Continuing the work of The Gardener

Message from Mrs cs:

I would like to convey my heartfelt thanks to those who have felt moved to send me messages both publicly and privately. My apologies that I have not yet manage to reply to you personally but I will do so once the obvious chaos dissipates.

I haven’t found many unpublished works by Steve that I feel are appropriate to add to this site at the moment. I am working my way very slowly through all of the posts and printing them for Steve’s Dad but I do find it hard at times. However, I have been giving some thought to what to do with Steve’s blog.

Certainly, I feel it is entirely appropriate to leave it ‘live’ so that others who have an interest in doggerel can read it. I have also been considering adding a new page to document the ‘rescue’ of the garden which is sort of where our on-line life started many years ago with a little website documenting the garden and plants which is still out there frozen forever in the year 2006. I do wonder whether it is ‘right’ to use Steve’s blog for this purpose, so if you have any thoughts about it please don’t hesitate to share them.

I’m still trying to sort out what I have to live on and trying to adjust to life without Steve so there won’t be a lot of news as we go into Autumn and Winter. The good news though is Steve’s Dad is going to make it possible for the garden to be kept in its present form (1 acre) so I won’t have to make too many agonising decisions about where to cut the garden off. It also means that there is a real prospect for me to remain at Hedgelands.

My plan is to create a new page or pages to share progress (or the lack thereof) in the garden (this post being the first). I don’t expect many to read this part of the blog and to be honest the work (and the progress reports) are dedicated to Steve – besides his ashes can’t be scattered about until I’ve got the grass at the very least under control!

Michele
(aka Mrs cs)
PS . should visitors wish to comment or post doggerel, poetry, questions about plants or gardening I have left that facility (for the time being) in place. Sadly, I will not be quite as engaging or talented a host as Steve but I will do my best.

That damn Bell’s, sancerre & me….

    I
A can of ale, three nights ago,
  Alone and balefully loitering;
The fridge is where I always look
    For the slaking.

    II
But that can fail’d me; not enough!
  So piss’d off that the beer’s all gone!
The squirrel’s gran’ry may be full,
    But my fridge is done.

    III
There is a shop just up the road:
  Refreshments moist, some amber dew,
And (with a cheque) a fresh rosé:
    Fast run thereto!

    IV
I know a lady in that shop
  Not all that young; a fifties child.
Her eyes are cross’d, her foot not light,
    And her hair is wild.

    V
I made a beeline for the beer
  Some bottles too – a fragrant Beaune;
She star’d at me as I did shop;
    And made me moan.

    VI
I paid her with a bouncing cheque,
  And promis’d I’d be back ere long,
Then sidl’d off with bottled clinks
    And beery song.

    VII
I slunk back next day hellish sweet,
  To buy some mild, and whisky too,
And in a language strange she said -
    “I have needs too”….

    VIII
She took me to the storage room,
  And there I wept and sigh’d some more,
And there I shut my eyes and paid;
    There, on the floor.

    IX
And when she was at last asleep,
  And dreaming of – Ah! woe betide!
The fastest dash I ever dash’d,
    To the cold outside.

    X
Yet: I need more ale, more whisky too:
  Ale warrior as I was, for all
I tried – that well-built dame sans merci
    Hath me by the balls….

    XI
I see her starv’d lips in the morn
  With horrid warning gap’d full wide
When I awake and find her still here;
    Me on the quiltless side.

    XII
And this is why – I still need beer;
  Though unalone and balefully loitering,
At least the fridge is full when I look
    For the slaking….

nostalgesia….

When I were a lad all good poetry rhymed
And had rhythm and metre and style.
Spoken aloud t’ words thundered or chimed
(Which made learning t’ buggers worthwhile.)

Back then, poets wrote about poetic things
Like Greek urns, or that Burns piece on mice;
Or t’ lad who remained up on deck ’till well-singed,
And t’ Raven I thought were quite nice.

Ornithologists, most of ‘em: keen on bird guff,
Allus rattlin’ on about sparrers,
Or nightingales, owls (whether hooting or stuffed; )
Even chickens that haunt wheeled red barrers.

Em’s immortality, Bill’s narcissisity,
Albatross Sam and Jack’s pitiless whore;
Alf’s equine massacre, Will’s domesticity,
Paradise John, Hal’s monotonous squaw.

Proper poets they were, writin’ verse with their quills:
Red roses and summers’ days, gold daffodils,
Blue hills remembered, the riffin’ of “If”;
(No rude stuff ’bout blue pills for members unstiff.)

