I know a pretty young blonde
Of whom I’m extremely fond.
My wife Yvette
Works as a vet
And she doesn’t like that blonde …!
—
I know a pretty young blonde
Of whom I’m rather fond.
When she met
My wife Yvette
It ended in the pond!
Here are three of my poems, which I recorded earlier today.
In just 5 words “the tree is living yet” Hood implies (implicitly) that his brother who “set” the tree is no longer living thereby adding to the sombre nature of the poem.
‘I Remember, I Remember’ is, along with ‘The Song of the Shirt’, Thomas Hood’s best-loved poem. Although much of the rest of his work is not now much read or remembered, ‘I Remember, I Remember’ has a special place in countless readers’ hearts. Although its meaning is fairly straightforward, it’s worth probing the language of Hood’s poem a little deeper, as closer analysis reveals why this poem is held in such high regard.
I Remember, I Remember
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
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There was a young man called Moat
Who knowing not which way to vote
Asked his girlfriend Lou
Whether to vote red or blue
While riding on a goat!
—
There was a young man called Moat
Who knowing not which way to vote
Went out on the town
His sorrows to drown
Then voted for a goat!
—
There was a young man called Moat
Who knowing not which way to vote
Went out on the town
His sorrows to drown
And quite forgot to vote!
Many a stiletto
Has pierced my heart,
Informed my art.
So I will not go
There again
As it causes me pain.
But on seeing girl’s in heels
Their legs bare
My resolution steals
Away and I am lost in an unreal
Affair,
Forever under the heel
Of a Claire
Or Flair.
Oh
How the point of a stiletto
Does inform my art,
Pierce my heart.
Though
Oft I wish it were not so.
There was a young man called Morris
Who laid claim to The Odes of Horace.
When the case came to court
The judge said, “I thought
That The Odes they where written by Borris!”.
Alone
In her head
She plays with her phone.
Another strange bed.
She gives no discount
To those who drink at the fount
Of her “love”.
“There is no god above”
He thinks as he takes a sup
From another empty cup
Brimful of forget
Regret
Ad infinitum.
Just another item
On his bucket list.
There was a young lady called May
Who invited me to the ballet.
But being a man of discretion
I shall make no confession
Unless the tabloids they offer to pay …
—
There was a young lady called May
Who introduced me to her housemate Fay.
Back at their flat
I took off my hat
But they didn’t ask me to stay!
A mermaid
Most staid
Oft times played
On the seashore
Until one day
The waves carried her away
In a different kind of play.
Now she will dance in May
No more.
K Morris - Poet 