|
I thought I'd start off with this splendid example by Byron:
EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLIDORI DEAR Doctor, I have read your play, Which is a good one in its way, Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, And drenches handkerchiefs like towels With tears, that, in a flux of grief, Afford hysterical relief To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, Which your catastrophe convulses. I like your moral and machinery; Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery: Your dialogue is apt and smart: The play's concoction full of art; Your hero raves, your heroine cries, All stab, and everybody dies. In short, your tragedy would be The very thing to hear and see: And for a piece of publication, If I decline on this occasion, It is not that I am not sensible To merits in themselves ostensible, But - and I grieve to speak it - plays Are drugs - mere drugs, sir - now-a-days. I had a heavy loss by 'Manual' - Too lucky if it prove not annual, And Sotheby, with his 'Orestes,' (Which, by the by, the author's best is,) Has lain so very long on hand, That I despair of all demand. I've advertised, but see my books, Or only watch my shopman's looks;- Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. There's Byron too, who once did better, Has sent me, folded in a letter, A sort of - it's no more a drama Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama: So alter'd since last year his pen is, I think he's lost his wits at Venice. In short, sir, what with one and t'other, I dare not venture on another. I write in haste; excuse each blunder; The coaches through the street so thun der! My room's so full - we've Gifford here Reading MS., with Hookham Frere Pronouncing on the nouns and particles Of some of our forthcoming Articles. The Quarterly - Ah, sir, if you Had but the genius to review! A smart critique upon St. Helena, Or if you only would but tell in a Short compass what - but to resume: As I was saying, sir, the room The room's so full of wits and bards, Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, And others, neither bards nor wits: My humble tenement admits All persons in the dress of gent, From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. A party dines with me to-day, All clever men, who make their way; Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey Are all partakers of my pantry. They're at this moment in discussion On poor De Staël's late dissolution. Her book, they say, was in advance Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France! Thus run our time and tongues away; But, to return, sir, to your play: Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal, Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill; My hands so full, my head so busy, I'm almost dead, and always dizzy; And so, with endless truth and hurry, Dear Doctor, I am yours JOHN MURRAY. August 1817. |
There's this one by Wendy Cope.
________________________________ Triolet I used to think all poets were Byronic— Mad, bad and dangerous to know. And then I met a few. Yes it's ironic— I used to think all poets were Byronic. They're mostly wicked as a ginless tonic And wild as pension plans. Not long ago I used to think all poets were Byronic— Mad, bad and dangerous to know. |
(Have you seen this early Eliot?)
NOCTURNE Romeo, grand serieux, to importune guitar and hat in hand, beside the gate With Juliet, in the usual debate Of love, beneath a bored but courteous moon; The conversation failing, strikes some tune Banal, and out of pity for their fate Behind the wall I have some servant wait Stab, and the lady sinks into a swoon. Blood looks effective on the moonlit ground- The hero smiles; in my best mode oblique Rolls toward the moon a frenzied eye profound, (No need of "Love forever?" - "Love next week?") While female readers all in tears are drowned: - "The perfect climax all true lovers seek!" TS Eliot, from <u>The Harvard Advocate</u>, November 12, 1909 |
(...and to parallel Janet's two posts...)
Waste Land Limericks In April one seldom feels cheerful; Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful; Clairvoyantes distress me, Commuters depress me-- Met Stetson and gave him an earful. She sat on a mighty fine chair, Sparks flew as she tidied her hair; She asks many questions, I make few suggestions-- Bad as Albert and Lil--what a pair The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep; Tiresias fancies a peep-- A typist is laid, A record is played-- Wei la la. After this it gets deep. A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot About birds and his business--the lot, Which is no surprise, Since he'd met his demise And been left in the ocean to rot. No water. Dry rocks and dry throats, Then thunder, a shower of quotes From the Sanskrit and Dante. Da. Damyata. Shantih. I hope you'll make sense of the notes. Wendy Cope [This message has been edited by Robert Meyer (edited July 06, 2007).] |
Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861) The Latest Decalogue Thou shalt have one God only; who Would tax himself to worship two? God's image nowhere shalt thou see, Save haply in the currency: Swear not at all; since for thy curse Thine enemy is not the worse: At church on Sunday to attend Will help to keep the world thy friend: Honor thy parents; that is, all From whom promotion may befall: Thou shalt not kill; but needst not strive Officiously to keep alive: Adultery it is not fit Or safe, for women, to commit: Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When 'tis so lucrative to cheat: False witness not to bear be strict; And cautious, ere you contradict. Thou shalt not covet; but tradition Sanctions the keenest competition. |
These are great!
