[RCL]

I can't believe they didn't think this was a howl:

Bewitched

Mon dieu! I cannot live with you,
a girl whose dark charms grew
for seven long unholy years
after we said, I do.

Oh no, I must be rid of you,
whose spells would turn me blue,
moving me to violent tears
with magic that you knew.

True, it’s true, I’m leaving you,
who’d melt my mind to glue,
and daily dig my heart out
to boil it in your brew.

Now, I’m going, cursing you,
your tongue a torture screw
racking me to finally shout,
adieu, you witch, we’re through!




------------------
Ralph

[Henry Quince]

I didn’t give them the chance to reject these.
....

Court Poetry

Way back, there was a Margaret Court,
a champion in — guess which sport.
M. Court’s court play was rarely capped.

Why couldn’t Miss Smashnova’s name
boast m instead of n? A shame:
“Smash ’m ova” sounds so neat and apt!

Remember Vitas Gerulaitis?
His name will evermore invite us
to think of some slow nerve debility.

And pity poor Dementieva;
no courtcraft mastery can save her
from prompting thoughts of mad senility.

....
Deconstructionism Deconstructed

Said Barthes,
In literary art
what the author meant
is irrelevant.

Derrida
privileged de reader
next
to de text.

Fish
found a niche
in book production
on deconstruction.

The proper response to Barthes:
an authorial fart;

we never did need a
Derrida;

and as for Fish,
pish!

[Janet Kenny]

Well I never did.

Janet


Should I?

[Jim Hayes]

Janet go to www.poetryfoundation.org click on magazine and then click on 'historical index' and then, just look at who they have published.

Poetry will soon be a hundred years old and looks set to survive into perpetuity having some three years ago received a bequest of 100 million dollars from heiress Ruth Lilley.

My opinion, of course you should.

On a scale of 10 it is rated 9 in terms of difficulty in getting accepted. Only The New Yorker is more picky.

You could do it.

Jim



[This message has been edited by Jim Hayes (edited April 09, 2006).]

[Rose Kelleher]

"Picky" is a relative term. These are much funnier than most of the stuff Poetry picks, thanks for posting them.

[Julie Steiner]

Lines Composed in a Locker Room
Or, Missing a Few Details

My memory's nearing its final hurrah.
My mammaries keep getting flatter.
I frowned when I found I'd forgotten my bra,
but wailed when it didn't much matter.

Julie Stoner

[Marion Shore]

My theory is that they laughed so hard they wet their pants -- then they felt so humiliated they turned them down.

The first of these will appear in Light. The second was in the latest issue of Light. The third is still unattached.

A NEW YORKER’S GUIDE TO THE
REST OF THE COUNTRY

Out beyond the Hudson lies
a wilderness so bare,
that you had better be prepared
to rough it when you’re there;

where there are no good restaurants,
in which to wine and dine;
where they pull the sidewalks in
every night at nine;

where there’s no public transit—
or if there is, it sucks
(they get around in SUVs
or rundown pickup trucks);

where you won’t get good pizza
no matter how you seek,
where service always is too slow
and coffee’s always weak;

and though you may find friendly folk,
and climates bright and sunny,
you’ll never get a decent bagel
there, for love or money.

PARENTHOOD

I love my kids, don’t get me wrong,
but wonder when they fuss and fight
if species who consume their young
might have it right.

THE ANTI-EVOLUTIONIST

“I think evolution’s bunk,”
an ape said in disgust,”
“How could those hairless upright lunk-
heads have evolved from us?”

[David Anthony]

Here's one I wrote for Jim Hayes:

Bearing the News

She heard the sound of banging at the door.
“Are you the Widow Murphy?” Jimmy cried.
“They call me Mrs Murphy, that’s for sure,
but no, I ain’t no widow,” she replied.
Says Jim, “It may have been a fact before,
but take a look what’s on me cart outside.”

[Roger Slater]

I am due a rejection for the following two villanelles:

HONEST VILLANELLE

Here's the first line. It will be recast
and used again before this poem is through.
And here's the line I'll end upon at last.

The challenge of a villanelle is vast.
I started poorly, reader, telling you
Here's the first line. It will be recast,

and even though I knew it was half-assed
I kept on writing, knowing it was true.
And then I wrote the line that would come last.

By now, dear reader, you are shocked, aghast,
and wondering if you have grounds to sue.
Here's the twelfth line. Like the first, recast,

its vapid senselessness is unsurpassed.
It's like a food you cannot taste or chew,
as is the line that's destined to come last.

We can only hope that it comes fast.
We all have better things by far to do.
Here's the first line, thoroughly recast.
And here's the line I'll end upon at last.

*

THE CROSSING
from "Why They Crossed The Road"

I cross the street, and try not to be slow.
I am a chicken with a chicken's fear.
The farmer ate my mother. Time to go.

We live by running. What is there to know?
They seized my mom and cut her ear to ear.
I cross the street, and try not to be slow.

Of those who guard the henhouse, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall run swiftly there.
The farmer ate my mother. Time to go.

We yearn to flee; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm and I make quite a pair.
I cross the street, and try not to be slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; but slaughter is not fair.
The farmer ate my mother. Time to go.

This running makes me nervous. I should know.
What roasts my skin is always. And is near.
I cross the street, and try not to be slow.
The farmer ate my mother. Time to go.

*

And knowing as I do that chickens are inherently funny, I sent this poem as well:

AN IRISH CHICKEN AVOIDS HER DEATH
from "Why They Crossed The Road"

I think that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere beyond the yellow line;
Those that I flee I do not hate
Though they would wash me down with wine;
I hope they will not feel the loss,
Nor do I wish to leave them poor,
But when I found a road to cross
I knew that I could stay no more.
Nor rice, nor gravy bade my flight,
Nor barbecues, nor marinades,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove my fear of sharpened blades;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
It seemed a shame to die as meat,
And so I left the farm behind,
And that is why I crossed the street.

[Michael Cantor]

Dammed Yeats! You know a poet is brilliant when even the parodies sound beautiful.