Lit Review: Stalker
 

The 'Cowboys' competition was a twin triumph for Bazza (under his alias) and Chris O'Carroll who both won £150. I would put the winners here if I knew how. When Jayne gets her print copy perhaps she can do us a favour

The new competition asks for a poem of up to 24 lines with the title 'Stalker'. I suppose that could mean a stalker of people or a stalker of deer, or even Sherlock Holmes's hat. The address is

The Literary Review
44 Lexington Street
London W1F 0LW

or email editorial@literaryreview.co.uk

and the final date is 26th November or thereabouts.

The Girl, the Dog, and the Ogre

Trekking homeward after work,
She doesn’t see the ogre lurk,
Much less his mad and twisted smirk.

The ogre doesn’t hesitate;
Leaps at her female form as straight
As a tiger at an ungulate.

When, suddenly, a canine, loose,
As large as any horse or moose
Leaps hard and puts his teeth to use.

A ghostly dog, his hair a-bristle.
Under her breath the girl says, “This’ll
Teach you!” Now she hears a whistle;

It’s coming from the kitchen. The pot
Of tea her ma put on is hot.
That strand of dream’s a locked-up thought.

She turns and sees her puppy snoozing.
Her dread, like steam from the tea infusing,
Has dwindled, though it was bemusing.

She yawns and stretches. Then the pair
Heads to the kitchen. Sitting there
Midst cups and plates and silverware

Sits the ogre by the table, smearing
Cream cheese on his toast, and leering —
A mien that looks far from endearing.

John (+ everyone),

I posted the LitRev results last Friday, along with the next comp details, as I always do.
We ought to keep to the one thread for it in future, don't you think? If you look in 'Search' and write LitRev it will come up with the latest thread. I no longer have to wait for my paper copy, John; they email me with an electronic link to the issue now. This modern technology's brilliant, innit?

Martin,

Your 'uncoiling' should be an 'ot' rhyme to match the rest - should it n-ot?

You are right, Jayne. Thanks! (During revision, I left that end-word in there. I was in a rush to do an errand.) I've made a tentative fix.

Martin

Apologies, Jayne. I should have looked. Here's one from me.


Stalker

I know you love me though you never say.
The secret smile you smile is just for me.
Nobody understands us. That’s OK.
I know you love me though you never say.
Look up. Our stars are showing us the way.
No need to fight it, this was meant to be.

No need to fight it, this was meant to be.
Our Destiny upsets the applecart.
Twin souls and bodies bound eternally.
Our stars are saying what was meant to be,
Only Love’s prisoners are truly free.
Our Love was Fate. I knew it from the start.

Our Love was Fate. I knew it from the start,
As rolling rivers rise in little streams.
Stop. Listen. Can you hear my beating heart?
Drumbeats of Fate. I knew it from the start.
Together always. We will never part.
I brought you flowers. How long ago that seems.

I brought you flowers. How long ago that seems.
Too many stars are shining anyhow.
Blood is our covenant. The siren screams.
Sweet scent of flowers. How long ago that seems.
We are our most magnificent in dreams,
Together always. Nothing matters now.

Oo-er, John, that's really creepy - which is what's required, after all!

Yeah. I see it as a Peter Lorre number.

Anyone remember the Tom Lehrer song about the man who murdered his girlfriend and cut her hand off?

"I'm sorry now I killed you,
For our love was something fine.
Until they come to get me,
I will hold your hand in mine."

Ah, the old songs was the best.

Gail, that's very funny!

Here's my offering for the comp: It's a serious subject; will they go for something light-hearted, I wonder? They're not exactly known for publishing humour. (I did a reading for cancer patients and staff at a local hospice this afternoon; they liked it!)

The Stalker

Myrtle was... ugly, it’s no use denying,
but she once met a man who was gentle and kind.
He asked Myrtle out. (She could barely stop crying.
It explains quite a lot when I say he was blind.)

Now her passionate urges had started to stir.
When her quivering fingers were clutched
by this man it excited her. (He's a masseur,
and her body had never been touched.)

But, sadly, this romance was never to be.
A miracle happened; by chance his
sight was restored by a surgeon, then he
very quickly withdrew his advances.

Myrtle was outraged. She’d been so content
and imagined she’d soon be his wife,
so a barrage of menacing letters was sent
to the man who had ruined her life.

