[Marc-Andre Germain]

Roger,

This is a delectable take on Dylan Thomas' villanelle Here's mine on a passage of Dr. Faustus, where I was trying to inflict maximum damage with the slightest stroke:

Was this the face that lunched on thousand chips,
And burned the topless vowers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immoral with a kiss! -
Her lips suck forth my Saul; see where he flees!-
Come, Helen, give me my Saul again
Here will I dwell for heaven, in these lips,
And all is dross that begot Helena.

[Roger Slater]

MY POETIC CREDO

If I could write the poems that made the young girls cry,
the first thing I would want to know is "Why?"

If someone stole some candy from a young girl, we
would call them dirty scoundrels . . . justifiably.

We wouldn't say, "Good work! You made a young girl cry!"
Let other people write that kind of evil poem, not I!

For if my poems were powerful enough to bring forth tears,
I'd write them for marauders, criminals and buccaneers!

[Marc-Andre Germain]

For the aspiring musician for the new Vanity CD collection

Dismiss the scales, declare them stale,
Down with the sharps and flats!
Harmonics suck, so pluck amuck,
Just play it pit-a-pat;
Archaic chords are for old lords
The morgue's where they belong
Ignore the band, be in command
And freely sing your song.

Smash your guitar on your armoire,
Down with constraining strings!
Drink lots of beer, shed tears my dear,
And play it ding-a-ling;
I can relate you are so great,
So play it to the hordes;
A month at most and you will boast
A platinum record.

[Roger Slater]

GOOD GRIEF

"Good grief!" cried Charlie Brown.
But he was just a boy.
No grief is ever good,
no sorrow is a joy.

You'd think that he would learn,
when Lucy pulls the ball,
it's only fun to fly,
it's never fun to fall.

[Marion Shore]

Bob,
How about this for the last two lines?

But cried in vain. He rose on high.
We watched him moon us from the sky.

Originally Posted by Roger Slater

DO NOT GO LUNAR INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT


"I am the moon," my father said.
"I shine on you from overhead."

And sure enough, his glow was full.
The sea and I both felt his pull.

My father aged, and with a laugh,
said, "Still the moon, but now just half."

The years went by, and in short order,
"Still the moon, but now a quarter."

And "still the moon," my father said,
a crescent waning in his bed.

"Father, do not wane too soon!"
I cried. "Remain a crescent moon!"

But cried in vain. My father died.
The sea pulled back for want of tide.

[Roger Slater]

You're not much of an editor, Marion. Your suggestion only makes its better.

[Roger Slater]

LOVE POEM

It's lucky Shakespeare never knew
a lovely woman quite like you,
since even he, the Avon Bard,
might well have found the task too hard
of mining with his magic pen
the spell you cast on mortal men,
and failing thus, he might have lost
the will to write, which could have cost
the world his Hamlet or his Lear.
I'm glad he didn't know you, dear.

[Wendy Sloan]

Brilliant stroke on that last editing job, Marion.
And Bob -- what can I say? You're getting better ... !!!!!

[R. S. Gwynn]

The Road of Life

The road of life is like a river
That runs down to the sea.
It forks and twists and tumbles
And is not straight, you see.

Those who wander down it
Must wade in to their knees
And make an uphill journey
As slowly as they please.

They must follow its direction signs
And stop at ev'ry light.
The current is against them
From early morn ‘til night.

When they reach its beginning,
Its pure and lofty source,
The road of life has ended
And they are home, of course.

[Roger Slater]

This may be what I go with (we're up against the deadline). I posted the first stanza yesterday, but this is the expanded version:



LOVE POEM

It's lucky Shakespeare never knew
a lovely woman quite like you,
since even he, the Avon Bard,
might well have found the task too hard
of mining with his magic pen
the spell you cast on mortal men,
and failing thus, he might have lost
the will to write, which could have cost
the world his Hamlet or his Lear.
I'm glad he didn't know you, dear.

It's lucky that Bob Dylan met
Miss Joan Baez, not you, my pet,
who gave him shelter from the storm
but never truly kept him warm,
or else the answer might have blown
not in the wind, but you alone,
and he'd have made a duller rhyme,
"You did not waste my precious time,"
and all his songs would burst with cheer.
I'm glad he didn't know you, dear.

It's lucky that the road Frost took
did not afford him one good look
at you, or he'd have quit his pen
and joined the ranks of rhymeless men
who all their lives would never know
the urge to lie down in the snow
or what it's like to pick and pick
so many apples you grow sick.
You could have ruined a great career.
I'm glad he didn't know you, dear.

Oh no! I truly think it's best
that you met me, and not the rest,
since I have nothing on my plate
your beauty would adulterate,
and if it's me, my love, you choose,
the world has nothing much to lose.
So for the sake of timeless art,
won't you let me in your heart?
From worthy souls, you should stay clear.
I'm glad they do not know you, dear.