Posts filed under “Poetry”
THE ASP’S ARIA.
It was not generally made public until recently that the libretto to Heyser’s well-received new opera, The Death of Cleopatra, was written by the eminent novelist and poet Irving Vanderblock-Wheedle. The Asp’s Aria, sung by Julietta della Fripperia to Heyser’s haunting cacophony of bassoons and kazoos, has been singled out for especial praise.
[Lento arigato.]
Excuse me, please, but did I overhear
A queen’s lament, with many a bitter tear?
You’ll find a true friend lurking very near:
I am (and please try not to gasp)
An asp.
Has it occurred to you what quick relief
Would comfort you and silence all your grief—
How short your cares would be, your tears how brief,
If to your bosom you should clasp
An asp?
I happen to have made my little nest
Right here, in this bejeweled little chest
(For you’ll agree that little chests are best):
Now just pull out the bolt and grasp
The hasp.
I’ll be your passp-
Ort to eternity and lasting fame:
Soon girls from Glassp-
Ort to Sewickley will usurp your name,
If you will lift the hasp
And just reach in and grasp
And to your bosom clasp
(Forgive my vocal rasp)
An asp.
CERTAIN LESS FAMILIAR RHYMES OF MOTHER GOOSE.
The Flying Pig.
Hickory dickory dare,
The pig flew into O’Hare.
The man in brown got off, but oh!
His luggage went to Mexico.
–
A Song of Aspiration.
I won’t be my father’s Jack;
I won’t be my father’s Jill.
I will be an oilman’s wife
And have a full tank when I will.
Oh! One more mile,
One more mile,
See if you can push it
One more mile.
–
A Most Philosophical Ditty.
I do not like thee, Thomas Hobbes.
When I read thee, my head just throbs.
And so I say, between my sobs,
I do not like thee, Thomas Hobbes.
–
The Remarkably Theatrical Fowl.
Higgledy piggledy, my red hen,
She laid an egg in New Haven again.
Tsk tsk tsk and tut tut tut,
They hated her show in Connecticut.
–
An Agribusiness Lullaby.
Hush-a-bye baby, on the tree top,
When did a tree ever grow such a crop?
Try rooting a cutting of it, by all means,
And send your attorney to patent the genes.
–
A Woeful Riddle.
As I was going to Sewickley,
I met a man who sure looked sickly.
He had six wives around the state,
Six mortgage payments that were late;
And with each wife he had six kids.
No wonder he was on the skids!
His children threw unseemly fits;
His Frigidaire was on the fritz;
One wife ran off with a rodeo clown;
His BMW broke down.
Wives, cars, payments, kids, and fridge,
How long till he jumps off a bridge?
–
Cat, Queen, and Tabloid.
“Pussy-cat, pussy-cat,
Where have you been?”
“I’ve been up to London
To look at the Queen.”
“Pussy-cat, pussy-cat,
What have you done?”
“I just took some pictures
To sell to the Sun.”
FROM THE SEARCH ENGINES.
YOU MAY NOT have been aware that Dr. Boli’s secretary monitors the search-engine terms that bring visitors to his Celebrated Magazine. [Addendum many years later: This is no longer true. We no longer keep any such statistics.] It is a useful service, for Dr. Boli often uses this information to respond to his readers’ concerns more thoroughly than he could have done without it. The information can also be made into a sort of free-verse poem, composed entirely of terms visitors have entered in their favorite search engines, thus:
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THE MICKLE MEDLAR.
THE RENOVATIONS TO St. Beohund’s church in Wappingrate-Lye exposed a remarkable mural depicting what is believed to be a traditional village dance of the twelfth century. The mural, drawn here with the damaged portions restored, is even more remarkable in that it reproduces the words of the simple song that appears to have accompanied the dance.
The words are transcribed in modern type below:
Now fyrste must thi fote out-stretched bee;
And then, thyne arme a-loft where al mai see,
The poyntyng fynger forthe & backe ys swept,
Wherefor thys daunce truckynge ys yclept.
TAKE THE YASHMAK OFF YOUR HEAD.
From “Songs Without Words” by Leonid Alexeevich Bluski.
Take the yashmak off your head,
Fry it up with onions;
Mash it up with moldy bread
And rub it on your bunions.
Ah, yashmak,
Eh, yashmak,
Ee, yashmak,
Oh, yashmak,
Ooh, yashmak:
Take the yashmak off your head.
Take the yashmak off your head,
Cover it with mustard;
Beat it till the mix turns red
And serve it up like custard.
Ah, yashmak,
Eh, yashmak,
Ee, yashmak,
Oh, yashmak,
Ooh, yashmak:
Take the yashmak off your head.
A RESPONSE
On Receiving a Copy of “Take The Yashmak Off Your Head” Beside an Office Printer.