She followed him, phoned him, attacked him as well.
Her revenge soon became an obsession.
He’d made Myrtle suffer. His life became hell.
Yes, she taught that damned surgeon a lesson!

Jayne,

Your poem is terrific. I'm wondering, though, why you have 4 tetrameter lines in S1, when the other stanzas are 4343. In S4L3 "barrage" is given an unnatural accent on the first syllable.

Perhaps Myrtle should have looked for another blind man outside of the surgeon's region. ;)

It's great that you read this at a hospice! It's a fun piece and I enjoyed it, too.

Martin

Hi, Martin! The US pronunciation puts the accent on the final syllable, buh-RAHJ, but remember that the Brits can't stand French pronunciations; which is why, for example, what you and I quite reasonably call a buf-FAY seems to be BUFF-et over yonder.

I had a feeling that might be the case, Julie. But I thought I'd mention it, just in case! ;)

We Brits, Julie, like French pronunciation fine when we are speaking French, but like the French when they are borrowing English words (e.g. marketing, taxi) we like to naturalise them, as it were. The thing in the sky is a Barrij balloon, and the house for my car is a garrij. I have to admit that the Scots say them as you do. Must be something to do with the Auld Alliance.

Actually, I only put
so a barrage of menacing letters was sent
when I posted it here. For some reason I sent it off with
so hundreds of menacing letters were sent
which may be better but I'm not sure.

I say bar-rahj and gar-rahj, John, which is posher than bar-rij and gar-rij!

gosh
 

Barrage balloons! They were magical objects to me, on trips to London during WW2, floating in the sky. And I recall an NS (I think) comp yonks ago, which called for compers to submit little-known facts, or the like. One of mine (& I believe it was printed) was that barrage balloons were not so much tethered blimps as suspended cables. I don't know how effective they were in bringing down – or repelling – German aircraft.

Off to google that.

Blimey, there's a whole history there. And Jerry planes had cable-cutters. Too much, man.

Are you sure it's posher Jayne? Are you absolutely sure?

I've got Rollers in both garages.
I always lunch at Claridges
In jodhpurs and galoshes,
So I think I know what posh is.

All before my time, Bazza, but interesting stuff nonetheless.

I can't help a little smile about all this, since Martin first mentioned 'barrage', which isn't even in my poem any more! I think I'm glad that I changed it before submitting it.

And there ain't any argument about how to say 'hundreds...!'

*Cross-posted with you, John. Oh, I'm quite sure 'garages' doesn't rhyme with 'Claridges'!

It does, Jayne. Aye, it does.
Joan

I'm SO happy to hear that it's not only Yanks who have trouble with Brit pronunciations.

Trouble? Trouble? There's no trouble. And the trouble WE go to. When I first heard the curious thing you do with 'missile' I thought you were talking about a Catholic prayer book. What WERE they doing with those Cuban missals? And for years I couldn't understand how the great Ogden had fallen over so badly with his rhyme.

The turtle lives mid plated decks
That practically conceal his sex.
I think it's clever of the turtle,
In such a fix, to be so fertile,

NOW I know it should be furtle. But how do you say tensile and prehensile? I suppose one could live a blameless life and never say either of these words. But if you did?

And what about savidge. Do you say sav-ahj? And porridge. Por-ahj. And don't say it's the spelling. Scott's Porage Oats it says on the box with the chap in the skirt on it - who is, of course, a Scotch savage.

table d'oat
 

Porage, mon brave.

Alas, resistance is fewtle

we'll all go together...
 

'Midst the sagebrush and the thistles I'll watch the guided missiles, while the old FBI watches me...'

If it's good enough for Tom Lehrer, it's good enough for me.

But if you actually SAY missle, Bazza, I'll eat my topper, gor strewth if I won't, me old china.

aha!
 

I just did. Post the video.

Are the boys getting a little infantle or juvenle, now, Ann? Let's hope they don't become hostle when they see how versatle we are.

My poet's brows are bound with myrtle. Or murtile of course.

Back where we started, and my poem about Myrtle.

Here's my gentle stab at the challenge.


SIX O’CLOCK

It's six o'clock, the evening ghouls are loose:
another suicide attack to cheer
the Taliban; that clip of clones in goose-
step signalling the mood in North Korea;
Strauss is cleanbowled by a Johnson yorker;
and on the local scene, there’s been a gruesome
murder down the street, a jealous stalker
suspected. Well, you win some and you lose some.

