[Roger Slater]

[Millay rewrites Dylan Thomas]

My father's life, like all things, ends;
He will not last the night.
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --
I wish that he would fight!

[John Whitworth]

From Gavin Ewart

Among men who play rugger
One seldom finds a bugger.
Nobody strokes a bum
In the scrum.

Nevertheless...




Masterly punctuation!

[Brian Allgar]

John, I promise you I'd never come across that one. My thoughts on buggery are all my own.

[Janice D. Soderling]

Roger. Love that Millay-Thomas.

[Brendan Beary]

William Carlos Williams, rewritten by Robert Frost:

Two plums sat chilled in an icebox bowl,
And sorry that only two remained,
I saw the darkness in my soul --
The midnight lack of self-control --
And knew I could not be restrained.

Oh, Yankee farmers' traits are swell:
To go without, to self-deny --
But in wee small hours, they're quiet hell;
You'd understand, were you as well
Acquainted with the night as I.

I should be telling this with remorse,
And yes, perhaps in time I may:
I yielded to that baser force --
It's why I wrote this note, of course --
I ate the plums. This is just to say.

[Lance Levens]

Well done, Brendan!

[Roger Slater]

Excellent, Brendan!

I'm not sure, but maybe in the last line "I ate them" instead of "I ate the plums" would avoid a five-beat reading of the line and place a proper emphasis on "This"?

Janice, thanks.

[Roger Slater]

Mother Goose Does Keats

Mary had a Grecian Urn
Whose pictures made her glad,
Yet sometimes when she thought a bit
They also made her sad.

The pictures did not move at all.
A thousand years perhaps
Gone by since someone made the Urn
But time did not elapse

Inside the worlds the pictures showed.
No change, no end of youth.
One moment, endless, beautiful.
And beauty is the truth.

However, Mary also knew
And did not need to prove
That truth and beauty have no use
For people who can't move.

[Brian Allgar]

Wordsworth also had a go at the Grecian Urn:

I found an urn, still undefiled,
A sort of spotless earthen bride;
How charmingly the thing was styled -
’Twas rather tall, but not so wide.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those
That make no sound remain unheard.
This youth who strikes a singer’s pose
Is silent as a plaster bird.

And all those painted gods and men,
Though they appear to rush and scurry,
Being but works of brush and pen
Are going nowhere in a hurry.

This urn recalls the Poet’s duty
To speak the Truth, or do his best;
There’s something else, concerning Beauty,
But I have quite forgot the rest.

[Janice D. Soderling]

Inspired, Brian!
Witty as per usual, Roger.

Together a bright perker-upper in 2012's habitually overcast summer.