Stan Lee reads, The Raven

Now this is interesting, even if the post production visuals are a little distracting. There's another version of this flick where Mr. Lee explains he'd learnt the poem in his younger days, which explains why he starts off so well. Later on he resorts to his print out but it's interesting to note how quickly he scans it, even if he does stray from the text on a few occasions. OK he's not a polished orator but there's a certain inflection that evokes some emotional colour that often lacking by more professional renditions.

Poe, Rathbone, The Bells

Go straight to awesome, do not pass go, do not collect countless acquired expectations: That's the card Edgar Allan Poe drew from the community chest when he sat down to Literary Monopoly. Poe's talents were exercised during a time when his native literary establishment was exhibiting a stifling and torpid parochial self satisfaction (ring a bell, anyone?). So he decided to distance himself from it and focus his attention on the popular press, pretty much as Dickens did in London except that the Dickens was working in a much less clearly delineated literary environment.

I suppose you've heard of The Raven? Poe's most celebrated work of poetic verse, a work that is reviled in equal measure to that celebration. I assume I've left little doubt on which side of the fence of that divide I'm planted on. The Raven is quite a difficult piece to do justice to, I occasionally wonder how many fans of Poe, spend countless frustrating hours reciting it. Difficult as it is, there's one that's much harder, Poe's The Bells probably exemplifies Poe's preoccupation with iteration and refrain, some aspects that make it so challenging. I suppose it's this kind of demand that Poe fearlessly throws down the gauntlet for, that is one of the things make him so special. It's not that the average reader can't make a passable attempt at it, it doesn't have The Raven's vicarious intricacies, it's just the disparity between that on the page, and that which comes out of you mouth represents a gaping chasm. Fortunately the talents of one particular orator of renown were exercised on this verse and committed to vinyl quite a while ago. I'm referring to Basil Rathbone, who's readings of Poe's work are probably the best available, according to my estimation. Even more fortunately some kind person has uploaded a Youtube flick of that recording.

Plenty more fish...

Notes
Grey Mullet: One of a number of related species whose reputation as a poor table fish is so legendary, its flesh is commonly considered to be inedible by anyone not on the brink of starvation.

Flounder: In English parlance, a flat fish whose resemblance to Plaice is occasionally the subject of consternation to those who discover their error, when they find the repast they anticipated with such relish tastes of mud. One of a number of species sold under the label Lemon Sole by undiscriminating fish mongers.

Shad: A migratory fish.

Plenty more fish...

Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Were the words borne from the mouth of my dad
If fate frustrate your ardent endeavour
It turns out apt to compare a favour
It's apt it seems to compare the favour
Afforded by a grim fourteen stone beast
To that of an estuarine Mullet feast

Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Were the words borne from the mouth of my dad
If fate frustrate your ardent endeavour
It turns out to be apt to compare the
Comfort offered by some grim mare or beast
Comfort afforded through some obese beast
Comfort offered by some Medusaesque beast
To that got through estuarine Mullet feast

Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
That's the ticket my lad


That Ire that crawls through your soul like an eel
The remorse in your mind you'd rather not feel
When you have cause to revisit the scene
Of the delight and the senses serene
that you felt when you finally found her
Only to find yourself chewing a Flounder


Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
Smile she'll grab your gonad


When solitude burns and failures accrue
That Girl on the bus or school friend you knew
Then comes the time that you probably should
Ask would it not be likely you could
Dig for the strength to renew your pursuit
When she confesses she might be hirsute


Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
Say it once more I'll go mad


It's odd to admire a girl for her fins
I find I now look for scales on their shins
I should dream of a Marylin Monroe
But no I find that it's Cod and their roe
Amphibians next, newt toad and a frog
Can you drop this Ichthyian analogue?


Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
Mmm, wouldn't say no to a Shad.

To kill a pig

Oh dear this is unfortunate, challenged to write a verse around a title, I came out with this. It's unfortunate because I'm late for supper and I've only got bacon in the fridge.