Mighty rulers of yore, inspirational muses:
Them’s suitable subjects a real poet chooses.
Like everything else, verse has gone to to the dogs:
I’m blamin’ it all on these new-fangled blogs….

Wordsworth’s worse words….

We need a break after 300+ comments on the last thread….and this is all there is: apologies to anyone offended, but in all fairness, this is my first smutty doggerel here….I shan’t make a habit of it….

I fondled lovely Miss McCleod,
Palpated all her hills and dales;
When all at once she cried aloud:
A ghostly haunting banshee wail….

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….)

What’s in a name….reprise….

A couple of months ago, a call was put out for snippets of poetry which Michele could use as starting points for jewellery design. She received many interesting suggestions, even though one or two were deemed, on reflection, not quite the selling point she was looking for (hands up who suggested Rimbaud’s “red torment”….)

Nevertheless, she had much to work with, and after fulfilling some commissions, she’s finally produced some pieces based on suggestions received. You can see pictures here, here and here. (The second & third links are to sales sites; looking without buying is, however, tolerated….)

More pieces in this vein are planned, I understand. Meanwhile, many thanks to all those who suggested poetic inspiration.

Nobel, here I come….

I’m gonna be a novelist and set the world alight,
Then sit and watch the royalties accrue.
It’s not as if there’s anything to learn before you write;
It’s surely something anyone can do.

It’s not like proper working, where you’ve got a boss to please,
And must clock in at eight-thirty on the dot.
If I want I’ll spend the day “researching“, viewing endless sleaze,
Or plan the colour scheme for my first yacht.

OK, I haven’t got a subject and I’ve yet to pick a style,
But within each man, they say, a novel’s found.
I’ll just wing it as I go along, I know I’m versatile,
And the words I write will surely be profound.

Amis has the genes and young McEwan’s done that course;
But really there’s no substitute for talent;
If you’ve got it you can write, all you do is tap the source,
The rest are hacks (much as it pains to be ungallant.)

Still, I have some sympathy for those who can’t produce a book;
It must be hell to be a failure and to know it:
I doubt I could continue if my writing didn’t hook;
Although I could if all else fails become a poet….

Breathing space….

Time for a few cheerful pics, I suggest….

Isn’t this a stunning colour? It’s a tiny autumn crocus (not a colchicum, a genuine crocus), sadly not terribly robust on our soggy soil, but it did put on a show for one year before succumbing….

Bumble bee on a dahlia….don’t ask me which bee or which dahlia….

Peacock butterfly on a pink rudbeckia….and another bumble bee….

Painted Lady butterfly on an annual everlasting….cheap and cheerful annuals, but good value in late summer….

Tulipa acuminata….one of my favourite tulips….but Michele doesn’t like it….

A little spring cutie….Dodacatheon meadia alba….next to a thuggish Trillium….

A picture taken by Michele a few days ago….Prunus “Shirotae” in full bloom….

How it is now….anyone fancy a spot of weeding….?

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….

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

haiku

I thought it would be fun to invite some more audience participation. After lengthy and detailed discussions with some patrons of the blog, the executive decision has been made to hold a haiku fiesta on the topic of “censorship” (thanks to Mishari for that suggestion).

Furthermore, “haiku” will be interpreted liberally (as will the topic) – there’s no insistence on a strict 5/7/5 format (although obviously that’s acceptable too); haiku-like is fine. I expect wiki will have some information if anyone’s still unsure about the form.

This isn’t a competition, just a bit of fun, so I hope I can encourage as many people as possible to have a go….better start the ball rolling, I suppose, although I anticipate much better efforts than this from the audience (this will be only my second ever haiku/senryu):

ten minutes to write
half a second to delete
but who has more fun?

Pedantry (notes)*

Alas, modern poetry – I knows it well¹.
All feelings, no structure, and (of course) no rhymes.
It may not be all bad², but who can tell?
Without yardsticks³, who can measure the crimes?

Present tense, adjectives to the fore, I feel.
Get ready: this is what I feel; having felt
No more is required of me – this is real.
You want writing? Given the hand I’ve been dealt?

Here, you, read my experiences, my life;
My sad life is poetry⁴, surely enough
Interest for you; or would you wield the knife,
And mutilate this honest, heartfelt stuff?

