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Ballad
November 1, 2006
Speak to me of perfect love,
Love that does not end,
Tell me that it doesn't matter
Whether I get old or fatter
Or what fate may send.
Talk of how you care for me,
Though I know you grieve.
Show me something in your life
That you cannot show your wife,
Something to believe.
Fold me in your arms tonight
Let me in your heart.
Fool me with a hope that we,
More than two, but less than three,
Will not break apart.
Only offer what is true
Though we both have lied.
Be with me as I return
What I know you had to learn
Not to die inside.
Yes, I know that nothing lasts
This will also end.
When it does I very much
Hope we will not keep in touch
Call each other "friend."
Let's not talk of perfect love
Of a battered heart.
Since love will not set us free
Then it seems quite clear to me
That we shouldn't start.
October 2006
Infidelity
October 1, 2006
Now the border is open
My feelings cross over, dressed in their best,
Clutching flowers.
The place is poorer,
Given what they have built after they left:
Worn paths and peeling shutters.
But the tongue is familiar,
The valleys still, and the air
Has a certain kindness.
This is where they are from,
Although they cannot live there.
It is, they suspect, who they are
If only they could touch
The dusty ground that birthed them,
Without knowing they have to go.
Sooner than they'd hoped,
The gifts are opened
And nothing remains to be said.
Quietly, in their expensive shoes,
They walk through the dark streets
They now feel unsafe in.
At the fluorescent checkpoint,
They nod to the guards
Who welcome them home.
Somewhere, they tell themselves,
If they work hard enough,
They can forget what they have left behind.
October 2006
You Know What . . . ?
September 1, 2006
You know what I’d like to get done
Before I get to eighty-one?
I’d like to teach a Mynah bird
To say kerwhoosh when it is stirred.
Though some may feel kerwhoosh’s absurd
I think it is to be preferred
When spoken by a Mynah bird.
Plus, it would be a lot of fun
Before I got to eighty-one.
You know what I would like to do
Before I get to eighty-two?
I’d like to track to Sarawak
With Mack, a very hairy yak,
And we would pack a healthy snack.
And when we got to Sarawak,
We’d eat the snack and come right back.
And then we’d come and visit you,
Before I got to eighty-two.
You know what I would like to see
Before I got to eighty-three?
I’d like to meet a crested newt,
Who played the oboe or the flute,
Wearing a double-breasted suit,
Which, though unusual for a newt,
Would make the newt look rather cute.
And he could toot his flute for me,
Before I got to eighty-three.
You know what I would just adore
Before I got to eighty-four
I’d like to make a blue canoe
Of fresh bananas stuck with glue
That we would sail to Timbuktu,
And when we’re through with Timbuktu
We’d slip away to somewhere new.
I really couldn’t ask for more
Before I got to eighty-four.
You know what thing would help me thrive
So I could get to eighty-five?
A pot of tea each day at three
Shared with a friendly manatee,
And we would drink it in the sea,
(For in the sea’s where he should be).
And revel in our repartee.
Think of the joy we could derive
Before I got to eighty-five!
You know what I would like to fix
Before I got to eighty-six
I’d like to fix each lover’s heart
That aches when fate breaks it apart,
And though to fix a broken heart
Is less a science than an art
I think that I could make a start.
For I can think of lots of tricks
To help me get to eighty-six.
You know what I’d consider heaven
When I got to eighty-seven?
I’d think it fun to dance and sing
In summer, autumn, winter, spring
No matter what the seasons bring
(And even though I cannot sing)
I’d dance and sing till my ears ring.
And stay up till it’s past eleven
Although I’ve just turned eighty-seven.
You know what would be really great
Before I get to eighty-eight?
I’d like to know that you, my friend,
Will be with me until the end.
And though, you know, I may pretend
I’m not afraid, I hope you’ll spend
Some time with me and be my friend,
Before it gets to be too late,
Because I’m old at eighty-eight.
I will be like a vintage wine
When I have got to eighty-nine.
I’ll be more ancient than the trees
That rustle in the summer breeze
And though I may fade by degrees
Until I’m no more than the breeze
I hope you will remember, please,
That all is yours that once was mine
Now I have got to eighty-nine.
2005
The Whompom
August 1, 2006
Nobody whomps like a whompom whomps,
When a whompon wants to whomp.
It all starts with a skip
And a curl of the lip
And he lets out a yip
As he does a backflip
And he’s swaying each hip
As though on board a ship
Then he starts to let rip
And you think he will trip
Or at least lose his grip
And that both legs will slip
Yet before you can blink
He has given a wink
And he’s turned a bright pink
And your brain starts to shrink
As you’re trying to think
How he’s right on the brink
Like a skate in the rink
And he’s keeping in sync
While you want a cool drink
Then he gives you a glare
As he leaps in the air
And you stop and you stare
Holding onto your hair
And you reach for a chair
As you offer a prayer
And you try not to swear
For it’s too much to bear
As it’s all you can do
To resist turning blue
Yet you haven’t a clue
Just what you’re going through
But it feels like the flu
(And I’ll wager that you
Would feel just the same too)
For you sit in a daze
Searching for the right phrase
For the whompom’s wild gaze
And his madcap displays
Though you hope it’s a phase
That will end in two days
You are starting to fear
(It’s becoming quite clear)
He won’t stop for a year
And he won’t volunteer
Or let you disappear
Though you feel you could weep
You just can’t fall asleep
(Even though you count sheep)
Till he’s leapt every leap
And he’s bounced every bounce
Or he’s pounced every pounce
When he starts to announce
As your ears start to pop
That he’s going to stop
And he does.
Just like that.
Oh.
Though the whompom’s around
He’s not making a sound
And although you don’t buy it
Rather than all the riot
It is suddenly quiet
And you breathe out and sigh
As you straighten your tie
Though you cannot deny
That your heart’s asking “why?”
Would it really be bad?
Or be really so sad?
