves. I’m certainly not an incognito celebrity, but nor do I feel it relevant to append a list of academic qualifications or life experience to each comment I make online, which is effectively what some mean when they demand I decloak. I don’t have a BA in EngLit, nor have I published a novel or a slim volume of poetry – are these details more important than what I actually say? It’s not inconceivable that I’ll talk complete bollocks as a direct consequence of these deficiencies – but if the Published Author (BA) can’t spot that from my words alone, just how much should I trust his/her judgement?

I also wonder how much better we actually know named commenters than the pseudonymous – heck, let’s use the word “anonymph”. Here on this blog we have some apparently real names – Billy, Jane, Mishari, me (!) – alongside some anonymphs – MeltonMowbray, wordnerd7, fmk, Iamnothere (perhaps on other blogs, some of these names are anonymphs and vice versa.) But speaking personally, and with no intention to disparage, I have no more evidence for the actual existence of those in the first group than for the anonymphs. Everything I “know” about both groups comes from online sources. So why should I have more respect for the “named” or take more account of what one group says than the other? For all I know, the two groups could be mappable, each “real” person also being behind one or more anonymphs. Indeed, from my perspective, there could be only two people responsible for every comment on every blog I’ve ever read: me and someone else….but I’d better stop before I inadvertently outline a scifi novel….

anonymphs….

I wandered through the blogosphere
Admiring diverse blogging chimps,
When – Hark! The sound of logorrhoea:
A host of feisty Anonymphs!
Beside themselves, yet not ill-bred,
Spluttering and prancing on some thread.

Carnaptious (after too much wine?),
Yet also eager to engage,
They scrapped and played below the line,
Provoked McDoom to steaming rage;
Strange Anonymphs in full romance,
Strutting their stuff in sprightly dance.

The Names beside them grumped, and they
Outdid the carping Names in glee.
Those famed Names could not but be grey
In such a jocund company.
I gazed and gazed and then I thought:
Why are those Names so overwrought?

So now, when on my chair I slouch,
In stroppy or in impish mood,
And read more comments by some Grouch
Who deems those carapaces rude;
My playful soul begins to wince
And spawns another Anonymph….

Writers’ rooms….

We apologise for the absence of the usual photograph in this feature. Unfortunately, cynicalsteve’s workspace is so squalid that the first two photographers asked refused in disgust. The fourth was so cute he was kidnapped by Mrs cs. Occasional rustling can still be heard behind the bookcases, so we have high hopes that the third photographer may yet emerge with a usable picture. Meanwhile, here’s the doggerelist’s own description of the most productive writing hub on Britain’s literary scene….

The room itself is dark and dingy as a counterpoint to my inherent cheerfulness. Without the cobweb curtains and grimy windows, I’d be so insufferably chirpy that every doggerel would begin “Hello trees! Hello sky!” Gloom needs to be carefully nurtured; a good tip for aspiring writers.

What looks like an art installation in the corner is actually just a pile of empty beer cans – I’ve had inquiries from certain galleries but they balked at the price of re-creation, even though I was prepared to work for cost alone.

Those voodoo dolls next to the Extra Large pack of Super Sharp Pins? They’re not mine – really….

The tottering pile of contemporary poetry books is mine though, and I read a selection every day. Yes, I hear you when you say many are still wrapped in cellophane; I just rewrap books carefully after reading. That well-thumbed copy of Jordan’s autobiography? Um – an Amazon mistake, I think….yes; the magazines too.

Back to the desk: an untidy pile of reference books and frequently consulted classics, I’m afraid. Don Quixote, Paradise Lost, Clarissa, Robinson Crusoe, Debbie Does Dallas – these are my everyday inspirations. Where would we be without Cervantes – or indeed servants? (Or, as they are known these days, research assistants.) Indeed, that row of computers on the far wall is where my assistants work when they’re writing my – I mean, when they’re helping with my work. All young women this year, funnily enough….I like to think I’m helping the next generation of writers and lady poets. The “March for Feminism!” poster on the wall is further evidence of my staunch support for the rights of the fairer sex. Let’s face it, without men to help the cause, feminism would never have got off the ground, would it?

Next to that poster on the wall is a list of fellow writers – the “Enemies!” heading is just my little joke, you understand. I like to read it most days and be thankful for their success. The accompanying framed quotation from Gore Vidal is also meant ironically – no-one, least of all writers, really wants to see their friends fail, do they?

The rest of the room is merely as any other great writer’s – an eclectic mix of the functional and the decorative. The framed photographs on the desk are a precious reminder of my previous assistants – there are some more on the computer – I’d show them to you, but I’ve no idea how to turn the bloody thing on….

lurkers….

There’s an online union called the Lurkers’ Guild
Or Bloggers’ Dandruff, Floating Forum Spam.
Their aim: to leave each comment box unfilled,
Their motto: everywhere I lurk, therefore I am.

Harmlessly haunting our stately blogs, mute
Other-dimensional beings in the virtual home.
(Whilst midnight surfing, ever had the acute
Feeling you’re being watched by lurkers as they roam?)

High they hover, seeking tit-bits
Cast off from the latest post.
Shame they don’t descend a bit, it’s
Rather rude to diss one’s host….

faute de mieux….

I have a tune running through my head from a CD played some days ago – “Nothing to Say” from Tull’s “Benefit”. Great riff, but I can only assume that the lyrics are subliminally preventing me from coming up with any new doggerel….

So, faute de mieux, here are a couple of unfinished pieces – or unrealised ideas. No doubt someone can improve on them. I wouldn’t normally post them, but the site’s stagnating and needs a kick up the arse (in terms of content, that is; in terms of site visits, it’s rockin’….site record broken five times in the last week….I’m embarrassed that there’s nothing to see other than the comments. Perhaps anyone new to the site should start with some of the real doggerel further down the page – the last two genuine efforts were “Pedantry (notes)*” on 12th March and “Barking doggerelists” on 27th February – and the funnier stuff is earlier still….)

The Adam & Eve piece has been knocking around for weeks; the Spring spoof was intended for Billy Mills’ GU blog. Be warned: both are very rough and unpolished. I can’t see where to go with either; all suggestions welcome, even those of the “bin ‘em” variety….

****

In the beginning,
When fun wasn’t sinning,
Young Adam was lazing
(Though not navel-gazing.)
His missus fruit picking
Till God got to kicking
Them out of the garden,
With no chance of pardon.
(Eve sadly imbibed
That which God had proscribed.)
Though daily fruit eating
Might keep docs retreating
It’s not so protective
Against God’s invective,
His manner vexatious
And anger pomaceous.
Eve’s theft of the apple
Is something her chap’ll
Forever remember
Each harvest September.
Her frugivore diet
Which caused such disquiet
Still gets recommended
To ladies distended.
Eve’s delicatessen
Should teach us a lesson:

****

“Hello trees! Hello sky!” tra-la, here comes the spring.
Yet every day hangs underneath
A sky of sorts; it’s just the leaf
That brings the tree to eye.

“Hello leaves! Hello sun!” tra-la, you greet the spring.
Though technically, new leaves were stored
Inside the buds we all ignored
And so were ever-present,
Like the sun behind the clouds.

It’s nature’s game of hide and seek
With different players every week