I've been reading the light verse of the English poet Peter Russell (in his book "Malice Aforethought". This is one I've liked. THE BOARD'S BLARE Our Starver, Art without leaven, Bellowéd be thy Fame; Thy lingam come; thy will be gun, On Campus as it is in Tavern. Give us this day our Big Success. Review at length our vacuousness As we review those who evacuate with us. And read us not in Profundity; But circulate widely our drivel: For Thine is the Foundation, The Grants and the Glory, For Sabbatical after Sabbatical. Eh, men? |
Robert, Michael and Andrew,
Terrific contributions. What can one say? More than I have time to say at the moment. It's my experience that the alleged general lack of interest in poetry is because so much poetry is serious and self obsessed. I have seen people who never normally read poetry spend hours pouring over anthologies of humorous verse. Thanks for posting these. Janet |
The Ghost in the Martini by Anthony Hecht containingOver the rim of the glass Containing a good martini with a twist I eye her bosom and consider a pass, containingCertain we’d not be missed containingIn the general hubbub. Her lips, which I forgot to say, are superb, Never stop babbling once (Aye, there’s the rub) containingBut who would want to curb containingSuch delicious, artful flattery? It seems she adores my work, the distinguished grey Of my hair. I muse on the salt and battery containingOf the sexual clinch, and say containingSomething terse and gruff About the marked disparity in our ages. She looks like twenty-three, though eager enough. containingAs for the famous wages containingOf sin, she can’t have attained Even to union scale, though you never can tell. Her waist is slender and suggestively chained, containingAnd things are going well. containingThe martini does its job, God bless it, seeping down to the dark old id. (“Is there no cradle, Sir, you would not rob?” containingSays ego, but the lid containingIs off. The word is Strike While the iron’s hot.) And now, ingenuous and gay, She is asking me about what I was like containingAt twenty. (Twenty, eh?) containingYou wouldn’t have liked me then, I answer, looking carefully into her eyes. I was shy, withdrawn, awkward, one of those men containingThat girls seemed to despise, containingMoody and self-obsessed, Unhappy, defiant, with guilty dreams galore, Full of ill-natured pride, an unconfessed containingSnob and a thorough bore. containingHer smile is meant to convey How changed or modest I am, I can’t tell which, When I suddenly hear someone close to me say, containing“You lousy son-of-a-bitch!” containingA young man’s voice, by the sound, Coming, it seems, from the twist in the martini. “You arrogant, elderly letch, you broken-down containingBrother of Apeneck Sweeney! containingThought I was buried for good Under six thick feet of mindless self-regard? Dance on my grave, would you, you galliard stud, containingSilenus in leotard? containingWell, summon me you did, And I come unwillingly, like Samuel’s ghost. ‘All things shall be revealed that have been hid.’ containingThere’s something for you to toast! containingYou only got where you are By standing upon my ectoplasmic shoulders, And wherever that is may not be so high or far containingIn the eyes of some beholders. containingTake, for example, me. I have sat alone in the dark, accomplishing little, And worth no more to myself, in pride and fee, containingThan a cup of luke-warm spittle. containingBut honest about it, withal . . .” (“Withal,” forsooth!) “Please not to interrupt. And the lovelies went by, ‘the long and the short and the tall,’ containingHankered for, but untupped. containingBloody monastic it was. A neurotic mixture of self-denial and fear; The verse halting, the cataleptic pause, containingNo sensible pain, no tear, containingBut an interior drip As from an ulcer, where, in the humid deep Center of myself, I would scratch and grip containingThe wet walls of the keep, containingOr lie on my back and smell From the corners the sharp, ammoniac, urine stink. ‘No light, but rather darkness visible.’ containingAnd plenty of time to think. containingIn that thick, fetid air I talked to myself in giddy recitative: ‘I have been studying how I may compare containingThis prison where I live containingUnto the world . . .’ I learned Little, and was awarded no degrees. Yet all that sunken hideousness earned containingYour negligence and ease. containingNor was it wholly sick, Having procured you a certain modest fame; A devotion, rather, a grim device to stick containingTo something I could not name.” containingMeanwhile, she babbles on About men, or whatever, and the juniper juice Shuts up at last, having sung, I trust, like a swan. containingStill given to self-abuse! containingBetter get out of here; If he opens his trap again it could get much worse. I touch her elbow, and, leaning toward her ear, containingTell her to find her purse. |
Quote:
When I was editing Folly I learned that many poets don't know what satire is. Which is weird, because you see satirical humor on TV all the time. |
Quote:
the one kind of "humorous poem" that I really can't stand is the metrical joke with the punch line. The doggedly measured out shaggy dog story rendered into verse. The reason I posted poems above that have many layers and are not visibly "funny" is because I think that humour has many faces and above all is in the style". The voice. I weep for "Folly" there is nothing filling its place. Nothing with such a broad sweep and wide understanding of humour. I think you underestimate what it was you achieved. I have definitely lost heart since you closed shop. Janet |
Here's a Lewis Carroll poem that has delighted me since I was six years old.