To kill a pig, practice is to let blood
Or smite head with hammer, take careful aim
With a single blow it should pith the brain
Be swift and they wont even hear that thud
Mmm that succulent tender flesh so beloved
By epicure who might move to disdain
Some lesser creature you killed in vain
Though not a cow relieved from chewing cud
In scalding brine steeped to depiliate
And filed in row upon a sharp hook hung
Run through their heels as they desanguinate
While restless iron blades eviscerate
Clear trunks of offal, heads of lolling tongue
It's meat the public does appreciate

The Mice

About this: Inspired by one of my favourite episodes of The Outer Limits, The Mice, watch if you can find it, it's spectacular. It's a bit iffy, might pay some attention to this one after it's stewed a while on the back burner

Update: Well I did tinker with it, took about 5 minutes (just goes to show what a little distance can do) still not quite there I think but this one needs simmer a bit.

Do you see mice in un-penitent line?
Head bowed not in obeisance but fear
Men without need and no weakness for tear
Neither remorse when our purpose is crime
Souls as hard as a hide slaked in lime
Yet still hearts stir as the fair one draws near
She harbours a light for those who adhere
She harbours light, lit for they that adhere
To the tally that is tendered in time
Of all that be here, alone she chose sight
Does see a man not a beggar nor thief
To see a man not a beggar nor thief
Do his legs still have the strength for that mile?
Slight limbs retain enough vigour for fight?
For this woman that lent birth to belief
That life can once more be home to a smile
Can he dare risk to lend birth to belief?
That in this world there is room for his smile

nursed his belief life to belief death to belief stile will their be a time to tender a smile will his belly hold back that no more bile hold enough bile There can be an end to this life of bile that fight not might The one he must run to capture that smile Should she be the one this life is lived for? The question asked when he witnessed her smile Truth is not told to the man without faith That he be alone in this life no more If need he'll run barefoot till they're bled raw Truth for a without faith is elusive Truth for a without con To the tribute that is paid out in time For her he'd spurn life while he adhere Yet still hearts beat when the fair one draws near The one he must run to capture that smile no more
terror
error
never
believe her
forever
s
Woud I spurn should I adhere
So dear
adhere
mere
queer
appear
To the tribute the price which is time
To the tribute which is priced with our time
For her I'd spurn freedom then adhere

The parochial rose garden

The intention was to make this crockery a bit chintzy but I have to say I quite like this pattern, oops.

Slight problem with this version, well several actually. Can't get the glass to throw a shadow, can't get my crummy laptop to process it at a decent resolution and  there are some quirky looking artefacts on on the high lights of the glass..

The place where there will always be a rose
The garden that is never home to thorn
No thumb be pricked no tender flesh torn
The domain of wit and urbane repose
The vulgar 'n'  the crude they will dispose
Here there will be no sheep that need be shorn
Will the world ever know that they were born
It's the fate of many I would suppose


Second draft
Reworked it into a sonnet (sort of - the clauses are too short) and changed the emphasis

The place where there will always be a rose
May you run risk of prick from briar or thorn
No thumb be prick'd yet tender flesh torn
The domain of wit and urbane repose
A vista crafted without spades or hoes
Here there will be no sheep that need be shorn
Will the world ever know that they were born
It's the fate of many I do suppose
For those who may find it too hard to fit
Will be directed to a large neatly tended
Quarter for discarded, the compost pit
Where weed and dross you will find are heaped
So high and weighty the earth be split


Third draft
Woah, the lesson illustrated above is that it's easier to write verse while drunk than with a hangover. This should be an improvement I hope.

The place where there will always be a rose
May you run risk of prick from briar or thorn
No thumb be prick'd yet tender flesh be torn
The domain of wit and urbane repose
This garden were crafted sans spade and hoes
Here there will be no sheep that need be shorn
Will the world ever know that they were born
It's the fate of many I do suppose
For those who may find it too hard to fit
I direct you to a neatly tended
Discarded quarter, compost in the pit
There be weed and dross in heap ascended
So high and weighty the earth be split


Fourth draft
Can something be 'tended' and 'discarded' at the same time? mmm probably not. Not so sure about this change, I like a bit of paradox occasionally.