And now, from Police HQ, your on-the-spot
newshound: “Forensics have identified
someone-of-interest in the brutal shot-
gun slaying of the model. Homicide . . ."

Sleep well, my dear. You're mine forevermore.
And here's the SWAT team, breaking down the door.

oOOo

Dram and Blast
 

They're not exactly known for publishing humour.

Jayne, you have just chilled my blood. Can't we start a trend in the right direction?

Jock McSporran, whose intake of drink
Was tending to grow not to shrink,
Fired his rifle one day
At a beast which, they say,
Had no antlers, but tusks, and was pink.

:D

I really think you should give that a go, Spindley one.

John, I will, I will.
Here's one from the archives that may also fit the bill, more in Jerome's right direction:

CITY NIMRODS

Two city Nimrods - call them Bob and Bill -
with loaded shotguns cocked, are tracking spoor
far out beyond the 'burban spill but still
in GPRS range. A rabbit's roar
alerts them and they move in for the kill.
Bob makes the classic tyro shooter's blunder
and leaves the safety-catch off; in the thrill
of chase, he trips and blows his toes asunder.

Bob faints; Bill checks his pulse and, finding none,
hits triple-oh and, to a cooler head,
yelps, "Help! What should I do? I think he's gone!"
"Stay calm," says Coolhead. "First, be sure he's dead."

A moment's silence, followed by a shot,
then Bill comes back: "Okay, that's done. Now what?"

oOOo

That's very funny, Peter! :D

It had me laughing out loud, Peter.

Susan

Thank you, Jayne and Susan. I'm hoping the editor is equally amused, and I'm left laughing all the way to the bank.
Jayne, a question: must the title be "Stalker" or can one choose one's own, with the assigned theme evident from the context of the poem?

Peter

You can pick your own title to go with the theme, Peter; the Speccie and The Oldie don't bother with titles, which suits me very well - I usually find the most difficult part of writing a poem is what to call it!!!

the couch potato's nightmare
 

BLUEBOTTLE

The dark blot on my screen won't go away,
an outsize fly disrupting Film On Four.
I swear, get up and tip-toe for the door
to fetch the kitchen swat, not liking spray.

I catch it on a sill. As Chandler wrote,
it's 'shining and blue-green and full of sin'.
I strike, I miss. It has me in a spin
It settles on the looking-glass to gloat.

Ignoring it, I'm buzzed, as if King Kong.
Am I on its case or is it on mine?
Next it's invisible and mutes its whine.
I cannot stand this deadlocked pause for long.

I grab the aerosol at which I'd balked,
an ugly canister of gaseous pus,
and spraying wildly poison both of us,
not caring who's the stalker, who the stalked.

Stalker

They dog me like a stalker in the night
Or even in the daylight, each a fly
Forever buzzing in my ear. I try
To shoo them off. No use. Turn on the light

And scribble quicker than the beat of wings.
Like bugs on flypaper, they watch in fear
As I roll over. Yet again my ear
Is filled with words. This dreadful rumpus rings

The final drops of dream from my grey matter.
I go out to the kitchen for some water.
My muse keeps bugging me. I’ve never caught her,
Since she’s a shapeshifter. Gawd, how she’ll chatter

Into my mind when it wants to relax!
But when my muse is done abusing me,
She exits like some trickster full of glee,
Then eagle-swoops again in sneak attacks.

Yet sometimes she is gone for days and days,
And I get rest and reinvigorated,
Then start to miss her. While we’re separated,
I’m ineffective, shrouded in a haze.

Is she now on Olympus having a bash
Ingesting lots of drinks and lots of hash?
I hope her leave is only temporary,
And dope her high is only hemporary.

well, this is an oldie.
 

The Pursuit

I’m mountain ranges from my home,
and heat is dancing up the road.
I can’t recall what made me leave,
was it a bur, a bar, a goad?

A wandering scholar sang your praise,
extolling stations on the way;
how steep the trail, I didn’t ask,
how long the trek, he didn’t say.

Unnumbered times I’ve cursed that bard
and damned each dark, abandoned shrine,
each woman who forbad a bed,
each inn where they refused me wine.

Contesting for my forward foot
distracted me from how I went;
better I never noticed that
the path began a slow ascent,

Until at last I felt you near,
like some pursuing, taunting elf.
I hurry on, now, in a sweat
and keep my curses to myself.