The Mad Gardener's Song He thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fife: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. 'At length I realise,' he said, The bitterness of Life!' He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sister's Husband's Niece. 'Unless you leave this house,' he said, "I'll send for the Police!' He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week. 'The one thing I regret,' he said, 'Is that it cannot speak!' He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from the bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus. 'If this should stay to dine,' he said, 'There won't be much for us!' He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a coffee-mill: He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill. 'Were I to swallow this,' he said, 'I should be very ill!' He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four That stood beside his bed: He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a Head. 'Poor thing,' he said, 'poor silly thing! It's waiting to be fed!' He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the lamp: He looked again, and found it was A Penny-Postage Stamp. 'You'd best be getting home,' he said: 'The nights are very damp!' He thought he saw a Garden-Door That opened with a key: He looked again, and found it was A Double Rule of Three: 'And all its mystery,' he said, 'Is clear as day to me!' He thought he saw a Argument That proved he was the Pope: He looked again, and found it was A Bar of Mottled Soap. 'A fact so dread,' he faintly said, 'Extinguishes all hope!' -- Lewis Carroll |
King David and King Solomon
led merry, merry lives, with many, many lady friends and many, many wives, but when old age crept over them with many, many qualms, King Solomon wrote the Proverbs and King David wrote the Psalms --James Naylor (?) |
One thing that stands out for me in the poems posted here so far is how much the rhyming helps with the humor. Which got me thinking, how much really funny verse has not had rhymes? I'm not asking this rhetorically, I just can't think of much offhand. Billy Collins can be funny, and there are others recently. But rhyme is so effective for making the joke snap, as Blake said,
Her whole Life is an Epigram Smack smooth & neatly pend Platted quite neat to catch applause With a sliding noose at the end Doesn't a good rhyme in a funny poem sometimes seem like the funniest part? |
Quote:
Andrew you will be interested in my argument that the old cliché that Italian has more rhymes than does English is a nonsense. Italian endings are grammar-driven whereas English is full of surprises and effective rhymes or near rhymes are infinite. I think that English is a natural language for sharp rhymed humour. That's one of the sad losses to poetry brought about by the unfashionableness of rhyme. Janet |
For Her Villain
Grace Bauer The time that she wastes missing him is hell, though no one banks a fire that has grown cold. And so she thinks she'll write this villanelle. Though forms are things she doesn't handle well she thinks that forcing pain into a mold of verse might help free her from the hell of missing him. If only she could tell the truth from all the lies that have been told and make sense of it in this villanelle her heart might open like a prison cell and she might be released from the long hold he's had on her. Not holding him is hell. She tries to tell herself it's just as well. That even if love could be bought and sold it would cost her more than this cheap villanelle. In this vignette, she plays the helpless Nell tied to the tracks or stranded in the cold. And like a dark-eyed demon straight from hell he plays the villain. Here's his villanelle. |
(I've posted this John Betjeman poem before but it should be here I think.)
