2019.10 Clerihewn

Explanation at the beginning again, as you may need to brace yourself for the ridiculousness. I was a little desperate after the last one, so requested help from social media: give me some names, and I’ll give you clerihews to match. Probably. The result is a mixture of friends, friends of friends, famous (if occasionally obscure) people, and legends such as Washing Machine Trev...


Somhairle Kelly
Is obscenely fond of jelly.
Ask what their favourite flavour is
And they’ll tell you surprisingly sternly that it’s none of your biz.

Katherine Burr Blodgett
Had a most peculiar pet.
She’d explain that she’d simply made it invisible,
But the other physicists took pains to let her know that they considered this risible.

Kasha-Faye Pascoe
Is inordinately fond of eating snow.
When queried on the source of this compulsion
She informs her interlocutor that it’s the thing that fires her extraordinary propulsion

Elly Merry Hadaway
Likes to swim like a manta ray.
They owe this remarkable aquatic prowess
At least in part to their skilled fashioning of a fetching, neoprene, wingèd dress.

Margaret Oliphant Wilson Oliphant
Kept an enormous army ant
She liked to decorate it with feather boas and glitter,
But never trusted it with cash as she suspected that was something it would fritter.

Keir Thomas-Bryant
Is rather amazingly pliant
His displays of this quality sometimes cause the neighbours consternation
But they say nothing to the effect because he’s very generous with his libation.

Paul Darrow
Is the owner of a silver-plated harrow.
He says he doesn’t mind that it’s a tad impractical,
As it’s surprisingly helpful in matters parallactical.

Washing Machine Trev
Prices all his business transactions purely on the lev.
While this would be perfectly acceptable in Bulgaria,
It makes the prospect of his ongoing prosperity in south-east England that much hairier.

Alan Rickman
Would always end his handwritten notes with a stickman.
When asked why he would even do this at home he
Would generally mutter something about the venerable clan called Nakatomi

Toby Dylan
Is a master of the brass-cast quillon.
When queried about his choice of profession
He expounds upon his love of cross-guards with a remarkable quantity of self-possession.

Jorge Luis Borges
Liked to talk at parties about his latest fork case
It was said that if he ever started to wax lyrical on the subject of the spoon
That would be a sign that the Apocalypse was due soon.

Lee Nelson
He’s a man you’ll never quell, son.
You may think you’ve got some lustre, kids,
But when you go against him, you go against his fiercely loyal gang of mustelids.

2019.5 Flim-flam

We meet at lunch, and no-one’s pleased,
You call my question “good”.
If flattery, I’m not appeased.
We meet at lunch, and no-one’s pleased,
My work persona’s feeling squeezed,
Forgetting shouting’s not a “should”.
We meet at lunch, and no-one’s pleased,
You call my questions “good”.


One of my traditions for NaPoWriMo is to write a triolet. Here’s this month’s.

2017.28 - Flight

She’s rapt in jungle far away
Bright colours beg her: one more day
Water seems to sigh
Begs to know quite why
She’d quit its gentle sway

They’re wrapped in jumpers far away
While grey clouds blanket every day
April’s face a lie,
Changeable and sly
And driech seems here to stay

The time is spent; she’s on her way
Due North and East in half a day
Touch the shifting sky
Land to be shown why
Warmth blossoms here, dear stray.


A soppy, personal one, for once. My partner is currently 5,425 miles away. Every so often we get texts about snakes and monkeys and sloths and white water rafting at peculiar times of the day and night. She’s back in a few days’ time. Aww. Anyway, this is a clogyrnach; a Welsh poetry form.

2017.24 - Birthday Clerihew

Malcolm IV of Scotland
Feared to get a shot hand
He spent half his life in chain mail
Which made his later love life a bit of a fail.

Afonso II of Portugal
Said: “haven’t I ever taught you, gal?
“Make sure you’ve got the best hand…”
His daughter sighed and replied: “Yes dad, that advice is grand.”

John de Vere
Employed a kind of seer;
Not to tell the future,
But as a sort of gambling tutor.

George of Poděbrady
Loved a stubborn countess sadly.
Said she could never wed him
Until he’d taught her entire court how to swim.

Joan of France
Liked to underwater dance
Said there was nothing like it
Although her local facilities were frankly a bit of a pit.

Robert Fayrfax
Invented the chair tax
Those levied, on the whole,
Tended to club together to temporarily hide them in a massive hole.

Julius Caesar Scaliger
Was not your average scavenger:
He was a great collector of unconsidered trifles,
Which people considered a far safer hobby than his previous one of collecting prototype rifles

Alexander Ales
Was mortally afraid of gales
He wouldn’t go out in them in case someone might
Sneak up on him unheard in the bluster and put him in their sights.

