I stood apart
My heart
Full of the organ’s sound.
Looking around
He asked “do you want to play?”
“No, just came to listen today”,
I replied.
Then, the music died
And I, (who stood apart
And knowing not where to start
Went my way).
There was a young lady called Flair
Who met me on her stair.
She invited me to stay
Until break of day
When her husband found me there …
There was a young lady called Lin
Who believed in original sin.
She met a man named More,
Who was naive and pure,
And he learned of original sin …
In his novel, Nicholas Nickleby, Charles Dickens portrays Wackford Squeers (the headmaster) as a sadist with no redeeming features. Squeers was based on the (actual) headmaster of a Yorkshire school named William Shaw who was prosecuted for child cruelty. However, according to a descendant of William Shaw he was, in fact a humane man who was liked by his students and by the community in which his school operated. Dickens therefore does Shaw a great injustice in his portrayal of him in Nicholas Nickleby.
To read the article please visit https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1316931/The-real-Squeers-was-no-Dickens-brute-claims-descendant.html
I have played around, (purely for my own amusement), with the English nursery rhyme “Doctor Foster”. The first rendering is the traditional rendering, followed by my reinterpretations:
Doctor Foster went to
Gloucester,
In a shower of rain;
He stepped in a puddle,
Right up to his middle,
And never went there again.
—
Doctor Foster went to
Gloucester,
In a shower of rain;
He got in a muddle,
When he fell in a puddle,
And never went there again.
—
Doctor Foster went to
Gloucester,
In a shower of rain;
He indulged in a cuddle,
In the midst of a puddle,
With a lady whose name was Jane.
—
Doctor Foster went to
Gloucester,
In a shower of rain;
He stepped in a puddle,
Which did befuddle
His poor overtaxed brain.
There was an elderly man called Monk
Who sat in a pub getting drunk.
When the barmaid looked askance
He asked her to dance.
That disreputable old drunkard called Monk!
Women of a certain profession
Draw up at nail bars
In their boyfriend’s fast cars.
While priests hear the confession
Of those impaled
On nails.
I knew a young lady called Mable
Who collapsed drunk under a table.
I offered her my hand
To help her to stand.
Though willing she was sadly unable!
There was a young lady called Claire
Who’s feet where always bare.
She went for an interview
Without any shoe.
I know as I was there!
—
I knew a young lady called Claire
Who’s feet where invariably bare.
She walked on hot coals
While playing at bowls.
I know as I was there!
—
There was a young lady called Claire
Who’s feet where always bare.
She was a dancer by profession
And I must make a confession
For I am that young lady Claire!
Many who are given
What they have striven
For
Find in the experience a poor
Shadow of the ideal they so adore.
If the longed for kiss
Brings no bliss
Then off they lurch
In search
Of their extreme
Dream
And in the supreme
Moment of joy
They do themselves destroy
K Morris - Poet 