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Here at the Parodies - for Kim Bridgford
This is a challenge to post your take on the Kimcabal at West Chester in the form of classic poems.
Kim Bridgford (after Byron’s “John Keats”) Who culled Kim Bridg- ford? "We," said West Chester. "We deemed to divest her, per our privilege." Why wield the guillotine? Who had the dreadful cred - a founder, department head, president, or dean? . |
Count me out, please, Bugsy. It may be irritatingly "British" of me, but it strikes me as being in rather questionable taste.
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Just to note that Bugsy ran both the poem and the idea by myself and Kim before posting this challenge.
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I'm with Ann Drysdale. We don't know what's going on, the school may be handing out pap (partly, I assume because of the possible legal situation), but at least they're not passing on undocumented accusations. I'm tired of charges and statements by people who know someone who knows someone who knows something but can't be named - and I don't see where this thread will help that climate in the least.
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Never mind.
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Great idea, Bugsy. What better way for poets to vent about an issue than to write practice poems about it?
Those po-faced American poets, so dour and politically prim! Deficient in irony, earnest and cautious, they never compose on a whim. Why can't they be more like the British? You try to have fun and they spoil it. The British are jolly and earthy and sprinkle their poems with humor de toilet. The British think sex is a riot, well suited to doggerel verse. Americans try to be grown-up about it, which only makes everything worse. Their heads are all up their own arses, they never just say what they think. Why can't they be more like the British, who tackle the truth with a nudge and a wink. But anyway, back to the topic. Excuse me if this is seditious. When competent people are sacked without notice it tends to make people suspicious. |
p.s. In case it's not clear, that's not an entry. Just expressing support for the idea.
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Westchester, Schmestchester:
Leader Kim Bridgford was Fired without warning from Being its Queen. I can't quote anyone Uncategorically But you can trust me far More than a Dean... |
On Taste, and Other Questionable Things
Much in life is questionable, nuance-and-suggestionable, treat-it-with-discretionable. Rumor rhymes with tumor. Careful, folks--conjectures' cancers spread like spam for male enhancers. Questions, though, may lead to answers. I'm for those. And humor. |
Indeed, Julie. I wish I had written that instead of my earlier comment. Bugsy has told me it was technically out of line because this thread is his party and I was a high-handed guest.
I am so sorry; I truly believed that it was OK to decline the invitation. I hadn't realised that there was a line to be out of and I hadn't understood that there were different rules for D&A. IMPORTANT. Bugsy had the good grace to contact me privately about this and I have put a reply here only because, if I have offended him, I have offended others and such was not my intention. Please do not make posts here relating to this one. Let the party continue; I have misunderstood. . |
Thank you, Ann - most gracious. And as for the tantrum that followed you in, if it's my party he can cry if he wants to.
This Is Just To Say I have taken the conference and center which you were probably saving for others Forgive me they are delightful so fresh and so cool |
The Po Man
One must have a mind of winter To regard the empty chairs and unplugged microphones Of the conference crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the podium shagged with ice, The chapbooks rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few fluttering pages, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, unpublished himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. |
Deeply hilarious, Rose.
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Brilliant, Rose! Best smile I've had all day!
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Fabulous, Rose! Strikes the best possible notes.
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Great parody, Rose! It is nice to get a few laughs out of such a sad occasion.
