Here's one that some here might have seen in a past Best American Poetry --

A Good List by Brad Leithauser
(Homage to Lorenz Hart)

Some nights, can’t sleep, I draw up a list,
Of everything I’ve never done wrong.
To look at me now, you might insist

My list could hardly be long,
But I’ve stolen no gnomes from my neighbor’s yard,
Nor struck his dog, backing out my car.
Never ate my way up and down the Loire
On a stranger’s credit card.

I’ve never given a cop the slip,
Stuffed stiffs in a gravel quarry,
Or silenced Cub Scouts on a first camping trip
With an unspeakable ghost story.
Never lifted a vase from a museum foyer,
Or rifled a Turkish tourist’s backpack.
Never cheated at golf. Or slipped out a blackjack
And flattened a patent lawyer.

I never forged a lottery ticket,
Took three on a two-for-one pass,
Or, as a child, toasted a cricket
With a magnifying glass.
I never said “air” to mean “err,” or obstructed
Justice, or defrauded a securities firm.
Never mulcted—so far as I understand the term.
Or unjustly usufructed.

I never swindled a widow of all her stuff
By means of a false deed and title
Or stood up and shouted, My God, that’s enough!
At a nephew’s piano recital.
Never practiced arson, even as a prank,
Brightened church-suppers with off-color jokes,
Concocted an archeological hoax—
Or dumped bleach in a goldfish tank.

Never smoked opium. Or smuggled gold
Across the Panamanian Isthmus.
Never hauled back and knocked a rival out cold,
Or missed a family Christmas.
Never borrowed a book I intended to keep.
. . . My list, once started, continues to grow,
Which is all for the good, but just goes to show
It’s the good who do not sleep.

I was raised on musicals, not poetry:


Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens;
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens;
Brown paper packages tied up with strings;
These are a few of my favorite things.

Cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudels;
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles;
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings;
These are a few of my favorite things.

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes;
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes;
Silver-white winters that melt into springs;
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the dog bites,
When the bee stings,
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don't feel so bad.

****
Rodgers & Hammerstein, "My Favorite Things"

Here's a great list song as sung by Johnny Cash. You should be able to hear it by clicking on the play arrow up top:

http://www.rhapsody.com/goto?rcid=tra.2893318

Or if that doesn't work, get it here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MmFN9C9PVpg

Don't skip the original version by Hank Snow.

While we're at it here's a goofy list song from Adam Sandler (wait out the annoying 30 second intro), which is a good companion to this spoof by Alan Sherman (one of my all-time favorites, and a genius at list songs).

David R.

Since we've got into songs, here's the British answer to Johnny Cash, "Slow Train" by Flanders and Swann. Rather different tempo and mood, but same essential format.

Here's Tom Lehrer's "Elements"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SmwlzwGMMwc

I love this poem, Alex. It reminds me of a poem by Simon Armitage, entitled "The Back Man". It begins with a Walter-Mitty-like fantasy dream of strange jungle-adventures but then retreats into the “ordinary”. The second part of the poem consists of a long passage in which the speaker declares himself repeatedly not to be the type of person involved in outlandish exploits but rather an average inhabitant of suburban England. Here's a section:

It goes on for another 40 lines or so. The overall effect is not just one of anticlimactic comedy, as in Walter Mitty; it somehow ends up making the ordinary sound extraordinary.

Late to the fray, admittedly, but I submit this...


VERBAL INTOXICATION

I am drunk, but not with wine
In my head wild words entwine,
Callisthenics, dragon-fly,
Lanthorne, lapis lazuli,
Threnody of three times three
And sycamore, sycamore, sycamore tree.

Come for me, the Black Maria,
In some drunk-house I'll expire —
Sophocles, and Northern Fire,
Timbrel, tumbrill, lute and lyre,
I am mad, though not in wits,
Horoscope and Horowitz,
Dungeons, danger, Dungeness,
Fortunatus and largesse,
Hail, horizons, honey-bee,
And sycamore, sycamore, sycamore tree.

My mouth's full, but not with brandy,
Riotous and rope and randy
And the lane to Tonypandy,
Lullabies and macaroons,
Nincompoops and nightmare noons,
Neptune, Noah, and old Tom Noddy
Rive the heart from out the body
Swim the sense in hyssop Tea,
And blackamoor, sycamore, syllabub Sea.

1948

By Priscilla Napier, from “Coming Home from Sea”

It's in Italian but this by Da Ponte from Don Giovanni is a beauty. Giovanni's servant describes the amorous life of Don Giovanni to an outraged victim. NB you can hear and see it performed if you open the link at the bottom of this post:

Aria text and English translation

Italian English translation


Madamina, il catalogo è questo
Delle belle che amò il padron mio;
un catalogo egli è che ho fatt'io;
Osservate, leggete con me.

In Italia seicento e quaranta;
In Alemagna duecento e trentuna;
Cento in Francia, in Turchia novantuna;
Ma in Ispagna son già mille e tre.

V'han fra queste contadine,
Cameriere, cittadine,
V'han contesse, baronesse,
Marchesine, principesse.
E v'han donne d'ogni grado,
D'ogni forma, d'ogni età.

Nella bionda egli ha l'usanza
Di lodar la gentilezza,
Nella bruna la costanza,
Nella bianca la dolcezza.

Vuol d'inverno la grassotta,
Vuol d'estate la magrotta;
È la grande maestosa,
La piccina è ognor vezzosa.

Delle vecchie fa conquista
Pel piacer di porle in lista;
Sua passion predominante
È la giovin principiante.

Non si picca — se sia ricca,
Se sia brutta, se sia bella;
Purché porti la gonnella,
Voi sapete quel che fa.



My dear lady, this is a list
Of the beauties my master has loved,
A list which I have compiled.
Observe, read along with me.

In Italy, six hundred and forty;
In Germany, two hundred and thirty-one;
A hundred in France; in Turkey, ninety-one;
But in Spain already one thousand and three.

Among these are peasant girls,
Maidservants, city girls,
Countesses, baronesses,
Marchionesses, princesses,
Women of every rank,
Every shape, every age.

With blondes it is his habit
To praise their kindness;
In brunettes, their faithfulness;
In the white-haired, their sweetness.

In winter he likes fat ones.
In summer he likes thin ones.
He calls the tall ones majestic.
The little ones are always charming.

He seduces the old ones
For the pleasure of adding to the list.
His greatest favourite
Is the young beginner.

It doesn't matter if she's rich,
Ugly or beautiful;
If she wears a skirt,
You know what he does.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fo60m...eature=related

I meant to comment on this earlier. Thanks for posting it, Janet. The perfect catalogue to close the thread. Maybe all threads should close with music - with Mozart if possible.

And Philip, that's a strange but wonderful poem, by an author I had never heard of. I will Google her at once.