I am still into Dickens, and a few chapters ago, I read the wonderful poem reproduced below which I cannot shake out of my mind. It was, as Pickwickian fans know, originally written by Mrs. Leo Hunter and declaimed by this esteemed lady at her fancy-dress breakfast. It goes:

Ode to an Expiring Frog

Can I view thee panting, lying
On thy stomach, without sighing:
Can I unmoved, see thee dying
*****On a log
*****Expiring frog.

Say, have fiends in shape of boys,
With wild halloo and brutal noise,
Hunted thee from marshy joys,
*****With a dog,
*****Expiring frog.

I was so capitvated by the depth and grace, that I thought I would try my hand at this exquisite received form (of which I do not know the name).

Alas, my attempt was not as successful as Mrs. Leo Hunter's, and I am sure not as successful as renditions still in the keyboards of Eratospherians. But for what it is worth (one Tanzanian shilling), I submit it respectfully and invite others to create a poem in this form about an animal (or not an animal) to brighten the long winter night of Sweden, Norway, Finland, northern Canada and Alaska and even Iceland, Siberia and China, if anyone is lurking there.

My poem:

What the Stewing Hen Said to the Spring Chicken

As I view thee proudly clucking
Ceaselessly high-muck-a-mucking
Because Old Red and you's been trucking
*****Once again
*****Young laying hen

I yearn to say, you feathered wanton,
raw newness is the sine qua non
for this sport, and Red is soon gone.
*****You'll cackle then,
*****Young laying hen.

Every man (and woman) to his (her) keyboard!

edited in It is not just the form, but the wonderful absurdity of Mrs. Leo Hunter's verse that is so delightful. It is Lewis Carroll-ish, Ogden Nash-ish.

Janice, I’ve found the following to be a reliable online reference resource on forms:
http://www.volecentral.co.uk/vf/

I don’t see the pattern in question listed under 5-line Stanzas, so I think it’s a nonce form. I’ve had a shot at it.


The Unbearable Koala

First-time tourists, be aware:
it’s wrong to say koala bear;
but worse, the beast you should prepare
****yourself to meet
****is far from sweet.

He’s no Rupert, he’s no Teddy;
You wouldn’t want him in your bed; he
sleeps all day, yet none’s more ready —
****and none gladder —
****to void his bladder.

The koala that you fondly cuddle
will pay you promptly with a puddle.
No sooner hold him than a flood’ll
****drench your cell —
****and what a smell!




[This message has been edited by Henry Quince (edited December 04, 2008).]

Walk On With Hope in Your Heart

When you start to mutter, ‘Fuck it!’
And you want to kick the bucket,
Smarten up! Forget it! Chuck it!
Be a man.
You know you can.



[This message has been edited by John Whitworth (edited December 05, 2008).]

When a jellyfish is blobbing
on the sand, avoid hobnobbing
with it or you'll soon be sobbing
"Come sweet death"
with your last breath.

Hatless, shoeless, feckless, wander
gazing here and there and yonder
as you cogitate and ponder...
"ooh me foot"
and you're kaput.

Yes the sandy beach is pretty,
much more so than any city,
but the obverse can be shitty.
Stay alert
or you'll get hurt.

A little off subject but Janet's last leads me to ask if anyne knows this litle verse.

Pity
The city.
It's pretty
Shitty.

A witty ditty John,
but it used all of my rhymes!

What a pity ;-(

Cats might live for twenty years,
Dogs some less; as their death nears
Sorrow grows, a truth appears:
****Owning pets
****Breeds fond regrets.


[This message has been edited by E. Shaun Russell (edited December 05, 2008).]

The Man Who Had Too Much

First of all he was a pygmy
troubled by such borborygmi,
his wife would count each blurp and bleegmy,
instead of sheep
so she could sleep.

He also suffered from the shakes
which caused the woman bellyaches
for fear of losing, with his quakes,
her finer
old china.

He ended up with halitosis
tolerable only in tiny doses,
certainly not in symbiosis.
She was forced
to get divorced.


Mary E. Moore

(edited to correct spelling of borborygmi amd typo line 3)



[This message has been edited by Mary Moore (edited December 07, 2008).]

After Dusk

It’s after dusk when I awake
and exit the cool cave. A snake
in hiding lunges, but I make
it past its teeth.
And now beneath

the freckled face of the firmament,
I locate moths and gnats, hell-bent
on munching till my gut’s content.
With sound I sight,
all through the night,

all wingéd things. At twilit dawn,
the darkness and my hunger gone,
I flit back to the cave, where on
the cavern wall
the children call.

While the last morning star is fleeing,
I hear the one born from my being,
and hurry to him, my ears seeing
his naked form
in this dim dorm.

My son, who’s hairless as the moon,
will hunt the flying insects soon
(no later than the end of June).
Without a plume
he’ll mount night’s gloom.