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.

‘Tec tonics….

“The detective novel is the art-for-art’s-sake of our yawning Philistinism, the classic example of a specialized form of art removed from contact with the life it pretends to build on.” V.S.Pritchett

Ever wanted to write a whodunnit but found that your intended sleuth’s idiosyncrasies (for idiosyncrasies he – even, these days, conceivably she – must have) have already been pre-plagiarised? It’s tricky to find a niche that hasn’t already been stuffed with blood-stained corpses and dysfunctional ‘tecs. From mediaeval monasteries to contemporary colleges, any institution worth its salt must have on its roster some quirky soul with a backstory which allows him not only arcane knowledge denied to the usual authority figures, but also interesting faults just sufficient to hinder without totally preventing his solving of The Mystery.

Let’s not kid ourselves: the spoof list of Rather Daft Detective Ideas will have been done many times before….and I’d be surprised if the late Miles Kington hasn’t done his fair share….which lo and behold google confirms….nevertheless….whither the whodunnit….?

********

Police in Stickshire are baffled by the seemingly unconnected deaths of three consecutive Chief Constables in their HQ on the same day (this being one county where the Appointments Committee is more than efficient)….the senior officer in charge doesn’t waste time investigating the deaths himself, instead standing at the main entrance scrutinising passers-by in a hopeful search for the senile old lady who can crack the cases….

********

Dysfunctional ‘tecs are two a penny – until you read about Coma ‘Tec, the ultimate dysfunctional sleuth….suffering multiple organ failure and on life support in a hospital bed, unable to communicate, his mind is free to analyse each apparently insignificant clue and to find the connections which will crack the case….at least, that’s what his team hopes as they organise a rota to dictate their findings to him….

********

A locked room is discovered which may or may not contain a dead body….Chief Inspector Schroedinger is undecided whether or not a crime has even been committed….

********

A dead bee is found, disturbing the calm of the beehive. Inspector Busby investigates. Beefore long she has discovered a web of deceit and opened a can of worms. No flies on her though, so waspishly she earwigs on the colony. Something bugs her about this case; an atmosphere of pure weevil pervades. It’s just not cricket….

********

The bodies of two elderly men are found swinging from a tree. Detective Superintendent Godot is assigned to the case; don’t hold your breath….

********

An extremely gloomy Swedish Police Inspector spends six hundred pages solving a simple murder case. Every detail of the investigation is painstakingly set out…. Note: for extra verisimilitude and gloominess, this book, although originally written in English, has been translated into some Scandinavian language or other and then retranslated back into English….

********

Chief Inspector Felix is called in to investigate the brutal murder of a dog. But he can’t be arsed and curls up in front of the fire and goes to sleep….

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….

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

What’s in a name….

I’ve posted here before some pictures of Michele’s stained glass compositions. Her other interest is designing jewellery – there’s a link on the blogroll to her site.

She’s often stuck for titles for her various creations, and wondered whether there were any suitable lines or descriptive phrases from poetry that might be useful.

One possibility that I found was from Drummond – “Phoebus arise,/and paint the sable skies,/with azure, white and red.” Or maybe from Shakespeare’s LLL – “They sparkle still the right Promethean fire.”

Anything referring to light or astronomical matters also make good titles – she’s recently used “Midnight shadow” and “Solar Flare” – as well as colours and textures. I’m stuck for ideas, and any suggestions would be gratefully received.

[Michele adds]: Just to clarify I thought that it would make an interesting design challenge for me to create jewellery with poetic phrases as inspiration.

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?

Ghazoggerel….

I tried to write some sort of ghazal for Carol Rumens GU thread. The intention was to produce my usual sarky, cynical piece with a sour punchline but it didn’t turn out that way….heck, it’s not even a ghazal, although its influence is still reasonably obvious….

On-line

Tangling webs that we all love to weave
Practising daily our fake make-believe

Summoning spirits to speak in our name
Encouraging others to play a new game
Searching for ways to confound and deceive

Arguing, ranting, debating and quibbling
Looking for love or its more sordid sibling
Panting, romancing and hunting for Eve

Talking to those we’d pass by in the street
Making good friends we’re unlikely to meet
Clumsily offering help as they grieve

Questing for facts just to settle a quarrel
Reading hot gossip on people immoral
Proving ourselves to be rather naive

Giggling shamelessly each time we pun
Hoping that others are sharing the fun
Knowing it’s late, but you don’t want to leave

Dreaming of readers admiring our writing
Provoking our foes and enjoying the fighting
Forgetting reality, just being me

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….

Now you see them, now you don’t….

Here are some more plant pics, all taken in 2003 or 2004. To me they’re pretty pictures; to the two roe deer we saw in the garden this morning (a doe and last year’s fawn), they would seem to be more of a menu….we watched them for several minutes before deciding enough was enough (the doe was munching her way through a rather nice shrubby dogwood, one of the coloured stem types….)

Hedgelands, August 2004.

Airy delights….grasses and grass-like foliage were Michele’s particular thing, and a big feature here….they still are, except now not always the pretty ones….

Helenium – don’t ask me which one….a tiny nursery just up the road has a big range, from which we supped well….

Neat contrast, but again I’ve forgotten which corydalis this is….everything planted was recorded in a big book, all seed sowings recorded in another, and I was rigorous about labelling; so if this little beauty ever resurfaces I’ll probably be able to identify it….

Colour clash….says it all….

Clematis “Fair Rosamond” [sic - picture label misspelled.] One of my favourites, and a great contrast squirming through a Cotinus. Fortunately these early- to mid-season Clematis cope well with neglect. Anyone who plants one of her close relatives, C “Nelly Moser” should be shot, though; it’s one of the few plants I loathe….

Late summer hot colours….

Carpinus leaves (I forget which species; it’s one of the more uncommon ones.) One of Michele’s “arty” pictures, taken in Autumn at Batsford Arboretum. She was looking for ideas to translate into stained glass.

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….