Category: English

A Review published in Long Poem Magazine

'1948, A Novel in Verse' by Andy Croft (Five Leaves, 2012)

Review

A Review published in Long Poem Magazine

A Review published in Long Poem Magazine: A book called 1948, made of some eighty Pushkin stanzas, by Martin Rowson illustrate, riots of rhyme, extravaganzas. The cover’s ruddy bloody garish and Rowson’s drawings quite nightmarish, obsessive as the text, but still, full of telling detail, very skilful. London Olympics, shocks galore: spies and political skulduggery, trade unions, left-wing mags and thuggery and Orwell’s 1984. ‘A, b, a, b, cc, dd,’ it rhymes; ‘e, f, f, e, gg.’ Alberti, Attlee, Blandish, Blunden, Brecht, Bulldog Drummond, Helen Gahagan, Greene, Harlow, Marlowe, Lorre, London, Sartre, Frank Waxman, Ronald Reagan, Thirkell, not Churchill, Harry Truman, all rhymed! – it’s almost superhuman. I’m bound to ask: what rhymes with Pushkin? Stravinsky’s violinist Dushkin. (No triple rhymes, no terza rima: I could have added Ariane Mnouchkine, but that must be foregone: no flagpole on this Iwo Jima.) Pro-Russian Proms ‘have picked The Nose to bring the season to a close.’ So here’s my chance to rhyme Onegin, since these are called ‘Onegin sonnets’, with Fagin, or Menachem Begin – a donnish jest – quiet flows the Donets! – He won’t be pleased, so please don’t tell ‘im: he’s miles less mild than Bassa Selim, the liberal enlightened Turk in Mozart’s oriental work. Anyway, as I said before, well- constructed pacey period thriller – Winston and Spiller thwart the killer! – all based on Eric Blair (George Orwell). Drain down that draught! Hurl hats aloft! Hail, handicraft of Andy Croft!

A Review published in Long Poem Magazine:

A book called 1948,
made of some eighty Pushkin stanzas,
by Martin Rowson illustrate,
riots of rhyme, extravaganzas.
The cover’s ruddy bloody garish
and Rowson’s drawings quite nightmarish,
obsessive as the text, but still, full
of telling detail, very skilful.
London Olympics, shocks galore:
spies and political skulduggery,
trade unions, left-wing mags and thuggery
and Orwell’s 1984.
‘A, b, a, b, cc, dd,’
it rhymes; ‘e, f, f, e, gg.’

Alberti, Attlee, Blandish, Blunden,
Brecht, Bulldog Drummond, Helen Gahagan,
Greene, Harlow, Marlowe, Lorre, London,
Sartre, Frank Waxman, Ronald Reagan,
Thirkell, not Churchill, Harry Truman,
all rhymed! – it’s almost superhuman.
I’m bound to ask: what rhymes with Pushkin?
Stravinsky’s violinist Dushkin.
(No triple rhymes, no terza rima:
I could have added Ariane
Mnouchkine, but that must be foregone:
no flagpole on this Iwo Jima.)
Pro-Russian Proms ‘have picked The Nose
to bring the season to a close.’

So here’s my chance to rhyme Onegin,
since these are called ‘Onegin sonnets’,
with Fagin, or Menachem Begin –
a donnish jest – quiet flows the Donets! –
He won’t be pleased, so please don’t tell ‘im:
he’s miles less mild than Bassa Selim,
the liberal enlightened Turk
in Mozart’s oriental work.
Anyway, as I said before, well-
constructed pacey period thriller –
Winston and Spiller thwart the killer! –
all based on Eric Blair (George Orwell).
Drain down that draught! Hurl hats aloft!
Hail, handicraft of Andy Croft!

Tags Reviews In Verse

M Sweeney by Timothy Ades

Post author By marcsutton
Post date April 19, 2017

Timothy Adès

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
These jests never preceded ‘The Excellent Wessex Event’: they weren’t needed.
Per: Messer
M. SWEENEY
LE CHEF DE CET ÉVÉNEMENT.
*
French Verse:
. . . Sweeney entre les merles
(See Mr T.S.E.’s “The Seven Septets.”)
. . . Sweeney entre les merles,
les merles et merlettes,
merlettes et merlesses,
perles, merles femelles. . .
et Sweeney, pêle-mêle,
se révèle près d’elles!
*
Gegen entgegengesetzte Sterne
strebt der edelste Held
selbst vergebens.
*
Entered Here . . .

More poems by Timothy Adès...

