Monthly Archives: August 2015

The Seasons Whispered

The Seasons Whispered

This very short poem explores what a conversation might sound like between anthropomorphic personifications of the four seasons. They’re all a bit melodramatic but you would be wouldn’t you, if you were a season. Seasonhood probably lends itself quite well to drama and arrogance.

The Seasons Whispered

The Springtime whispered All will grow
The Summer whispered All will burn
The Winter whispered All will go
The Autumn whispered Bog off Winter, wait your damn turn

Get a grip Summer

Get a grip Summer

Wuthering Heights

Wuthering Heights

Wuthering Heights is one of my absolute favourite books. It’s not a happy story. In fact it’s a miserable tale full of horrible, miserable, and spiteful characters but there’s something strangely magical about it. There’s also the fact that a ghost shows up for like five seconds then isn’t acknowledged for the rest of the book. What’s that about?

I think something needs to be made clear though. People need to stop pretending that Heathcliff is some kind of romantic hero. He’s a nasty, cruel, manipulative, and violent man. Idolising the socially stunted Mr Darcy is silly enough but Heathcliff is a swine, plain and simple.

Anyhow, this poem is pretty shoddy even by my standards but, with such a lot of misery in the source work, it’s hard to write a poem inspired by Wuthering Heights that won’t kill people.

Wuthering Heights

Heathcliff took Cathy’s waif-like hand
Exclaiming I’m a total prat
But you’re as coarse as grit and sand
And so, for what it’s worth

I think we make the perfect pair
You’re stupid and you’re cruel at that
My very presence chills the air
We’ve rid the moors of mirth

But Cathy was too weak to live
And Heathcliff also, it would seem
He died unable to forgive
That she died giving birth

The house was overwhelmed by creepers
Nobody could ever dream
Unquiet slumber for the sleepers
In that quiet earth

The book also inspired Kate Bush's brief foray into ultrasonic warbling

The book also inspired Kate Bush’s brief foray into ultrasonic warbling.

Sudoku

Sudoku

I don’t really know what there is to say about this poem. It’s about sudoku. It can be read backwards of forwards. You can even read it from top to bottom and immediately start reading backwards without stopping and just loop. You probably have better things to do though.

Sudoku

Nine nines
Go each way
Nine lines
One per day
Nine nines
Up and down
Left right
All around
Nine nines

What's the last number? I just can't work it eight.

What’s the last number? I just can’t work it eight.

An’ A Beer Lee

An' A Beer Lee

One of my all time favourite poems is Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe. It’s a tragic but beautiful love poem with a wonderful, lyrical rhythm. Being such a beautiful poem, I thought it would be perfect for the third of my drink related parodies of famous poems.

An’ A Beer Lee finds the young lover of Annabel Lee replaced by a young drinker on holiday with his mates, buying booze from a bartender named Lee. His friend falls behind but he drinks on. I really don’t recommend binge drinking in the slightest but that is pretty much the theme here.

An’ A Beer Lee

It was many and many Summers ago
In a hostel by the sea
That I said Three whiskeys, a blue lagoon
A Jägerbomb, an’ a beer Lee
And my best mate, he lived with no other thought
Than to drink, and get drunk, with me

He was a child, and I was a child
In this hostel by the sea
But we drank with a thirst that was more than thirst
Two more shots an’ a beer Lee
With a thirst that the age’d drinkers of Devon
They coveted him and me

And this was the reason, as all lads know
In this hostel by the sea
That the bile poured out of his mouth by night
Stifling his An’ a beer Lee
So that our rowdy mates all came
And bore him away from me
To lock him in a bathroom
In this hostel by the sea

The drunkards, not half so hammered in Devon
Went envying him and me
And that was the reason, as all lads know
In this hostel by the sea
That the bile came out of his mouth, spilling
And stilling his An’ a beer Lee

Yes, our stomachs were stronger by far than the stomachs
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wider than we
And neither the angels in heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Could ever dissever my hand from the side
Of my new, badly forged, fake ID

For Blue Moon never beams
Without bringing me dreams
Of peculiar sorts… An a beer Lee
And the tabs never rise
But I see the old guys
As they’re slurring out An a beer Lee

And so all the night tide, I lie down by the side
Of my vomit, my dignity, self-worth and pride
Deep in a stupor there by the sea
In my room by the side of the sea

I had a pun but I forgot it.