You might even feel glad
And some fun might be had
If the whompom went mad
And again made a noise
Just like one of those boys
Who breaks up or destroys
Any one of his toys
And quite frankly enjoys
Doing what most annoys
For the changes he’d ring
And surprises he’d spring
When he started to swing
From the fixtures and sing
(With a ring-a-ding-ding)
All his songs while he’d fling
At you any old thing
And you think it’s a dream
And you stifle a scream
As the whompom’s eyes gleam
With the wickedest scheme
That is more than extreme
And you see his ears steam
And his face start to beam
Like the cat with the cream
And you have to agree
That your heart’s filled with glee
As the whompom you see
Start to lift up a knee
And with hey-diddle-dee
He begins on his spree
And before you can flee
Or count up “one-two-three”
He has scattered debris
As he’s jumped off the floor
Broken windows galore
Run right through your front door
And let out such a roar
That it makes your head sore
But you smile and cry “More”
For you simply adore
What the beast’s got in store
Because life is a bore
If you can’t have fun, for...
Nobody whomps like a whompom whomps,
When a whompon wants to whomp.
2005
The Piffle
July 1, 2006
There’s a village you’ll find on the North Yorkshire moors
Where the people are sturdy and bold.
They know what they know, and they go where they go,
For they know which way the wind blows.
But each autumn as evenings draw in and the light
Grows paler and mornings turn cold,
The old folk call all of their kin to the glow
Of the fire, and sheep to the fold.
They close all the windows and cross-bolt the doors
For a message that has to be told,
It must be explained before they say goodnight:
And this is the way that it goes.
Don’t ever quiffle a piffle,
For it’s never as fun as it seems.
A young man called Cox,
Who could outsmart the fox,
Was found the next morning in only his socks.
Of all of the stupidest schemes!
And now he spends weekends alone in a box
With two carrots, a brick, and his dreams.
So never quiffle a piffle,
For the damage is not worth the dare.
You can swim with a shark
Or go out in the dark
But to quiffle a piffle’s not ever a lark,
If you want to keep all your hair.
All else is like taking a walk in the park,
A piffle who’s quiffled: Beware!
What occurs when you quiffle a piffle?
My child, it’s too awful to tell.
Before you can think
Your nose turns a bright pink,
And you twitch and you stutter and dribble and blink
And your head feels it’s rung like a bell,
And some there are who swear their blood turned to ink
And their teeth went deep purple as well.
You think you can quiffle a piffle,
Because it looks cuddly and sweet.
For it’s made up of fluff
And all kinds of stuff,
But once it is quiffled it can’t have enough
Until all of its quiffling’s complete.
And when it is finished you’re like a cream puff
That’s been trampled upon in the street.
So why would you quiffle a piffle?
Just thinking of it makes me wince!
A postman called Fred
Who was tough and well-fed—
He quiffled the piffle (or so it is said)
And hasn’t been half the man since.
And now when you meet him he just shakes his head.
It’s not him that you have to convince
You really don’t quiffle the piffle.
It’s a rule that the wisest obey.
You can ask it to tea
And be nice as can be,
And sit down together to watch some TV,
And have it come over and play.
But quiffling is asking for trouble, you see,
For a piffle can quiffle all day.
How can you outquiffle the piffle?!
For quiffling is bred in its genes.
You think you are winning;
The piffle starts grinning;
And then you find out it is only beginning:
For piffles are quiffling machines.
I’ve known the best quifflers drop out, their heads spinning,
And live simply on porridge and beans.
That’s why you don’t quiffle a piffle:
The message is simple and clear.
You can stifle a sniffle,
Or trifle and whiffle,
But don’t, in the name of God, quiffle a piffle.
So none of that nonsense, you hear?
That’s all that I’ll say of this terrible piffle:
Good night, and sweet dreams to you, dear.
2005
The Fumiferous Niff
June 1, 2006
The history books tell of bold men and women
Who’ve ventured on brave explorations.
But history fails to account for one creature
Who’s laid waste to empires and nations.
The being in question has been on the scene
When crucial decisions are needed.
Although most elusive
His effect is conclusive
For his smell is so awful that none have succeeded
To ignore what arrives in their nostrils to sniff:
The hideous, insidious Fumiferous Niff.
2004
Fumiferous Niff! Fumiferous Niff!
How history books have ignored you!
In all of their pages
On soldiers and sages
There’s nary a mention of smells so outrageous
They leave nasal passages bored through.
Was it something you did that began the Dark Ages?
Fumiferous Niff, Fumiferous Niff.
Fleet-footed Achilles was moody and bitter
Refusing to fight for the Greeks.
“I’m on strike, I won’t do it. I won’t lift a finger,”
He said (and this went on for weeks).
But then as he lounged on his couch with Patroclus
A scent made his firmness relent.
Not even blind Homer
Could describe the aroma
That forced the Achaean to flee from his tent.
Just what was it made him abandon his tiff?
The hideous, insidious Fumiferous Niff.
Fumiferous Niff! Fumiferous Niff!
Oh, why do you smell quite so rotten?
What chemical brew
Or esophageal stew
Pours out from your body to make us go “pooh!”?
How could you be so misbegotten?
When did you decide to be one of the phew?
Fumiferious Niff, Fumiferous Niff.
When Caesar was courting the fair Cleopatra
He offered her kingdoms and roses,
But as they were kissing one day in the garden
A perfume invaded their noses.
Immediately, Caesar leapt out of the arbor,
“This has to be some kind of trick.”
A terrible omen
Had startled the Roman
For a repellent odor had made him feel sick.
And what was it caused such a terrible whiff?
The hideous, insidious Fumiferous Niff.
Fumiferous Niff! Fumiferous Niff!
It’s you to whom I sing my song.
No epic or ode
Or Lydian mode
Can capture the music of when you explode
Nor purple prose your special pong.
Was it you who caused all of Rome’s might to erode?
Fumiferous Niff. Fumiferous Niff.
Stout Cortez was standing on a summit in Darien
His face lifted into the air,
When all of a sudden his features were clouded
By utter disgust and despair.
