The Excellent Wessex Event (When She Wedded Me)

Timothy Adès

‘The Excellent Wessex Event’ is based on the 1967 Film ‘Far from the Madding Crowd’ and a Betjeman Heroine. Winner of the Flamingofeather Long Poem Prize, 2013, it was published in Long Poem Magazine, 2014, with an Apparatus Criticus. “… a breathtaking, single–vowelled tour de force: ‘She fells these three fellers, Ms B. Everdene. / Terence weds her, then flees; she tells Peter: “Wed me!” ’ ” — Greg Freeman in Write Out Loud “Timothy Adès’ ‘The Excellent Wessex Event’ uses the Oulipo univocal lipogram omitting a, i, o and u to produce a narrative poem in rhyming couplets drawing upon the film version of Hardy’s Far From The Madding Crowd. This one-hundred-line sequence comes with a set of multi–language footnotes all with the same impediment.” — David Caddy's blog, Tears in the Fence

Introduction to ‘The Excellent Wessex Event’

This univocalic lipogram won an, um, won a Flamingo–Quill (that’s almost right) award, six months, no, many months ago. It honours two icons of British womanhood, drawing on Thomas Hardy’s book Far From A Madding Crowd, or strictly on a film of that book which was famous in my youth, and on a suburban mini–saga of sport and courtship by an illustrious Old Marlburian, which harks back to my boyhood, south of London. What is a lipogram? It’s a form of writing popular with a Gallic group known as Oulipo, that is to say ‘Writing Possibility Workshop’, although ‘lipo–’ may go back to Plato’s old word for ‘omit’ … not, I might add, to his similar word for ‘fat’. A lipogram is all about having a constraint, such as omitting a basic unit (or two) from a particular composition. If you look at this paragraph, you won’t find any omission of A, I, O or U. An accompanying apparatus criticus informs of variants found in manuscripts, or thought up by scholars, and will cast light on any occasional obscurity. I did classics as a schoolboy, and sat through any amount of this kind of thing. If at any point you can’t follow my non–local lingo, why not look for a translation on my www.
The Excellent Wessex Event (When She Wedded Me)
(N.B. PRECEDENCE: THE PEER EXEMPTED) We exempt the respected Ned Wessex, the peer: He needn’t feel he’d be the reference here. Well, he weren’t yet preferred, when these verses were penned! Ex Egbert the Elder, three brethren descend. HERSELF MS B. EVERDENE, MS B. EVERDENE, Deep–zested, tweed–chested, the Western sweet–teen! Her best speed exceeded the fleet leveret; Her feet were the slenderest, tenderest yet. Wessex! Wells, Mells, the Cheverells, the Kennet, the Test; There’s Tess Debrett–Deference, there’s Jed the Repressed; The beech–trees’ green excellence shelters the sheep; Beetles nestle, well–fed; replete trenchermen sleep. Let the fevered seethe elsewhere. Remember the scene? She fells these three fellers, Ms B. Everdene. Terence weds her, then flees; she tells Peter: ‘Wed me!’ Peter’s pellet fells Tel; she weds Zebedee Tree. Let the reckless recede: Wessex needn’t be pestered. Well, her sheep swelled, blenched, sweltered; her bell–wethers festered; Her ewes needed helpmeets, the sweet shepherdess! Bergère légère, sévère détresse. They freed the pent breezes, they gentled her sheep, Re–fettled the helpless, defenceless Belle–Peep. They helped her mend fences, keep bees, sell her fleeces, Brew beers, wrestle steers, breed red setters, press cheeses. She entered her jennet, she swept three events: She wrecked, she sternwheelered the three–decker fence. When she screen–tested, Elstree’s behests were exceeded: ‘Three cheers!’ Terence yelled: yet she’ll never be needed. (When she entered the Beckmesser Best Verse Event, ‘We deem ye’re the best’ wheezed the letter they sent. ‘These verses were excellent — best ever seen: Yet we need seven fewer — ye’ve sent seventeen!’). She revered the Berserkers, kept her épées well flexed: She peppered the mêlée, mere nerds were de–sexed! When she vented her spleen, the events were extreme…! She fenced well; she effected the deeds we esteem. She led her eleven (three sevens less ten): We felt her svelte vehemence, we keen Wessex men. She served — the bets lengthened — she swept the next set: ‘Twelve–twelve: even stevens! They’ll strengthen the net.’ Deep red were the tresses her green eyes reflected; Red–eyed, tremble–cheeked the wet men she’d rejected. She jested, she bested me, 17–3! Strength, speed, perfect deftness, Ms Everdene B. MR EVERDENE (he’s her begetter: he engendered her.) Mr Everdene’s seedbeds: well–weeded, well–dressed! He’s served me the genever, fresh–peeled the zest. ‘Seven bells!’ bleeps the ether. The Beeb tells the News: Kew’s new helter–skelter. Pelé meets Henley crews. We’ve smelt, these few weeks, Mr Everdene’s herbs: We’ve spell–checked (he’s the expert!) Perec’s e–less French verbs. He’s helped her ‘self–reference,’ yet nevertheless Kept secret the preference she’ll never express. He ‘respects’ Bells Yew Green, he ‘prefers’ Peterlee, Where the tenement–dwellers resettled, felt free. ‘Remember’, he stressed, ‘the best verses extend, Yet resemble, the precedents better men penned.’ [Theme: ‘Greensleeves’] He’s the Verderers’ Verger, he re–elmed The Glebe, Re–nested the egret, re–crested the grebe. He re–elvered the Exe, when her nether emergence Went eel–less. ‘We need fresher, greener detergents!’ The week when dense kex–weed enfeebled the Trent, (Even newts were perplexed!) he’s the geezer they sent. He metered the elements, tested the presence, Tended reed–beds, dredged trenches, expelled the excrescence. He let eels beget elvers: they revelled, went legless! Wrens, tree–creepers, greylegs, he never left eggless. He preserved the West Erg, where the Ténéré tree Met her Meddler. Meseemed he’d preserve even Me. THE PLEDGE [Sennet.] The Evercreech Levée! Green–belted her dress; Sheer–selvedged, her neckleted red–freckledness. We went there; the fenderless Edsel relented; She seemed pre–selected, her cheeks smelled sweet–scented. Well–heeled Wessex vespers! The well–tempered keys! The nerveless resplendence! The strength next the knees! We’ll let Messrs Sleepeezee pre–test the bed, The pelmet, the tester, the sheets, WHEN WE WED! The deckle–edged letters, the speech, the set jest, The new, well–hedged nest–egg (she’s pledged me the nest!); The leek–green Welsh dresser, the cleverest shelves Where the bent Penney’s rejects re–centre themselves. The SwebCentre’s deep–freezer–chest sets the scene; Crested Berkertex bed–sheets, we’ll sleep strewn between. There’ll be Everest fenêtres: the bevel’s recessed: Le vent ne pénètre, when the lever’s depressed. HERE’S THE STEEPLE [Enter the celeste, etc. Sweet glees] Yestereven the Western defenders were here: St Keverne, St Erney, St Clether, St Cleer. We feel we’ve repented whenever we’ve erred; They’ll bless the deep bed, get the sentence deferred. Presents! Here’s The Red Desert, Steele, Sterne, Stephen Spender, Ted Dexter, Pete Seeger, The Creep, The Pretender. Let’s get the blend perfect! The Reverend, the bells! … Elder Dempster! Three Weeks! Bêches de Mer! The Seychelles! WE NEVER EXPECTED THE EVENT’S REPELLENT END… She SPEWED crème de menthe, MESSED her velveteen breeches, She DRENCHED her three nephews, prevented the speeches. Ms JEZEBEL Everdene’s never been wed: She’s rendered me REDELESS — the new ETHELRED! Yes, she wended, went west, she bereft me, defected, She schlepped, de–selected, she left me dejected, Yes, she expleted, reverted, depleted, DESERTED THE BED! She dwells where the Menderes enters the Med.