If these verses have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That we did but slumber here
While these verses did appear
Unbid on our LaserJet,
Where we found them, ink still wet;
And, thinking what a shame ’twould be
Prodigally to waste a tree,
Gave the papers unto you,
In trust that you’d know what to do.
Ere long we will make amends
And become the best of friends;
Meanwhile, toss this paper in
The big round blue recycling bin.
—W. S.
THE WONDERFULL AVENTURE OF SYR GAWAYNE IN THE CASTELL OF MAYDEN CLERKES,
Which Is a Tale Sette Downe for One of the Trewest and Mervayllest Aventures That Ever Bifel Syr Gawayne.
AND AFTER RYDING above thre Englysshe legues syr Gawayne cam uppon a fayre castell. And over the castell gate was wryten in letters of gold,
WORDPRESS TAG: POETRY
And in front of the castell on a roche there sate a mayden, weping ful sore for pyté. And syr Gawayne unmounted hym and asked the mayden, “Wherefor makyst thou soche dole?”
And the mayden answered him, “Trewely I am wepyng for the custome of this castell, for whan that I sawe thee, a knight valyaunt and ful of vertu, approche unto thys curssed castell, hyt nyghe brast myn herte for pyté.”
“Tell me,” quod syr Gawayne, “what ys the custome of this castell?”
“Trewely,” quod the mayden, “ill chance hath brought thee here. For thys ys the Castell of Mayden Clerkes, and hyt ys the custome of this castell that no knyght may passe but that the Mayden Clerkes assaulten hym with dogerel. And many knyghtes have com hereby, but none be yet on lyve.”
“That ys an yvell custome,” seyde syr Gawayne.
“Wherefor I dyd make soche dole whan that I sawe thee. For hyt is seyde that none bot the moste valyaunt of King Arthurs knyghtes schal conquer thys castell. And truely the knyght that enchevyth this aventure schall have moche erthely worschipp. And lo, the Mayden Clerkes approche even now, wherefor I byd the mak haste to arme the.”
And syr Gawayne loked and biheld sevvyn maydens armed like unto knyghts. And eche helde a scroll on whych wer wryt straunge letters, and at once they biganne to rede from the scrolls. And syr Gawayne helde hys shelde tofore hym, but the maydens dyd shoot jagged half-rimes that brast hys shelde asonder.
And whan syr Gawayne was sore bysette, and wot not how he myght defend hymselffe, bihold there appered unto hym Merlion, who gav hym a boke and bade hym rede therfrom. “And loke you rede loude and eke streng,” quod Merlion, “for your lyf dipendyth uppon hyt.”
So syr Gawayne opyned the boke, and lo, in it wer wryten the workes of the Englysshe poets of most renome and worschippe. And syr Gawayne bigan to rede dan Chaucer his poemys in a voys ful resonaunt. And straightaway the maydens dyd dropp hir scrolls, and thei did cover hir eares with hir hondes. And at the fift stanza of Troylus and Criseyde, the maydens all fel doun dede, and the castell vanysshed al sodeynly, for the inchauntements of the place were al to-brokyn.
And on the roche wher the mayden had sate Merlion lette wryt in gold letters,
HERE SYR GAWAYNE DYD CONQUER THE CASTELL OF MAYDEN CLERKES BY POUER AND VERTU OF TREWE POETRIE.
And the peple of the lands about the castell mad grete chere of syr Gawayne, and he dyd abyde with hem fyve dayes with grete honneur.
LOVE SONG OF AN INEBRIATED CITY COUNCILMAN.
Your lips are like, uh, sort of, um, I mean,
That is, you know, your eyes are sort of green,
And then your uh, that what’s it called, that face—
It’s like, uh, um….oh, heck, I lost my place.
It’s like, uh, petals of a rose. No, wait—
I think that’s what your lips are like. I hate
It when I get myself mixed up like this.
And something something blah blah blah your kiss,
No, wait, that’s later. Where was I? Um, well,
Your face. I had this memorized. Oh, hell.
I don’t care what those damn reporters think.
Screw rehab. Waiter! Bring another drink.
A VALENTINE.
A MOST ROMANTIC Valentine, which you may click to enlarge, download, and print for your sweetheart, with Dr. Boli’s compliments.
From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.
The Z is for the Zymurgist,
who always comes in last,
And always will, to judge by
what has happened in the past.
When jobs are called by alphabet,
she seldom gets her share–
Which doesn’t bother her, because
she drinks too much to care.
THE PINE-CLEANER’S SONG.
IN THE DAYS before pine cleaners in liquid form became commonly available in every grocery store, the old pine-cleaner was a familiar sight in city neighborhoods, strolling up the street and singing his pine-cleaner’s song:
Any dirty old pines to be cleaned,
And restored to original luster?
Whether one pine, or two, or a cluster,
Any dirty old pines to be cleaned?
Of my art all the secrets I’ve gleaned,
And my work, I am sure, will pass muster.
Here I come with my chamois and duster:
Any dirty old pines to be cleaned?