The doctor bird

On knutsford boulevard the doctor bird
Sips nectar from the blossoms in the noise
Of passing traffic and the tall absurd
Motions of people yet the creature's poise
Is magical unaltered by the place
Or human action honest of its kind
But still as brutal does not steal its grace
Restoring beauty in a time that's blind
To this reality there's one more cast
That memory had woken an older tale
Of pain and loss from a forgotten past
Where all the goods must come at end to fail
Yet truth will flutter on a humming wing
Asking the heart in spite of all to sing

31 December

The earth passes, once more, the yearly point
and for a moment the times seem in joint;
we thank our friends, not just for their kind hearts,
but for the ways that each with their true arts
provides us with that little bit of light
that we too hope we show against the night.
Life gives us sour, we have to make the sweet,
but we can take our lives, like good rum, neat.
We laugh, we love, we hope in time to meet
with friends far distant; still we take the chance
to smile a moment, step out in the dance,
give forth our wisdom, or in silence sit
with hearts now lightened by the gentle wit
of those who know just how to string a tale.
Now, as the long hard year's time comes to fail,
we send our thanks across the gap of time
and immense space. Happy New Year in rhyme.

Poem or Doggerel?

I can observe the voices rise and swell
defining verse, and what is doggerel;
while others, with hardly time for pause,
proclaim that art is subject to some laws
not stated in plain, ordinary terms.
But what can I (and other suchlike worms)
declare anent a subject of such heft?
With all the force that in me has been left
I'll take no cudgels up, nor seek to hide
the fact that here I will not take a side.
Some find the haiku and the sonnet terse,
and think heroic couplets rather worse
than limericks. But, for my humble part,
I'd say that all craft has its art.
(Did I say humble?) Also, every craft
requires a skill not shown by dull and daft.
It's New Year's Eve, I'll head off to my bottle
and leave in peace the ghost of Aristotle.

the perfect tale

Og the gigantic, with a hideous roar,
commenced to sodomise a dinosaur,
but, with a curse, in the Jurassic rain
declared the whole thing was a total pain.
The truth is dino sex ain't for the meek,
they're structured so you can't find what you seek.
Deplorable I know. Still there's relief
in letting others know your horrid grief.

Blog commentary

Pseudonymous fools develop fits of pique
when first confronted with a straight critique;
all that then follows, in their twisted sight,
is further evidence of their sad plight.
So to blame those who merely took the mickey
for stupid slurs, sure indicates a thicky.
We aren't surprised that falsehoods they retail
in tones that signify moronic wail,
they hope the reader will lack common sense
and fall in line with their silly pretense.
We aren't supposed to think, merely agree
while they of fact and courtesy are free;
with idiotic threat they seek to cow
any who won't to their slight wisdom bow.

Chaucer lamenteth the n00bs

Whanne that Septembre doth the summer ende
vnto the schooles the myriad noobs do wende;
they think nat of the trouble and the frette
that they will cause vpon the Internette.
In daies long past svch swaines wee did nat see
vntille they rechéd college or vniuersitie,
bot nowe at everich schole compvters waite
instrvmentes alike of childish loue and hate.
As sone as youngstre on the net doth logge
bot thatte hee (or shee) doth make an blogge,
opon the uuiche the bratte doth lightlie write
of matteres simple and of svbjectes trite:
howe one beth lamer, yet another leet,
and howe they never shalle knowe defeat.
Gentillesse and chivalrie do soffre rout
whanne these yonge men and women doe come out;
whilom there was on the Nette true cortesye
bot nowe gode manners doe from the Webbe flee.
UUee elders loke, and we ovre heads doe shake
and uuonder whether twas alle an mistake.
One thing there beth that doth drive us alle bats,
and thatte is alle those goddamned swivinge lolcatz!

on the edge of magic

a radiance that we won't soon see
as green of leaf hides grey of tree
mind still ensnared in shade of night
hears voice in distance proclaiming spite
name one of these and it will fade
we're told just how the game is played
in the right place we'll set the lamp
and look outside at humid damp
there's never any chance for rest
yet we must make a jape or jest
a sort of thing that once possessed
would give us hope for some reward
still should we the true day accord
to grant our vision what was known
the kind of chance that one alone
would take but once you're in the swing
there's not a hope that this one thing
would let you torment your own heart
much sooner you'd your own self cart
to some old place where calm remained
the sort of thing you'd call unstained
unwithered and still fresh and new
under bare feet you'd feel the dew
yet morning passes and soon comes
the moment when day turns to crumbs
the stars return with clouds of night
obscurity shall mask the blight
now what possessed you to take heed
of ancient fain and fallen creed
now in the time that still remains
we want the fruit of your young brains
name all the things that may surpass
the sight of dew fresh on the grass
and you will find you still can't stand
on what is at last your own land

les belles dames du temps jadis

Where's Juliet, that Italian dame,
whom Shakespeare gave immortal fame?
Where's Gloriana, the bard's great Queen?
It's a long time since ever she was seen.
Where's Ninon whose memoirs seem to burn?
None of these ladies now will ever return.
Where's the Armouress? And, as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's Aphra Behn, who once so fine did write?
Where's Milton's wife, who the great poet did spite?
Where's Lady Winchelsea? I must enquire.
It seems that all have gone into the fire.
Where's Fanny Burney, who though rather short,
gave finest service to the King at court?
Where's that barmaid? And, as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's George Sand, who disguised as a man,
seduced both women and that chap Chopin?
Where's George Eliot, who, and it's a loss,
covered up the name of Mary Ann Cross?
Where's Harriet Stowe, who thought slavery a sin
and told us all in Uncle Tom's Cabin?
Where's that hot whore? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's Hanna Arendt, who against the night
looked to the ancient Greeks for proper light?
Where's Beauvoir, who continues still to vex
all sexists who must read The Second Sex
Where's Angela Carter, she who lightly wrote
such things as many men would blush to quote?
Where's Anaïs Nin? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Princess, who sits and watches at the gate,
keep us from falling into most ignoble fate.
We wish we'd known great ladies such as these,
but Dame Nature has set us as she must please.
Where's dear Mae West? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Another comment on Chaucer

Chavcer his uuritinges myn herte and minde impresse,
farre fro the uuorlde in holie sothfastenesse,
bot ich uuolde asken alle ye gentille folke
uuho clamovren for ease fro hethene ioke
uuether tis trewe thatte euille-sovning uuorde
thatte swich rhyming ben nat worthe an torde?
For myn parte it ben trewe that Chavcer bin
Ovre greetest rhymer, to saie else war sinne.