The place where there will always be a rose
May you run risk of prick from briar or thorn
No thumb be prick'd yet tender flesh be torn
The domain of wit and urbane repose
This garden were crafted sans spade and hoes
Here there will be no sheep that need be shorn
Will the world ever know that they were born
It's the fate of many I do suppose
For those who may find it too hard to fit
I direct you to a neatly tended
Quarter for discarded compost in the pit
There weed and dross be in heap ascended
So high and weighty the earth be split

Pigeons in flight

Yeah, it's poetry time again, this is just a draft, needs a bit of work I reckon: I quite like the idea of rhyming with 'lungs' in a poem lol.

peroxide flaxen plumes iridescent in morning light 14
nature formed your curves to ease saw sight  9 -10
iron forged with lust, tempered with tender tongues
gasped coos and calls to rasp the lungs
the serpent we choke drown and dowse
till timid mouse treads the boards of satis house
your fetters coiled in this sublime suffusion 
wont save my soul from disillusion
my prayer whispered so that I might
stem your tears, assuage your flight

Update:
I've revisited this draft a few times but I kept blanking on it, today, 5th November 2013, I worked up a little more perseverance and came up with something I'm reasonably happy with. I really liked the suffusion/disillusion rhyme but those lines in the draft are so cringmaking that they made laugh when I wrote them. The amended lines work a bit better here, that particular rhyme helps to halt the pace of the single syllable endings above it. I'd still quite like to extend the antipen though, it's just that it's giving me a bit of trouble.


Pigeons in flight

Peroxide flaxen plumes iridescent in morning light
Nature formed her curves to ease saw sight
Iron forged with lust, tempered with a tender tongue
Cries, gasps, voiced so fierce they rasp the lung
In a tepid pool this urging they will not dowse
It's scolding waters passions need to rouse
In unity of purpose reptilian minds are bound
As they run the race to crest the sacred mound
A myriad of toil and vigour spent
No labour too arduous to vent...


Her fetters -- clinging amid the humid coil of our suffusion
Cant save this soul from disillusion
My prayer whispered so that I might
Stem your tears, assuage your flight

A whispered prayer so that I 

Limerick

I bumped into this Limerick I'd forgotten about, while I was going through some old files a few weeks ago. I thought it was funny when I wrote it but the reception it garnered was -- er, cool. Since I rediscovered it I've tried it out on a friend who, not only got the context he seemed to rather appreciate it. So I thought it was worth a post.

We meet a young girl called Vespa
In bed, our hero did test her
Le Chiffre eyed his pair
said look, there’s this chair
let’s make bright rosso your testa

Titus Morry

Titus Morry dug this hole

Better money than the dole

He lived his life as a mole

Just another greasy prole

Worked so hard keep to his wife

Never thought of his own life

Married to perpetual strife

Till he took that serrated knife

The final row in the kitchen

Here's a tool to stop that bitchin

Another hole lined with lichen

Wonder when she'll stop that twitchin

Tried to take the kids away

Found a way to make her pay

She'll never see another day

Whatever will the neighbours say?

Now's the time to call Police

Equivocate like Myrlin Rees

Wonders -- should I call my niece?

Who knew murder could be such bliss?

Oh dear that's a nasty Rhyme

Never could spare that much time

For a poem too sublime

Please forgive this heinous crime

Titus Morry lies so deftly

Life's so hard since she left me

I just thank god for young Daphne

Eyes his niece with breasts so hefty

The Stunt Poem

Warning this post uses language that may be offensive to some

My encounters with notoriety are brief and tenuous amongst them I number the promulgation of the phrase, spitting feathers, in relation to a fit of ineffectual anger another is the authorship of what I call, The Stunt Poem. Both these cause me a certain amount of amusement when I encounter them. it's something of a surprise to me that, spitting feathers, has worked it's way into respectable parlance seeing as the imagery evoked seems rather obvious. It was coined in reference to a senior colleague prone to panic and scapegoating those around him and it references an implied homosexual relationship with a junior staff member, feathers -- spitting -- geddit now? The Stunt Poem arouses amusement for a more subtle reason, I can't help recall the reaction of the first woman I recited it to. First lets show the original text of the poem then I'll explain:

