There was a young lady from Calcutta
Who ate nothing but butter.
She married an Englishman named Hogg,
Who owned a large dog.
And the dog stole all the butter!
—
There was a young lady from Calcutta
Who ate nothing but butter.
She married an Englishman named Hogg
And they bought a large dog,
Who was extremely fond of the gutter …
There once was a philosopher named Voltaire
Who owned a large pet bear.
It’s name was Pangloss
And I am at a loss
As to why he owned that bear!
I love the musicality and sadness of this poem.
I first came across Swinburne’s “A Forsaken Garden” while listening to BBC Radio 4’s Poetry Please! It is one of those poems to which I return frequently and lines from which pop unbidden into my head
—
In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
At the sea-down’s edge between windward and lee,
Walled round with rocks as an inland island,
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
The steep square slope of the blossomless bed
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses
Now lie dead.
The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,
To the low last edge of the long lone land.
If a step should sound or a word be spoken,
Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest’s hand ?
So long have the grey bare walks lain guestless,
Through branches…
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The afternoon sun
Will soon be done
And each bird that does sing
Will fold it’s wing
In sleep.
Why do I keep
Indoors and maintain
This sad refrain?
All will pass,
Lad and lass,
But until then
There is ink in my pen
And I trust sufficient time
For more than mere rhyme.
Some powerful writing here.
I have always been here, among the lonely people. Despite having people around me, my battles exist within my head and body. To you, I may look normal, but on the inside is a scene entirely different. My constant companions are sadness, frustration, exhaustion — even a fortified fortress to shield me from what the world has and could continue to do to me. Those walls isolate me from my family. The shadows are filled with creatures that know how to hurt me if I move too close. So, you see, I am one of the lonely people. But I am not alone.
Sarah Doughty)
All the Lonely People—
they converge,
invisible at intersections
of Life and Death,
strangely untouched by hands of those
simpatico.
How can it be that so many similar
do exist while lost
to one another?
All the Lonely People—
they are unalone, and yet
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There was a young lady named Claire
Who had caveat emptor written on her.
A man named Jim,
Who was somewhat dim
Went and married Claire!
(Note: Caveat Emptor translates as “let the buyer beware”).
There was a young man named Connor
Who had a strong sense of honour.
He married a girl called Bess
But he refused to undress
So strong was his sense of honour!
In the desert of the heart
Any touch may start
A flame
Any hand
May command
A hot
Flush
(Wanted or not),
But who are we to rush
To blame?
Is this thing called shame
A social construct that keeps us low?
Many prefer not to go
Down that path
Of enquiry. They laugh,
Make a smutty joke
And on their own hypocrisy choke.
There was a young author named White
Who stayed up late to write.
He went on Facebook
For a quick look
And remained there until the morning light!
The writer, Edgar Alan Poe is noted for his tales of horror and his dark poetry. Those thinking of Poe will, in all probability recollect his dark poem “The Raven” and stories such as “The Fall Of The House Of Usher”. Po was, however also capable of satire as is demonstrated by his short story “The Devil In The Belfry”.
“The Devil In The Belfry” is a satire on a small dutch town in which nothing changes. The inhabitants of the place are contented to live with their clocks which all keep perfect time and are governed by the timepiece in the steple of the town hall, the latter being attended to by a very important gentleman who is looked up to by the townspeople.
The good people of this unchanging world find joy not merely in clocks but also in cabbages which proliferate in the place. Indeed these nourishing vegetables grow not only outside but can also be found adorning the mantlepieces of every home.
Fun for the boys in the town consists of appending watches to the tails of cats and pigs, while their fathers smoke contentedly on leather bottomed chairs and the women cook indoors. But, unhappily this blisfull life is turned up-side-down.
To read Poe’s story please visit, http://xroads.virginia.edu/~hyper/poe/belfry.html
K Morris - Poet 