Julia Griffin: Xanadu-Wop
(With apologies to STC and DP)
Your beauty is beyond compare,
With flashing eyes and floating hair:
Your fast thick pants make demons stare,
Jolene:
You have your choice of handsome Hal, ph-
Renetic Phil or raunchy Ralph:
Just leave me Appalachian Alph,
Jolene. […]
I look at you and hear from far
A cedarn or sedan-style car,
And on the cover, there you are,
Jolene;
I’ll build you domes of sun and ice,
I’ll weave a garland round you thrice,
If you will only please play nice,
Jolene.[…]
A damsel with a dulcimer
In rhinestone boots and purple fur:
You somehow make me think of her,
Jolene;
Could I revive that doo-dee-dum
Without the help of opium,
I’d whup your boots to Kingdom Come,
Jolene.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene!
I’m begging of you, please don’t take my man;
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene!
Please don’t take him just because you Khan.
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Bruce Bennett: Ennui
The poems I’m reading all fall flat.
Now, how could I be moved by that?
The poems I’m writing? Ditto. They
are dull, with nothing much to say.
So why not read a book? Why not?
I’m bored by every book I’ve got.
I’m tired of peering at a screen,
turned off by things that do not mean.
So take a nap, for heaven’s sake!
Why would I want to lie awake
Not thinking, learning, dreaming, feeling,
annoyed, just staring at the ceiling?
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Don Wheelock: Revision
Allow the thing to sit there on the page.
Don’t read it, lest your ever helpful muse
should point to what she’s pointed to before:
those clumsy Latinate words you abuse,
redundancy, a screwed-up metaphor.
Nothing’s worse than art in the early stage.
Wait long enough, until the day the wine,
the sleepless night, the slushy ski vacation
join the past (the pesky travel plan
at last paid off.) Now read your inspiration,
and scratch out all the clichéd crap you can
to see what you have left: at best a line.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Max Gutmann: Counting Down
(With apologies to R. F.)
Some say the world will end in five.
Some say in six.
Although I'd like to stay alive,
It's likely closer now to five.
Sure, if we find some fancy tricks
To cut emissions sharply, say,
We might yet stretch it out to six,
But either way
We're in a fix.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Bruce McGuffin: Ogden Nash Makes Me Sad
I made up a ditty
both charming and witty.
The humor was piquant, not trite.
The topic was timely,
the wording was rhymely.
it came with a hint of a bite.
I cut a quick caper
then put down on paper
the best verse that I ever versed.
Now sorrows enfold me,
my editor told me
that Ogden Nash made it up first.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Julia Griffin: Forge Fellows
Old Possum, concluding his labour,
Saluted Old Pound like a neighbour:
No populist “Ta, bro”
But Miglior Fabbro –
More Faber than Faber and Faber.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Heather Dubrow: Hide And Seek
The poem that I had hoped to write
Strode straight through my door last night.
Scratched my cat right by its tail,
Watered my plants, sorted my mail.
Then it winked at me, defied
My hopes. For then it chose to hide
Too far to see beneath my bed.
Come morning, it allows a rhyme
To roll out – but gives me no time
To grab before it rolls back there.
Leaving my notepad blank and bare.
I reach for a strong drink instead.
Lyrics deceive, lyrics conceal, lyrics tease
My love of terseness. So, Muse, please,.
Let's not hunt them further. No, let's select
Longer genres that treat authors with respect,
Not scorn. Perhaps I'll try a graphic plot?
Memoirs? Some journals report they are hot.
”No!. Seek your lyric," my muse said.
"Hides? Still wants to be penned and read."
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Martin Eayrs: Rime of the [Unwanted] Wedding Guest
(With apologies to WDLM)
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Bailiff,
Knocking on the vestry door;
With his super turbo 4x4
Sounding a throbbing roar.
And an owl flew out of the belfry,
And a distant bird did cry.
And a black cat hissed at the Bailiff
And some travellers passed by.
But the wedding party was long gone
The bride and groom had kissed
And all had gone to the Rose and Swan
Where most were fairly pissed.
And no one saw the Bailiff
Who came to church that day,
Walk back to car with writ unserved,
Rev up, and drive away.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Michael Swan: Murmuration
In the spring
my poems fly off
to all corners of the world,
bearing messages for humanity.
Month by month passes
with no word of reply
and I become despondent.
My voice, I fear,
is not heard
by a deaf and indifferent world.
But one evening
I hear cries
borne on the autumn winds.
Looking up, I see
outlined against the sky
and glorified by the setting sun
a murmuration of rejection slips,
swooping and circling,
in marvellous
ever-changing formations.
They are quite beautiful.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Jerome Betts: Footnote On Chestertonian Chronology
‘Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode . . .’
The rolling English drunkard made
The rolling English road . . . Did he?
Perhaps . . . with Roman rule decayed
Long after AD 43!