Tags Lipograms

Lipograms from Stratford–on–Avon by Timothy Adès

Post author By marcsutton
Post date February 3, 2017

Timothy Adès

by a glorious Bard

Let’s see whether he needed the letter e

XVIII Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Comparing you with a day possibly in July or August

I’ll put you up against a balmy day…
You win on looks. Not cold, and not too warm.
Winds cut up rough with darling buds of May;
A two–month contract can’t supply much balm.
Dog–days in August turn to burning hot,
Or may contrarily grow all too dim;
And all fair fowls fall foul of you–know–what,
Thrown by bad luck, or sunspots, out of trim.
But your hot days will last and last and last,
Maintaining tiptop form with full control;
Nor shall morticians brag of shadows cast
Across your path. My words shall grow your soul.
Humans may gasp and gawp, unstoppably:
I sign this gift, your immortality.

This was published in Acumen.

XXX When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,

Writing Off Past Pains

Now and again I sit in soundproof thought
And summon up (Proust’s parrot–cry) things past:
I sigh for lack of many things I sought:
Updating pains, I mourn for hours I lost.
I flood my thirsty ducts, that drown forlorn,
For staunch amigos hid in mortal night,
And cry for sorrows long ago outworn,
And moan my loss of many a long–lost sight.
I’m sad at what was sad, though now it’s not,
Start listing pains untold and pains unsaid,
Accounting still for many a sold–off lot,
And pay again, as if I hadn’t paid.
But oh, mio caro, if I think of you,
All loss is null and void, all sorrow too.
I From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,

With Your Good Looks, What About a Child?

Good–looking folk and animals should pup,
Immortalising rosy–blooming glory.
Maturing, I’ll pass on, I’ll go paunch–up,
And my young sprog will carry on my story;
But you contract your troth with inward look,
Nourish your glow with autophagic food,
Drying to scarcity your bounty’s brook,
Your own worst hitman, doing harm, not good.
What! You, this world’s outstanding work of art,
You, proclamation of a coming Spring,
Bury in your own bud your major part,
Wasting good stuff, soft churl, by niggarding!
For our world’s good, nor tomb nor gluttony
Should scoff this birthright of humanity.
CXXX My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red:

(1) A Gallant Comparison

My lady’s orbs can’t match two Suns at noon;
Coral, too ruddy, trumps my lady’s lip;
Snow shows my lady’s bosom slushy–brown;
Black wiry hairs top out my ladyship;
Carnations, snow or crimson, don’t abound
Around my lady’s physiognomy;
As for aromas, it was always found,
My lady’s just unsatisfactory;
Though to my lady’s larynx I’m in thrall,
It falls a long way short of musical;
Gods of Olympus probably walk tall;
My lady’s gait’s not astro–magical.
Don’t worry, though: my girl can still surpass
Any too crassly sold and broadcast lass.

(2) Perfect? Er — She’s Even Better

Her eyes resemble less the fervent sphere;
Her teeth: red–fretted? Redder the jewelled reef;
Steel nets, her tresses; stressed, her temples. Sere
December freezes: where’s the resplendent beef?
We’ve seen red setters, seen the egret’s vest,
Yet egret–sheen ne’er blenched her redless cheeks;
We scented Estée’s scent, then we regressed:
We smelled her scent, reeled senseless! Yes, she reeks!
Her speech refreshes me; nevertheless
Glees, even sennets, fetch me even better;
We’ve never seen the fleet feet *des déesses:
Well, when she steps, the pebbled weeds beset her.
Yet, yet, meseems, †mehercle! she’s the best:
The rest get bent creds: she exceeds the rest.

*French: des êtres célestes.
†See Terence, when rednecks express themselves.

More poems by Timothy Adès...

Tags Lipograms

Another Lullaby for Insomniacs

A.E. Stallings (1968)

Another Lullaby for Insomniacs

Sleep, she will not linger: She turns her moon-cold shoulder. With no ring on her finger, You cannot hope to hold her. She turns her moon-cold shoulder And tosses off the cover. You cannot hope to hold her: She has another lover. She tosses off the cover And lays the darkness bare. She has another lover. Her heart is otherwhere. She lays the darkness bare. You slowly realize Her heart is otherwhere. There's distance in her eyes. You slowly realize That she will never linger, With distance in her eyes And no ring on her finger.

Another Lullaby for Insomniacs

nulla quies, tibi nequaquam tua cara manebit: ~~annulus in digito, spes retinere, vacat. stragula iacta iacent, umerus quasi luna rigescit: ~~alter amator obest: spes retinere vacat. stragula iacta iacent, stat nuda cubilibus umbra: ~~flebile paulatim percipis exitium. cor procul hinc refugit, patet en! absentia ocellis : ~~annulus in digito deest: retinere nequis.

