You slide your shank in slow and smooth, To dock upon the centre-post – And now a gentle twist affords To ease your teeth between my wards. Your bit precise in ev’ry groove, Your diamond-pick a torsion ghost: A skeleton to probe my fob, And whispers through – an inside job.
You push your shaft deep in the plug, And stroke my barrel from within. My tumbler spins, my cams engage, My deadbolts throw and springs assuage. My keyway holds your bittings snug To activate each driver-pin To line the shear as each is shipped – Then enter in – my locks are tripped.
How much do I love you ? More than a little, but less than hyperbole, More than a tittle, but less than some verbally Spewing of sugary platitudes oozily, Brewing its treacly flatitudes boozily. Not I, my love, to quack with such canards unchecked – I love you so much for your questioning intellect. How much do I love you ? Too much for such plundering – I love you this much for your wonderous wondering.
How much do I love you ? More than a fancy, but less than the stars, More than some chancy allusion that jars. More than a sunset ? A pointless debate, To score and gauge beauty by some common rate. Not I, my love, to shatter the laws of the galaxy – I love you so much for your mocking of poetic fallacy. How much do I love you ? Such answers are always a crutch – I love you too much for me ever to tell you how much.
To Timbuk-where ? You know, down there. I’m sorry, sir, That does not stir A memory – It’s Greek to me. You want a cot For Timbuk-shot ?
No no, my man, It’s on your plan. That could be true. I thought you knew ? I’ve not a clue. Well, check it, do ! I’m sure you crew To Timbuktoo.
I’m sorry, sir I shall concur With your request For Bucharest. That’s wrong, I say ! Then fine, your way: I’ll book you in For Timbuk-skin.
No no, my man, Not Kazakhstan. I do not yearn For Bannockburn. It’s not Bordeaux I wish to go, But passage through To Timbuktoo !
I’m sorry, sir, Though some prefer To take a tour To Singapore. But if you wish For something swish, I’ll book your booth For Timbuk-tooth.
No no, my man, It’s not Japan. I never planned For Samarkand. It’s not Bombay, Or Mandalay: I’m telling you, It’s Timbuktoo !
I’m sorry, sir, I’ll just transfer Your ticket out Aboard the Sprout With cabin suite To sunny Crete, For steerage class To Timbuk-pass.
No no, my man, I do not tan: I shall not brown In Kingston Town, Nor burn my flesh In Marrakesh, But drink the dew In Timbuktoo.
I’m sorry, sir Now, as we were: We’re looking for Some distant shore – A pleasure cruise To stem the blues, And catch some sun In Timbuk-one
No no, my man, I know you can Quite recommend I try Ostend. But truth to tell I’d rather Hell Than see Peru, Not Timbuktoo.
I’m sorry, sir It’s all a blur You want a berth To catch some surf And land a-port For g’day sport And Bonza-brew In Timbuk-roo ?
No no, my man, It’s not Milan. I do not care For Delaware. I shall not sail For Ebbw Vale. I long to view Old Timbuktoo.
I’m sorry, sir, I must demur: We have no ship To make that trip. That city stands On desert sands, With no deep blue At Timbuktoo.
Actually, The River Niger flows quite close to Timbuktu, though it’s unlikely you’ll get an ocean liner up there – but maybe you could paddle a canoe to Timbuktu. But then, that has nothing to do with Timbuktoo, which is a mythical city of the imagination, twinned with El Dorado.
“First I killed a Lion, then I wed a Philistine, And set a Riddle tricky-hard, that nobody could guess – And when they did, I killed those men and stole their Clothing Fine, Then put away my Wife because she lured me to Confess. But then I tried to get her back, and set alight their Crops, And killed with just a Jawbone many Kinsmen of the Spouse. I wrecked the Gaza Gates – but whore Delilah made me drop. My Locks were Cut, my Eyes gouged Shut, I ground their Grain and heard them Strut. They Laughed and Ridiculed me, but, I’m Bringing down the House !
We are alike, my Friend, we are alike, Both you and I: We long to feel the Kick within, The Rush to fight, the Rage to win. I know you Well, my Friend: the Urge to strike, The Eye for Eye. Our Patience shot, our Caution scarred, We Hammer home and Hammer hard. And that is why we Labour so: To Cull and Raze, to Crush and Rend. We Smite this World and Overthrow – We Soar and Blaze, my Friend.”
Hercules:
“I too slew a Lion, then the vicious Hydra beast, I caught the Stag, I killed the Boar, and swept the Stables clean, I stopped the Birds Carnivorous and in their Man-eating Feast, And captured Bull and Horses, and the Girdle of a Queen, I rustled Oxen Cattle, and scrumped Apples made of Gold, I even took old Cerberus for walkies, (out of doors !) And with that were my Tasks complete, my Duties Dozenfold. But here I must curb Glorylust, This List ignores the trailing Dust, The endless Dash and frenzied Thrust that Drove me through these Chores.