For into his nostrils came an odor so dreadful
It brought all his troops to their knees.
No Aztec or Incan
Could cause such a stinkin’
For it wilted the flowers and twisted the trees.
And what made him weep as he stood on that cliff?
The hideous, insidious Fumiferous Niff.
Fumiferous Niff! Fumiferous Niff!
Explorers have sampled your gales
For Drake and Magellan
Knew what they were smellin’
And Vasco da Gama went round the Cape yellin’
“I know what great wind fills my sails.
No wave is a match for the gusts of this felon”:
Fumiferous Niff, Fumiferous Niff.
George Washington came to the shores of the Hudson
His fight in New York left behind.
The fog was so thick it was like swimming through nougat
Of a particularly gooey kind.
But Washington wasn’t concerned with pea-soupers
As he groped his way to the soft bank.
It wasn’t the British
That made him feel skittish
But something more fetid and wretched and rank.
And what made him shake as he climbed in his skiff?
The hideous, insidious Fumiferous Niff.
Fumiferous Niff! Fumiferous Niff!
Americans owe you each right.
For why Paul Revere
Started riding is clear:
To escape the force you had brought up from the rear,
That stirred all the Yankees to fight.
“We’re revolting because of the Niff,” rose the cheer:
“Fumiferous Niff! Fumiferous Niff!”
I hope I have proved in this cursory lesson
That all is not what it appears.
A nose for the moment can be most important
Lest all accounts end in arrears.
Remember the Niff when you read up on history
Keep open your nostrils to sense.
And so ends this coda,
This homage to odor
That inflates the ego and aerates the soda
And may well incense someone with its incense.
The answer when anyone asks you, “What if . . . ?”:
The hideous, insidious Fumiferous Niff.
2004
The Balderdash
May 1, 2006
The balderdash is bold and brash,
He thinks he’s very clever.
He has a pendulous moustache
Named after his dad, Trevor.
He thinks he wears it with panache,
He boasts, “How glam I am!”
Though his moustache is stained with mash
And bits of strawberry jam.
The balderdash is known to crash
The most exclusive groups,
He’ll force his way into a bash
And dribble in the soups.
When others sip champagne, he’ll gnash
On gravel mixed with sludge,
And chew on coffee grounds and hash
And moldy melon fudge.
The balderdash won’t lend you cash,
No matter how you ask it.
He’d rather sleep in heaps of trash
Piled in a laundry basket,
He’d rather have a nasty gash
And pick the scab each day,
He’d rather splash in cold goulash
Than give his stash away.
What makes the balderdash so rash,
So rude, so crude, so mean?
Why does he like to slash and smash
And always make a scene?
No one can say, for it is rash
To ask him what is eating him.
For he’ll abash, and flail and thrash
All those who are entreating him.
So, children, heed the balderdash,
His vanity and ire:
For how you act can sometimes clash
With what you most desire.
If you would like to cut a dash
Then don’t do it with bile.
For life is over in a flash:
So live it with a smile!
2004
The Bibble
April 1, 2006
How big is the bibble?
I’ll tell you how big.
As big as the telescope named after Hubble,
As big as the biggest of numbers—then double,
If it gets much bigger, we’ll all be in trouble:
As big as the thingamajig.
So big it might burst like a humungous bubble.
That’s how big the bibble is:
That big.
But what does it look like?
I’m glad to disclose.
Its body’s the shape of a two-seater plane,
With the tail of a donkey and beak of a crane.
I’ve heard that it doesn’t go out in the rain,
On account of a cold in its nose.
(And why it does that is too hard to explain),
But that’s what it looks like:
Like that.
How round is the bibble?
I’ll tell you how round.
As round as old Uncle Jim’s calico cat,
As round as the stain when you drop your juice—splat!
If it gets much rounder, then I’ll eat my hat
With peppercorns carefully ground.
And I’ll bet you cannot get rounder than that.
That’s how round the bibble is:
That round.
But what does it sound like?
I’m glad you inquired.
It burbles and babbles like rivers and springs,
It gurgles and giggles at all sorts of things,
It mumbles and murmurs and moans when it sings,
But only if it is inspired.
I’ve heard that it sounds like a phone when it rings.
Yes, that’s what it sounds like:
Like that.
How tall is the bibble?
I’ll tell you how tall.
As tall as a giant you’d find in a fable.
As tall as the tales told by great Auntie Mabel,
If it gets much taller, we’ll need a new table:
And you know our table’s not small.
As tall as the biblical Tower of Babel:
That’s how tall the bibble is:
That tall.
But what does it smell like?
How strange you should ask!
It smells like an apricot left in the sun,
It smells like a nose that has started to run,
It smells like a fourteen-day-old currant bun
When it’s pickled in brine in a cask.
If you are downwind of it, it isn’t fun.
And that’s what it smells like.
Like that.
How deep is the bibble?
I’ll tell you how deep.
As deep as the sounds of the whales in the sea,
As deep as the roots of the most ancient tree,
If it gets much deeper we’ll charge it a fee,
Or start feeling drowsy and sleep.
And sleep can be deep, as I think you’ll agree.
That’s how deep the bibble is:
That deep.
What! You don’t believe me? You think it’s a lie?
You think what I’ve said isn’t true?
I’m shocked! I’m astounded! You might make me cry—
And that is a mean thing to do.
It’s clear that the bibble exists and is real
For it’s staring you right in the face.
The bibble is what you imagine and feel
No matter the time or the place.
Just imagine the bibble wherever you are:
On land, in the air, or at sea.
It could be right next to you or be quite far,
Wherever you want it to be.
And that’s what the bibble is, that’s what it is:
The wonderful bibble, your friend.
I’ll wish you goodnight with a bibblish hug,
And sweet dreams to your bibble. The End.
2004
The Biting Riposte
March 1, 2006
On a cold, foggy night in the year of our Lord
Twelve hundred and seventy-three
A messenger ran to the gates of a castle
That stood by the cold, foggy sea.
He called in a voice full of terror and dread,
“Let me in, for I must see the king!
