[Jerome Betts]

RAMS TOSH

A lick and a promise of spring
Torments you with visions
Docking wurzels, buttering parsnips,
Or at least trying to
With Welsh ears always so close to the ground.
One has to mention Wales
And its inevitable culture
The expected roots.
Getting the head well down is one solution
The shortest road out of bald hills
And life on the dungheap -
Stratified cow-pats.
Only vague ravens up a cwm
Prey on your mind
As you slump, straws in your hair,
And taste, fed up to the back teeth,
The flavour of yesterday's shepherd's pie.

[Jan D. Hodge]

Withdrawn.

[Jan D. Hodge]

Withdrawn.

[David Anthony]

Originally Posted by Gregory Dowling

Henry, yes, I was being really dense. It was the "G" that threw me. I'd quite forgotten that Gwilym, even though it's there in full evidence on the cover of the book I have of his.

Sorry, David, do excuse me. In fact, it's beautifully done and I feel very stupid. Even the triolet form by itself should have told me. I'll keep my big mouth shut in future. I'd cancel my post if there weren't your answer to expose my dumbness in any case.

The "My Triumph" is very fine too.

In an attempt to redeem my reputation, let me suggest that the initials for Frank's "Alterable Haze Index" are E.A., and the poem being parodied was first heard on January 20th.

--I particularly like the way Henry managed to get the grand old Duke of York into his poem (well, my poem).
David G Anthony

[Gregory Dowling]

Yes, David G. (I'll think of you in that form from now on), it was beautifully done.

This whole thread is a lot of fun. The anagrams themselves are often perfect encapsulations. "Rams Tosh" is great (if a little unfair) and "The Mortal Dawn" is a perfect summary of Arnold's poetry. Love the idea of him texting. There's another possible thread: text versions of great poems.

[Martin Elster]

Ears Ha Keeps

My master’s eyes are wolf-like not at all.
A chihuahua’s fangs are larger than his are.
His voice has not the lust of a hound’s call.
He’s slow of foot, can’t lope nearly as far.
His body’s largely hairless, and his skin
Is lick-able, but bite-able it’s not.
I often lick him on the nose or chin,
Yet he won’t lick me back. He’s deep in thought
Much of the time. He doesn’t play enough,
Though he must know I love to romp and play!
And when he does he’s not as rough and tough
As I’d prefer (he’s far too fine). But hey,
He drops such toothsome fare into my bowl,
And twice a day he takes me for a stroll.


Bro Frets Tor

Whose house I’m in? Well, it’s my friend’s,
Who’s now at work where a pick tends
To patients’ teeth. She will not see
Me sitting here with pad and pens.

I can’t get out the door (poor me)
Because I do not have a key,
And cannot leave with the door open.
I feel like a skiff adrift at sea.

I just was in the shower soapin’
Myself, but now I sit here hopin’
That soon my friend will come back here—
For all I’m doing now is mopin’.

Her house is lovely, full of cheer.
But I have to go out for beer,
And hours to go before she’s near,
And hours to go before she’s near.

[David Anthony]

Much parodied, that one. Here's a classic by Hugh Clary:

Whose cows these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To boff his Bessie in the snow.

My little horse must think me queer
To see me stop and call her dear,
And watches while I furtive make
My path approaching from the rear.

So happy to relieve the ache,
The craving only bovines slake,
I drop into a crumpled heap
Mid easy wind and downy flake.

The woods were lovely, dark and deep.
But I've a rendezvous to keep,
And miles to go before the sheep,
And miles to go before the sheep.

[Jerome Betts]

LITOTES

Or, Mr E's Annual Reminder

(From a manuscript lately discovered near Russell Square)


After the quick reflexive lunge,
The tell-tale digits on the wrist,
The shadow of Aesculapius
Pursues the ritual of the tryst.

The irises are hyacinth
Behind horn rims, betray no sign;
A voice interpolates the Word,
Triune, trochaic, Ninety-Nine.

Murmurs through mastoid finials,
The caverns of the wind inflate;
The veins beneath the pallid skin
Are varicose, vermiculate.

The passage of the water made
And cracked a last emollient jest
Decouchant motion limb by limb
And the assumption of the Vest.

[Philip Quinlan]

He’s The Dug

Mud-sucked.
Stuck on the sedged ridge edge
Up to my neck

In a blast of wind
Would blow your boots off.

They had to get a tractor
To tug me out.

The wife gave me a bath;
Scalded and scoured me like a step,

Muttering “Daddy - you bastard”
Under her breath.

Crow cackled.

Optional last line:

I thought, "Cheeky c**t!".

Sloth Day Man

It was my fiftieth year. Good heavens!

Woke to a pulsing in my battered and unbarbered head
From the spiked drink and the shrill shrike-
Shattered ear
From karaoke.

With painful prostate peeing, then, I took a look
At the clock, not failing to note it was not at all
Too early for work.
Felt pukey.

…

Under the duvet then, that comforting shroud
There I would snivel
My birthday
Away with my pyjamas on the wrong way round.

[Janet Kenny]

I've just discovered this splendiferous thread. What a wonderful idea and what a terrific crop.