Slough pronounced to rhyme with "now" Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death! Come, bombs and blow to smithereens Those air -conditioned, bright canteens, Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, Tinned minds, tinned breath. Mess up the mess they call a town- A house for ninety-seven down And once a week a half a crown For twenty years. And get that man with double chin Who'll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women's tears: And smash his desk of polished oak And smash his hands so used to stroke And stop his boring dirty joke And make him yell. But spare the bald young clerks who add The profits of the stinking cad; It's not their fault that they are mad, They've tasted Hell. It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It's not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sport and makes of cars In various bogus-Tudor bars And daren't look up and see the stars But belch instead. In labour-saving homes, with care Their wives frizz out peroxide hair And dry it in synthetic air And paint their nails. Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough To get it ready for the plough. The cabbages are coming now; The earth exhales. |
In A Bath Teashop
John Betjeman “Let us not speak, for the love we bear one another— Let us hold hands and look.” She such a very ordinary little woman; He such a thumping crook; But both, for a moment, little lower than the angels In the teashop’s ingle-nook. |
Janet,
I'm with you entirely about the rhymes in English, and how rich the possibilities (and realizations!) are. But I disagree about the Italian in comparison. Would you explain what you mean by endings being "grammar driven"? I don't think I am following that point. I think of the long tradition in Italy, going back to the thirteenth century, of jokey-popular poetry, often using rough rhymes--the ones Dante called "rime aspre e ciocche"--harsh and sounding like the screech of a chicken. Or the scabrous poems the Italian poets used to exchange, where rhyme sounds played up the contrasts, the harsher the consonants the better. Andrew |
Quote:
Of course as soon as I search for examples I realise I have made a goat of myself. But I'm sick of hearing English speakers solemnly telling me that English is poorer in rhymes than Italian. I was thinking mainly of Italian verbs but you are right. Italian has a huge variety as well. To an English ear the invariable vowel ending seems less able to exploit percussiveness. I have just looked at two Pascoli poems and they both rely on "o" "e" rhymes all the way through. Dishonestly leaving out the preceding consonant which is where the syllable really starts and where much of the character lies i.e.: ano, are, ano, are, ino, are, ino, ava, ino, ava, ando, ava, ando, ore, ando. Of course they are more complex rhymes elsewhere. Double consonants especially add sparkle. The whole word makes the rhyme in Italian and I have left out the important consonant berore the butchered syllables I showed. The real effect in Pascoli is: grano/ Seminare/ piano/mare/vicino/ compare/chino/cantava/ mattino/ aggiogava/mugliando/bava/Nando/maggiore/quando/Dore. Dante rhymes chosen at random: ati, one, ati, ghia, ati. I realise that Italian rhyme must include the consonant before the rhyme to show its character. English can slam down hard on a consonant ending but we have to go to "ing" or "en" or "le" endings to soften an ending unless a word ends on "f" or "z" or "m" or "n" or "l" etc. Both languages have their strengths. One just has to read a Shakespeare sonnet and then a Petrarca to experience it in exaggerated form. In English I delight in the crisp light consonant ending of words. In America and Australia I lament the blunting of T into D. Something for you to kick against. Janet [This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited July 09, 2007).] |
Thank you, Janet. I want to ponder this a bit - interesting observations.
Andrew |
Apropos Italian and English and rhymes and humor, how about this classic by Cecco Angiolieri and the Sphere's own Catherine Tufariello's translation?
S' i' fosse foco, arderei 'l mondo; S' i' fosse vento, lo tempesterei; S' i' fosse acqua, i' l'annegherei; S' i' fosse Dio, manderei l' in profondo; S' i' fosse papa, sare' allor giocondo, Che tutt' i cristiani imbrighierei: S' i' fosse ‘mperator, sa' che farei? A tutti mozzarei lo capo a tondo. S' i' fosse morte, andarei da mio padre; S' i' fosse vita, fuggirei da lui: Similmente faria da mi' madre. S' i' fosse Cecco, com' i' sono e fui, Torre le donne giovan' e leggiadre E vecchi' e laide lasserei altrui. --Cecco Angiolieri (1260-1312) If I were fire, I'd set the world aflame; If I were wind, I'd blow it down; If I were water, I'd make it drown; If I were God, I'd sentence it to hell. If I were Pope, my pleasure and my fame Would come from scamming Christians well. And if I were emperor, know what? I'd find some necks to cut. If I were death, I'd fly to my father's bed; If I were life, I'd flee from him instead; And to my mother I'd do the same. If Cecco were, as it was and is, my name, I'd take the women who are young and lovely, And leave for others the old and ugly. trans. Catherine Tufariello |
This sentimental verse used to be popular:
Life is mostly froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone: Kindness in another's trouble, Courage in our own. Kingsley Amis put it this way: Life is mostly grief and labor, Two things help us through: Chortling when it hits your neighbor, Whinging when it's you. |
Wasn't it GBS who said: "It is not enough that we succeed in life. It is also necessary that our best friend fail"?
|
New England
Here where the wind is always north-north-east And children learn to walk on frozen toes, Wonder begets an envy of all those Who boil elsewhere with such a lyric yeast Of love that you will hear them at a feast Where demons would appeal for some repose, Still clamoring where the chalice overflows And crying wildest who have drunk the least. Passion is here a soilure of the wits, We're told, and Love a cross for them to bear; Joy shivers in the corner where she knits And Conscience always has the rocking-chair, Cheerful as when she tortured into fits The first cat that was ever killed by Care. E.A. Robinson |
Wow, I love that E. A. Robinson poem - thanks, Mike, for posting. I'm from New England and although it doesn't describe my family, I can relate to it. I get a kick of how in New England liquor stores are called "package stores." And soda is "tonic." Same ethos Robinson gets down here so vividly.
