in fact, as i like Lister a lot, i thought i'd post this. That kind
of dead-pan jolly formality was alive and well in the 1960's, but
seems to have fallen off the radar. Certainly in the journals,
most of which now seem to take themselves terribly seriously.
Can't see the New Yorker publishing someone like Lister or
Fuller today.
this, by R.P. Lister....
The Snail
The shell is, of the snail, the moving house,
Wherein he walks in dignity and pride;
And when he would be private and carouse
He folds himself about and goes inside.
And there he sits, reflecting on his home,
The masterpiece of his ingenious mind,
A spiral and most convoluted dome,
Fit shelter for his head and his behind.
So he arises in the pearly dawn,
And makes his way at leisure, scorning time,
Across the gravel pathway and the lawn,
Weaving his slender gossamer of slime.
Proud horns bent forward, and his eyes at gaze,
Still bearing like an oriflamme his shell,
And marvelling what little rent he pays
For such a house, that fits his form so well.
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