I have come from the fen:
He has risen again
And he’s going to be here, but heaven knows when—
This ghastly and terrible thing!
So call all your knights before everything’s lost:
It’s the Biting Riposte! The Biting Riposte!”
2004
“Oh no,” said the king when he heard of the news,
“I really don’t know what to do.
Sir Cumfrance is fighting the jubjub at seven
And rounds up the fraction at two.
Sir Real is battling the gryphon today
And Sir Parce is off wrestling the roc.
And Sir Fari’s on leave
With Sir Prising-Reprieve
And Sir Tutter’s got flu like you wouldn’t believe:
I tell you I’m somewhat in shock.
For I’ve seen what can happen—I know to my cost—
If you mix it up with the Biting Riposte.”
“ ‘Twas five and ten years ago,” muttered the king,
“I’d just become king that same day.
The Biting Riposte had been banned from the gala
For who could tell what he might say?
Yet, raging, he came to the barracks to barrack
And everyone froze in their seat.
His bitter declaiming,
Untamable maiming,
The flaming and blaming and naming and shaming,
Laid everyone low in defeat.
So much for the gala!—for who could accost
The bilious, villainous Biting Riposte?”
“I have an idea,” said the queen by his side,
“It’s desperate, but it might work.
There’s yet one more knight of the realm who’s around,
Although he’s a bit of a jerk.”
“Not him,” said the king, “Oh yes, him,” said the queen,
“What choice do you have? Tell me what?
Although it is drastic
And far from fantastic
Our hope has to rest with the skills of Sir Castic:
I tell you he’s all that we’ve got.
To whom will you turn when the moat has been crossed?
Do you want to talk with the Biting Riposte?”
The alarum was sounded, the messengers sent;
Sir Castic was brought to the king.
The monarch related the news to the knight
And asked him what hope he could bring.
“I’m not in the business of hope,” the knight sneered,
“I’ll do what I can and no more.
I’ll meet him at three
Near the old linden tree
And we’ll see who’s the better at quick repartee,
The master of all metaphor.
For my satire is honed, my thesaurus embossed:
I’m ready to spar with the Biting Riposte.”
And so it occurred in the year of our Lord
Twelve hundred and seventy-three,
That the Biting Riposte met Sir Castic the knight,
In the shade of the old linden tree:
To engage in a contest the strangest yet seen
For neither had weapons nor shield.
But armed with their wit
And their polish and spit
They’d parry and thrust till their infinitives split,
And one or the other would yield.
All barbs would be thrown out, all insults be tossed:
Sir Castic at war with the Biting Riposte.
Sir Castic tried irony, scorn and contempt,
Disdain and the sharpest invective.
But the Biting Riposte with a lash of his tongue
Made each cutting remark ineffective.
The Biting Riposte was sardonic and cruel
His manner was surly and curt.
But even his smirk
(Which made grown men berserk)
Sir Castic laughed off and cried out, “That won’t work!
Do you think I’m so easily hurt?
I’ve dotted my ‘i’s and my ‘t’s have been crossed:
Try spelling ‘impregnable,’ Biting Riposte.”
For twenty long hours they jabbed at each other;
Their egos were blackened and blue.
Then the Biting Riposte said, “Sir Castic, I fear
That we’ve proved that the maxim is true.”
“What’s that?” said Sir Castic, attempting a gibe,
But dribbling instead on his shoes.
“That acting superior
Makes everyone wearier,
What’s more it makes living decidedly drearier.
Does either of us have to lose?
I suggest that we both let our feelings defrost,
It’s hard always being the Biting Riposte.”
* * *
(It’s here that the tale of the Biting Riposte
And his fight with Sir Castic the knight
Splits into two versions that scholars have studied
And no one can tell which is right.
For some, the one ending seems crude and amoral
The other simplistic and pat.
I’ll leave it to you
To decide which is true,
And trust that on reading you’ll know what to do,
And that, as they say, will be that:
After all, we’re not talking about Robert Frost.
Now here are the ends of “The Biting Riposte”.)
I
Sir Castic responded, “You may have a point,
It’s a pain being awful and spiteful.
Let’s call it a day, throw our satire away
And return to the king before nightfall.
We’ll say we’ve decided to stop our enjoyment
Of poisonous vituperation.
Our words will be sweet,
And our manner discreet,
And we’ll give every day for the man in the street
The very best kind of oration.
For I’ve gained much more joy than I would had you lost,
By being a friend with the Biting Riposte.”
And so it transpired, in the year of the Lord,
Twelve hundred and seventy-three,
That Sir Feit of Good Will (as the knight was now called)
Made a friend who was nice as can be.
The moral is clear (if you wish to discern it):
It’s best to be kind and not cruel.
For fighting and warring
And verbal point-scoring
Are in the end quite astronomically boring
And what’s more they’re very uncool.
So remember the tale, now the moral’s been glossed,
Of Sir Castic the knight and the Biting Riposte.
II
Sir Castic responded, “You may have a point
It’s costing too much to be spiteful.
Let’s hurry away, get an agent today,
And get us some gigs before nightfall.
It’s clear that our wit is no good on each other
Combined we can further our station.
We’ll team up together
Like birds of a feather,
And argue and bicker whatever the weather
For all who reside in the nation.
And we’ll do it for pay, to regain what we’ve lost:
We’ll be the first double-act, Biting Riposte.”
And so it transpired, in the year of our Lord,
Twelve hundred and seventy-three,
That the two sparring partners went out on the road
And quibbled and cursed for a fee.
The moral is clear (if you wish to discern it):
That insults are very unfunny.
For verbal point-scoring
Is useless and boring
Unless you’ve a script and the stomach for touring
And then you can rake in the money.
And so ends the tale (a small fortune it cost)
Of Sir Castic the knight and the Biting Riposte.
The Dudgeon
February 1, 2006
From Kowloon in China to South Carolina
From Dar es Salaam back to Nome,
I’ve searched for the treasure of infinite pleasure
A place that I could call my home.