Andrew |
Here are a few of my favorite clerihews by Stephen Fry. Though the form is not metrical, the rhymes are part of the wit.
Elizabeth Barrett Was kept in a garret. Her father resented it bitterly When Robert Browning took her to Italy. Oscar Wilde Had his reputation defiled. When he was led from the dock in tears He said, "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at two years." Ted Hughes Had a very short fuse. What prompted his wrath Was being asked about Sylvia Plath. |
And apropos of clerihews, there is that famous one by Mr. Clerihew himself:
The best thing about Clive Is that he is no longer alive. There is a great deal to be said For being dead. |
Andrew,
That's a wonderful poem. Notice how the passion and important rhymes in the first stanza happen in the first syllable of the rhyme word? Or rather the stresses often happen sooner to stamp out the mood. Hope my rusty Italian is stressing properly? What a gesture! I love it. Catherine Tufariello's wonderful translation is as good as an English translation could be but don't we miss the foot stamp? Love it. Janet S' i' fosse foco, arderei 'l MONdo; S' i' fosse vento, lo temPESteREi; S' i' fosse acqua, i' l'anNEGHeREi; S' i' fosse Dio, manderei l' in proFONdo; S' i' fosse papa, sare' allor gioCONdo, Che tutt' i cristiani imBRIghieREi: S' i' fosse ‘mperator, sa' che faREi? A tutti mozzarei lo capo a TONdo. S' i' fosse morte, andarei da mio PAdre; S' i' fosse vita, fuggirei da LUi: Similmente faria da mi' MAdre. S' i' fosse Cecco, com' i' sono e FUi, Torre le donne giovan' e legGIAdre E vecchi' e laide lasserei alTRUi. --Cecco Angiolieri (1260-1312) If I were fire, I'd set the world aflame; If I were wind, I'd blow it down; If I were water, I'd make it drown; If I were God, I'd sentence it to hell. If I were Pope, my pleasure and my fame Would come from scamming Christians well. And if I were emperor, know what? I'd find some necks to cut. If I were death, I'd fly to my father's bed; If I were life, I'd flee from him instead; And to my mother I'd do the same. If Cecco were, as it was and is, my name, I'd take the women who are young and lovely, And leave for others the old and ugly. trans. Catherine Tufariello [This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited July 12, 2007).] |
Dear Janet
I agree that the rhymes in Cecco Angiolieri’s poem are emphatic, but I am not sure the reason for this lies quite where you seem to imply. The lines here are endecasillabi (which stand to other Italian metres in rather the same relationship as IP does to other metres in English). Allowing for elisions, the key points in the line are the location of a natural stress on the tenth syllable and, commonly, a secondary stress on the fourth or sixth. Despite its name, however, the line may have more or fewer than eleven syllables. For instance, if the final word has its stress on the antepenultimate syllable (which must fall at the tenth position) the line would have twelve syllables, though this would perhaps be unusual in poems of this date. Ten-syllable endecasillabi also occur. As to rhyme, traditionally Italian rhymes are full (though exceptions can be found), rhyming all the syllables of a word from the last stressed syllable of the word to the word-end. It seems to me that the pattern of rhyme and metre in “S' i' fosse foco” is conventional. I suggest, therefore, that the weight which falls on the rhymes has a different source – the repetitive structure of nine of the fourteen lines (a species of the rhetorical figure anaphora) and the fact that all these lines (and others) are strongly end-stopped. Furthermore, this pattern, which is also a pattern of syntax, with one exception throws emphatic weight on to the fourth syllable in these lines and therefore on to the important content words that are placed in that position (“foco” and “vento”, for instance). What an angry poem this is! But so are the few other poems by this author which I have read. I’m not sure I quite think of this as humorous or satirical, however. Thanks to Andrew for posting it, however! Kind regards Clive Watkins |
