Please check out the first poem in the Edward Lear topic under Musing on Mastery and then write a poem in which you describe yourself, in the third person (i.e. as he/she/Ms.Dickinson/Mr.Lear) in wry, unflattering, or pathetic terms.

Kate, shouldn't it be "I stink, therefore I am?" Or in Latin, "Fogito, ergo sum"?

I'll cheat, since the subject of my poem isn't myself, but I have the subject's permission to post it so I'm not worried about a libel suit.

Bob Sale is one of the few (but proud!) dads who attend our weekly park day (i.e., recess). He homeschools his kids by day while his wife works, and he's the drummer in Eve Selis ' roadhouse rock band by night.

At the time I wrote this, there had been several complaints about Bob's sidesplittingly funny "chitchat" postings and smart-aleck comments being posted to our local homeschooling e-list, because the volume of posts was making it hard for some people to sift through to the serious posts about field trips, etc. These complaints then sparked dozens of posts expressing appreciation for Bob's unique sense of humor, and advising the naysayers that they should just delete anything from Bob without reading it.

That flurry had just died down when Bob cautiously posted the Lear poem for discussion. I couldn't resist responding with this:


How pleasant to know Mr. Sale,
A solipsist extraordinaire!
He's uncompromisingly male.
He's mourning the loss of his hair.

His posts are off-topic and comic.
Attempts to dissuade him fall flat.
Political or economic
Discussions devolve into chat.

His arguments often are specious,
But no one can say that they're trite.
His tone's almost always facetious.
He thinks he's a wit. He's half right.

His dignity's somewhat precarious.
His posts with riposts are replete,
But if they get too deleterious
To sanity, just hit "Delete".

The genial say, "Who's this genius?"
While others respond, "Who's this jerk?"
But even the downright venenous
Admit the man's some piece of work.

Of course, a professional drummer
Contributes his own unique riff.
Without him, our group would be glummer,
Though sometimes his volume may miff.

He's henpecked by homeschooling mommies.
His keyboard's employed to impale
Arcana from commas to Commies.
How pleasant to know Mr. Sale!


* Yes, I know I've mangled the pronunciation of "venenous", which is supposed to have two short e's and a stress on the first syllable.

Julie Stoner




[This message has been edited by Julie Stoner (edited March 26, 2004).]

How pleasant to know Mrs. Kelleher!
For if you're convinced you're a bore,
Recall how few people think well o' her;
Your self-satisfaction will soar.

Her mind is resoundingly vacuous,
Her bottom exceedingly broad,
Her grammar and spelling inaccurous,
Her character hopelessly flawed.

She has kittycats, Bobbie and Fidget,
Who barter their friendship for food.
She enjoys watching reruns of Gidget.
She doesn't like wearing a snood.

She's too lazy to write eight whole stanzas;
five of 'em's all she can manage.
Insert a line here about Kansas.
This verse demonstrates her poor plannage.

Ineptness exposes her poses.
Deodorant covers the smell o' her.
Before she is mulch for the roses,
How pleasant to know Mrs. Kelleher!

Where is everybody?

I guess I'll just have to dangle here, on record forever as the Sphere's only imperfect member.

Move over in the bed there Rosie...


How Pleasant to Know Mr Hayes

How pleasant to know Mr Hayes
though his constant faux pas amaze
but he's ever so nice
when meeting him twice.
(Which nobody ever essays)

He's made it abundantly clear
that he cannot abide Mr Lear
from which we deduce
that he's rather obtuse
and beyond educating we fear.

His metrical nous is immense
(What he doesn't know he invents)
but musing on Mastery
was quite a disaster he
is never inclined to make sense



[This message has been edited by Jim Hayes (edited March 27, 2004).]

Swell, all! Here's one from me. Man, do I sound pathetic!

KATE THE CURSED!

I’d present her, of course, but she’s scared to shake hands.
I’d put her on stage but in spotlights she quakes.
She’s travelled to very few near or far lands.
She’s phobic of planes and agoras and snakes.

She’s happiest when her companionship’s virtual.
She’s made more of words than of skin, bone and blood.
It’s easy to shock her and hurt her. Don’t flirt. You will
nip camaraderie right in the bud.

She doesn’t own pooches or parrots or cats.
She doesn’t have children, she doesn’t have means.
She doesn’t wear high heels or high flowered hats.
She doesn’t eat lobster or foul lima beans.

