Speccie poetic pitch by 28th August
 

Nice one here that I haven't seen before. So I don't have anything in the can already as it were and will need to put in some work. A Betjeman perhaps?

No. 2813: poetic pitch

If poets hoping to be Laureate had been required to apply in verse for the position, we would have an interesting archive of poems. You are invited to provide examples of the poetic pitches that might have been made over the years (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 28 August.

I am the very pattern of a modern Poet Laureate,
I can butter up like billy-o, but, in case of need, excoriate . . .

Er . . . JW territory, I think.

No, Jerome - stick with it. Once you start singing the damn thing in your head, the earworm will insist on the relentless rhythm. Perhaps a syllable or two de trop in line 2?

But those repeated B's really made me grin. You're on your way to a winner there.

Though stifled into silence by awareness of audacity
I think a poet laureate should demonstrate tenacity...

But Gilbert never was poet laureate. You mean this would be an unsuccessful submission.

It says "poets hoping to be..." so I assumed it was poets famous enough for pastiche who didn't make the cut. Not all them as hopes, gets, so to speak.

I think if she'd meant only "poets who later became..." she would have said as much.

Open for debate, I suggest, until someone checks with Lucy.

If poets hoping to be Laureate had been required to apply in verse for the position, we would have an interesting archive of poems. You are invited to provide examples of the poetic pitches that might have been made over the years

I took this as meaning that any poet-candidate is possible, including the actual incumbents right back to the beginning. John fancies the Euston man. Eusden anybody?

Thanks for the encouragement, Ann, but in my case such earworms seem to lack stamina and puff. We'll see.

You two are right and I am wrong. A Gilbert entry would be OK. Remember he didn't think much of Shakespeare

Masefield was fifty-two when he was made Laurate so perhaps stripling is pushing it. But he looked younger.



John Masefield to King George V

Most poets are a long-haired lot
Who scorn the great outdoors.
They generally go to pot
Through laudanum or whores.

I am not witty, wise or sage.
I am not Rudyard Kipling.
I am not dignified with age,
But still a bardic stripling.

Yet what I am I mean to be,
A gentleman and sailor,
Who writes of hunting and the sea.
And has a decent tailor.

Too many poets stink like tramps.
I have a fresh complexion,
And I can get you foreign stamps
To stick in your collection.

Surely poems for this comp could be 'by' whomever you like. It doesn't specify that the applicant had to be successful.

You are right. I am working on a submission from Sandy Wilson.

John # 8, oh, that is cleverly wrought. That stamp collection did just appear out of the blue, did it?

Indeed it did, Janice. Sheer genius, don't you knnow.

And now there's this. It could equally well be Julian Slade.

Sandy Wilson to Queen Elizabeth the Second

I'd like to be your Laureate.
My verse is terse and sprightly,
And, Queenie dear, do not forget
I dream about you nightly.

I've written lots and lots of stuff
And done the music too, ma'am.
So when I've polished it enough
I'll sing it just for you, ma'am.

Rely on me to do the biz.
Right Royal Odes, I'll pen 'em,
And spare you, dearest, darling Liz,
Crude socialistic venom.

I want to see a monarchy
Less snobbish, stiff and starchy.
Your Royal Family will be
As gay as Liberace.

More applause. Use pen names and you'll win first, second and so forth place.
I understand why no one else is posting. ;)

Why thank you. Janice. You are too kind. English persons of my vintage will well remember Julian and Sandy in 'Round the Horne'. I shall call myself Julian Slade.

I couldn't think of a poet less likely to want this than Tony Harrison. Well, once upon a time I might have said Carol Ann Duffy...


I doubt you’ve heard of me, Your Majesty,
And if you have you’re likely not a fan,
But now the post of Laureate is free,
I’m writing to suggest that I’m your man.

I know I don’t exactly seem ideal.
Who’d think that Tony Harrison from Leeds
Would be the sort of bloke who had a feel
For what a formal state occasion needs?

I’m better known for writing bolshie stuff
With lots of swearing in, but I would like
To move away from that. I’ve had enough
Of banging on about the Miners’ Strike.

Such pinko stylings now just make me wince.
(I can't believe I wrote that awful V)
I’d rather celebrate a brand new prince,
A royal wedding or a jubilee.

Yes. Slap on another verse and enter it. I think it's up to snuff.

It's good indeed but 'slapping on another verse' would take it over the 16 lines... unless by dropping an extant verse (I think v1, though blameless, could be omitted yet leave the remainder still sound; v2 is fine to begin it).

IMHO!

Thank you Graham, but John was talking about a previous version of the poem. The one you're looking at now already has that extra verse slapped on.

What's IMHO, by the way?

In My Humble Opinion. A vile phrase IMHO.

I don't know, you youngsters and your text-speak.

I am 51. :)

There also exists* the acronym IMHOTEP (In My Humble Opinion, Though Expressed Pungently): for use when one wishes to be deferential, but also vehement. This acronym has a long history, pre-dating the Internet, mobile phones and computers; being found even on some ancient Egyptian monuments.

*[at least, it exists now].

[quote=Graham King;296173]I am 51. :)

I'm 40! But you're obviously younger at heart.

poetic pitch - but just for fun (who can resist such a pun?)
 

Black as treacle
Dark and sticky
Traps your vehicle -
Thick and tricky!
Highly viscous
Drips per decade:
(‘Blink, you’ll miss us,
Be left dismayed.’)
At la Brea
Dire wolves caught it;
Couldn’t flee a-
Way - so bought it
(The farm, that is -
‘Rancho’, local)
No doubt, piteous-
Ly most vocal.
Yes, you’ve guessed it:
The substance which
Thusly messed it;
My name is PITCH.