Clive,
I understood the basics of what you have written. As we say in English poetry, hendecasyllabic. My comments were a continuation of our discussion about the nature of rhyme in Italian and in English and involved the line endings only. Not really sensible in this case but it connected with previous posts. The scansion is a simple matter I agree. I also agree that it's more furious than funny but it is also defiant and impudent which brings it a little closer to Byron. I will return. This is really a discussion about humour in poetry and we had agreed that rhyme is very important. There are of course plenty of unrhymed humorous poems. Here to go on with is a dark humorous unrhymed poem (much less good) by Roger McGough. And even this one depends greatly on internal rhyme for its humour. Best, Janet Let Me Die a Youngman's Death Let me die a youngman's death not a clean and inbetween the sheets holywater death not a famous-last-words peaceful out of breath death When I'm 73 and in constant good tumour may I be mown down at dawn by a bright red sports car on my way home from an allnight party Or when I'm 91 with silver hair and sitting in a barber's chair may rival gangsters with hamfisted tommyguns burst in and give me a short back and insides Or when I'm 104 and banned from the Cavern may my mistress catching me in bed with her daughter and fearing for her son cut me up into little pieces and throw away every piece but one Let me die a youngman's death not a free from sin tiptoe in candle wax and waning death not a curtains drawn by angels borne 'what a nice way to go' death [This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited July 13, 2007).] |
Janet and Clive,
I'm glad you like the Cecco poem too. Another way it gets its effect is with all those verbs in the conditional, ending with ei. Nearly every line in the poem has one - part of that anaphoric buildup Clive mentions. Notice also that these are used as rhyme words only in the octave. The strong end-stops and the repetition of the strongly accented 4th syllable do have the effect of making us wait for the punch line at the end. The poem comes from the comic-burlesque tradition in Italy, usually dated back to Rustico Filippo in the 13th century. Cecco provided comic relief to the great stilnovo high style, including Dante. I took this from the internet (http://www.planck.com/rhymedtranslat...ccosifosse.htm): Dante Alighier, s'i' so bon begolardo, tu mi tien' bene la lancia a le reni, s'eo desno con altrui, e tu vi ceni; s'eo mordo 'l grasso, tu ne sugi 'l lardo; s'eo cimo 'l panno, e tu vi freghi 'l cardo: s'eo so discorso, e tu poco raffreni; s'eo gentileggio, e tu misser t'avveni; s'eo so fatto romano, e tu lombardo. Sì che, laudato Deo, rimproverare poco pò l'uno l'altro di noi due: sventura o poco senno cel fa fare. E se di questo vòi dicere piùe, Dante Alighier, i' t'averò a stancare; ch'eo so lo pungiglion, e tu se' 'l bue. Dante, if I'm head fool it's by a narrow margin, you are right there at my heels. I chew the fat and you suck out the marrow: if I'm the houseguest, you appear for meals. If I seem virtuous, you're canonized; if I hold forth, you're burning to butt in; I'm stuck in Rome, and you get Lombardized— I hang the suit up, you brush off the lint. It looks, praise God, like neither one of us can justly act superior about the other's lack of sense or adverse fate, and now if you persist in this debate, Dante boy, I'll simply wear you out: since I'm the cattle-prod that drives your ox. |
There are many splendid passages from earlier writers that might find a place in such a thread as this, passages whose delightful tartness, whose “attack”, survives their period. I think, for instance, of Dryden and Pope and (though admittedly language may be a barrier for some) of Chaucer, surely one of the finest – and most subtle – comic writers in our language. Then there is that wonderful hypocrite, Browning’s Bishop Blougram who “believed, say, half he spoke” or the cynical Mr Sludge, the “Medium” of the monologue of that name.