Johann Stumpf
Wrote an awful lot of gumpf
Would insist on taking it to parties
Where he’d regale people with hot air in a voice considered almost offensively hearty.

Georg Fabricius
Liked a lot of birthday fuss
He’d celebrate for a whole week
Which, some people muttered, was frankly a bit of a cheek

William Shakespeare
Was caught up writing King Lear
He didn’t notice it was his birthday
Until people interrupted him with hip-hip-hooray!


I’ve just realised that this is the part where it becomes particularly clear that I’m writing one day ahead; all these historical figures have their birthday on 23rd April, according to Wikipedia, and it was a case of write a poem about one of the seemingly endless series of battles that took place on this day (a notion that may make its way into a poem by itself at some point), or write some daft Clerihews (there are other kinds?!) about as many of those listed until I lost the will to string any more words together. I made it to Shakespeare without feeling sick on gorged ridiculosity. Done. :)

2017.22 - A Sofa Called Despair

I think I’ve come under a spell -
I’m not writing poems so well;
My brain’s had enough,
It’s been filled with dry stuff,
And my eyeballs are starting to swell.

It’s not that I don’t love to write,
But I’m coupling words every night.
#amwriting (Whatever!
I’ve jettisoned clever,
And am scribbling any old shite.)

But I can’t quit while I’m still ahead
Even though my Muse fucked off to bed.
If you cannot do better
Just get bloody meta
And write about writing instead.


Turns out that doing poetry admin is antithetical to writing poetry. I knew this, but I can’t just stop for April. Either that or all the late nights are draining my creativity. Or it’s just one of those days. Anyway. Limerick. Still on target. Bah. {twitches}

2017.19 - Unobserved

The things I did while no-one was looking
Like peeking inside the old man’s chest
Were only ever so slightly shocking

No-one, unobserved, is quite at their best
In my shoes you might well have done the same
Like peeking inside the old man’s chest

I’ve checked, and I don’t feel the slightest shame
It would never do: to be thought boring
In my shoes you might well have done the same

And no-one with me will be caught snoring
I’m certain of that: I feel quite clear
It would never do: to be thought boring

It’s only alone you can bring yourself cheer
I know that nobody else need know
I’m certain of that: I feel quite clear

Without judgement we all would be much freer
The things I did while no-one was looking
(I know what nobody else need know)
Were only ever so slightly shocking


It’s another of my NaPoWriMo traditions - a terzanelle. Slightly freaking myself out that I’m now starting to find form easier if I’m stuck for a topic, but I’m sure that’ll pass. The first line is a corruption of a line I saw in an image I found when I was looking for something else entirely.

G. K. Jourdane - Things I Did When No One Was Watching

2017.13 - Amber

You take my flesh in hand and start to score
You press with gentle force to mark a seam
You know the path, you’ve traced its route before
This armour guards a softness, lush as dreams.

This task takes patience, time, and outright skill
First layer gone and now the harder part
A thin, tight membrane keeps you from your fill,
So lift the bitter, taste my sweeter heart.

The air sings, tart-sweet, beckoning your tongue;
And busy fingers blush, juice running free,
Impediments are done, the feast’s begun,
My core surrendered, you devouring me.

The fresh scent lingers, memories kept real;
Ripe flesh is worth the challenge of the peel.


It’s NaPoWriMo, which means sonnet-time. And I asked my partner for a prompt, and got “orange peel” - so we can blame whoever gave my partner’s group that for an improv prompt.

2017.7 - The Black Spot

He said: “I’ve come to spoil your day”
I smiled: “No matter how you try”
But he spoke on, without delay
He said: “I’ve come to spoil your day”
But we strove on, his news to slay
Together damned the torrent dry.
He said: “I came to spoil your day”
Then smiled: “No matter how, you’ll try”


Today was annoying, and full of things I didn’t want to do (waiting by the phone, nagging people I like, persuading other people I like to do annoying things, explaining someone else’s fuck-up to powerful people), and short on the things I’d planned for the day (data analysis, meeting a friend for lunch to talk about creative websites, taking the next step on a really interesting new project at work). Nevertheless, I persisted.

So a true story triolet from me. Not quite the emergency haiku I assumed I’d need to do, but a short form and a tradition of mine during NaPoWriMo.

2016.18 Conclusion

I've counted them up, and I've already written 33 poems this month.  Between #napowrimo entries, #poetrytogo commissions, random birthday card inserts, and "write me a haiku about having my hair cut" challenges, I've done over the amount required for me to "pass" NaPoWriMo.

