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Five Small Poems on the Secret Lives of Creatures
About a week ago, I posted a poem of mine about a toad. It landed with a thud on the Ricochet Member Feed. It was soon a lonely and pathetic thing as it moved inexorably down the morning posts with hardly even a Pity Like.
But that was a week ago. I’ve discovered that my poetic Muse won’t leave me alone, even at the risk of ridicule and shame.
Frankenstein
Scarred refuse
of yesterday’s men:
Finds pain in being alive.
Would rather
lie in pieces again.
[OK, I know that wasn’t much, but it’s so short that readers who never make it to the end of a poem can now boast that they made it to the end of a poem.]
The Vampire
White-faced Transylvanian,
with a recessive gene
that urges nightly sips of blood.
But believes it a sin
To have vulgar tastes:
Drinks young virgins
instead of old men.
[Well who wouldn’t?]
Wolf-man
Periodic beast:
When the full moon
floods the landscape,
our pajama-sleeper
feels tendons tighten,
coarse hair grow,
and eyes evil-brighten.
Then our hairy fellow
runs naked across the dark heath,
Ripping up humus and moss
With red nails and sharp teeth.
In the morning, belly filled,
he wakes up man again:
Prompt at office,
politic and quiet,
a gentleman
with modest tie,
eyes bright.
[This is my favorite. I’ve always like the wolf man]
Old Scratch
By custom obliged
to dress in a red
woolen onesie suit.
Forced by divine decree
To sport on his breech
a foul-smelling tail
that swishes the black flies
that buzz on his bung
(that reeks when it’s hot
of sulphur and dung).
Hoofs on his heels,
horns on his head
fire for his bed.
Hates it,
takes it
out on
mankind.
[The real origin of evil.]
The Witch
Anne Jefferies
Is bored, her lace stitchery
by her side, as she
looks around her
stuffed Victorian room.
So Anne sneaks out at night
to dance with Cornwall fairies
in a clearing in dark woods
till the coming of the light.
I think, my Victorian lass,
there were far worse ways
of using up your share of days
than to dance with fairies
in the pale moonlight.
[Anne Jefferies was an actual 17th-century witch, though I’ve modified her story somewhat.]
One more poem:
Bob the dog thinks it a treat/to watch the cat across the street.
Published in General
Man, the poems are coming out of the woodwork.
A limerick is not simply rhyme,
Its rhythm holds together to bind.
The pattern is set
Let us not forget
To have an amphibrachic good time.
I gave this a Like. They didn’t offer any choices that really described my emotional reaction.
Like larvae of ash borer beetles
The limericists sharpen their needles.
They make their way podic
But maybe not rhotic
As they’re taken away by the beadles.
There’s an unwritten rule governing this Thread, to the effect of “no actually clever poems are acceptable.”
It’s just not done, Arahant.
Given that it was composed in less than three minutes, you should see what happens when I really try.
On Ricochet, the conversation
Bounds about like an Alsatian,
From functions Hermitian
To poems termitian,
And policy bumph like stagflation.
Something even better would be even worse. Quit while you’re ahead.
May I suggest “repine?”
What, wasn’t the original pining good enough? ;-P
What lumber exceeds the pine
in handiness, both gross and fine?
But carpentry botched
Must surely be scotched:
Bad piners, restart to repine!
Not to rain on your parade or anything, but you wouldn’t want your house made out of pine. Southern Yellow Pine, at any rate.
A well-crafted bad poem doesn’t just have bad half-rhymes. Anyone can write those.
It has these completely unexpected rythymic collapses, like being in junior high and having to dance with a girl, and you go to take a dance step but your leg is asleep and instead of your foot landing right on the beat, your leg crumples and you pitch over into the table with the cupcakes and Coca-Cola.
“pine” gave that line just such a missing beat.
A beat gone AWOL, like a gap in teeth of a pretty, well-dressed woman who flashes a smile at you on the street. “Repine” would right the ship that was so skillfully torpedoed and half-capsized by its creator.
[EDIT: I have no more metaphors to add to the mix, but I’m working on it.]
Do homebuilders repine ‘cuz they worry SYP ain’t what it used to be?
Mark, I think you should spin this thought into an OP on the best of worst rhymes.
(“It was the best of rhymes, it was the worst of rhymes…”)
I sorta want to like this, but I wish there was a groan button.
SYP is what it’s always been: twisted, crooked, and hard as a rock. Go with SPF.
Faded,
The two of us got a good bechortlement out of that as we sit here watching the Reds and enjoying the sunset. Thx.
Crimenutely, this thread has gone off the rails. But in the best possible way.
I think that I shall never see–
Oh, sorry. That’s been done before.
By better poets, far, than me
So up and Katy bar the door.
Twas brillig and the slithy toves–
Oh, hell. I thought that was brand new;
But Dodgson said it first, in groves
Where played the Liddell children too.
My luve is like a red, red rose–
That bloody Scotsman got there first!
I cannot write a line, God knows
Without it’s stolen or accursed.
And so I’ll stop, while still ahead
Of arahants and crotalus.
Arising from my feather bed,
I’m off to bake a Charlotte Russe.
When I read “crimenutely,” I didn’t have to look up the authorship ladder. I knew it was Mrs. She responding. .
It’s my leitmotif.
That’s very clever poem, Mrs. She. Really clever. I’m looking forward to a post that features a poem of your own.
You might of saved these for Halloween……you need to quit watching all those horror movies at night and think more pretty thoughts – ok – maybe the fried toad is as pretty as it gets? You may be channeling Poe. By the way, your first caption of Bob also rhymes. Carry on…
I know that he changed the second caption to be closer to a rhyme. He may have changed that first one, too.
I did. You know everything, Arahant.
It was my day to keep an eye on you.
@minaturefadedrattlesnake, et al:
leitmotif, crimenutely, bechortlement
Thanks for expanding my vocabulary.
Be careful what you ask for. 😈
Here’s a poem I wrote along time ago, about one of our cats.
To Miss Mullen, Who Naps On The Kitchen Range Because the Pilot Light Keeps Her Warm
You can lead a horse to water,
But you can’t make a cat do anything.