We are alike, my Friend, we are alike, Both you and I: We neither one good Husbands make, Too Quick to blow, too Slow to brake. I know you Well, my Friend: the bursting Dyke, The sacred High. My Wife I killed, my Children too – My Furies great, my Forethoughts few. For punishment I Laboured so, To drain the Pus and make Amend. I pray this World need ne’er more Know The Likes of us, my Friend.”
Obviously, the poem isn’t directly related to the film poster (Italy 1963) – I just like it. The poster, that is, I’ve never seen the movie. Incidentally, it was released with it’s English dubbing as Hercules, Samson & Ulysses – and no, it wasn’t this particular flick that was redubbed in Hercules Returns.
You attack my lack of a knack as cack, Then you knock my stock as a crock of schlock. You may try this lie to decry my high, But you can’t supplant, nor your rant enchant. So go on, be gone ! Now your con looks wan – You’re a quack with jack, now my knack is back.
My my, little virus, haven’t you been busy, Clogging up my sinuses, roughing up my throat – You naughty little virus, you’ve left me low and dizzy, All watered in my eyeball and shivered in my coat. Oh my word, what hell you are ! You’re truly undesirous – But I am multicellular, And you are such a little virus…
I may be fevered hazily, And sorely dripping nasally, But I will beat you back – by deuce – With peppermints and orange juice ! I may be rasping breathily, But you won’t be the death of me – It’s hardly some acute bronchitis, Just your rhinopharyngitis.
Now there are tons of nasty bugs Resistant to our latest drugs – Herpes, hepatitis, rabies, Take our lovers, take our babies. You are nothing like those thugs, You’re even less a pest than scabies. Best you manage is to tire us – Call yourself a proper virus ?
But best of all, you’ve given me the cure – You’re down and dead and done, and that’s your lot. Your brothers may infect me further, sure, But you will not. This was your only shot. Your end is nigh, so take your bow, For look, here come my t-cells now.
And next time you come plumbing, Then you won’t catch me succumbing, Cos I’ll spy you with my clear, unstreaming iris – I’ll smell your protein codes And I’ll taste your lipid nodes And I’ll eat you up, you puny little virus.
And should your children come my way Mutated in disguise, They maybe lay me low, but hey, It won’t be me who dies.
On any subject, of any length, With first, second, third, then commendeds to tenth. But note ! There’s a catch, there’s a strange paradigm – We’re looking for rhapsodies raptured with rhyme ! We know it’s old-fashioned, we know it’s awry, But surely you cannot be frightened to try ? So make your rhymes nat’ral and make your rhymes sharp, To make ’em a hammer or make ’em a harp, Then relish your rhymes with a resonant rhythm – But don’t try to force ’em, you just gotta live ’em ! Not plucked from the ether and cultured in jelly, But grown like an ulcer alive in your belly. They’ll come when they’re ready, they’ll come without warning, They’ll come in a flood when your thoughts get to spawning – Oh sure, they’re not perfect, they still need a polish, But rub them too hard and you’ll only demolish. They’re twisty things, rhymes are, a mongrel eclectic – But get them to spark and your verse is electric. So send us your poems that make ’em a strength – On every subject, of every length.
Another day passes me by on rails – I somehow missed my station, Or maybe it’s not even on this line. I should be gathering traveller’s tales, But ev’ry new location Is just another wait on Platform 9. From the milk trains to the midnight mails Towards some destination, But the fast express has left me behind Somewhere between the gaps to mind. The signal’s red, the soot is black – My future lies on up the track.
To ev’ry band who never hit the heights, Who play the clubs but never play the halls – Whose name will never burn in lights, Nor posters hang from bedroom walls – Who always watch their fellow dudes a-strut, And always think “We’re just as good as that !” Who feel the calling in their gut, But never feast upon the fat – You’ve got the amps, you’ve got the tunes, You’ve got your share of dweebs and loons – Yet still you only smoulder, never blast. You missed your chance to quit this town, It’s gravity that keeps you down. You’re only growing older and surpassed.
But ev’ry band with unloved riff and chord Can always hope that Later Times may find That album ev’ryone ignored, And bring you forth to futurekind: To fill the galaxy with your guitars, And play your ballads on a thousand earths, And sing your melodies to stars For centuries beyond your births. You’ve got the chance, you’ve got the scars, You’ve got your share of superstars – So hit the road, and let those thrusters gun. A soundtrack to the pioneers, The very music of the spheres, Could see you flying higher than the sun.
detail from the Chandos Portrait, possibly by John Taylor, possibly showing William Shakespeare
First Eight Lines of a Sonnet
I sometimes feel like life is just preamble, All As and Bs and As and Bs forever – There’s building-up of tension for the scramble, But no antithesis can slip the tether. Won’t someone blow the whistle on this shamble, And get me underway in my endeavour ? I long to find a volta, take a gamble, But always must await a break in weather…
Rhyming Couplets 