[F.F. Teague]

Yes, Martin; I remember this one. By all means post stuff from other threads. Among the many highlights here are 'plants and ants', 'whopper world', 'gulped'. And congrats for the poem's appearance in The Oldie :-)

Ann, yes, I can imagine you have an impressive archive. I like this poem; it evokes several thoughts, some bizarre. Congrats for publishing successes!

Now, worms. Yesterday a poetry-pal suggested I might like to write a response-poem to Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress'. I didn't feel particularly confident at the prospect, but I thought I'd give it a go. I researched previous responses to make sure I would come up with something different. This is the first draft, written this morning and tweaked throughout the day. It still needs work, in many ways.


From His Coy Mistress (draft 1)

Ah, world and time, sir. My, how grand!
The pen you wield within your hand
must surely be a weighty thing,
majestic as the finest ring
a jeweller might produce from, say,
a ruby from the Ganges' bay.
Your ink must rush like Humber's course
as he parades from eastern source
to swirling sea. The flood, indeed!
At this I feel an anxious need
to gather all my clothes and books
and board a ship. Come, maids and cooks!
The water rises fast. Oh, woe!
However will our veggies grow?
Perchance this may require some work
from men most disinclined to shirk
their duties, thousandfold at least.
You must recruit from west to east!
Invest an epic kind of cost
before the world and time are lost.
00The flood recedes; I come ashore
in hope of finding, please, no more
disturbance to perplex my brain.
Oh, sir. You seek to harm again
with wingèd chariot of Time;
I fret anew. I start to climb
a ladder deep within the mind
that leads to comfort, where I find
oases and a cheerful song
of life and laughter, not so long
and, fortunately, free from worms;
your lines quite overwhelm with squirms.
00Now in this mode I cannot think
to sport with one who spills such ink,
which, far from rousing, causes ill:
the preying birds are shrieking, shrill;
the dew is dirtied on my skin;
my soul resists, grows pale and thin
until I have no strength for games
and certainly no instant flames.
The ball we roll was once a sweet,
but now it is decaying meat;
I pick it up, I raise it, sir,
and toss it out to yonder cur;
our sun is sick from violent verse
and romance rots within a hearse.

- - -
Tomorrow: something shorter, perhaps about a stone.