And yet.  Yet I've given myself a barrel of grief over not doing it properly.

And luckily, some good people were there to tell me why, in the kindest terms possible, that's just nonsense. Weirdly, it's what I would have told them myself, were the roles reversed.  One to try to remember, eh?

This one's for them/ you:

---

It's been quite a difficult session,
What with being in thrall of obsession -
It's hard to find time
For good, shorter rhymes,
When you're learning a show - did I mention?

My head's full of timings and edits,
And "Is that how they would have said it?"s,
But if I scribble more,
Quickly ramp up my score,
This might still redound to my credit.

If I stay up 'til late in the night
And tie myself down just to write,
I might feel some pride
And no longer deride
These efforts I deem far too slight.

But you intervened - some of my friends -
And took time to kindly amend
My self-image so low,
Saying "time to let go -
With just one, you've still won, in the end."

See, turns out it's just me who sees failure,
Who's forcibly tucked in my tail, yeah.
I'll stop kicking myself -
It's just bad for my health -
And indulge in some kinder behaviour.

2016.16 Vale of Tears

So, my partner asked me to write her a poem about her (extreme) love of Benedict Cumberbatch and all his works. My other attempt headed off somewhere very dark and archetypal, so I haven't handed that over to her.  Here, instead, is a triolet (because I figured that the repetitive structure suited obsession well...).

I cup the face that sprang from dreaming,
Those cheekbones cold beneath my palm
Soft-bitten lip to stifle screaming
I cup the face that sprang from dreaming,
Those gelid eyes of green unseaming!
The best advice is to stay calm...
I cup the face that sprang from dreaming,
Those cheekbones cold beneath my palm.

2016.7 Small Shaggy Dog

Another #poetrytogo commission:


What good is a dog
Who won't pay heed,
Who tangles herself
When you put on her lead?

What good is a dog
Who can't see cars,
Who eats LEGO bricks
Like a creature from Mars?

What good is a dog
Who thinks she's a train,
Who pulls at you, chuffing,
And leaps in the rain?

What good is a dog
Who slips and slides,
Who slithers while
Other dogs give their folks pride?

You know what - those other dogs
May be quite nice,
Smart, and well-behaved,
But they just won't suffice.

See, the good of this dog
Is the strength of her heart,
And the way that you miss her
Whenever you part.

For the love of this dog
Will be there to the end,
In this bouncing, brown, barking-mad,
Wonderful friend.

---

If you'd told me that I'd write a rhyming poem about a dog and enjoy it immensely, I'd've laughed at you. And I would have been very wrong.

2016.5 X9C3-2

We should be asking:
Where's the line
Between what's seen
And what's just mine?

The web was meant
To make us free;
Instead we're tangled,
Can't you see?

Convenience
Can't be worth the bill:
No secret shared's
A secret still.

________________

This post is, in itself, a delivery of a #poetrytogo commissioned poem from today. Feel free to ask, but there's only so much I can tell you…

2015.30 - Unsuitable

My darling now I must confess
That I don’t love you any less
Than I did before
It’s just: I wasn’t sure 
If my passion was under duress. 

It seems, as your best friend opined,
That I’m just not that way inclined.
See, your bits aren’t like mine –
Does that make me a swine?
To continue would be quite unkind.

Yes, that’s right – I am “one of those”,
Born this way – it’s not something I chose.
It’s not you, it’s me,
You can keep the CDs...
There’s no chance of a lift, I suppose...?

No, you’re right, I’ll just be on my way
After all, there is no more to say
I’ll be gone in a trice,
You won't have to ask twice –
Out there it’s a gorgeous new day.

2015.29 - Afon Tam

She says she wants to be a stone
The weight of care is hers alone
Tree calls out to sky
Water beckons why
My fire won't
Bring her home.

_________

I've been meaning to play with Welsh poetry forms for a while. This is a clogyrnach.

2015.27 - Shades of Bentley

Hereward the Wake
Ate a lot of cake;
Drowned his face in orange squash
Then refused to have a wash.

Rosalind Franklin
Liked to straighten lank pins;
Decorated lampposts
With things that looked like damp ghosts.

Stephen Hawking
Loves to watch a cork spin;
Doesn't know why,
If you ask him, he will sigh.

J.K. Rowling
Will often stop for bowling;
Gets fed up as hell
When asked to do a spell.

"Syd" Barrett
Imitates parrots;
When asked if he likes cages
Says: well, it's all the rage, yes.

Susanna Clarke
Goes punting after dark;
Sings carols to the bats,
Says they have some lovely chats.