More poems by Timothy Adès...

Categories
English

M Sweeney by Timothy Ades

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...

Categories
English

Lipograms from Stratford–on–Avon by Timothy Adès

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...

Loredana Lipogram

Loredana

Deniz Otay (1993)

Loredana
Dimineața părăsesc o locuință care nu e a mea și nu e plătită de mine traversând puhoiuri dintr-o micuță groapă din care aștept să vină dumnezeu să mă scoată. Fac drumul spre fabrică. E o putere să ceri de la corp adaptare și tot de la corpul înghesuit în autobuz printre proletariatul distrus, elevii cu ochii umflați, să te țină în bunăstare. La orele astea pe sub layers, ca muncitorii din fabrică când trec podul spre fabrică sau calea ferată cu câini vagabonzi și frică de antitetanos oare cât sunt de frumoasă, specială, mai sunt? Cum îți vine halatul muncitoresc, prințesă extrasă din petreceri și trai vegetal, alunecând între ființe estice, buhăite pe care nu le iubesc. Despre experimentalism și mistică e numai viața pe mess, când trec poarta la fabrică nu am autorități interne, ierarhii de iubire. Suntem dizgrațios de apropiați și asemănători ieșiți din case după bani Viața la pontaj pune ceață peste viața iluminaților privilegiați. Au fost ani cu splendoare continui să cred că a fost halucinație și că munca e forță. Însă dacă e să aleg – suprema fericire derivată din carduri diavoli și lux în fața voastră mă plec.
Loredana Lipogram
Let’s see whether we need the letter E Most mornings I walk out of a pad that I don’t own and didn’t pay for I go past floods of humanity in a grotty ditch in which I wait for god to fix my way out I go on to that factory I work in. It’s tough to ask your body to adapt and to ask your body in that crush of a bus among our worn-down working class, schoolkids with puffy drooping lids, to guard you intact. At that hour in clothing as thick as a factory hand’s as I cross a gangway to that factory or railway tracks with stray dogs and scary inoculations against toxic filth I ask: just how alluring am I, miraculous, am I, still? How might that work-coat suit you, royal scion, torn away from nights of fun and your world in blossom, scrabbling among migrants with fat chops that I’m not at all fond of. As for philosophical inquiry and mysticism, that’s only for typing in my PM box. I go into that factory having no instinct of authority, no organisation chart of loving. We are disastrously akin and similar going out to toil for a crust clocking-on casts a blight on your bright lights your insouciant fun. Long ago I had so many months of glory I think now that it was a hallucination and that hard work is compulsory. But if I was choosing – the total bliss of buying with plastic such diabolical luxury – Calf of gold, I bow down!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Deniz Otay...