I’ve built an adobe and lived in the Gobi
Yet somehow it lacked true emotion.
Although it’s much wetter, it’s water that’s better:
The best fun is had in the ocean.
The ocean? The ocean!
Now what a peculiar notion!
Though eagles are charming, they’re somewhat alarming
And chaffinches can be quite haughty,
While elands and antelopes love stealing cantaloupes
They look askance if you’re naughty.
The result is that air and land can be quite bare and bland,
If looking for unbounded glee.
But being with fishes is simply delicious
So let’s all go down to the sea,
The sea! You’ll see.
You don’t have to take it from me.
The skate as a date or a mate can be great,
And the shark is urbane and polite.
While the scrod are a riot, the cod are more quiet
But come into their own at night.
The salmon is funny and so is the tunny
The lobsters and limpets agree.
If humor you wish for, then hang with a fish more
It’s just much more fun in the sea.
The sea? Mais oui!
To be in the sea is a spree!
The herring, when pickled, just loves to be tickled;
And’s always fair game for a joke;
The sleek barracuda, though sometimes a brooder,
I know is a jolly good bloke;
But one of the fishes is moody and vicious
All slimy and grimy with sludge on,
Complaining and grumbling and whining and mumbling
It’s known in the sea as a dudgeon.
The dudgeon? Yes, dudgeon!
An obnoxious, annoying curmudgeon.
The dudgeon is gloomy, his breath stale and rheumy,
His mouth angles down in a droop.
His eyes are all squinty, his manner is flinty
He won’t join the groupers for soup.
No shoal will induct him, no school will instruct him,
It’s something that they will not budge on.
This unpleasant piscine with uncertain hygiene
Whose character has such a smudge on.
A smudge on the dudgeon?
What happened to bring such a grudge on?
The eel thinks the dudgeon insulted the gudgeon
Who made a big noise to the trout.
The truth is that no fish, including the blowfish,
Remembers how this came about.
So when a brave small fry inquires of them all “Why?
Why not let the dudgeon come play?”
With a gasp, every one fish, including the sunfish,
Shouts, “What are you trying to say?”
“Let him play?” yells the stingray.
“I won’t let that happen. No way!”
The small fry, while downcast, does not let her frown last,
And cries, “I’ll decide for myself.”
She dives to the deeps, where Leviathan sleeps,
And the dudgeon repines on a shelf.
She says to the dudgeon, “You may have some sludge on,
You may be all grouchy and gray.
But, though you are grumpy (and just a bit lumpy),
I’d like you to join me and play.
OK? Whaddya say?
You know, it would quite make my day.”
The dudgeon’s astounded, bamboozled, confounded:
“I really don’t know what to say.”
I thought that I couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—no shouldn’t—
Ask anyone if I could play.
I’ve been such a bad dude because of my sad mood
And no one could ever tell why.
When all that I needed was just to be heeded
It’s you that has done that, small fry.
Oh, my! Say I.
Think what you can do if you try!”
Then what a commotion is heard in the ocean:
“The dudgeon? The dudgeon’s OK?
He’s not going to bore us, insult or ignore us,
The dudgeon is going to play?”
“Why, yes,” says the small fry, “he’s been the old fall guy
For longer than he can recall.
He wants to be friends with us, and make amends with us,
Whether we float, glide, or crawl.
So, let’s all, big or small,
Stop shunning him and have a ball.”
Then up comes the dudgeon, no longer with smudge on,
All shiny and silvery sleek.
“My friends, I’m a new fish, a trusted and true fish,
Now let’s all go play hide and seek.”
Together the fishes indulge in their wishes
For frolic and fun without end.
Thus leaving the coral to offer the moral:
“If a happy life you want to spend,
Don’t offend; just unbend:
You might just make a band-new friend.”
2004
The Lachrymoose
January 1, 2006
On summer days at half-past three
Each animal in Tennessee
Leaves its lair or den or tree
To gather in a woodland glade
And have a picnic in the shade.
Nudge the badger, Fink the rat,
Pin the hedgehog, Slink the cat,
And Tuck the squirrel chew the fat.
Marquette the bear, who loves to bake,
Makes an enormous walnut cake.
But once upon a time, it’s said,
One chair was empty while all fed.
Each woodland creature scratched its head
When this went on day after day.
Who was the one that stayed away?
Who was this, missing from the throng?
And why would he not come along?
Did he not like Lapsang Souchong?
Though there was always food to spare,
This picnicker was never there.
Just who was this ungrateful beast?
Who never showed up at the feast?
Who never sent a note, at least?
What animal was so obtuse?
None other than the lachrymoose.
The lachrymoose is big and hairy
At times, he looks a little scary,
He makes the cassowary wary.
When he swings his mighty tail
Even the toughest quails quail.
Now, as a rule, the lachrymoose
Is just as harmless as a goose,
Loves cakes and tea and cranberry juice.
So something must have gone quite wrong
For him to miss buns and Oolong.
A lachrymoose is known to prance,
He likes to skip, he loves to dance,
To gambol needs no second chance.
Yet neither song nor marmalade,
Could lure the loner to the glade.
What did the creature do instead?
He lifted up his shaggy head,
And made a noise to wake the dead.
Each day at three come rain or shine
He bawled and wept till half past nine.
You’ve never heard such dreadful moans.
The sighs! The sobs! The sniffs! The groans!
The “woe is me’s”! The endless drones!
The ghastly noise of such imploring
Was like a million bullfrogs snoring.
Each time they heard the doleful roar,
Each Tennessean locked his door.
Shut up his windows, caulked the floor,
Filled in the holes and spackled cracks,
And blocked his ears with sealing wax.
What was the reason for this sighing?
Why, you ask (if it’s not prying),
Was the lachrymoose still crying,
When he could be drinking tea
With his friends in Tennessee?
Unrequited love, of course,
Love that had a single source:
Love for the haughty lachrymorse,
Who for such love stuff had no use,
Especially from a lachrymoose.
