[Andrew Frisardi]

Janet and Clive,

I'm glad you like the Cecco poem too. Another way it gets its effect is with all those verbs in the conditional, ending with ei. Nearly every line in the poem has one - part of that anaphoric buildup Clive mentions. Notice also that these are used as rhyme words only in the octave. The strong end-stops and the repetition of the strongly accented 4th syllable do have the effect of making us wait for the punch line at the end.

The poem comes from the comic-burlesque tradition in Italy, usually dated back to Rustico Filippo in the 13th century. Cecco provided comic relief to the great stilnovo high style, including Dante. I took this from the internet (http://www.planck.com/rhymedtranslat...ccosifosse.htm):

Dante Alighier, s'i' so bon begolardo,
tu mi tien' bene la lancia a le reni,
s'eo desno con altrui, e tu vi ceni;
s'eo mordo 'l grasso, tu ne sugi 'l lardo;
s'eo cimo 'l panno, e tu vi freghi 'l cardo:
s'eo so discorso, e tu poco raffreni;
s'eo gentileggio, e tu misser t'avveni;
s'eo so fatto romano, e tu lombardo.
Sì che, laudato Deo, rimproverare
poco pò l'uno l'altro di noi due:
sventura o poco senno cel fa fare.
E se di questo vòi dicere piùe,
Dante Alighier, i' t'averò a stancare;
ch'eo so lo pungiglion, e tu se' 'l bue.

Dante, if I'm head fool it's by a narrow
margin, you are right there at my heels.
I chew the fat and you suck out the marrow:
if I'm the houseguest, you appear for meals.
If I seem virtuous, you're canonized;
if I hold forth, you're burning to butt in;
I'm stuck in Rome, and you get Lombardized—
I hang the suit up, you brush off the lint.
It looks, praise God, like neither one of us
can justly act superior about
the other's lack of sense or adverse fate,
and now if you persist in this debate,
Dante boy, I'll simply wear you out:
since I'm the cattle-prod that drives your ox.

[Clive Watkins]

There are many splendid passages from earlier writers that might find a place in such a thread as this, passages whose delightful tartness, whose “attack”, survives their period. I think, for instance, of Dryden and Pope and (though admittedly language may be a barrier for some) of Chaucer, surely one of the finest – and most subtle – comic writers in our language. Then there is that wonderful hypocrite, Browning’s Bishop Blougram who “believed, say, half he spoke” or the cynical Mr Sludge, the “Medium” of the monologue of that name.

Does the “homily vituperative” count here? If so, Ralegh’s “The Lie” might appear.

And what about Hardy? Here are two well-known pieces.

In the Cemetery

'You see those mother's squabbling there?'
Remarks the man of the cemetery.
'One says in tears, "'Tis mine lies here!"
Another, "Nay, mine, you Pharisee!"
Another, "How dare you move my flowers
And put your own on this grave of ours!"
But all their children were laid therein
At different times, like sprats in a tin.

'And then the main drain had to cross,
And we moved the lot some nights ago,
And packed them away in the general foss
With hundreds more. But their folks don't know,
And as well cry over a new-laid drain
As anything else, to ease your pain!'

The Ruined Maid

"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

-"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,'
And 'thik oon,' and 'theäs oon,' and 't'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

"Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.

"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!"
"My dear a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.

I wonder if anyone knows Barry Pain’s set of ten skits “The Poets at Tea”? I first came across them in Auden and Garrett’s school anthology The Poet’s Tongue. Here they are with their “targets” removed. Some are very easy to guess, others less so, especially given their date: Pain died in 1928. (Soem lines should be indented, but I have not bothered to do this.)

If you do know them (or perhaps they can be be found through Google), perhaps you might stand back and let a few guesses come in – assuming anyone is interested enough.


I. A, WHO MADE IT

Pour, varlet, pour the water,
The water steaming hot!
A spoonful for each man of us,”
Another for the pot!
We shall not drink from amber,
No Capuan slave shall mix
For us the snows of Athos
With port at thirty-six;
Whiter than snow the crystals
Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires,
More rich the herb of China's field,
The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;
For ever let Britannia wield
The teapot of her sires!

