Elizabeth Horrocks: A Vision Cut Short
(Kubla Can, but Coleridge Can’t)
In Somerset did Samuel C
a stately pleasure dome evoke:
where Alph, the sacred river ran
through caverns measureless to man –
he’d seen it when he woke.
A dream of gardens, hills – woods too;
the chasm (romantic) fit for witch or warlock;
the icy caves, the sunny dome (quite new)
he’d seen more things, but wrote down all too few.
When, knocking at the door – a man from Porlock!
(Sam should have told the man to go away,
but doing so requires a lot of bottle
when you’re in debt, and he who called that day
brought hope of profit – for some say
it was Sam’s publisher, one Joseph Cottle*)
So, like the mist, the vision lent
dissolved, and then, all passion spent
Sam wrote down meagre words – too few
for us who drink his honey-dew
and long to follow where he went.
(* This I was told by a tutor of mine, Basil Cottle, a co-lateral descendant!)
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Martin Parker: Having a Bashery at Ogden Nashery
I would like to be the sort of poet who fills tomes
With truly original and brilliantly crafted pomes.
And for all these brilliantly crafted pomes to be taken
really seriously.
Instead of which all I can ever manage, apparently,
is to write inferiously.
When it comes to poetry competitions I find that invariably
The judging is done so unfairiably
That, as well as my never ever winning any of their
bloody prizes,
They never take the trouble to write back with an explanation
of their decisions' wherefore-nots and whysies.
And even my totally loyal and long-standing mate
Says that my poetry sounds more like the food of hate,
And she’d rather I took up murder, polygamy and the
smoking of hashish
Than attempt any more poems that sound even the smallest
bit Ogden Nashish.
And I tend to agree,
Since murder, polygamy and the smoking of hashish now
sound like more fun to me than poetree.
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Paul Burgess: Ars* Poetica
At times, we're rather lyrical
And often quite satirical,
But many pretty turns of phrase
Are simply cues to navel gaze.
At times, our wit has brevity
And wisdom mixed with levity,
But frequently we write away
Without a thing to truly say.
At times, we sing with soaring grace
And artful sense of flow and pace,
But should the reader not be spared
Poems like this one I’ve just shared?
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Max Gutmann: Squish Squish
The poem is written for the sheer joy of
romping along like a wet dog in sneakers.
–Albert Sterbak in letter to Light Quarterly
Of poetry, speakers
(critiquers)
say true:
it’s not just truth-seekers,
we squeakers
sing, too.
He who
feels poems must be bleak, errs
(though that pattern recurs);
there always will be curs
who romp in wet sneakers.
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Julia Griffin: Poppin the Bubble
Bread without gluten and milk without dairy,
Buckles with Velcro and Dry January,
Practising yoga and riding a bike:
These are some things that I wish I could like.
Passwords and sodas and highway expansion,
Mexican food and irregular scansion,
Popcorn and rap and American cheese:
Would I could feel the attractions of these.
Voices of students with upwards inflection,
Baseball and football and auto correction,
Single-ply loo roll and coffee that’s black:
All this I’d love to be sorry to lack.
When the ads start,
When the mood swings,
When I’m sick with stress,
I somehow remember these festering things,
And wish I could hate them less.
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Michael Calvert: Innocuous
I do not dance. I do not sing.
I do not strut the stage.
Instead, I labor on this thing
that wastes but half a page.
A bagatelle, a little rhyme
a trifle and a wink,
that wastes a little of my time
and very little ink.
So if it fails to find an ear
and nothing much is won,
still, nothing much was wasted here,
and little harm was done.
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Jerome Betts: Lines To Be Stuck Up A Jumper
(With apologies to ON)
‘I can't imagine you ever turning up in
an obviously-knitted-at-home sweater
or anything like that.’ - Letter
One question that has my mind in fetters –
Just what sort of person does turn up in
obviously-knitted-at-home sweaters?
Let me admit I don't fathom him fully –
Is he some kind of homespun fanatic, or
is his wife a bully?
Does she press them upon him with words
that wilt his will and batter him dumb?
Is that why he sticks out like, let us say, a
not-very-well-bandaged sore thumb?
Let me also admit some pleasurable surprise
at the grounds for this feline feeler, this
epistolary reproach or rebuff,
An excess of the suave, an implied lack of scruff.
So let me further admit that, in gratitude for
this backhanded bouquet I was on the verge
of bespeaking a garment with small pretensions
to shape, fit or style
When I suddenly became aware of duplicity,
diplomacy and guile
And suspected there might well protrude
above that putative pullover
The kind of eyes easy to pull the wool over.
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Ceri Eagling: To a Mouse II
(After Robert Burns, on the understanding
that circumstances alter cases.)
Smug, wily, brazen, mocking mousie,
Oh what a rage is in my breastie.
Don’t imagine you can best me,
Mr. Slick.
I need you to leave my housie
Double quick.
Thieving crook, I’ve got your number.
Not my job to ease your hunger.
Since you choose to be a sponger,
Try next door.
Just the place for easy plunder;
Crumbs galore!
Bet you’ve built a grungy mouse cave,
Venue for a nightly mouse rave
Where your guests chew plaster shavings
From my wall.
Not to mention other leavings
They let fall . . .
This is human habitation
Way above your rodent station.
You and I bear no relation,
Understand?
See this trap? It’s got your face on.
You’re outmanned.
If I missed some tiny fissure,
Under all that busy pressure
To fulfill my mouseless mission.
Think I’ll cry?
I’ll outwit you, brash magician,
Do or die!
Not a guy for helpless shrugging,
I’ll just spend my day re-plugging
Every gap so you can’t swagger
Through rent-free.
You won’t win this mortal struggle
Wait and see.
Still, to render you a dead’un?
That’s a path I’m loath to tread on.
I don’t want my dreams met head-on
By your ghost.
Scram, before I summon Armageddon!
Or you’re toast.
