Posts filed under “Poetry”
A VALENTINE.
THE ROSE COMES in so many hues,
Who dares to call it red?
The violets would get the blues
If anybody said
That yellow, white, and even green*
Did not true violets make.
But all the flowers ever seen—
The real ones and the fake—
And all the ones we’ve yet to see,
On herb or tree or vine,
I’d bring to you, if you would be
My loving Valentine.
—
*Hybanthus concolor.
ANNOUNCEMENT.
THE APPLIED POETRY Department at Duck Hollow University will soon be placing the world’s first wiki-epic on line. Entitled The Williamrufusdevanekingiad, the epic will recount the life and exploits of the great William Rufus DeVane King in heroic verse. Anyone who opens an account at the wiki site will be able to contribute any number of lines to the epic, provided that the meter and rhyme scheme are respected. It is hoped that, through the wisdom of the crowd, this twenty-first-century method of poetic composition will be able to produce a more dramatic and more moving epic than could be produced by a single poet working in isolation.
In order to kick-start the project, as it were (to borrow a suitably poetic metaphor from the world of internal combustion engines), the Department has decided to begin with a contest for the first line of the poem. The winner will have the satisfaction of seeing his or her first line at the head of a dramatic and moving epic poem, at least until an authorized user with editing privileges changes it. Remember that the line must be cast in iambic pentameter, and must not end with the word orange or oblige, as those selections would impose unfair limitations on the authors of the succeeding line. Entries may be left as comments on this article, or may be hand-delivered to the University security desk.
A LIMERICK IN SWING.
THERE WAS A young man from Nantucket
Who carried a tune in a bucket.
When his friends asked him why,
He returned this reply:
“’Cause I ain’t got the rhythm to truck it.”
DR. BOLI’S CALENDAR FOR 2012.
THE GROUNDHOG SPEAKS, and all of us must listen,
Or, rather, must pretend that we have heard
For six more weeks the snow and ice will glisten—
Although, in fact, he hasn’t said a word.
That’s what it comes to when the tribe insists
That rodents make good meteorologists.
DR. BOLI’S CALENDAR FOR 2012.
JANUARY.
Each sad attempt at snow so far has fizzled;
Each threatened blizzard proved to be a dud.
Instead of snow and ice, it only drizzled,
And all we have to show for it is mud.
But January’s young, and now it’s breezy,
Which makes us hope the weather’s turning freezy.
A CHRISTMAS SONG.
It begins in October and runs through November,
And really starts hitting its stride in December.
And even when Christmas is gone, it would seem
It will take two more weeks just to run out of steam.
You should swallow your grumbling and banish that sneer:
It’s the jolliest twenty per cent of the year.
Don’t be sad, don’t be mad, don’t be gloomy, don’t frown;
Don’t let plastic and tinsel start getting you down;
Don’t let chaser lights make you psychotic, or scream
At the Virgin who shines with an LED gleam.
No, just widen your smile with each sleigh bell you hear:
It’s the jolliest twenty per cent of the year.
When you think you’re so sodden with jingle-bell joy
That you’ll cave in the head of the next drummer boy
Who ba-rum-bum-bum-bums into your field of view,
Just remember, the season is not about you.
For the big corporations who sell us our cheer,
It’s the jolliest twenty per cent of the year.
IN THANKSGIVING.
IF I COULD stop the world for just one day,
Like Joshua, command the sun, “Stand still!”—
Would time stop, too? The hours that rush away,
Would they sit, patient, waiting on my will?
If I had stopped the years from rolling on,
Would you stay as you were ten years ago?
Could we stay happy in those days long gone?
No point in asking: we can never know.
So I can only hope that life is best
When it moves forward; even if we bend
A little lower with each year, a rest
Is waiting for us somewhere at the end.
In memory of Patricia M. Fullinwider, 1940-2011.
A SONG.
FROM THE COLLECTION “Songs from the Heart and Liver,” published by Elwood Schriek in 1887.
O! Leander! O! Leander!
Oleander blooms for thee;
For this holy oleander
Slowly grows for all to see
By thy grave-site, O! Leander;
Lowly though thy stone may be,
Slowly, holy oleander
Grows into a mighty tree.
A POPULAR NURSERY RHYME.
AS IT WAS first printed in Songs for Rotten Children, London, 1859.
Boucicault, Boucicault, where have you been?
I’ve been down to London to play for the queen.
Boucicault, Boucicault, what did you there?
I bored the poor woman out of her chair.
CASSIODORUS IN HIS GARDEN.
In honor of the fourth anniversary of his Celebrated Magazine on the World-Wide Web, Dr. Boli is reprinting some of the most notable articles, stories, poems, and advertisements of the past four years.
—
THESE BRIGHT AND precious remnants soon must wither.
They bloom beyond their time—and so do I.
Dry winter comes; there will be no more flowers,
and I—I cannot live to see the spring.
Yet still I water them. My feeble strength
Can barely lift the jar filled just halfway;
The thirsty earth drinks down, absorbs, and mocks
The paltry moisture that I dribble out,
And winter laughs at me and marches closer,
Casting his shadow darker every day.
But I must labor, putting off the hour
When the last blossom drops, and no more bloom;
Though no one else will do it, I must tend
This useless acre, full of useless things
We cannot eat or burn, or build or kill with,
Only because there once was beauty here;
And though I shall not live beyond the winter,
Yet still I know by faith there will be spring.