II. B, WHO TOOK IT HOT

I think that I am drawing to an end:
For on a sudden came a gasp for breath,
And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,
And a great darkness falling on my soul.
O Hallelujah!....Kindly pass the milk.


III. C, WHO LET IT GET COLD

As the sin that was sweet in the sinning
Is foul in the ending thereof,
As the heat of the summer's beginning
Is past in the winter of love:
O purity, painful and pleading!
O coldness, ineffably grey!
O hear us, our handmaid unheeding,
And take it away!

IV. D, WHO THOROUGHLY ENJOYED IT

The cosy fire is bright and gay,
The merry kettle boils away
And hums a cheerful song.
I sing the saucer and the cup;
Pray, Mary, fill the teapot up,
And do not make it strong.

V. E, WHO TREATED IT ALLEGORICALLY

Tst! Bah! We take as another case -
Pass the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule
(A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I place
Reliance on trade-marks, Sir) – so perhaps you'll
Excuse the digression – this cup which I hold
Light-poised – Bah, its spilt in the bed I – well, let's on go-
Held Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told
The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?

VI. F, WHO GAVE IT AWAY

“Come, little cottage girl, you seem
To want my cup of tea;
And will you take a little cream?
Now tell the truth to me.”

She had a rustic, woodland grin,
Her cheek was soft as silk,
And she replied, “Sir, please put in
A little drop of milk.”

“Why, what put milk into your head?
'Tis cream my cows supply”;
And five times to the child I said,
“Why, pig-head, tell me, why?”

“You call me pig-head,” she replied;
“My proper name is Ruth.
I call that milk” – she blushed with pride –
“You bade me speak the truth.”

VII. G, WHO GOT EXCITED OVER IT

Here's a mellow cup of tea – golden tea!
What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!
Oh, from out the silver cells
How it wells!
How it smells!
Keeping tune, tune, tune, tune
To the tintinnabulation of the spoon.
And the kettle on the fire
Boils its spout off with desire,
With a desperate desire
And a crystalline endeavour
Now, now to sit, or never,
On the top of the pale-faced moon,
But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,
Tea to the n-th.

VIII. H, WHO TOOK SIX CUPS OF IT

The lilies lie in my lady's bower
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),
They faintly droop for a little hour;
My lady's head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost);
She poured; I drank at her command;
Drank deep, and now – you understand!
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost).

IX. I, WHO LIKED IT ADULTERATED

Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined,
Whusky or tay – to state my mind
For ane or ither;
For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou,
And gin the next, I'm dull as you.
Mix a' thegither.

X. J, WHO DIDN’T STAY MORE THAN A MINUTE

One cup for my self-hood,
Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together
O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it.
What butter-colour'd hair you've got. I don't want to be personal.
All right, then, you needn't – you're a stale – cadaver.
Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned,
Allons, from all bat-eyed formules.

An interesting thread, Janet!

Clive




[This message has been edited by Clive Watkins (edited July 13, 2007).]

[Mike Slippkauskas]

William Plomer, sadly near-forgotten as a poet. This is a metrical tour de force, dipodic throughout. Every line can be read as opening with an anapest. Or every two lines read as a unit (starting from line one, of course) can be read as iambic with a headless opening.


The Flying Bum: 1944


In the vegetarian guest-house
All was frolic, feast and fun,
Eager voices were enquiring
‘Are the nettle cutlets done?’
Peals of vegetarian laughter,
Husky wholesome wholemeal bread,
Will the evening finish with a
Rush of cocoa to the head?

Yes, you’ve guessed; it’s Minnie’s birthday,
Hence the frolic, hence the feast.
Are there calories in custard?
There are vitamins in yeast.
Kate is here and Tom her hubby,
Ex-commissioner for oaths,
She is mad on Christian Science,
Parsnip flan he simply loathes.

And Mr Croaker, call him Arthur,
Such a keen philatelist,
Making sheep’s-eyes at Louisa
(After dinner there’ll be whist) –
Come, sit down, the soup is coming,
All of docks and darnels made,
Drinks a health to dear old Minnie
In synthetic lemonade.

Dentures champing juicy lettuce,
Champing macerated bran,
Oh the imitation rissoles!
Oh the food untouched by man!
Look, an imitation sausage
Made of monkey-nuts and spice,
Prunes tonight and semolina,
Wrinkled prunes, unpolished rice.