The lachrymorse was tall and thin
With eyes of blue and dimpled chin,
She had the oddest color skin!
On weekdays it was bright chartreuse
On weekends it was teal and puce.
From curly tail to shining mane,
This lachrymorse was very vain
And treated all with great disdain:
“Of all the folk of Tennessee,
None looks as half as good as me.”
Now, I think we can all agree
Such sentiments don’t guarantee
Instant popularity.
Vanity is not a feature
Admirable in any creature.
But love you know’s a funny feeling,
It sends even the proudest reeling.
That’s what makes it so appealing.
Just when you think love is for losers
Along comes lots of lachrymooses.
Till then, the lachrymorse had been
Poised, elegant, refined, serene:
The essence of a beauty queen.
She’d only thought the lachrymoose
Someone to mock with mean abuse.
But on one afternoon in May,
As all the creatures drank Earl Grey
Except for two, who stayed away,
She heard the lachrymoose’s cries,
And found that tears were in her eyes.
Perhaps it was the leaf-filled trees,
Perhaps a sighing in the breeze,
Perhaps some undigested peas.
She felt her heart go pitter patter.
What on earth could be the matter?
Suddenly, the lachrymorse
Experienced a powerful force
From which to escape she’d no recourse.
And as her eyes began to glisten
All that she could do was listen.
Before she knew it, love had hit her.
What once was sweet had now turned bitter.
Oh! How she loved the lonesome critter!
The lachrymoose whom she’d had hate for.
Was now one whom she’d cross the state for.
All the grunts that had appalled her?
Now she found they quite enthralled her.
Indeed, she felt his singing called her.
The one of whom she’d said, “How frightful!”
She knew she had to see ‘fore nightfall.
The sighs and sniffles seemed a psalm.
The boo hoo hoos? A soothing balm.
The waahs? The still, small voice of calm.
What had annoyed each Tennessean:
To the lachrymorse? A paean.
She had to find him, find him quick,
She couldn’t keep on feeling sick.
To be with him would do the trick.
So off (as best she could) she trotted
Until the lachrymoose she spotted.
On glimpsing her dear lachrymoose,
Her stomach leaped, her limbs went loose.
She called to him: “There’s no excuse!
How could I have so disavowed
Someone who loves me, though I’m proud?
“How wrong was I, how wrong, how wrong!
How dare I scorn your lover’s song!
It’s by your side that I belong.
Could I be yours—your lachrymorse?”
The lachrymoose replied, “Of course.”
And then you should have heard the applause.
Everyone unlocked their doors,
Pulled up their blinds, got off their floors.
And stepping outside to relax
Picked clean their ears of sealing wax.
At ten past noon one week in June,
The couple said their vows, and soon
Went off to enjoy their honeymoon.
They pledged their love with jam on rye
Two croissants and a pot of chai.
Now every day at half past three
Each animal in Tennessee
Brings extra bags of Chinese tea
And value packs of cranberry juices
For the little lachrymooses.
The moral of this little ditty?
You could be plain, you could be pretty.
You could live in the woods or city:
It doesn’t matter, for it’s true—
There’s always someone just for you.
There’s always someone who will be
A friend for all eternity,
Who’ll bake you cakes and make you tea.
So when you think, “Oh, what’s the use?”
Just bring to mind the lachrymoose.
2004
Reflections on Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk
December 1, 2005
From my friend Steven Rhodes come the following:
By faint light, through the thick, dark grey, chintz
We'll take tea, as we tighten our splints.
There's no joy, as we feed
On cold pickled swede,
Served atop a dry, brown, week-old blintz.
Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk as a two star country house hotel
The roads to 'The Salt Mines' are foul
Where the patrons all stumble, and howl
At night in our beds
We'll get 'one of our ''heads'' '
And the turnkeys are peevish, and scowl.
June 2004
Euclid
November 1, 2005
While squaring the sine of the ratio
Euclid turned to his lover Horatio.
"This damnable theory,
Has left me quite weary.
Oh sod it, let's practice fellatio."
May 2004
Gloria Steinem
October 1, 2005
The feminist Gloria Steinem
Told men of their wives, "Don't confine 'em.
But, careworn and harried,
She ended up married.
In the end, if you can't beat 'em, jine 'em.
April 2004
Lord of the Rings: A Summary
September 1, 2005
An elf, several hobbits, some Ents
With a wizard, a dwarf and some gents
Get rid of a ring
And bring back a king
And none of it makes any sense.
March 2004
Aristotle
August 1, 2005
A scholar once asked Aristotle
Which sage he would (if he could) throttle.
He said, "If I had liberty
I'd poison th' Academy,
But, frankly, I haven't the bottle.
February 2004
Henry James
July 1, 2005
Henry James, with a short story due,
Partook of the oenophile's brew.
One whiff of th'uncorked,
His mind was untorqued,
And out came The Turn of the Screw.
January 2004
Saddam Hussein: A Reflection
June 1, 2005
The U.S. have captured Hussein
And claimed that we're winning again
But now this Iraqi
Is acting all snarky:
There's always no gain with a pain.
December 2003
How to Run for President
May 1, 2005
You may have been born smart yet poor,
You may have been brave in a war.
But you can't be bettered
If you are four-lettered
Whether Taft, Ford, Bush, Dole, Dean, or Gore.
Spring 2004
On Tigers
April 1, 2005
The tigers are getting bad press
As dangerous creatures, no less.
But it is our species
That's tearing to pieces
The planet, and causing duress.
The answer is not bigger cages
To hold in their stress-induced rages.
It's letting them run free
Without making money
For anything less is outrageous.
October 2003
Swimmers
March 1, 2005
Swimming is his idea, but she goes with him
To see if it would make a difference.
She starts and stops, while he maintains a rhythm
That leaves her with herself and with a love
(Or what she took for love)
Dissolving in its bold indifference.
Her body laps around her, but all thought
Of age is overlaid with what she is.
It's not just sadness, more what she has fought
Against for years, hoping there would be time
(There would always be time)
Only to find that all there was, was this.