My translation into Latin.

More poems by A.E. Stallings...

Tags Night

‘What spot do you aim at?’ by Wystan Hugh

Oh where are you going

W.H. Auden (1907-73)

Oh where are you going

"O where are you going?" said reader to rider, "That valley is fatal where furnaces burn, Yonder's the midden whose odours will madden, That gap is the grave where the tall return." "O do you imagine," said fearer to farer, "That dusk will delay on your path to the pass, Your diligent looking discover the lacking, Your footsteps feel from granite to grass?" "O what was that bird," said horror to hearer, "Did you see that shape in the twisted trees? Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly, The spot on your skin is a shocking disease." "Out of this house"---said rider to reader, "Yours never will"---said farer to fearer "They're looking for you"---said hearer to horror, As he left them there, as he left them there.

‘What spot do you aim at?’ by Wystan Hugh

‘What spot do you aim at?’ said bookworm to backload: That low strip is fatal as kilns hotly burn, It’s got a big dunghill, its odour’s a lungful, That gap is a tomb from which lofty folk turn.’ ‘O is it your notion’ said pallid to payload, ‘That dusk will hold back on your path to yon pass, Your small-tooth-comb looking track down what is lacking, Your footfall go groping from gabbro to grass?’ ‘O what was that bird’ said to auditor awful, ‘Did you spot that form amid twigs twisting thick? At your back swiftly that thing’s coming softly, That spot on your skin dubs you horribly sick.’ ‘Out of this building’ said backload to bookworm, ‘Yours will not do it’ said payload to pallid, ‘You got you a manhunt,’ said auditor, 'awful.' Your man didn’t stay, your man didn’t stay.

More poems by W.H. Auden...

Tags Lipograms

‘What spot do you aim at?’ by Wystan Hugh

Oh where are you going

W.H. Auden (1907-73)

Oh where are you going

‘What spot do you aim at?’ by Wystan Hugh

More poems by W.H. Auden...

Big Pond Quinsy

Sea Fever

John Masefield (1878-1967)

Sea Fever

Let's see whether he needed the letter E. I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Big Pond Quinsy

I must go down and all I ask is a tall ship and a star I must go back to what’s briny, just big sky and a briny splat, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to point it at, A hub swinging round, a wind-humming sound, and a snowy sailcloth shaking, A briny phiz that’s hazily gray, and a gray dawn waking. I must go back to what’s briny, for that calling of flux and flow Is a wild call and a loud call, to which you don’t say no; And all I ask is a windy day with cotton-wool clouds flying, With flung spray and with blown foam, and gulls and fulmars crying. I must go back to what’s briny, now! to my vagrant gypsy way, sir, To a gull’s way and an orca’s way, and a wind as sharp as a razor; And all I ask is a jolly yarn from a laughing amigo-in-roving, And a tranquil nap with visions of pap, as my shiftwork clock stops moving.

More poems by John Masefield...

Tags Desire, Lipograms, Sea

Adistrop

Adlestrop

Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

Let's see whether he needed the letter E...

Adlestrop

Yes. I remember Adlestrop— The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June. The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop—only the name And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky. And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Adistrop

D’you think I forgot about Adistrop? Not a bit of it! what? It was half-past two and it was hot, Almost July, and unusually My rapid train was brought to a stop. Sibilant vapour. Throaty cough. Nobody got on or off. Anybody on platform? Not. All I saw was a big signboard Saying ‘Adistrop’: just that word, And willows and grass and a plant too spry, Pink, and a fragrant ulmaria (? try ‘Wool of Mary’?) and haycocks, dry, Still and sightly as clouds on high, Solitary, stuck in a sunny sky; And a blackbird singing, but not for long, Not far off; all around, birdsong, From distant, hazily vaporous Avian byways of Oxon and Glos.

More poems by Edward Thomas...

Tags Lipograms

Tarantula - by Hilarious Blloc

Tarantella

Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

Let's see whether he needed the letter E...