Susan |
Ann, if you really do have inside information but dare not reveal your source, you might give it to us as real journalists do, with some such heading as:
"A meeting with Deep Dactyl in an underground parking garage in Philadelphia at 3:00 a.m. has revealed that..." |
Keep Calm and Carew On
Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the ledger's rows and columns. They'll receive an audit. (And a new Director, got it?) Ask me no more whither do stray The motley mummers in this play, None of whom may freely speak-- Though others' pens are prone to leak. Ask me no more whither doth haste The locksmith. Stand and watch him waste All the Center's planned events. Hush, you keyed-up malcontents. Ask me no more where those stars 'light. They'll scramble for another site Next year, but they'll be back. You'll see. By then, they'll all forget K.B. Ask me no more if east or west Can change a thing if they protest. Assume that justice will prevail. It does in every fairytale. |
Good one, Julie. I didn't know the original poem, but managed to find it.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180869 |
West Chester
(after Blake's London) I found a conference ill beset, near where the Brandywine does flow, then read upon the internet posts of “wtf?!”, and, “NOoo!”. For every “why” from every man, and every student volunteer, for every query ‘bout the ban refined, forced platitudes they hear. Now the barren Xanadu the sickly sonneteer appalls, and the rondeau rhymers ruin rasps in doom down conference halls. But most on internets one hears how now’s disdain may morrow curse with plague on newborn forums’ years, and set a’roll the Formal hearse. |
Great parodies, Julie and Lightning Bug. I think that parodies seem to be a better approach than straight-out poetic howls, because some control sharpens the sentiment and the satire.
Susan |
Thanks, Susan... they're kinda fun, too.
and excerpt after Whitman: O! Cantor, my Cantor! O, cantor! my cantor! Your final song is heard, Your choir has gloried every note, and sanctified each word. The coda we hear, the people cheer, the standing crowd ovating, While listen ears with tintinitis – cold to cantillating. O Art! Art! Art! Why make hearts so dour sov’reign o’er my cantor’s song from yon ivory tower. |
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(After Bob Dylan) Oh the sonnet bards are barking, on the conference block. They're asking what the matter is, but West Chester, she don't talk. and the founder folds his derby, and the dean defiles her grape. But over at the center, they know there's no escape. Oh, mama, is this how we're gettin' fed... to expect Kim Bridgford's buffet, but get Sam Gwynn's gruel instead. Shakespeare, he's on a panel, and he says, "Sit, write here." He was once a poet-senator, but now he's just a bombardeer. And the famous light verse midget, he fidgets with his pen, but deep insight is art, he noses dill a sin. Oh, mama, is this how we're gettin' fed... to expect Kim Bridgford's buffet, but get Sam Gwynn's gruel instead. When the papist paparazza told the published in the room, we could watch her read for free, 'neath the Pennsylvanian moon, I said "Ah, come on, now, you know it's only Sapphic crap." She said,"Your Sapphic crap just knows how to sleep, but mine knows how to nap." Oh, mama, is this how we're gettin' fed... to expect Kim Bridgford's buffet, but get Sam Gwynn's gruel instead. . |
W H Davies
Displeasure What is this life if, full of care, We have no time for what’s unfair?— No time to stand beneath the boughs, And ponder to ourselves: Just how’s This situation come about? ’Twill be resolved one day, no doubt. No time to see if any cash Went missing. (Someone got a stash?) No time to see, in broad daylight, what’s going on. Let’s hope we might Live long enough to see the end Of this dispute that irks our friend. A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time for what’s unfair. |
Jayne,
Good one - but while I agree with you that WCU was probably unfair to Kim, perhaps you should moderate the allegations of "lots of [missing] cash" until the finalized audit is able to prove your point. b |
Thanks, and I take your point, Bugsy. I've amended it to "if any''.
Midnight beckons here... I might tweak it some more tomorrow. Jayne |
The RAPE of the CONFERENCE CHAIR
An HEROI-COMICAL P O E M What dire Offence from one's Dismissal springs, What mighty Contests rise from spreadsheet Things, I sing — This verse to Samuel, Muse! is due; This, even Bridgford may vouchsafe to view: Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, If she inspire, and he approve my lays. SSay what strange motive, Goddess! could possess A well-bred Board to sack a Poetess? Oh say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, Could make a gentle Poet slam a Board? And dwells such Rage in dulcet Bosoms then? And lodge such daring Souls in little Men? s |
Rose, are your rhymes acrobatic or merely adroit?