What does she, what does she, what does she love?
A poet named Hopkins, a poet named Frost.
When will she throw down a bellicose glove?
When she feels undervalued, neglected or bossed.

Which is most of the time when she’s out of the house
working at jobs that require commitment,
a happy-talk outlook when she'd rather grouse,
not turn a blind eye to pervasive nitwitment.

The lady’s a dull, hypercritical bore!
The death of the party, unsocially skilled,
Rectitude's midwife, Solitude's whore—
such was she fated, such was it willed.

She comes home at seven and fastens the locks,
turns on the Sony and unplugs the phone,
scrapes off her makeup and flicks off her socks
and dances a truncated tango, alone.

I'm not sure if this qualifies, but here it is: consider it a pas de deux with Ms. Benedict's narratrix... (Except now that I re-read the "assignment" I see that third-person was mandated, and thus (as usual) I have failed miserably to color between the lines, not even to mention the incurbale optimism that permeates even my most plangent attempts at self-deprecation...)

Fool Sings

Should I sing songs? I’ve got a lousy voice,
but I’d croak gladly if it pleasured you.
Bend backwards, touch my heels? A supple man
I’m not, but I’d do pretzels for your smile.

For just one touch, I’d pen a perfect rhyme.
A single kiss? Sonnets would rain on you.
Or — Dream of Dreams! — but offer me your heart,
not all the world’s words would be enough

because in the dying world there is no time…

I cook, I sew, I’ve learned to clean a house:
the plumbing’s not a mystery to me.
I know enough to run a separate load
for denims when I’m at the Laundromat.

I understand the workings of a car.
I can drive boats. I’ve even flown a plane.
Withal, I’m just a total paragon,
Domestic Virtue looking for a home,

as if, in the dying world, we might find time…

I know you think me something of a clown,
an easy laugh, a friendly sort of fool,
and I’ll buy that — but still, my foolish heart
cries out no less than ever heart has done,

denies the mask, if you would hear it cry.
No words can do the job — or, I have none.
How can I come to you? It makes no sense.
You will, or won’t. We are, or we might be,

here, now, in the dying world. We must make time…

(robt)




[This message has been edited by Robt_Ward (edited March 29, 2004).]

OK. In spirit of fairness and remorse, here's third-person Ward:

Delusion is the Wellspring of Denial

Here’s Mr. Ward: a fond and foolish man
who somehow has convinced himself he sings
better than angels sing, although his croak
could gladden no heart except a bullfrog-wife’s.

He’s proud that he can cook, yet turds like you —
it all comes out the same brown in the end,
and even roses damasked (as it were)
cannot quite mask the stench that of him flows.

When Mr. Ward wakes of a morning drear,
he dons the cap-and-bells and dreams of sun.
He transmutes everything of somber hue
by hoping light is lovely, loving light.

In argument he’s not be outdone,
not any fault admits, nor lacks for faith,
the while ignoring utterly the truth
that his true weakness is excess of strength.

So Mr. Ward strides corridors, alone,
deep in the dusty mind that he calls home,
glimpsing, through rain-streaked attic windows, what
he cannot have, and cannot understand.

(robt)

Continuing Education

Though his collegiate race has been run
he still finds that learning is fun;
from mechanical pleasures
to artistic endeavors,
he's well-versed, but master of none.

Debtor


She laughs when it’s rather bad form,
her clothes are eccentric and strange
She’s cold when she ought to be warm
and engages in heated exchange.

She’s modern when others are staid,
conservative when they are wild.
She defends anybody afraid
of anything, even a child.

She’s cross with the makers of bombs
especially the nuclear sort.
She’s not very fond of sitcoms
and usually hates manly sport.

She hates self indulgent moderne
excuses for writing but fears
hide-bound refusal to learn
any difficult novel ideas.

Progress is something she won’t
believe in. She doubts we have grown
any better: “I certainly don’t
applaud “proof” they’ve recently shown”.

People who build and preserve
and those who see truth in a plant
or cricket or bird all deserve
her thanks in this primitive chant.

She never performs as she wishes.
Inside she’d prefer not to spout
this drivel. She certainly dishes
her share of tomfoolery out.

What she likes is when one and one do
really work and make one that is better.
Cooks, poets and painters, and a few
musicians have made her their debtor.



[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited March 29, 2004).]