And thus the Lord saith until Satan
“Testest thou my great creation,
Tempt and trick and lead astray:
The Righteous shall refuse to play,
And know thy works and block thy game,
And firm upon the path remain”
The Devil thought and mused awhile,
Then broke into demonic smile,
And so with cunning, wrote a tome
Forged deep within his hellish home
With hints and winks and clues abound
To show itself corrupt, unsound.
For here was found a petty god
Who knew no mercy, spared no rod,
But set such rules upon His flock
Which He Himself would break and mock,
And kill His own as took His fancy;
Proud and jealous tyrant, He.
Alas, Old Nick does now succeed
Too well, as heretics still bleed,
And signs are begged from out the skies,
As morals spring derived from lies;
The Faithful, though, shall call absurd
This book, and not believe a word.
Thrillers whisper throaty in the night,
Romances gush with a weepy sigh,
Memoirs giggle, wits banter bright,
Horrors rapture with a choking cry,
Angry young men are shouting thunder,
Hard-boileds wisecrack – gabbling, hawking,
Folktales regale with a lyrical wonder –
Hark – for the books, the books are talking !
When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer,
When the proofs and figures were ranged
In columns before me, to add and measure,
When shown his charts and diagrams strange,
When I, sitting, heard the Astronomer,
Where he lectured with much applause,
How soon, tired and sick, I stirred
And wander’d off by myself outdoors.
There in mystical moist night-airs,
From time to time I look’d up clear
In perfect silence at the stars,
(And thought them small, and rather near.)
This is my take on Walt Whitman’s poem of the opening line. I’ve shuffled things around and made it rhyme, but most of it is his words except for the last line. Turns out he was just a luddite after all.
Her lovers’ ink, the sneerful think,
Is sentimental brine –
But no, I say, for each cliché
Is lyricment divine !
The very fact her tritesome pact
Is heaped upon my shrine
Is surely worth all laboured birth –
Her rapturelust is mine !
Her spotted graft becomes a draught
Of witticismic wine;
Her passion grows in purple prose,
To bloom incarnadine.
(After Molière, The Learnèd Ladies, Act 3, Scene 3)
Another world has passed us by
Just as we were sleeping,
And fallen through our vortex as we lie;
A happenstance unseen across our sky.
For all the while the linens we were keeping,
A momentary spark can live and die.
Poetry is ev’rywhere,
Ev’ry day has rhymes to share,
Ev’ry one has verses lurking,
Ev’ry chance, the words are working,
Headstones whisper epitaphs,
Letters to the Telegraph,
Dylan lyrics, hip-hop crew,
Aides-memoire and billets-doux,
Nurs’ry rhymes and wishing wells,
Playground chants and magic spells,
Proverbs old and riddles vexed
Advertising copy text,
Couplets quoted from the Bards,
Purple prose and greetings cards,
Epigrams and tetrastichs,
Cockney slang and limericks,
Lear, Milne and Tennyson,
Lennon, Carroll, Chesterton,
Milligan and De La Mare,
Poetry is ev’rywhere.