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.
i have stopped by woods on a snowy evening.
it’s a sublime slanting sun, and,
camera in hand,
i come upon the hoped-for scene.
the reaching trees, silhouettes of bareness.
the furnace of the sun,
a smudge of burnt orange behind the ridge,
imparts the hue, the twilight blue
to the mile long shadows
these striations in the crunchy glitter.
i click and click with frantic abandon,
not wanting to lose this singular zenith of beauty.
how many shots? a hundred? a thousand?
i will take them home
enhance them, adobe them, candy coat them
until they look, they look…
like those coffee table books that no one reads.
so, i turn to go, my anticipation tempered now.
i look back once more, in regret.
the deep blue shadows slowly lengthen
as the sun pours dark red lava down the hillside.
i stop. upon a stump i sit.
there is…
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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!
