[Gail White]

HIS LAST DUCHESS

Of course I liked Fra Pandolf – wouldn't you?
He was so kind and friendly while he drew
preliminary sketches of my face,
and this was such a deadly boring place.
I was just seventeen when I came here,
and didn't know my lord was so austere,
I hoped, since he was such a handsome man,
he'd be kind too, but what a puritan
he proved to be! And as I faithful wife,
I looked for small ways to improve my life--
rides on my pretty mule, the cherry trees
I planted in the orchard – things like these
were harmless, surely. And I thought it fun
to have my portrait painted. It was done
so quickly, but for just a little while
I had a friend, and paid him with a smile.
All harmless pleasures, for I'd surely not
be guilty towards my lord...but I forgot
how far a wife is in a husband's power.
He had me strangled in the northern tower.

[Lance Levens]

(Zurich)

So you're just hinting to the count's man that
you did me in and you never mention “fat?”

That portrait rendered by Fra Pandolph's hands
is all they know. I end with "There she stands."

Good show! Keep at it. I've lost some forty pounds
on kale and yak milk. Not as bad as it sounds.

A shame the surgeon couldn't restore
that faint half flush. If it's money, there's plenty more.

Sweet, some things even a Swiss spa can't do.
I weighed four hundred pounds. I was two of you.

I say you scorned my nine hundred years old name.
You should see their look of shock. The crime! The shame!

Don't gush it up too much. And must you imply
I was sweet up front and naughty on the sly?

I tell them you rode a mule about the place!
You? Tub of guts? On a mule? Can't keep a straight face.

So let's keep up the front until I lose
the weight. And you're still shucking off the booze?

Of course, my pasta-plated chicadee--
although the count's munificence towards me

is tempting. The dear man is made of gold!
See you in June. Think slim. You are getting old.

[Jayne Osborn]

What Writest Thou?

“Write me as one who loves his fellow men.
No – wait! That’s still not right. Let’s start again.”
The angel raised his eyes to heaven and sighed,
his patience wearing thin. God knows, he’d tried
to do his job with this Ben Adhem bloke
(whose tribe had increased somehow). Abou spoke
more low – he didn’t want his wife to hear –
“If I say ‘fellow man’ they’ll think I’m queer.
Apologies, I don’t mean to be rude,
but can’t afford to have it misconstrued.”
The angel, writing in his book of gold,
said, “Look, I only put what I’ve been told.
The words aren’t up to me; it’s not my place,
but how about... ‘I love the human race’?”
Ben Adhem thought about it. “That will do
quite nicely, thank you,” so the angel flew
to find the next man ‘Love of God had blest’
and prayed he’d have less trouble with the rest.

[FOsen]

Good point, Jayne about identifying the poems in question. My wife had never heard of 'Abou Ben Adhem' when our youngest daughter came home from school one day and announced they'd recited "A Boob in Autumn" in English class.

As for poor old JHD - very well played, Martin. I have a few limericks, but the only one I remember is:

Joan Hunter Dunn, Oh my Joan Hunter Dunn,
He sighed (he was still swollen-hearted),
When a voice by his chest said, Don't give it a rest,
More like Joan Hunter hardly-got-started!

Frank

[Chris O'Carroll]

The 16-line version of this one didn't fare well at the Spectator, and there's no reason to expect that the 24-line version would do any better at the Literary Review. Also, entering it would feel a bit rude now that I know Martin plans to enter his JHD poem. So I'll content myself with adding mine to the growing list here.

Still Weak from Her Loveliness

The decades have passed and the Aldershot sun
Has baked leathery wrinkles on Joan Hunter Dunn.
Triumphant at tennis and most other games,
This hoyden tricked out with a troika of names,

Still lively, but wizened and mottled as well,
Exudes now a lotiony, potiony smell
As she plays on the tournament ground of her skin
A match no contestant is destined to win.

Promoted from subaltern, sporting more brass,
Having now reached an age to be put out to grass,
I look forward to cheerful walks, holding her hand,
On what once was her father’s and now is her land.

My career was unstoried and I’ll die anonymous,
But that can’t take the shine off ancestral euonymus.
Our twilight, like Surrey’s, is glow bright enough;
She’s still got the carefully careless right stuff.

We seldom don evening dress as of yore,
That Hillman she drove is a dead dinosaur,
Our views about social class, Empire, and God
Strike our offspring as more than a little bit odd,

Yet I still find refreshment in gin-and-lime, tea,
And intimate moments with my JHD.
The racket she presses is warm-handled yet,
And she’s deft still at lifting balls over the net.

[John Whitworth]

I think a poem with the title 'A Boob in Autumn' needs to be written I'm working on it.

And behold. The daughter can learn it by heart.


A Boob in Autumn

The snow was falling when you held my hand
And smiled. I knew that you would understand.

I felt the springtime in my fingertips.
I knew the signs and kissed you on the lips.

Together in the summer’s heat we lay
And kissed and talked and talked and kissed all day.

The leaves of brown were falling. My intention
Was something that I hardly liked to mention.

[Martin Parker]

Chris, a quickie for you from JHD,

Mister O'Carroll, dear Mister O'Carroll,
your thoughts all decked out in dactylic apparel
have shown me that late in my evening sun
men still hold a torch for me, Joan Hunter Dunn.

So, publish your work and let battle begin.
My favours are waiting for he who shall win.
And he who comes second shall not go bereft
for I'll partner him next if he's any balls left.

[Gail White]

There's so much great stuff here, how can we be resisted?

It occurs to me that something could be done with characters in children's poems, the owl & pussycat, Christopher Robin, etc. But I've already shot my two bolts, so I'm putting this idea in the public domain.

[Martin Parker]

Gail, I have at least one Owl and P'cat and more Milnes than I can count. But enough is enough -- from me, anyway!

I agree. If there is any justice, then how can this thread NOT provide the winners -- though I fear an enormous entry for this particular comp.

[FOsen]

Hilarious thread, everyone.

Frank