2015.20 - Red: Take Action

Shall I compare you to the winds that howl?
To downpours that make every step a chore?
I’d illustrate the thunderstorms that prowl,
And twisters flinging dust around and more.

When held against the misery you bring
The metaphor of weather’s pretty tame
There’s no umbrella of which we could sing
To stop you putting avalanche to shame

They say that no disaster’s truly done
Until the aftermath is all put right
Our clean-up, mate, has only just begun
To undo all your damage done last night.

I will not speak your name, or see your face
You cannot ever get back my good grace.


_________________

Every year in April I do a new sonnet, building up (wearing down?) my resistance a poem at a time...

2015.17 - A Message

One from #PoetryToGo - the brief was from talented local storyteller Marion Leeper, who's been joining us for NaPoWriMo this year. She said she wanted to give me a challenge: a terzanelle about political cross-dressing (she'd just been to see a talk by Steve Bell of the Guardian). The poem needed to be put in a party-neutral poster form for Marion's window.

Behold the result:
______________________________

That mannequin you might well label Queen,
But not the one you think that you all know.
(Some people find that sort of thing obscene.)

The time has come to dress up for the show,
To cover up this figure’s ugly fact.
(But not the one you think that you all know)

Although you know this smile is just an act,
You may not see how smoky mirrors serve
To cover up this figure’s ugly fact.

Don’t speak up and you’ll get what you deserve –
The Emperor’s bereft of honest thread –
You may not see how smoky mirrors serve.

Don’t let the bright lights turn your pretty head –
There’s something darker lurking underneath.
(The Emperor’s bereft of honest thread.)

In shiny shoes here comes a heavy tread –
That mannequin you might well label Queen.
There’s something darker lurking underneath.
(Some people find that sort of thing obscene.)

2015.16 - United in Rhyme

I blame Ian Barker, who captioned the attached photo of me as: '"...and then I choked him" [discussing a visit from UKIP to the stall]'

Warning: xenophobic and violent imagery to follow, along with the worst rhyme I think I've EVER perpetrated…
_____________

That candidate's a nasty man
He's got a lot of gall
To bad-mouth immigration
When he steps up to my stall

He says: "Is this poem foreign?
"For I shan't have none of that!"
I say: "That word comes from the Greek
"You narrow-minded prat."

I add: "While we're on the subject:
"With a surname such as yours,
"It's ten to one your family
"Came here from other shores."

"Never mind the fact that immigration
"Is far less to blame
"Than your old mates the bankers
"With their nasty little games."

I feel I gave fair warning
But he wouldn't stop his rant
So I put him in a chokehold
To inspire him to recant.

I helped him show his colours -
In fact, he was a couple -
A yellow little coward
Turned that hateful UKIP purple.

2015.11 - Sunday Chorus

Hark to the song of
The summer to come,
The deep-throated thrum
That's as welcome as bumblebees

See how the sleepers
Are quaking and waking,
No, I'm not mistaken:
They're breaking out daily.

The greenery rattles,
The shade loses thatch,
As a million grand schemes
They are starting to hatch.

In the gaze of the sun
There are things to be done,
And plots to be spun
Now that next door's begun.

Yes, the ode of the mower,
The whack of the hatchet,
Says winter is over
In blade-breaking racket.

2015.4 - Apocritical

Spring is sprung, the grass is ris',
The bird is on the wing,
But I'll confess to hating
What these warmer seasons bring.
It isn't buoyant crocuses,
Or curly lamby mops -
I even love the dandelions
That feed those bunny hops.

It isn't randy froggies
Frothing up my pond at night,
Or the fact I leave work later now,
Confused by longer light.
It isn't that the pretty folk
Strut out in short-cut tops,
It's that when you leave the window cracked
The bathroom fills with wasps.

Okay, it's not that large a threat -
In fact, it's one wasp only -
But the first ones of the season
They are big, confused, and lonely.
The line about them being
Frightened more of me is crap
If that was so, why would it
Try to cwtch up to my lap?

As an adult, I know fine well,
Even given half a chance,
It wouldn't sting me rigid,
And yet still I do that dance
The one that is accompanied
By hopping, flaps, and squealing,
As if, with sheer decibels
I can yet send it reeling.

In the kitchen I could take
The chance to trap it in a glass
But, here, bereft of clothing,
Well, I think I'll take a pass.
Perhaps it's time for therapy
Where my fears some shrink dissects.
It's that or spend the summer
Out-manoeuvred by insects.

________________________

True story. Also: this is why I don't do rhyming poems... :-p