[Martin Elster]

How Pleasant to Know Robert Frost

How pleasant to know Robert Frost,
To perch on a birch tree or wall
Of frost-weathered stones, or get lost
On the way from gold spring to red fall,

To trek down a trail for an hour
Till it splits and I stand there a while
In awe of some fern or some flower,
While ahead of me, many a mile

Calls my name. I discern its faint voice.
As the sun droops, the evening star’s light
Sees me making a critical choice.
A woodpile appears on my right.

Who left it there? I’ll never know.
An enigma, as Frost was himself.
And that’s why I’ll never outgrow
His collection of poems on my shelf.

[Julie Steiner]

I remembered an old thread on a similar topic, but upon examination it's not terribly relevant. (Still fun, though.)

http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/showthread.php?t=5170

[Martin Elster]

Originally Posted by Julie Stoner

I remembered an old thread on a similar topic, but upon examination it's not terribly relevant. (Still fun, though.)

http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/showthread.php?t=5170

Thanks for the link, Julie. I really like your poem about Mr. Sale. Here is another one I just wrote.

How Unpleasant to Know Mr. Frost

How unpleasant to know Mr. Frost,
Who has written of farm and of wood.
We once went for a hike and got lost.
When we got to a fork the man stood

Deep in thought and as still as a heron,
Then examined one path, then the other.
I thought that his head must be barren
As a meadow of dirt because, brother,

He couldn’t decide on which route
Would take us the way that was best.
At long last Robert stepped with one boot
Towards the trail to the west. I was pressed

For time, for I had to teach school.
I followed. My fingers were crossed.
The school sacked me. I felt like a fool.
How unpleasant to know Mr. Frost!

[Orwn Acra]

How unpleasant to know Mr. Whitman,
the exemplar of all that is wrong!
Free-verse’s indelible it-man;
hear him sing to himself in a song.

His poems are quite egotistical –
his meter is shoddy and crude.
He’s America’s charlatan, mystical
purveyor of everything lewd.

His appearance is less than unsightly;
he’s galumphing about in the grass;
he’s eyeing the grocery boys nightly;
he’s a vacuum of substance and class.

He’s an incontrovertible nutter –
free verse’s insidious hitman.
He’s Formality-Dead-in-the-Gutter –
how unpleasant to know Mr. Whitman!

[Martin Elster]

That's great, Orwn! I enjoyed that.

[John Whitworth]

Good for you, Orwn. I thought I was the only person who found the old beardy hard to take.

Further research has reveales re Speccie that the on-line version will in future be available only to subscribers So you won't get to see it. However, I get a paper version at a knock-down price, mainly because I am aso a subscriber to the Daily Telegraph. In fact our household, Whitworth, wife, cat, take the DT daily, the Speccie weekly and the Oldie monthly, or ratherI do, though it has to be said that a. the cat doesn't read a lot and b. that Doreen pays for the actual, rather than intellectual food that sustains us.

Anyway, the upshot is that I will continue to pass on the competitions but you won't see the winners unless the poets post them here themselves to enjoy your shock and awe. Well, I will when I win.

Come on, Mr Greenwell, share your winning effort woth fellow Spherians.
I know it is a work of genius but your overseas readership here don't.

[Julie Steiner]

Okay! This one really is perfectly relevant--a link to Maz Griffith's "On Philip Larkin," published in Folly!

http://www.ramblingrose.com/folly/20...ip_larkin.html

[Petra Norr]

.
How pleasant to know Mr Tennyson,
he frequents a palace I know,
he’s hardly a fellow to menace one
for he’s gentle as lyricists go.

He sups with the royals and sings
so sweetly of lads long ago
But when he gets tipsy, he swings
and roars out Blow Bugle Blow!

And sometimes he gets very flirty:
when he pinches a bum so enthused
he is promptly chastened by Bertie
though Vicky herself is amused.

Whether crossing the bar or the line
he’s Buckingham’s favourite denizen,
as a poet he’s simply divine:
how pleasant to know Mr Tennyson.
.

[Martin Elster]

How Pleasant to Know Mr. Shelley (Version 1)

How pleasant to know Mr. Shelley,
A man I had lunch with one time.
(We had Bagels sans lox at Mo’s Deli).
Between crunches he read me a rhyme

Based on walking one dawn in a park.
He’d glimpsed Venus and heard a bird’s song
More divine than a rainbow, a lark,
Unseen, yet its voice was so strong!

He had found a nice bench, wrote a verse
About poet-as-bird. Quite appealing,
I thought, and said, “Friend, I’ve heard worse.
Suffused with a schooner of feeling.”

Though he drowned in the briny (no mystery),
His verses still live in the belly
Of that mottled blue whale we call History.
How pleasant to know Mr. Shelley!

***

How Pleasant to Know Mr. Shelley (Version 2)

How pleasant to know Mr. Shelley,
A fellow I sat with at lunch.
(We had Bagels sans lox at Mo’s Deli).
Between crunches, he said, “Now that bunch

Of God-fearing folk and flesh-addicts
Has got on my nerves.” So he wrote
Unconventional rhymes, acrobatics
Of mind yielding poems of note.

The next dawn, as we strolled through a park,
We glimpsed Venus and heard a bird’s song
More divine than a rainbow, a lark,
Unseen, yet its voice was so strong!

My pal found a bench, wrote a rhyme
About poet-as-bird. Though his belly
Was empty, his thoughts were sublime.
How pleasant to know Mr. Shelley!

[Petra Norr]

.
How pleasant to know the old Wordsworth
who has put on some weight but is spry.
He’s constantly patting his ample girth:
he calls it his ‘happy shepherd’s pie!’

He dresses in clothes that are yellow,
maintaining it gives him such thrills
to flutter about in a colour as mellow
as those of his cherished daffodils.

He reclines in Dove Cottage at night
writing odes on a couch that is shabby
but he always says, to his wife’s great fright,
that he’s sitting by Tintern Abbey.

Much later when he’s feeling goosy
he cuddles his wife in their berth,
and makes the mistake of calling her Lucy –
how pleasant to know the old Wordsworth!
.