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….

WYSINWYG….

I, a meaning, comfort you.
nearby is complexity and literal significance.
the Eden vows elide gracefully:
even now the lines emerge mindlessly ordered.
cynicism keeps evolving, reaching out for the heart,
entities proliferate reaching every tenable ecological niche:
this is overkill; unless soon….

a new day tumbles harmlessly
emitting terrible ancient light;
electrifying new transience!
dawn is something a deity values and needs;
the air glows, encouraging daybreak….

I (no other) will be existence,
leading out nations,
guiding in new births,
overcoming tired history;
calming again towards evening,
genesis over.
rejoice in earth’s seasoning….

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….

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….

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 Prince of Orange….

As I write, there is a poetry competition running on the Guardian books blog. I’ve entered, but can’t and won’t post my entry here yet (besides which, they’re all worth reading: follow the link). Carol Rumens cheekily created some idiosyncratic rules for the joust: this spoof (also posted in that thread) follows none of them, save that it is in the spirit of the title: “Soul Fruit”….one or two lines may have been borrowed from elsewhere….:

The Prince of Orange

Alas, poor orange. I knew him, for ages.
A fruit of infinite zest, of most excellent fancy.
To eat or not to eat: that was the question:
So long had he sat in the basket and suffered
The farts and burps of outrageous borborygmus.
Get thee to a nuttery: the pith’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch my nail upon the peel.
To peel: perchance to find the fruit within;
Ay, there’s the rub; ’tis a consumption
Devoutly to be wished. Infinite coils of peel
Must give us pause. The undiscovered country!
O! that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew;
Would that I had just juiced the bugger
And added it to a long glass of gin….

Cross, Tick….

Sonnet

Carnaptious is he like a wet Thursday,
Yet far less lovely and less temperate.
North winds do blow when he enters the fray,
Inclement summers his to allocate.
Can this be how the eye of heaven shines?
All scoffing is his cold inflection trimmed
Lest fairness somehow creep into his lines.
Sod chance; his nature, coarse, unchanged, undimmed,
The foul eternal winter shall not fade,
E’en though some beauty slips the mask and shows:
Vail death! He wanders in his litblog shade,
Eternity too brief for lines like those.
E’er men can breathe, or eyes can read this stuff,
How long lives this? I bet you’ve had enough….
?

I just wanted to say this….

I just wanted to say this

I have scoffed
not just the plums
but all the fruit
in the fridge

for good measure
I liberated some tangerines, persimmons, apples, grapes and a lonesome durian
from the fruit basket
(thrrrrrrppp)….pardon me

to cover my sins
I wrote a note
and forged the signature
of a famous poet

now if you’ll excuse me
I need to be
elsewhere
fast….

Some Poetry Of Osmeterium Form….

a cold grey poem wrote me yester,
drowning me in clammy slime.
i seek a novel two-word quester
to make its googly essence mine,

and mine alone! the thought of others
trammeling such verbal gold
repugs the poet’s earthy mother
bold; and told the old verse cold.

twaigless, in grey the stanzas come
away from one who moves the pen;
some letters make a break for freedom
who knows why, or when.