[Jayne Osborn]

Writing nonsense verse may be easier than writing about opera, for some of us. Here's the next competition, with £300 up for grabs for first prize and £150 for second. Good money for gibberish... so good luck

Jayne

From DEPUTY EDITOR TOM FLEMING:

For next month please write 24 lines or fewer of nonsense verse; the subject is your choice but the poems must rhyme and scan, and reach these offices by 30 October.
The Literary Review, 44 Lexington Street, London W1F 0LW
Fax: 020 7734 1844 or email editorial@literaryreview.co.uk

If you're not tired of festivals by now, one that might be worth going to is the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival.
It is, apparently, expanding, which can only be a good thing.

[John Whitworth]

It seems to me there are two ways to go with nonsense verse, exemplified by Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear. Carroll goes for Nonsense with an edge. The Walrus and the Carpenter murder the poor little oysters and eat them. Lear gives us sadness, regret, something lost. Carroll is the greater artist, but Lear is probably more popular and, I think, is easier to do. Mervyn Peake does it. We are all sentimentalists at heart, are we not? Anyway, here's my Lear-y piece.

Prurient Tapirs

Prurient tapirs graced our lawns,
Many years ago.
They leapt like lucky leprechauns,
Flouncing and bouncing round our lawns,
While furtive, phantom flugelhorns,
Lamented, sweet and low.
In steamy, dreamy, dewy dawns,
They gambolled to and fro.

Memorious, magnificent
Reflections of romance,
Those pert Perissodactyls went,
Memorious, magnificent,
Through Sussex and the Weald of Kent
Across the sea to France
But what they were, and what was meant
By their perspicuous dance,

I do not know, I cannot say,
I cannot even think.
Alackaday! A roundelay!
I do not know, I cannot say
What made them pirouette and sway,
What made them jog and jink,
Those odd-toed ungulates at play
That vanished in a blink.

[Brian Allgar]

Very nice, John!

As it happens, I also wrote a Lear-y piece (for no particular reason) a few weeks ago. By a happy chance, it was 24 lines long, so it's ready to go ... into the bin, judging by my past experiences with the LitRev. Oh, well, you can lose 'em all!

Irretrievable breakdown

The Owl and the Pussycat went to the Judge,
For they sought to obtain a divorce.
“My dear Sir”, said the Owl, “I’ve no wish to be foul,
Though I fear you’ll consider us coarse.

Our plight’s anatomic; my efforts are comic
To exercise conjugal rights.
With our different bits, there is nothing that fits,
And this failure our happiness blights.”

The Pussycat spoke: “He’s a feathery bloke,
Whereas I’m rather furry and feline.
In vain we have tried to get Owly inside,
So to you we are making a beeline.”

Said her husband: “Your honour, I’ve struggled upon her
And hoped she would prove pussycat-able.
It was useless, of course, and we’re seeking divorce
On the grounds that we’re quite incompatible.”

So the Judge set a date to determine their fate:
“I’ll decide at the end of next week.”
But the cat came alone, though she carried a bone
And a handful of feathers and beak.

Said the Judge with a scowl: “Where’s your husband, the Owl?
Are you thinking to mock or deride me?”
Then the Pussy confessed: “I have eaten the rest,
So my husband, at last, is inside me.”

[Roger Slater]

TRUE STORY

The wind was much more green than red.
The clouds, of course, were yellow.
The grass was pink. The birds were dead.
The monkey played his cello.

The doodles of the stars were seen
in random constellations.
Blue withdrew from shades of green.
The chipmunks manned their stations.

I thought my breath would turn to stone.
I feared my teeth might crumble.
My skeleton gave up its bone.
I watched a tiger stumble

and everything I thought I knew,
the room beyond the curtain,
became a still unfinished brew
of doubts of which I'm certain.

If tales have morals, I suppose
that this one ought to claim one.
But where would I get one of those?
I'd rather have none than a lame one.

[Lance Levens]

Roger,

I like "a brew of doubts of which I'm certain."

[Lance Levens]

The Seminarian's Dream

(A bit of nonsense at the expense of my years in seminary.
Do you scholars think it's un-PC? Don't want the Jack Booted Thugs showing up at my door.)

The discourse, ipso facto, of course,
is corrupt, the scholia are bloated,
for which the ex lax are sugar coated,
a secondary source.

ecce: A majewschool!* Moo! Moo! Moo!
The Jew goes jot, the Jew goes tiddle--
Here’s my riddle:
When is a Jew not a Jew? Are you?

The B Text is the definitive text.
It's taut and it's beloverly.
It’s gimels in sun glasses down to the sea,
Pay-Pal-ing till they’re tan and hexed.

Scrolls scudding across the waters,
my failed pop quiz and scribal screed,
men drooled sweated and peed
seeding revolutions and virginal daughters.

Revelation! a recalibration!
See the whole Hebrew nation
Hip-hopping in Jewramaic
from Gaza to Passaic!

Scribe us new noses you scribal Held!
You vant I should pay you Geld!
Sinuflect without a kosher id
and you might crack your whiz yid!

*Majuscule is a type of medieval script.

[Brian Allgar]

This is rather fun.

A bunny in the oven

I told my baker what I wanted,
Though it might seem funny -
A loaf of bread with paws and head
Shaped like an Easter bunny.

I picked it up on Sunday morn,
A bunny to the life
With golden crust and flour-dust;
I gave it to my wife.

“So realistic!” she exclaimed,
“Its ears so long and floppy,
Its fluffy tail so soft and pale -
I think I’ll call it ‘Hoppy’ “.

But when she turned it upside-down
The crust began to crack,
And uncooked dough began to flow
Revealing hints of black.

Disintegration was complete;
The thing began to waddle.
My baker friend, to serve his end,
Had used a living model.

The rabbit quivered with alarm
That Easter Sunday morn,
Then scampered for the open door
And pooped upon our lawn.

[Roger Slater]

Here's one from my files. I suppose it's "nonsense".


ONE MORNING IN JUNE

In the dark of the sun
by the light of the moon
in the month of December
one morning in June

a galloping pony
walked by at a trot
and brought me my mittens
because I was hot.

I woke and I slumbered.
With feet on the ground
I noisily floated,
not making a sound,

and then I rose up
like a punctured balloon
as the sun started setting
one morning in June.

I know all the reasons.
I just don't know why.
It's true what I've told you,
right down to each lie.

This happened on Pluto,
on Mercury's moon,
one midnight on Venus,
one morning in June.

[Orwn Acra]

I have just the thing to submit.

[Brian Allgar]

Oh, well, in for a penny ...

Apple-blossom time

I had an apple for my lunch,
A Cox’s Orange Pippin.
I ate the core, the pips and all,
But then it gave me gyp in
My stomach. It went on for days;
I thought I’d better nip in
To see my doctor. “Hmm”, he said
“I think I’ll have to slip in

A probe to see what’s going on.”
He checked my large intestine:
An apple tree was growing there
That birds had built their nest in.
He put a chainsaw on the probe,
And then he pushed the rest in,
But nothing could dislodge the tree
The sparrows now had messed in.

He sent me home; what else to do,
He really didn’t know.
The tree broke out, I feared the worst -
Yet I’m still here, and so
I’m waiting patiently for Spring,
And blossom white as snow,
Because I’m hoping that I’ll win
The Chelsea Flower Show.