Does the “homily vituperative” count here? If so, Ralegh’s “The Lie” might appear. And what about Hardy? Here are two well-known pieces. In the Cemetery 'You see those mother's squabbling there?' Remarks the man of the cemetery. 'One says in tears, "'Tis mine lies here!" Another, "Nay, mine, you Pharisee!" Another, "How dare you move my flowers And put your own on this grave of ours!" But all their children were laid therein At different times, like sprats in a tin. 'And then the main drain had to cross, And we moved the lot some nights ago, And packed them away in the general foss With hundreds more. But their folks don't know, And as well cry over a new-laid drain As anything else, to ease your pain!' The Ruined Maid "O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?" "O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she. "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!" "Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she. -"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,' And 'thik oon,' and 'theäs oon,' and 't'other'; but now Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!" "Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she. "Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!" "We never do work when we're ruined," said she. "You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!" "True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she. "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" "My dear a raw country girl, such as you be, Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she. I wonder if anyone knows Barry Pain’s set of ten skits “The Poets at Tea”? I first came across them in Auden and Garrett’s school anthology The Poet’s Tongue. Here they are with their “targets” removed. Some are very easy to guess, others less so, especially given their date: Pain died in 1928. (Soem lines should be indented, but I have not bothered to do this.) If you do know them (or perhaps they can be be found through Google), perhaps you might stand back and let a few guesses come in – assuming anyone is interested enough. I. A, WHO MADE IT Pour, varlet, pour the water, The water steaming hot! A spoonful for each man of us,” Another for the pot! We shall not drink from amber, No Capuan slave shall mix For us the snows of Athos With port at thirty-six; Whiter than snow the crystals Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires, More rich the herb of China's field, The pasture-lands more fragrance yield; For ever let Britannia wield The teapot of her sires! II. B, WHO TOOK IT HOT I think that I am drawing to an end: For on a sudden came a gasp for breath, And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes, And a great darkness falling on my soul. O Hallelujah!....Kindly pass the milk. III. C, WHO LET IT GET COLD As the sin that was sweet in the sinning Is foul in the ending thereof, As the heat of the summer's beginning Is past in the winter of love: O purity, painful and pleading! O coldness, ineffably grey! O hear us, our handmaid unheeding, And take it away! IV. D, WHO THOROUGHLY ENJOYED IT The cosy fire is bright and gay, The merry kettle boils away And hums a cheerful song. I sing the saucer and the cup; Pray, Mary, fill the teapot up, And do not make it strong. V. E, WHO TREATED IT ALLEGORICALLY Tst! Bah! We take as another case - Pass the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule (A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I place Reliance on trade-marks, Sir) – so perhaps you'll Excuse the digression – this cup which I hold Light-poised – Bah, its spilt in the bed I – well, let's on go- Held Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo? VI. F, WHO GAVE IT AWAY “Come, little cottage girl, you seem To want my cup of tea; And will you take a little cream? Now tell the truth to me.” She had a rustic, woodland grin, Her cheek was soft as silk, And she replied, “Sir, please put in A little drop of milk.” “Why, what put milk into your head? 'Tis cream my cows supply”; And five times to the child I said, “Why, pig-head, tell me, why?” “You call me pig-head,” she replied; “My proper name is Ruth. I call that milk” – she blushed with pride – “You bade me speak the truth.” VII. G, WHO GOT EXCITED OVER IT Here's a mellow cup of tea – golden tea! What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me! Oh, from out the silver cells How it wells! How it smells! Keeping tune, tune, tune, tune To the tintinnabulation of the spoon. And the kettle on the fire Boils its spout off with desire, With a desperate desire And a crystalline endeavour Now, now to sit, or never, On the top of the pale-faced moon, But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, Tea to the n-th. VIII. H, WHO TOOK SIX CUPS OF IT The lilies lie in my lady's bower (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady's head droops like a flower. She took the porcelain in her hand (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost); She poured; I drank at her command; Drank deep, and now – you understand! (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost). IX. I, WHO LIKED IT ADULTERATED Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined, Whusky or tay – to state my mind For ane or ither; For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou, And gin the next, I'm dull as you. Mix a' thegither. X. J, WHO DIDN’T STAY MORE THAN A MINUTE One cup for my self-hood, Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it. What butter-colour'd hair you've got. I don't want to be personal. All right, then, you needn't – you're a stale – cadaver. Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned, Allons, from all bat-eyed formules. An interesting thread, Janet! Clive [This message has been edited by Clive Watkins (edited July 13, 2007).] |
William Plomer, sadly near-forgotten as a poet. This is a metrical tour de force, dipodic throughout. Every line can be read as opening with an anapest. Or every two lines read as a unit (starting from line one, of course) can be read as iambic with a headless opening.