Now Chance—her being here with him—betrays
Her shoddy happiness, her unbuilt city.
Its weight hangs all about her on the days
That she goes swimming: watching other wives
(Other men with their wives)
In their own world, with their own sympathy.
He turns, half stops, and briefly smiles across
At her: she knows she's never understood
This man, if he has gained what she has lost,
Or if it was like this with other men
(There had been other men),
Or with them has been even half as good.
And him? Kind, deferential, what she wanted,
And wanted then more than the other blokes,
And maybe now. . . . Such exigence has haunted
All that she's done. "I'll guess he'll be okay."
(He'll always be okay).
He turns again, and with taut, even strokes
He drives away from her. She starts to fall,
And cuts through air and water. All her strength
Has gone in being with him, that is all.
She knows there is no blame and no solution
(Only dissolution)
But close her eyes and swim another length.
1988
Autumn Lovers at Old Sarum
February 1, 2005
Great scars of tissued cloud at sunset, throwing great
Red fingers on the purple, fold and shut
A day no different or more choate
Than yesterday, or any other late
September evening, reaching over that abandoned fort.
Two lovers in the sun sat on my favorite place
When I went walking yesterday: his finger
And thumb caressed her chin, a brief embrace
That would be severed. I stepped up my pace,
Knowing that the whole pattern would break if I should linger.
And that is all I saw: perhaps she pulled away,
Too much aware of “scene,” of people there;
Perhaps he lifted up her head to say
The well-wrought lines that he’d rehearsed all day;
Perhaps they touched, or kissed, and forgot they were anywhere.
Or maybe, like the gathering birds, in one flow,
One movement, they flew on, their love revealed.
But as I did not stop, I’ll never know,
And that cluster of wayward signs must stow
Untidy blocks of symbols, shapes, and hopes to be concealed.
For me, removed, finger and thumb metamorphosed
To Dali’s crutch, her chin a melted watch,
And those two lovers disappeared, deposed.
And placed in sacks marked “Les Amants exposed,”
I left them other moments, for other dreamers to catch.
1987
Thoughts of Summer at Old Sarum
January 1, 2005
In that it represents, and comes to mean
More than it seems (just trees and pastoral)
This place will do. Even the kids I saw,
Squashing their noses on the window-screen
The other day, made me think of home.
Call
Me The Romantic Fool to want no more!
A tree I know looks like a long-dead cow,
Upended, heaved into the air: I go
To see it every time I’m there. Its raw
And bloated permanence is spattered now
With insect moss, its innards pale with snow:
The gizzard branches waiting for the thaw.
The tree elaborates its leaves, like me,
When summer comes: loses its austere form
To green elaboration. In which case,
(Sticking to what I’m best at—running free)
I’ll disregard the cow, the kids, the norm,
And read the detailed leaves of inner space.
Summer 1987
Old Sarum at Snowfall
December 1, 2004
On our way back, our footsteps going there
Had been betrayed by others: one pulled a sled,
One maybe danced. The day, a Farquharson.
Squat, attendant on the spring, birds overhead
Swerved through the stenciled, heavy-lidded air
Against the dead sun.
Where we had been we would not go again
This winter—the frost too dark, the paths uncleared.
But this time was enough to fill a day’s
Winter-dictated memory, and appeared
To mitigate the distant threat of rain
With its hint of Mays.
We looked up at the darkened sky as the night,
And all remembrances of light we’d gathered,
Lay buried in the root or thicket. Above
Us, you noticed a hawk, almost smothered
In the gloom. It reminded you of might.
For me, it was love.
December 1985
Gulliver in Love
November 1, 2004
I made a pact with Love, that if he won
I’d be his standard bearer and retainer.
Then hoping that I knew how it was done
I gathered all my forces to restrain her.
But Love, under night’s cover, stole my heart
Before my elfin sentinels awoke;
And in the morning I found Cupid’s dart,
Pinned in the breasts of all the little folk.
So now, a slave to passion, each caress
Summons a thousand love-sick guards to arms,
Only to lay them at your feet, breathless:
Surrendering with laughter to your charms.
But wrapped in silken chains, I want no more
Than to be held under such martial law.
Spring 1986
Vulcan and Mars Upon Venus
October 1, 2004
(From Ovid: Metamorphoses IV)
I am destroyed, against her love I fold
My fire and ruckle all my torn despair;
Until, surprised by thoughts formed from the air,
I forge the unseen chains of bronze and gold.
I am disarmed, her nakedness—so cold—
Makes anger buckle, tied up in her hair:
But now, a laughing stock, caught in his snare,
I break her savage bonds and smash their mould.
The nets which fasten love and war together
In poems have an obvious connection,
With fire as the force that acts upon it.
But if, my dear, I were to ask you whether
Our love-life was like this, I’d need correction:
For, after all, it is only a sonnet.
Spring 1986
The Barefoot Contessa
September 1, 2004
(In Memory of Philip Larkin)
Though this is my beginning world, and you
Pick at your toenails in Elysium,
My theme (film) is a brash pastiche in new
Verse for the dead: a cine “o me miserum.”
The film starts with the voiceover of Bogart,
And so the camera transmogrifies
Your naked, slippered death as tradman Hogarth
Into a double-take, then petrifies.
I frame you posed before insidious shrubs,
The janitor to “ut pictura poesis”:
A toothless Terpsichore’s shoulder rubs
Against an English moment’s pint and ease.
His battered, disembodied voice of age
Surrounds the ritual and a dream deferred.
He knew, like you, the baddies, and the cage
Of threatened innocence; now the absurd
Gossip of Dido and Aeneas bores
You silly. She and you exist as lovers
Of singleness and trafficked beauty:
floors
Of marble, fluted vaults, and silken covers
Meant flowery shirts, loud kids, and loneliness.
Now you’ve removed with all the other blokes
Who crippled time. I’ll snap you: Playing chess
With Hercules, musing if God tells jokes.