Oh what a jolly stunt
to lick around your girlfriend's cunt
if you make her moan and cry
she'll suck your knob if she's not shy

Her response causes amusement because it was so naive and illustrated the enormous disparity between our perceptual models of the world. She said something along the lines of, "Using vulgar languages isn't funny, it would be better if you substituted a different rhyme." Er yes, I'm a Benny Hill fan too but that's not quite the effect I was looking for.

Incidentally a guy called Terry, who was vociferous lefty, piped up with another amusing response, he complained it, "Didn't scan!" amongst other pretentious claims.

"Oh really" I responded, "Terry, what does that mean exactly? You know --'scan' what does that mean when someone  says a poem doesn't scan." He went a red colour and tried to bullshit his way out of that one as was his habit when he found himself out of his depth --which was a frequently.

Breaking up

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You might guess from the following that I'm in something of a cynical mood currently. I know it's a bit early but I've been thinking about Valentine's day and how it stopped being fun and became a burden. Don't get me wrong I'm not ridiculing genuine acts of affection between lovers. In fact I'd encourage them, the world could do with more genuine affection but it should be, you know, genuine. Not the competitive fakery that has grown up around this festival, where a man is decried for blowing less than a week's wages on ephemeral tokens of respect. It's become more about edification than affection. Spend x much and you might get a jump at the end of the evening. No thanks, somehow I don't think a tacit form of prostitution conforms to the genuine spirit of the occasion.

So I've embraced the spirit of enterprize and come up with an alternative festival, Chuck Her Day, it occurs on 13th of February. Conveniently timed to spare you the expense of its neigbour. Of course it's not for everyone, only for folk who're trying to free themselves from the suffocating clutches of an unwanted partner. It's conceived with special consideration for those who find executing such tasks so very--very difficult. They can pop into a shop and buy a card to do it and placate their guilt with the comforting knowledge that they're entering into the spirit of their special day.

So Here's my first attempt at a rhyme for such a card:

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Do I need to tell it to your face?

my lust for you has run its race

these words so hard I have to say

I’m bored with you so go away

Your feebly tears so cheaply shed

will not entice me to your bed

nor seductive sigh and no

prospect of irrumtio

I had some fun now I’m leaving

so stop this coercive pleading

I have not love but bold contempt

for such weapons of sly intent

You hate me now don’t tell a lie

so now it’s time to say bye bye

but just wait for this parting shot

you stink of fish and hot that’s not

  -->

While reading this it occurred to me that this rhyme isn't too gender specific and that it Chuck Them Day might be more appropriate. Trouble is though I can't imagine many women sending their men such cards on February the 13th.

Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

I've no patience for people who lace rhetoric with moral imperatives. I'm supposed to care about people starving somewhere or some intolerable injustice being perpetrated in another location because it's the right thing to do. I'm presented with deserving cases that are almost always suitably photogenic. I've no patience because I've no faith in their sincerity, blah blah blah, their worthless words trip like lemmings over a cliff. I've witnessed how much people really care, it's not an impressive tally. Unless there's some suitable emotional bribe, something to stoke those cosey 'dogooder' embers in their hearts, such people will the overlook the most bestial brutality.

Randall Jarrell said it all for me in his poem, Death of the Ball Turret Gunner. With it he illustrates the murderous faculty of the state and the callousness with which it is exercised. Jarrell describes the drama of warfare with the imagery of abortion and illustrates the state's pitiless insistence for murder. Now this is where I'm supposed to be expounding my own moral argument, nothing could be further from the truth. I don't believe there's a any practical alternative to either of those practices but please don't lie to me any more. Don't tell me you're doing for the love of humanity, you're doing it for self interest. You're launching missiles into crowded markets or flushing children down the bog because it's better for you. You're not doing it for democracy or a woman's right to choose.