A little wordplay wouldn’t be out of place,
Given that metre and rhyme have been eschewed.
No-one’s asking for a complete volte face⁵;
Just a short step back from preoccupation with the unmetrical lewd.⁶

And an amnesty aimed at alliteratists⁷:
I’ve never quite understood the strange appeal
Of The Dominant Letter; yet it persists
As the lone weapon in the poets’ arsenal¹⁰.

Wait! I do them a disservice – the indent’s¹¹
Also popular with the modern verser;
None here, though, the software on this blog’s too dense¹²
And I’m no advanced master of the cursor.¹³

Frankly, I might as well have written this whole thing
In prose; would have saved on paper¹⁴, all those aimless
Line-breaks are rather wasteful, and don’t really sing.
Still: a nod to the modern – let’s end rhymeless¹⁵….

*Yes, Billy: the title is a nod to Raworth, although this piece is emphatically not a parody of his, nor was it inspired by it. The rant came first, the footnotes subsequently accumulated, and then I needed a title….one which, on reflection, has little relevance to the doggerel per se….
¹As you are all aware by now, I know nothing about modern poetry (or indeed any poetry.) But why spoil a misquote, Horatio?
²Of course it isn’t; my target here is bad modern poetry (which admittedly forms a not insubstantial fraction of the whole….)
³I avoided the cheap pun – did you notice?
⁴This is projection, btw, not confession….
⁵Yes; I know….it’s an eye rhyme, OK?….I won’t make a habit of it….
⁶Disclaimer: the ridiculous length of this line reflects the author’s technical incompetence, rather than any attempt at parody.
⁷Is there such a word? If not, then I have yet another neologism to my credit….although “alliteralists” might be more elegant….
¹⁰Oh, come on – I’m allowed one slant rhyme per doggerel….and btw, I can count; I just decided on a whim to number the footnotes in base 8….why not….?
¹¹“Indentation” is the better noun, although Chambers (I’ve long thought one should more properly write Chambers’, yet no-one does) does allow “indent”….still, I’m sure I don’t need to explain the reasons for my choice here….
¹²….and now a homophone masquerades as a rhyme; ye gods, standards have slipped further than I realised….
¹³On a point of order: if one were to try to do indents (and rumours abound that there are geeky ways of achieving them on WordPress – invisible white dots, saving text as image, downloading a separate editor, etc), cursor control would play no part. But meaning is subservient to rhyme in doggerel land. Still, indent-unfriendly editing software is hardly ideal for a poetry blog¹⁶….
¹⁴Don’t get all picky; you know what I mean….
¹⁵….not only rhymeless (or rather, rhyme poor), but there’s not a single joke, pun or wordplay of any flavour here; no pretty phrasing, no allusions to canons ancient or modern; just a few crass bog-standard rhymes to season a grumpy old scroat’s rant; which is kinda the point¹⁷….
¹⁶….sorry, that should of course read “doggerel blog” (precious little poetry here, as any fule no….)
¹⁷….oh, and that I’ve finally worked out how to do superscripts²⁰ (subscripts, too, as it happens, although they weren’t needed here….)
²⁰….although they don’t seem to work in the title; hence the initial asterisk….

PS I somehow feel I’ve devoted too much time writing what can only be described (even by the standards of this blog) as a pointless exercise. Footnote play (footnotesy?) is, I know, unoriginal, and banging on about modern poetry is fogeyish rather than clever. Mea culpa. (And apologies to those who preferred to see more garden pics; soon, I promise….)

Block party….

I have written
all the doggerel
that was in
my head

and which
probably
put you off
your breakfast

Forgive me
it was atrocious
so twee
and also cynical

****

Dashes to dashes, it’s quite absurd,
Emily’s stuck for a rhyming word.
Fie! to the critics, they chortle in vain;
Dickinson’s writing “immortal” again….

****

I pondered rhyming words aloud,
But couldn’t find a match propitious.
I hope when next I spy a crowd,
The genus rhymes, unlike narcissus….

No Rime for the Ancient Gardener….

There’s a hole in my mind where a poem should lie
And the echo is driving me crazy.
My doggerel gland’s temporarily dry
(Which explains all those pictures of daisies*.)

The literary world isn’t rocked by this news
(It’s the story they wanted to hear.)
That cynicalsteve is becalmed by the blues
Is a cause for rejoicing and cheer.

But before you get carried away with delight
Spare a thought for the writer behind -
If doggerel doodoo makes bloggers take flight,
The backlog may poison my mind….

*It also explains the imprecise rhyme; I’m not intentionally going through an Emily phase….