The Flying Bum: 1944 In the vegetarian guest-house All was frolic, feast and fun, Eager voices were enquiring ‘Are the nettle cutlets done?’ Peals of vegetarian laughter, Husky wholesome wholemeal bread, Will the evening finish with a Rush of cocoa to the head? Yes, you’ve guessed; it’s Minnie’s birthday, Hence the frolic, hence the feast. Are there calories in custard? There are vitamins in yeast. Kate is here and Tom her hubby, Ex-commissioner for oaths, She is mad on Christian Science, Parsnip flan he simply loathes. And Mr Croaker, call him Arthur, Such a keen philatelist, Making sheep’s-eyes at Louisa (After dinner there’ll be whist) – Come, sit down, the soup is coming, All of docks and darnels made, Drinks a health to dear old Minnie In synthetic lemonade. Dentures champing juicy lettuce, Champing macerated bran, Oh the imitation rissoles! Oh the food untouched by man! Look, an imitation sausage Made of monkey-nuts and spice, Prunes tonight and semolina, Wrinkled prunes, unpolished rice. Yards of guts absorbing jellies, Bellies filling up with nuts, Carbohydrates jostling proteins Out of intestinal ruts; Peristalsis calls for roughage, Haulms and fibers, husks and grit, Nature’s way to open bowels, Maybe – let them practise it. ‘Hark, I hear an air-raid warning!’ ‘Take no notice, let em come.’ ‘Who’ll say grace?’ ‘Another walnut?’ ‘Listen, what’s that distant hum?’ ‘Bomb or no bomb,’ stated Minnie, ‘Lips unsoiled by beef or beer We shall use to greet our Maker When he sounds the Great All-Clear.’ When the flying bomb exploded Minnie’s wig flew off her pate, Half a curtain, like a tippet, Wrapped itself round bony Kate, Plaster landed on Louisa, Tom fell headlong on the floor, And a spurt of lukewarm custard Lathered Mr Croaker’s jaw. All were spared by glass and splinters But, the loud explosion past, Greater was the shock impending Even than the shock of blast – Blast we veterans know as freakish Gave this feast its final course, Planted bang upon the table A lightly roasted rump of horse. William Plomer |
Andrew, Clive and Michael,
Thank you for the unexpected and terrific poems. Andrew, how refreshing to read someone giving stick to Dante who was such a judgemental character. Clive, Anyone who knows Hardy's novels kknows that he used the banana skin of black humour to destroy buoyant and optimistic characters. "In the Cenetery" is near to "They're Removing Grandpa's Grave to Build a Sewer" made famous by Peter Sellers. And "The Ruined Maid" is wonderfully ironical. It's very cruel of you to have removed the targets' names from the Pain poems. Michael, The Plomer is a hoot. Vegetarian bliss. Actually vegetarians eat splendidly now that the nut cutlet is banished and Asia has filled the gap. What a mighty raspberry of a joke. Janet |
Dear Janet
I am away now for a few days. I'll hold off revealing who were the poets at tea in my post above until I return. Two are Americans, the rest British. I should have thought several were easy to guess! Kind regards Clive Watkins |
Clive,
I was away most of yesterday and am busy this evening but I have at least nailed Poe in VII G. Janet |
Mary, Gail and Susan,
A combination of absence and absent-mindedness and Italian rhyme distracted me. Your offerings are all very droll. Susan, we should write clerihews in Drills and Amusements. I'd forgotten how funny they can be, and yes, it is all in the rhyme. I used to like writing longer poems based on the same principle of rabbiting on and closing the line with a rhyme. Janet |
Can anyone else guess the butts of Barry Pain's parodies in his ten skits about tea posted by Clive.
I cheated and looked them up on Google because I've been busy and was dying of curiosity. I guessed the easiest two of them. Has anyone else guessed them without looking them up? Janet |
I couldn't come up with more than a couple of names to go with Clive's posting. Barry Pain's series is hilarious! I'd never heard of him or them--thank you, Clive for posting them.
On the subject of clerihews, I thought of Auden's "Academic Graffiti" series. As Susan said earlier, the rhymes are what make these, combined with the intentional flatness of rhythm that makes them so wry. Here are a few: St Thomas Aquinas Always regarded wine as A medicinal juice That helped him to deduce. Thomas Lovell Beddoes Could never walk through meadows Without getting the glooms And thinking of tombs. William Blake Found Newton hard to take, And was not enormously taken With Francis Bacon. Mallarmé Had too much to say: He could never quite Leave the paper white. |
A few from my novice period long ago:
Sir Isaac Newton found a tree in fruit, un- der which sitting he discovered gravity. Wm. Blake went swimming in a mystic lake where if we even think to drink we sink. Karl Marx elicited sparks from members of the idle rich class who thrive on knowing which is which class. Sigmund Freud with psyches toyed. Asked what he hoped to find, he sighed: "Never mind." [This message has been edited by Jan D. Hodge (edited July 18, 2007).] |
| All times are GMT -5. The time now is 03:55 AM. |
Powered by vBulletin® Version 3.7.4
Copyright ©2000 - 2025, Jelsoft Enterprises Ltd.