December 1985
Catullus
August 1, 2004
So she commanded verse: profound frustration
The subject: She—frothborn, marmoreal;
Her boy, snuffily aimless, with inclination
To fat; reclined (stucco) in the ideal
Position, etc. The gentle sex
Poisons much softer pens than mine; my ink
Is spilled only in practice. So, “Respects,
My Lesbia, I love you more than you think,
But no,” should satisfy. I hold my peace:
In streets the flaccid bumboys wink at me,
Their puckered fucker, (“et cum pueris!”):
I scan the entrails of my Arcady.
“My dear, perhaps it does not seem to you
Strange that our amicitia should fail.”
Her doors are bolted, windows barred, by new
Loves’ lips—more boys than men—but any male
Can milk her tits as she their cocks. Shhh. “Thus:
Topoi potoi, this effete patter, this
Is all. . . .” I am content to be, “Fidus
Amor,” “miser Catulle,” and not miss
Her. They will write that she did “stele mine hart”:
A trick, of course, to make it seem much worse
Than it is, or could be. She, for her part,
Refused to speak, so she commanded verse.
September 1985
Lesbia
July 1, 2004
I kept my mouth shut, didn't give a fuck
For mealy-mouthed Catullus and his crew:
Dragged by the short and curlies from the muck
Of Roman manhood—strictly parvenues.
Dear Clodia, the well-to-do trattoria
Are more my scene, the meat and men more tasty
Catullus and his turgid amatoria
Was just too arty, "sensitive," and feisty.
I said his creo ergo sum was triffic
For boys, when thet were acting ars amandi
But for us girls, I said, it's just a trick
To make us think you love us when you're randy.
"Oh no," he said (you can imagine it)
"I love and yet I . . . O excrucior
He'd sigh until I told him, "Cut the shit,
Just love me in reality: no more."
Well now he's snuffed it, and I'm left alone.
With all the men I want, and no more whining
About how "love transcends the flesh, the bone;
A concept always gathered and defining."
I don't know what it means, he never said
(Too arrogant I s'pose), left it to chance.
But Clodia, he never held my head
Upon his neck so softly, so softly in the dance.
1985
Etna
June 1, 2004
Not then did we see snakes: the farouche Cain
Collapsed indifferent of victory.
Dry stone soldered red-brown limbs; market cries;
Houses reflected light from off the sea.
Our continental breakfasts in the heat,
Chorused by flies which mated on the pane.
All stone would melt, eyes squinting as the charm
Of green rose up above the cobbled street;
On, surging upwards, firing to the skies,
Where winds were trumpets, full of fervid calm.
Old footsteps wept into soft sulfur pits;
The rest stretched far behind on different routes.
Warmth grew within; ash etched age on our hands;
Yet far beneath crawled all the stranded shoots,
Springing tentatively, but compelled on.
Rare here in this cold place where the air hits:
A flame—just there, there—did you see it too?
But we held fields of untouched snow, upon
An untouched sky, in flight on different lands
To other mountains on another blue.
And down we went, hands upraised in the fall,
Leaping, laughing, past those still yet to see
The top; down over rocks of ice, breath blown
By love of this, this human ecstasy.
This evening; harbor lights; dust-groves of sun
Spun in the eye, trembling and lifted tall.
And bushbirds slept; a snake lay dead, its fine
Apparel jaded, love destroyed, life done.
And we had everything; for night made known
A mountain, and a great sea dark with wine.
Taormina, 1985
Venice
April 1, 2004
(a souvenir of Mrs. Radcliffe
I
. . . and even, through literate pastoral, and rewritten
Window-dust, with three kids and mama,
Bologna-bound, clashing like disastered meteors,
(Tremendously), and even
To Venice we came, burning; and found the babe
Varnished, San Marco costered, and Mahler
Nowhere. Instead
"Mrs Radcliffe, Francophile, with an azure chemise,
(Outrageous on the waters), allowed us to carry
Her silks whilst we laboured with luggage and regret.
Loving the vulgar, she floated redundant,
Broad-hatted and sincere,
she said
'Is a place where you leave pretension behind;
Since here,'
she said again,
'is where you are yourself.' "
II
But it was us who carried the bags, uncomfortable
And too familiarly shaped, and even
Our dispensation changed nothing, unrepentant.
Regrettably, the three kids
Refused to be Magi, and she (you could tell)
Was no virgin, Bologna a stable
Nowhere. Instead
"Mrs Radcliffe talked all the way back, saying nothing.
Her silks flapped, and her chemise, warmed by the absolute
Sun, coloured meaninglessly; she turned and asked
Where we had come from. From the south. For a day.
'For a day! But that is,'
she said,
'Fatal to romance and great literature.
That is,'
she said again,
'where you really are yourself.' "
III
And even if (my mirror and I) we recreated
Image contained in image, image
Self-fashioned from being, being reformed only
From itself, and even if
We found Venice, cold and deserted by space
And fiction, there would still be time; and time
Everywhere. Instead
"There is Mrs Radcliffe, glasses misted by the heat,
Fanning herself with preconceptions, keeping her cool;
Assaulted by attitude, her eye still held on the waters,
Slipping between the waves, from sight, from visions.
'To leave Venice in sight,'
she said,
'Is to let yourself never leave it alone;
'Insight,'
she said again,
'Is the Venice of self.' "
(1985)
Quis Multa Gracilis . . .
March 1, 2004
After Horace, Ode V Book 1
Who is that boy, whose smooth-limbed loveliness,
Shot through with perfumes, clear as ocean air,
Woos you on roses, Pyrrha, in your nest
So warm, and gathers up your golden hair:
Simply sophisticated? Oh, he’ll weep
His trust in fickle gods: how many days
The innocent will stare on savage seas
And winds of darkness—that youth who now plays
And, doubtless, blossoms in your golden age.
For you’re his vacant lover, always loved,
To false zephyrs, unknowing, he gives his faith:
To these poor boys you shine, untried, unproved.
The temple wall, pictured with my moist vows, show me
Poseidon’s hung up vestments, from the surging sea.
Spring 1985
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