Yards of guts absorbing jellies,
Bellies filling up with nuts,
Carbohydrates jostling proteins
Out of intestinal ruts;
Peristalsis calls for roughage,
Haulms and fibers, husks and grit,
Nature’s way to open bowels,
Maybe – let them practise it.

‘Hark, I hear an air-raid warning!’
‘Take no notice, let em come.’
‘Who’ll say grace?’ ‘Another walnut?’
‘Listen, what’s that distant hum?’
‘Bomb or no bomb,’ stated Minnie,
‘Lips unsoiled by beef or beer
We shall use to greet our Maker
When he sounds the Great All-Clear.’

When the flying bomb exploded
Minnie’s wig flew off her pate,
Half a curtain, like a tippet,
Wrapped itself round bony Kate,
Plaster landed on Louisa,
Tom fell headlong on the floor,
And a spurt of lukewarm custard
Lathered Mr Croaker’s jaw.

All were spared by glass and splinters
But, the loud explosion past,
Greater was the shock impending
Even than the shock of blast –
Blast we veterans know as freakish
Gave this feast its final course,
Planted bang upon the table
A lightly roasted rump of horse.


William Plomer

[Janet Kenny]

Andrew, Clive and Michael,
Thank you for the unexpected and terrific poems.
Andrew, how refreshing to read someone giving stick to Dante who was such a judgemental character.

Clive,
Anyone who knows Hardy's novels kknows that he used the banana skin of black humour to destroy buoyant and optimistic characters. "In the Cenetery" is near to "They're Removing Grandpa's Grave to Build a Sewer" made famous by Peter Sellers. And "The Ruined Maid" is wonderfully ironical. It's very cruel of you to have removed the targets' names from the Pain poems.

Michael,
The Plomer is a hoot. Vegetarian bliss. Actually vegetarians eat splendidly now that the nut cutlet is banished and Asia has filled the gap. What a mighty raspberry of a joke.
Janet

[Clive Watkins]

Dear Janet

I am away now for a few days. I'll hold off revealing who were the poets at tea in my post above until I return. Two are Americans, the rest British. I should have thought several were easy to guess!

Kind regards

Clive Watkins

[Janet Kenny]

Clive,
I was away most of yesterday and am busy this evening but I have at least nailed Poe in VII G.
Janet

[Janet Kenny]

Mary, Gail and Susan,
A combination of absence and absent-mindedness and Italian rhyme distracted me. Your offerings are all very droll.
Susan, we should write clerihews in Drills and Amusements. I'd forgotten how funny they can be, and yes, it is all in the rhyme. I used to like writing longer poems based on the same principle of rabbiting on and closing the line with a rhyme.
Janet

[Janet Kenny]

Can anyone else guess the butts of Barry Pain's parodies in his ten skits about tea posted by Clive.

I cheated and looked them up on Google because I've been busy and was dying of curiosity. I guessed the easiest two of them. Has anyone else guessed them without looking them up?
Janet

[Andrew Frisardi]

I couldn't come up with more than a couple of names to go with Clive's posting. Barry Pain's series is hilarious! I'd never heard of him or them--thank you, Clive for posting them.

On the subject of clerihews, I thought of Auden's "Academic Graffiti" series. As Susan said earlier, the rhymes are what make these, combined with the intentional flatness of rhythm that makes them so wry.

Here are a few:

St Thomas Aquinas
Always regarded wine as
A medicinal juice
That helped him to deduce.


Thomas Lovell Beddoes
Could never walk through meadows
Without getting the glooms
And thinking of tombs.


William Blake
Found Newton hard to take,
And was not enormously taken
With Francis Bacon.


Mallarmé
Had too much to say:
He could never quite
Leave the paper white.

[Jan D. Hodge]

A few from my novice period long ago:

Sir Isaac Newton
found a tree in fruit, un-
der which sitting he
discovered gravity.


Wm. Blake
went swimming in a mystic lake
where if we even think to drink
we sink.


Karl Marx
elicited sparks
from members of the idle rich class
who thrive on knowing which is which class.


Sigmund Freud
with psyches toyed.
Asked what he hoped to find,
he sighed: "Never mind."

[This message has been edited by Jan D. Hodge (edited July 18, 2007).]