GUsundheit….

“You’re not bad, GU Books Blog,” the young dog said,
“But your tone has become rather light;
And some of your writers aren’t all that well-read;
Do you think, for a litblog, that’s right?”

“In the past,” GU Books Blog replied, “we were pleased
When our articles tickled the brain;
But now blogs about books on which people have sneezed
Will attract far more hits in the main.”

“Yet before,” said the pup, “you attracted a crowd;
Not all of us crusty old fogeys:
But now all I see are the proud unibrowed,
Just responding to blogs about bogies.”

“You are snobs!” cried the Books Blog, “elitist and picky!”
Besides which, you’re simply too few:
We’d rather draw millions like Facebook and wiki
Than expend any effort on you!”

“So it’s kids’ books and Kindles, celebrity fluff,
And a once-a-week pome for the weird:
Do you think,” said the young dog, “that’s really enough
For a site that was once so revered?”

“But today,” said the Books Blog, “who on earth reads?
You’re all browsers, not readers, and so
Our articles follow where everyman leads:
And he’s hardly the sharpest, y’know.”

“That’s apparent,” said pup, “from the comments he leaves,
And from him I expected no more;
Yet the guys who write comments at cynicalsteve’s
Are the creme de la creme and top drawer.”

“We do Hay,” sighed the Books Blog, “for day after day;
Intellectual blogging or what?!”
“What….” thought the pup, who recovered to say:
“I’ll agree it’s a step up from snot.”

“You’ve the chance,” pup concluded, “to be a great site,
To draw volume and class to your blog;
With a little more planning, and less of the trite,*
You’ll get more than one man and a dog_{gerelist”….}

*Now, now….

doggerelology….

Having failed to live a poet’s life, I’ve had to go to college;
Poetics 101 should give my bard brain ample knowledge.
Poetaster Polytechnic’s just the place for me
(Since Oxford snubbed my metrical and rhyme-enhanced CV.)
(Who can blame them….?)

Looking through the syllabus there’s plenty to admire:
Alliteration lessons for the ladies of the lyre;
Seminars on assonance (assignments not required; )
And rhyming time’s at nine if your sublime lines ain’t inspired.
(Which this lot definitely ain’tn’t….)

This verse city’s no Varsity, no dons, no balls or quads.
Professor G, our tutor, is indubitably odd.
He starts each day by facing Hay and muttering a prayer
And lectures us whilst slumped within an autographed deck-chair.
(This is really rather silly….)

His deputy, the Vice Verser, is also somewhat skewed:
Free verse, says this lady, must be written in the nude.
Woe betide the bow-tied poet grafting in his cell
When she comes in to give him very merry villanelle.
(Sorry about that: the previous line sounds good but it’s totally meaningless….)

Eventually I’ll graduate, entitled to my card
Appending to my name the suffix “PHD and bard”
(That’s “Pretty Hopeless Doggerel” in case it wasn’t clear)
And just to prove the point I think I’ll end this rubbish here….
(Nothing to see here: move along….just carry on below where we left off chatting from the previous thread….)

doggerel….

I’m not sure what to call this piece: I had several titles in mind – “doggerel that is called doggerel”; “self-reverence”; “lynx hunt”; “punctuated equilibrium”; “arsy doggerel” – no matter; whatever the title, it’s a fall-flat-on-my-face piece….but I have nothing else to post….sharp-eyed readers may see what I was trying to do….I am indebted to Billy Mills for pointing me in the direction of some interesting poetry, although he may be less happy with the use I have made of it….

****

Dislike it: really, you should fiddle and fret
(and quite probably you do; you toads….)
it’s contemptible, disingenuous; yet
you can’t help yourself, though it forbodes

a lack of judgement on your, the readers’, part:
don’t you have jobs to do, or silence to wean?
processing these words isn’t the way to art -
live a life: stay away from the profane screen….

So you want to be a reader? Don’t do it.
don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it;
because I’m the only one who can do it right;
don’t do it, don’t do it; alright, do it….

(Hint: watch out for the moose (should there be a moose
in this piece….which would be odd, n’est-ce pas?)
this is a doggerel about doggerel: how obtuse
would it be to mention, desperately,
a moose, along with vices and virtues?)

Still: palpably moot, or moose, or pamplemousse,
we have doggerel of St Vitus vitality
mooning the reader, moody or rude (you choose: )
the thing is, a doggerel should neither mean nor be….

Or if not a moose, then a mouse on the scuttle
to tickle and tease the depth out of these words
I wouldn’t use torture – that’s way too unsubtle
for what’ll result if you squeeze the absurd….

Dear Mr (or Ms) cynicalsteve, would you mind
awfully printing out your entire oeuvre
rhymes and all? Your doggerel is much maligned
and I’d like to malign it more; with verve….
Your faithful servant, Ms (nee Mr) Leurker.

(Dear Ms Leurker: have a heart!
Rhyming verse is hardly art!
It doesn’t really need to be
dismantled in your PhD….)

As poets condense, we doggerelists inflate
but we never forget who came first;
in a parallel universe, though, we create
and the poets respond with bad verse….

Still, the rhythmic drums have spoken and you’re
counting down the stanzas, hoping soon there’ll be an end:
and you’re in luck
my friends….

Living the life….

The decision is made: I have chosen my path:
I’ll become a great poet (my novel’s rejected.)
As I understand it, from doing the maths,
I just need a hinterland, life disaffected.

No-one yet met a poet who hadn’t a vice,
So I figure it’s cause and effect.
Will inventing a past full of excess suffice
Or must I now daily get wrecked?

Do I have the right background ? I’ve never injected
Or snorted or smoked pharmaceutical stuff
As a clean living boy I suspect I’ve neglected
To live a life naughty or raunchy enough.

I’m revising my history, bidding adieu
To a life that’s been boring and staid;
But what can one do having always been true
To the well travelled road; never strayed?

Will my words be downgraded because I’ve not bedded
Sufficient young women compared to my peers?
And worse still: I’m hetero, faithful, long-wedded,
Astoundingly dreary, unknown in Tangier.

Never fought with the famous, nor fucked a celeb,
Nor attacked a close friend with a knife.
Unpoetically living the life of a pleb
(If you call what I’ve lived a real life.)

Never trodden on dreams or been banned from a game,
Or had wild facial hair or tattoos for a bet;
Not once trimmed my pubes to the shape of a flame,
Or been other than humdrum hail-fellow-well-met.

What hope for the writer who’s normal and sane -
Can he ever write anything sound?
Is he doomed to write rubbish, time and again?
Is he fated to be unprofound?

Some creative accounting is needed to lift
My biography – give it a shot in the arm:
An unhappy childhood, a marital rift,
Or a saga of piss-ups and ugly self-harm.

I’m a little unsure how to rewrite my past:
Just where can one find enough grief?
I’ve been cursed with contentment, joy unsurpassed;
Must I now overturn a dark leaf?

Just one thing concerns me – if I have success
In remaking myself as a lover and fighter,
Then I’ve proved that my fictional skills can impress:
I can write even though I’m no writer.

Just ask all those poets who headline at Hay
How they’d write if they weren’t quite so scarred.
An apple a day keeps the doctor away
And protects you from being a bard .

****

A poet’s lot is not a happy one (happy one….)