‘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.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by W.H. Auden...

Courtship Song of J. Arthur Prufrock

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Old Possum (1888-1965)

Lipogram, no letter E.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
"S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo." - Lungarno: Il viaggio a Tartaro con Virgilio Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair — (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin — (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.                So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.                And should I then presume?                And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head                Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;                That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say:                “That is not it at all,                That is not what I meant, at all.” No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Courtship Song of J. Arthur Prufrock
“If I thought what I say to you would go to anybody bound for worldly light, this brand would stop pulsating and fall still. But nobody’s got out of our abyss living, if I’m told truth; and so, I shall inform you, unafraid of infamy”. - 'To Tartarus with Virgil' OK Vamos, you and I, Now that dusk is sprawling on its backdrop sky, Aping an invalid whom chloroform’s put down; Vamos, through various not-that-busy ways, Susurrating slinkaways, Insomniac nights in short-stay low-class inns And sawdust snackbars flush with crayfish skins: Ways dogging you with boring how-d’you-do Cunningly bugging you To bring you a tyrannical conundrum… Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Just carry out our visit. Backward and forward trips posh totty Talking of Italy’s Buonarotti. That sallow fog that rubs its back on window-glass, That sallow smog that rubs its jaws on window-glass, Licking its lingual prong into nooks of dusk, Hanging round pools that stand in drains, Took on its back soot-falls from filthy stacks, Slid by a run of doors, did a quick jump past a gap, Saw that it was a soft autumnal night, Wound simply round a flat, took a nap. And this won’t fail: an opportunity For sallow smog that slips down murky ways Rubbing its back, again, on window-glass; An opportunity, an opportunity, To fix a phiz fit to quiz any phiz; To go all homicidal, or to bring Good things to birth; for works and days of hands That lift and drop conundrums in your lap; Your opportunity, my opportunity, To wallow in a thousand doubts of mind, A thousand visions won, a thousand lost, Partaking finally of Whittard’s Black, and toast. Backward and forward trips posh totty Talking of Italy’s Buonarotti. And this won’t fail: an opportunity To think: “Am I so bold? Am I so bold?” To turn again, go down that stair With a bald spot as hub-cap of my hair, (Folk will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to my chin, My cravat rich and unassuming, with a thrifty pin— (Folk will say: “Just look at his limbs, how thin!”) Am I so bold As to carry out a cosmic discommoding? In an instant I can find Ultimatums in my mind, with an option of swift unloading. For I know it all, right now, oh I know it all: Know of dusks, of mornings and long-past-noons, Counting out my days with mocca-spoons; Know of small-talk dying with a dying fall Which a distant music laid out cold. So how should I wax bold? And I know of orbs of sight, I know it all, Orbs that fix you in a formula, a way of saying, And caught in that formula I’d sprawl, stuck fast On a pin and wriggling against a wall: Say, how should I start Spitting out ciggy-butts of my days and ways? And how should I wax bold? And I know of arms, right now, oh I do know it all: Brightly dight with bling, skin unclad, lily-fair (Though in lamplight, downy with light brown hair). Is it a fragrant frock Brings on my logic-block? Arms laid along a board, or wrapping round a shawl. And am I to wax bold? And how should I start? Shall I talk of going at dusk through narrow ways Watching vapour curling up from solitary souls Smoking with no coats on, hanging out of windows?... What if I wasn’t I, but two tatty claws Scuttling on salt floods’ tranquil floors… . . . . . . . And noon is napping placidly, and dusk is too! Stroking of long digits: Laid out… lassitudinous… or it fidgits, Lying long on this floor, by yours truly, and you. Should I, upon a cuppa char, a pastry, a cassata, Push this occasion into ultimata? With orbs in flood, and off my food, my orison was said: I saw my balding topknot on a tundish, most unkind, But I’m not Giambattista and I don’t much mind; I saw my opportunity of triumph slip, I saw God’s Footman hold my coat, and curl his lip And in short, I was afraid. If I had, was it actually worth it, anyway, Following two cuppas and a fruit-slop on a spoon, Among china crocks and a chat about us two, Was it actually worth it, to do, If I bit off such a topic with a grin, If I shrank God’s cosmos into a ball To roll it towards a gigantic inquiry, To say: “I am Lazarus, I’m an apparition, Giving you my story, I’m giving you it all” – If a lady, comfortably placing a cushion, Should say: “That is not what I had in mind at all; That is not it, at all.” Was it actually worth it, anyway, If I had, was it actually worth it? What with nightfalls, dooryards and civic hosings-down, Works of fiction, cups of Lipton, a trailing skirt or gown, And that, and much on top of that? - I can’t possibly say what I’m driving at! But as if a magic gizmo put my ganglia in graphs upon a wall: If I had, was it actually worth it, If a lady took a cushion or was throwing off a shawl, And turning toward a window, should say: “That is not it, at all, That is not what I had in mind at all.” No! I’m not that Danish royal, not cut out for it; Just an auxiliary lord, who’ll do To bulk out a walkabout, start an act or two, Advising HRH; no doubt, a handy tool, Knowing my station, glad if I do good, Politic, cautious, acting as I should, Full of high opinion, but as thick as wood; Now and again, almost ridiculous – Almost, in fact, his Fool. I grow old … I grow old … I’ll roll up my turn-ups, I’ll turn out bold. Shall I part my hair abaft? Might I munch a mango, coolly? I shall walk damp sand in plus-fours, tint of lily. I saw nymphs with fishtails, singing songs, mutually. I do not think that choir will sing for yours truly. I saw nymphs riding on salt surf to far horizons, Combing foaming hair of salt surf blown back By wind that blows on surf both milky and black. You and I may tarry in old Triton’s halls With nymphs wrapt in salt-grass crimson and brown Till human music warms us and charms us to drown.
© With copious thanks to Fabbro & Fabbro (Old Possum’s old firm which also holds all copyright of his works) Published in Long Poem Magazine Translated by T. S. Eliot