[By way of explanation: an experiment has actually been running for decades to watch pitch drip. It has dripped and been caught doing so. A previous drip was missed when the experimenter left the room or monitoring equipment was off or somesuch.
Rancho la Brea is an American site near Los Angeles, where ancient tar-pits posing as harmless pools of water have lured to their doom thirsty herbivores (now extinct, though not solely for that reason) and (probably as a consequence seeing them trapped and looking like easy prey) numerous hungry carnivores, especially of the wonderfully-named species, the Dire Wolf.]

Will church bells ring to celebrate
It as the nation’s gain?
(Found: new Poet Laureate!)
Or toll: a drain, a pain?

Boring stuff (Slough of Despond
To wade through) will he pen?
Or dainty ditties, of which they’ll be fond -
Ladies and gentlemen?

In frowzy city streets, ambitious clerks
Who yearn to park their own, new, sleek Lagonda;
The rural tennis-girls, in pressed white frocks -
Will they welcome the next appointee yonder?

This honour may seem venal, earthy -
It will be in all the daily news.
I doubt whether I’m really worthy -
But I also doubt I shall refuse.

(John Betjeman)

It’s vacant, so in pensive mood
I ponder: could this post be mine?
T’would end the bliss of solitude,
And by applause my life define…

I wonder, lonely, as a crowd
Of other poets round me vies
To be appointed: quiet, loud;
Modest and proud; bold jesters, wise;

As brightly in the public eye
As daffodils that bloom may dance,
So poets laureate must try
To captivate the passing glance!

Still, if I’m not appointed, may
I here suggest (who could resist her?)
That Your Majesty would, pray,
Consider Dorothy - my sister?

(William Wordsworth)

Crow I stand, black
on this tor (stack
of rugged books)
my perch of fame

my name gives pause
now noised abroad
not least by me
(I have clear cause)

winged words I wield;
scooping deft air,
pluck easy meat
from this opportune day

my steelbright eye
that pierces clouds of doubt
now sees my future sustenance laid out:
I think it’s a dead cert.

(Ted Hughes)

The U.S. has Poet Laureate too, you know. Can we play?

“You are old, Mr Dodgson”, Lord Salisbury exclaimed,
“And you’ve written some tosh about Alice;
What on earth makes you think that you ought to be named
As the Poet to Buckingham Palace?”

“In my youth”, I replied, “I was happily lost in
The works of the Laureate Wordsworth.
But now there is talk of appointing old Austin,
Whose poems have scarcely a turd’s worth.

I therefore conceived it would be quite a lark
To emerge from my clerical cloisters.
I've written an epic concerning the Snark,
And a heart-rending story of Oysters.

My poetical talents are not to be doubted:
The Jabberwock - what could be gorier?
As Laureate, let poor old Austin be routed -
Choose me for our dear Queen Victoria!”

Quite brilliant, Brian, as usual. Never knew his real name was Dodgson!

William McGonagall’s application to succeed Alfred Lord Tennyson as poet laureate

And so the great and good Lord Tennyson is gone,
A subject that I very recently wrote a stirring eulogy upon.
And now a new poet laureate must be had
Even though Queen Victoria must still be a little bit sad.

Her Majesty must choose a poet who is equally at home
Writing a celebratory poem or a disaster poem,
Someone who can write poetry that is highly moral
That she can read at the fireside up in Balmoral.

It would need to be a poet who is quite prolific
and who the popular masses think is really terrific.
Of course, she may choose a learned man with a monocle
But she could do worse than hiring William Topaz McGonagall.

McGonagall, the people cry, would be the natural successor
To the now dead Lord Tennyson who would be his predecessor.
Last week, they said, he rose and wrote a poem before he ate
Which is a great talent in a prospective poet laureate.

Dear King of England, to reject my candidature on grounds of nationality
Would be an act of xenophobic irrationality.
You guys need a Poet Laureate, and I’m able and willing,
Although frankly, I’d like to be paid a bit more than the King’s shilling.
I’m told the fee includes a butt of canary,
But that’s a drink of which I’ve learned to be somewhat wary
As it makes me excessively merry.
All things considered, I think I’d prefer a case of sherry.

Now, as to my duties:
I’ll churn you out poems by the dozen, some real beauties
With amusing rhymes, though don’t expect regular scansion -
My lines often lurch from contraction to expansion.
Just say the word, Your Majesty, and I’ll be happy to give the thing a bash.

Yours sincerely, Ogden Nash.

TWO potential winners. Grinding of teeth.

Oh well, John, it's not about the money, it's just for the fun.

What am I saying? IT'S NOT ABOUT THE MONEY? Bazza will be sending the hit-men after me!

The money is the fun, but winning it is one thing; getting it – especially where the Staggers is concerned – quite another.

Always so much talent in these slim threads. This is where I come to have my faith restored. Brian, the L.C. and the Nash, simply brill. You are probably kin to both or via separately descending lines you all have the same funny forefather or -mother.

I misread that at first as 'you all have the same funny forefeather'... which fleetingly brought an amusing image to mind... a forefeather being like a forelock, but comprising a feather, of course. And perhaps, as hair was to strongman Samson, so a funny forefeather could be to the writers of comic verse?
The image of Brian so bedecked seemed aptly Carrollian or Nashite.

Sometimes those Freudian misreadings (and in lucky instances miswritings) are where the real wit lies!

You may be right, Janice. There are those who claim that we're all descended from a joker called Adam, who allegedly invented the phrase "An apple a day keeps celibacy away".