I had a pun but I forgot it.

Midnight Snacks

Midnight Snacks

Food just seems to taste so much better at midnight. In fact, the only thing better than a midnight feast is eating the leftovers of a midnight feast the next day! Don’t ask me why, that’s just the way it works.

Midnight Snacks

Pringles and chocolate, Coke and sweets
And chewy things from jars and packs
We gathered these, and other treats
And tucked into our midnight snacks

We ate more the next day at three
Then you cried Who turned out the light?
I laughed, confessing That was me
It’s just a little midsnack night

I don't want to milk this concept any more than I already have.

I don’t want to milk this concept any more than I already have.

Mutiny

Mutiny

Last year, I walked into a charity shop and bought a book that I knew nothing about purely because it had a beautiful cover. That book was called The Eventful History of the Mutiny and Piratical Seizure of HMS Bounty: It’s Cause and Consequences. Catchiest title ever. I won’t tell you all the details of this intriguing true story but suffice to say it describes a mutiny and the terrible consequences for the crew. It paints the mutineers as villains and the loyal crew as heroes but, as it was written many many years ago, makes no comment at all on the fact that the ships original mission had been to deliver food to help run a slave plantation! It’s a fascinating glimpse into history. This poem was inspired by this story but is fairly dramatised, fictionalised, and otherwise inaccurate.

Mutiny

Mutiny! Mutiny! Sound the alarm!
In the calm of the sea a cry rose from the boat
Then the few loyal crew, they were gathered around
They were bound and then thrown in a dinghy to float

Delivering food to a distant plantation
Their station: feed slaves with a glorious new crop
But they rested, found love with a small tribal group
So the troupe of deserters gave sailing the chop

We the dissatisfied, bitter and poor
Will no more accept wages, orders or commands
We’ll sail for that island and all settle down
For the town on the beach will fulfill our demands

The captain was outraged and said with a sneer
Well, it’s clear we’re the only real men on the ship
If you’ll send us off please, we’ll impede you no more
But be sure, we’ll be back, was the man’s parting quip

They struggled for weeks in the grip of the tide
Many died but a few lucky stragglers lived on
When they made it back home, they were asked straight away
Well, which way have the traitorous mutineers gone?

So to sea they returned, back to weed out the rest
With the best ship available, lethal and fast
They crashed onto the island, turned houses to mud
And the bloodthirsty scoundrels were punished at last

And never again were they put to the test
Yes, they rest now as heroes in glorious graves
Their records were flawless, their legacies pure
Just ignore the small fact that it’s bad to trade slaves

This is fruitiny!

This is fruitiny!

Floyd

Floyd

This is another poem about my dog Floyd. Now that he’s four and a bit, Floyd is slightly more mature than his puppy days though he still has his moments even now! There is nothing in the world that Floyd hates more than a shower. He will literally run from the room and hide behind anyone and anything that he thinks will protect him if you even say the word ‘shower’. Yes, it’s safe to say he is not a shower fan, but he will occasionally bring it on himself by engaging in one of his favourite pastimes which is rolling in muck on the common. He enjoys it in the moment, but it’s incredibly frustrating watching it happen and knowing that there’ll be a long and arduous battle to get him into the shower that evening.

Floyd

Floyd’s ears flailed like wind socks
Kicking up rocks as he ran
Deftly slinking by the road blocks
Like an old fox, he began

Though puddles turned his paws brown
Didn’t slow down, kept the pace
His owner, shouting a rude noun
With a small frown, joined the race

Floyd was hurtling round the lakeside
Took a short slide in the mud
Leaping forwards with a great stride
Then a quick glide, then a thud

Landing face first, down he splattered
Still he battered through the dirt
Floyd was unaware it mattered
As he clattered on unhurt

But his owner, flecked with lake swill
Calmly sat still on a log
Muttering, as owner oft’ will
I’m gonna kill that daft dog

Someone may have said the S word

He also just assumes that if anyone says his name, they’re offering him food.