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Old Possum...

Adistrop

Adlestrop

Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

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.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Edward Thomas...

Big Pond Quinsy

Sea Fever

John Masefield (1878-1967)

Sea Fever
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.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by John Masefield...

That Road, I Trod It Not

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

He never needed the letter E !
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
That Road, I Trod It Not
Two roads! At a fork in an autumn wood I was sorry I could not go down both Without bifurcating. Long I stood looking down road X as far as I could till it slank out of sight in that sylvan growth. And I took road Y, which could turn a trick, Alluring, and angling for priority, That is, it was grassy and in good nick, Though I must say footfall and walking-stick Had worn both roads with comparability. And both that morning similarly lay Intact, no taint of any trampling black. I put off Road X for a distant day, Though, knowing how way links up with way, I hardly thought that I would go back. I shall spout this story and I shall sigh, Who knows how soon, or in what locality: Two roads at a fork in a wood, and I – Shunning busy road X, I took road Y! – With what upshot? A thoroughgoing dissimilarity!
The story behind this poem: Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" is both humorous and ironic, reflecting the poet's playful side. In the early 20th century, Frost became close friends with the English writer Edward Thomas. They often took long walks together through the countryside, where Thomas would frequently express regret over not choosing a different path once they had gone a certain way. Frost, amused by Thomas's indecision and tendency to second-guess himself, decided to write a poem as a gentle parody of his friend. In 1915, Frost penned "The Road Not Taken," intending it as a playful mockery of Thomas’s indecisiveness. The poem's narrator stands at a fork in the woods, choosing one path over another, only to later claim that the choice made "all the difference," despite the paths being equally worn. Frost sent the poem to Thomas, expecting his friend to catch the humor. However, Thomas did not realize that the poem was meant to be lighthearted and instead interpreted it as a serious reflection on choice and consequence. This misunderstanding disappointed Frost but also deepened the poem’s legacy, as it highlighted how easily people can misconstrue intentions based on their perspectives. Interestingly, this poem, which Frost intended as a joke, became one of his most famous and is often quoted as an inspiring message about individualism and the significance of choices in life. Yet, Frost’s original intent was more about poking fun at the human tendency to overthink and attribute deep meaning to decisions that, in hindsight, may not have been as significant as we believe. This story not only sheds light on the poem’s true meaning but also adds a layer of irony, as the world continues to interpret the poem in a way that differs from Frost’s original playful intent.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Robert Frost (1874-1963)...

Tarantula - by Hilarious Blloc

Tarantella

Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

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.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Hilaire Belloc...