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Parody (A.A. Milne)
Now the argument gets heated One thing has to be repeated, Kim has been unjustly treated By the Board. Let me shriek it, let me shout it. Let me never never doubt it Though I know fuck all about it. Praise the Lord! |
Clever one, John. I like how you slyly imply that being told fuck all is perhaps the worst part of the mistreatment you point to. "Booted is Truth; Truth booted", eh?
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john John JOHN John! :eek: ;)
I, too, know zero x zero, and trust my deeply buried instincts. You are amusing. |
The motto of the university
due to its perversity when terminating noble Kim should, perhaps, now be, in sum, thanks to Anna’s beating drum, Cogito ergo scum? |
To the Patron (Dean)
Art has the power to praise or murder you: a comic strides, a lion on pay-per-view, fires rich material since poorly fired— his snaps are killing you, your boot inspired. Some bloom to geniuses when cushions burst; some blest in softest foliage lose thirst. Strange logic, does it work? You shook the bays, poets' new quarrels rival Shakespeare plays; one must find silly or abysmal wrongs, drink satire up or stream out protest songs. They are to you, this anti-Chester club, as Milton was no less to Bezelbub. Bravo! I know why you refuse to speak, your secret tactics work not if they leak. d |
After Monty Python's "Spam" sketch(available on YouTube):
Scene: Man and woman enter a diner and walk to the counter. Behind a waitress/cashier a sign reads, "WinchEsteR UniverSity Poetry Conference And Book Sale Diner." Man: Morning! Waitress: Morning! Welcome to WE R SCABS Diner. Man: Well, what've you got? Waitress: Well, there's egg and bacon; egg sausage and bacon; egg and scab; egg bacon and scab; egg bacon sausage and scab; scab bacon sausage and scab; scab egg scab scab bacon and scab; scab sausage scab scab bacon scab tomato and scab. Poets: Scab scab scab scab... Waitress: ...scab scab scab egg and scab; scab scab scab scab scab scab baked beans scab scab scab and scab. Poets: Scab! Lovely scab! Lovely scab! Waitress: ...or Lobster Thermidor a Crevette with a mornay sauce served in a Provencale manner with shallots and aubergines garnished with truffle pate, brandy and with a fried egg on top and scab. Wife: Have you got anything without scab? Waitress: Well, there's scab egg sausage and scab, that's not got much scab in it. Wife: I don't want ANY scab! Man: Why can't she have egg bacon scab and sausage? Wife: THAT'S got scab in it! Man: Hasn't got as much scab in it as scab egg sausage and scab, has it? Poets: Scab scab scab scab... (Crescendo through next few lines...) Wife: Could you do the egg bacon scab and sausage without the scab then? Waitress: Urgghh! Wife: What do you mean 'Urgghh'? I don't like scab! Poets: Lovely scab! Wonderful scab! Waitress: Shut up! Poets: Lovely scab! Wonderful scab! Waitress: Shut up! (Poets stop) Bloody Poets! You can't have egg bacon scab and sausage without the scab. Wife: I don't like scab! Man: Sshh, dear, don't cause a fuss. I'll have your scab. I love it. I'm having scab scab scab scab scab scab scab beaked beans scab scab scab and scab! Poets: Scab scab scab scab. Lovely scab! Wonderful scab! Waitress: Shut up!! Baked beans are off. Man: Well could I have her scab instead of the baked beans then? Waitress: You mean scab scab scab scab scab scab... (but it is too late and the Poets drown her words) Poets: (Singing elaborately...) Scab scab scab scab. Lovely scab! Wonderful scab! Scab sca-a-a-a-a-ab scab sca-a-a-a-a-ab scab. Lovely scab! Lovely scab! Lovely scab! Lovely scab! Lovely scab! Scab scab scab scab! |
What does "scab" mean in the US in relation to an industrial action? Is it the same as in the UK?
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Ann,
My bet would be that they are the self-same word in that respect. b |
That's what I feared. I hoped I was just being paranoid.
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It has just exactly the right amount of wit.
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That's a clever adaptation Lightening Bug.
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