Tarantella

Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of tar? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the vine of the dark verandah)? Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, Do you remember an Inn? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteeers Who hadn't got a penny, And who weren't paying any, And the hammer at the doors and the Din? And the Hip! Hop! Hap! Of the clap Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl Of the girl gone chancing, Glancing, Dancing, Backing and advancing, Snapping of a clapper to the spin Out and in -- And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar. Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? Never more; Miranda, Never more. Only the high peaks hoar: And Aragon a torrent at the door. No sound In the walls of the Halls where falls The tread Of the feet of the dead to the ground No sound: But the boom Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

Tarantula - by Hilarious Blloc

So you forgot that inn, did you, Miranda? So you forgot that inn? Probably not! And a smoothing-down of a lot Of straw for a cot And a scrat of a gnat on Mount Ararat And a Bacchic jar with a flavour of tar? And callow mahouts Laughing and scoffing with mirthful shouts On a plum–drunk balcony, far Away from old Karaganda? So you forgot that inn, did you, Miranda? So you forgot that inn? Probably not! And callow mahouts with mirthful shouts Who hadn’t a sou And who would not pay, not a button or two And that dunning on doors, what a din! And a Hip! Hop! Hap! Of a clap Of hands to a twirl and swirl Of a girl spun chancing, Glancing, Dancing, Backing and advancing, Snap clap clapping to a spin Out and in — And a Ting, Tong, Tang, of a Guitar. So you forgot that inn, did you, Miranda? So you forgot that inn? Probably not! Not again, Miranda, nor A Jamaican station on Bodmin Moor! Only Hyrcanian high crags hoar, Cascading of Aragon at my door. No sound Within walls Of halls! It falls, That fatal footfall clocks cold ground: No sound But a boom, A Niagara Falls Of doom.

More poems by Hilaire Belloc...

Tags Lipograms, Memory, Places

Oak Ash and Thorn by Timothy Adès

Oak Ash and Thorn by Kipling

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

A song for anybody to sing without avoiding A, I, O, or U

Oak Ash and Thorn by Kipling

Of all the trees that grow so fair Old England to adorn Greater are none beneath the sun Than oak and ash and thorn Sing oak and ash and thorn good sirs All on a midsummer's morn Surely we sing of no little thing In oak and ash and thorn Oak of the clay lived many a day Or ever Aeneas began Ash of the loam was a lady at home When Brut was an outlaw man Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town From which was London born Witness hereby the ancientry Of oak and ash and thorn Sing oak and ash and thorn good sirs All of a midsummer's morn Surely we sing of no little thing In oak and ash and thorn Yew that is old in churchyard mould He breedeth a mighty bow Alder for shoes do wise men choose And beech for cups also But when you have killed and your bowl is spilled And your shoes are clean outworn Back ye must speed for all that ye need To oak and ash and thorn Sing oak and ash and thorn good sirs All of a midsummer's morn Surely we sing of no little thing In oak and ash and thorn Ellum she hates mankind and waits Till every gust be laid To drop a limb on the head of him Who any way trusts her shade But whether a lad be sober or sad Or mellow with ale from the horn He'll take no wrong when he lieth along 'Neath oak and ash and thorn Sing oak and ash and thorn good sirs All of a midsummer's morn Surely we sing of no little thing In oak and ash and thorn Oh do not tell the priest our plight Or he would call it a sin But we've been out in the woods all night A-conjuring summer in And we bring you news by word of mouth Good news for cattle and corn Now is the sun come up from the south with oak and ash and thorn Sing oak and ash and thorn good sirs All of a midsummer's morn England shall bide till Judgement Tide By oak and ash and thorn.

Oak Ash and Thorn by Timothy Adès

Of trunks and boughs which Luck allows Fair Albion to adorn, Naught is so grand in all our land As oak and ash and thorn. Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, All on a long day’s morn: Good folk shall sing, no paltry thing, Of oak and ash and thorn. OAK on our clay saw stop and stay Troy’s pious lord forlorn; ASH on our loam saw Brutus roam, An outlaw put to scorn; THORN on our Down saw young Troy Town, From which was London born. Thus all may know that long ago Stood oak and ash and thorn. - Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, All on a long day’s morn: Good folk shall sing, no paltry thing, Of oak and ash and thorn. TAXUS grows old in churchyard mould And spawns a mighty bow; ALNUS is put on snug-shod foot, FAGUS to cups will go; A kingdom’s built, a bowl is spilt, A boot’s cast off, outworn: You shall go back for what you lack To oak and ash and thorn. - Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, All on a long day’s morn: Good folk shall sing, no paltry thing, Of oak and ash and thorn. ULMUS abhors mankind, and waits In calm, if not in storm, To drop a limb on top of him Who trusts that shady form. But any lad who’s spry or sad Or high on hops from horn Cannot go wrong by lying long In oak and ash and thorn. - Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, All on a long day’s morn Good folk shall sing, no paltry thing, Of oak and ash and thorn. Blurt to no parson of our plight: A parson calls it sin, Our frolicking in woods all night To summon long days in. Glad tidings run by word of mouth Of joy for cow and corn, For now Sir Sun strolls up from south With oak and ash and thorn. - Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, All on a long day’s morn: Fair Albion shall not pass away With oak and ash and thorn!

More poems by Rudyard Kipling...

Tags Lipograms