the Return of the Repressed

April 27, 2013 § Leave a comment

The Return of the Repressed

– bpNichol

To coo over the queue of Q’s coup into Kõo.

the Mad Gardener’s Song

April 25, 2013 § 1 Comment

He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
‘At length I realise,’ he said,
‘The bitterness of Life!’

He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister’s Husband’s Niece.
‘Unless you leave this house,’ he said,
‘I’ll send for the Police!’

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
‘The only thing I regret,’ he said,
‘Is that it cannot speak!’

He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus:
‘If this should stay to dine,’ he said,
‘There won’t be much for us!’

He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
‘Were I to swallow this,’ he said,
‘I should be very ill!’

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘poor silly thing!
It’s waiting to be fed!’

He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage-Stamp.
‘You’d best be getting home,’ he said:
‘The nights are very damp!’

He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
‘And all its mystery,’ he said,
‘Is clear as day to me!’

He thought he saw an Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
‘A fact so dread,’ he faintly said,
‘Extinguishes all hope!’

Lewis Carroll

From Sylvie and Bruno, the last of Carroll’s major works. The poem, whose stanzas appear throughout the novel, suffice as structure to that dreamwork.

“Erthe toc of erthe erthe wyth woh”

April 22, 2013 § Leave a comment

Erthe toc of erthe erthe wyth woh.
Erthe other erthe to the erthe droh.
Erthe leyde erthe in erthene throh.
Tho heuede erthe of erthe erthe ynoh.

– Anonymous

Various translations of this Middle English poem can be found online. My favorite:

Earth took of earth earth with ill;
Earth other earth gave earth with a will.
Earth laid earth in the earth stock-still:
Then earth in earth had of earth its fill.

There are also several versions of the original which, judging from its widespread inclusion in incunabula across the centuries, seems to have been a popular poem. “Erthe upon Erthe” collects these variations and gives historical background.

It is a remarkable little thing. The repetition of “earth” makes it easy to remember; and as that word repeats, the meaning changes slightly: planet, ground, soil, tomb. The earth becomes not just the land on which we live, but also the opening in that land where we go to die. Ominous!

Hunter Trials

April 5, 2013 § Leave a comment

It’s awf’lly bad luck on Diana,
  Her ponies have swallowed their bits;
She fished down their throats with a spanner
  And frightened them all into fits.

So now she’s attempting to borrow.
  Do lend her some bits Mummy, do;
I’ll lend her my own for to-morrow,
  But to-day I‘ll be wanting them too.

Just look at Prunella on Guzzle,
  The wizardest pony on earth;
Why doesn’t she slacken his muzzle
  And tighten the breach in his girth?

I say, Mummy, there’s Mrs. Geyser
  And doesn’t she look pretty sick?
I bet it’s because Mona Lisa
  Was hit on the hock with a brick.

Miss Blewitt says Monica threw it,
  But Monica says it was Joan,
And Joan’s very thick with Miss Blewitt,
  So Monica’s sulking alone.

And Margaret failed in her paces,
  Her withers got tied in a noose,
So her coronets caught in the traces
  And now all her fetlocks are loose.

Oh, it’s me now. I’m terribly nervous.
  I wonder if Smudges will shy.
She’s practically certain to swerve as
  Her Pelham is over one eye.

                    * * * * *

Oh wasn’t it naughty of Smudges?
  Oh, Mummy, I’m sick with disgust.
She threw me in front of the Judges,
  And my silly old collarbone’s bust.

– John Betjeman

Betjeman was a poet of proper nouns. Prunella, Smudges, Guzzle, Diana, Miss Blewitt — all names for posh girls and ponies. The diction is both ridiculously British (“the wizardest pony on earth”!) or equestrian jargon (loose fetlocks and whatnot). Pelham bits being taboo for inexperienced riders, the girls probably come from old families with old money and horses in their heritage.

Conjugal Love

April 3, 2013 § Leave a comment

a mantis

– Alan Riddell

This is a found poem from a Latin textbook. I saw. I came. I consumed.

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