Enjambment – it’s a nasty little habit That’s likely to derail the locomotion of your meter – For lines that run-away are sure to rabbit, So prose may ride expresses, but the slow train sounds the sweeter.
Yet another poem about poetry, but at least it’s short. I’ve always been puzzled by where modern poets choose to break their lines, particularly as when they read it out, there’s often no pause whatsoever between the lines. The verb ‘to rabbit’ is used here in its cockney sense meaning to chatter – nothing to do with running, except the mouth.
A minister’s office. There is a knock and the Professor enters.
Minister Ah, professor, good afternoon. It’s really very good of you to see me quite so soon.
Professor Oh, no trouble, Minister, no trouble at all. I came the very minute that I first received your call.
Minister Then let me bring you up to speed the problem facing here: Something has been happening, and something very queer. Something has affected quite the very way we speak, It’s spread across the nation within only half a week, It’s very hard to spot, of course, which makes it all the worse – But each and ev’ry citizen has started talking verse.
Professor But surely you don’t mean…
Minister Alas, I rather mean I do.
Professor But what then made you realise ?
Minister (on intercom) Ah, Bridget, tea for two. (to Professor) Oh, little things, just nagging doubts.
Professor You thought you had some pests ?
Minister We wanted to be certain, so we ran a batch of tests. We’ve got our finest boffins out there looking for the source.
Professor But why then did you turn to me ?
Minister It’s time to alter course. We need to find an antidote, we really can’t delay. And that is why I called you in…
Bridget (entering) We’re out of Earl Grey.
Minister Well never mind, well never mind, I’m sure this shall suffice.
Bridget exits.
Professor I really can’t imagine I could give you sound advice.
Minister But you’re our finest scholar, you must surely have some clue ?
Professor Nothing at the moment, I’m afraid.
Minister One lump, or two ?
Professor But are you really certain that we’re talking all in rhymes ? There hasn’t been a mention in the Telegraph or Times.
Minister We’ve had to keep it hush-hush so as not to cause a panic. Would you like a ginger-nut ? Don’t worry, they’re organic. Of course, it isn’t fatal – no, the country’s not entombed – It’s just so very curious…
Professor We’re doomed, by God, we’re doomed !
Minister Now not to be alarmist, or to overstate things grossly, You’d never even know it’s there unless you listen closely To the steady pitter-patter in the rhythm of each sentence…
Professor We’re doomed, I say ! We must all pray, and beg the Lord’s repentance.
Minister Professor ! Pull yourself together ! I need you now to think – There must be something, anything, to save us from the brink ?
Professor Wait ! There may be something…the problem is systemic.
Minister The problem is we’ve staring at a bloody epidemic !
Professor The problem is within the brain and its linguistic centre Now, usually it’s very good at recognising…
Door knock
Minister Enter.
Bridget enters and clears the tea things.
Professor …the diff’rences in how we speak, but something has confused it.
Bridget Shall I clear the paper, too ?
Minister I haven’t yet perused it.
Professor We need to shake it up again, with something quite sublime: By ending ev’ry sentence with a word that doesn’t rhyme ! Now ev’ryone’s aware that there is nothing rhymes with orange…
Bridget I’ve contacted the builders to come and fix the door hinge.
Professor Another word that comes to mind – there’s none to find with chimney.
Bridget That Watkins tries to feel my legs – he said I had a trim knee.
Professor There must be more, there must be more – I’m sure we’re safe with plinth.
Bridget That gift I need to buy your son – was it guitar or synth ? I’ve called the milliners – your wife has found her trilby small. Will there be something else ?
Minister No thanks, I think that will be all.
Bridget exits.
Professor There’s must be more examples, such as anxious, purple, month…
Minister No rhyme, say you ? That can’t be true ! Why, surely there is… There is… Hah ! You’ve done it ! I’ve stopped rhyming. How can I ever thank you professor ? Your suggestion will save the country. Finally, we can stop the rhyme.
Ev’ry, dammit, ev’ry time My ev’ry sports a ’postrophe, You howl and howl my spelling crime As tho’ you were the boss o’ me. But still they pop extr’ordin’ry, Dishon’rab’ly, inord’nat’ly, By lis’ning out for how it’s said When diff’rently from how it’s read. So speech shall speak, and lit’rature obey – Just deal with it, you soph’mores – cos the commas stay !
1. You are so wrong, so very very wrong, To think that rhymes wreck the verse. Sure, they get used where they don’t belong, And when ill-used are a curse. And yes, they take their time to mature In the life of the poet’s pen – They cannot be nervous, must always be sure, And practiced agen and agen.
2. They write their verses blank and free, And barely bait the hook – But Keats and Frost and Tennyson Can still be grasped by anyone. They write their verses free and blank, And barely sell a book – While Blake and Burns and Betjamin Can still sell-out and fetch ’em in.
3. I tell myself, its cos they rhyme – They hate me that, they hate me that. I know my verse is in its prime – They must see that, they must see that. But still I always get rejected, While some prosy tripe’s selected. Must be just how I suspected – Must be that, it must be that.
Ev’rywhere in poetry, Ev’ryone must show it free – Jarring, scaring, woe-is-me – Fashion of the times. Me, I think their mumbling knows, Ev’rybody’s writing prose – But not I, I’m fighting those – Gotta have my rhymes. Gotta have my flowitry, My meenie minie moetry, My Edgar Allen Poetry – Rhythm is no crime ! Even when it strains my lung, Even when it stains my tongue, Even when my brain is wrung – I sing it till it chimes.
I see the poems popping up again Upon the Underground – Prosy, earnest, and ignored By all except the very bored. They’re forced to slum it on the crowded train – At least they get around, But free from glottal-stops and grime, And far too erudite to rhyme. And yet, it does them good to mix where Plain-spoke folk abound – And tailor their delivery To suit the Drain and Jubilee:
“Mind the gap please, mind the metaphors, Next stop is Leicester Square, Oh tyger tyger burning bright, She walks in beauty like the night, All-change for Euston, mind the doors, Use Oyster for the cheapest fare, Remember me when I am gone away, The darling buds of May, South Kensington for dinosaurs, Beyond the spiral stair – Early electric, to beat the queues – Where is Skimble ? Men long for news.”
Year after year, our language is changing And drifting yet further from Shakespeare’s day, Making it harder to known of his meaning, Making obscure as we’re slipping away. Writings updated retain all their meaning, But lose all their diction and word-play and flow – So when only scholars can read still this poem, Then do not translate it, but just let me go.
I sent in some poems, a varied selection, And each was admitted with not one rejection, Included within this exclusive collection, And mine for just twenty-nine pounds ninety-nine.
I thought of the public enjoying my writing, In thousands of copies, on my words alighting – Yet only those featured received the inviting To purchase this volume, exclusive and fine.
It came and I read my first masterworks printed, And turned not to one of the other fresh-minted New authors, who each in their turn would have squinted, At only their own words, and never at mine.
Amongst my first forays into promoting my poetry was poetry.com (since sold – so party on, current owners). They invited submissions for competitions that I now suspect were never actually won by anyone – instead, I received congratulations and offers to be included in an anthology, which as a participant could be mine for a reduced price, how many copies did I wish to order ? I allowed my work to be entered, but never bought the volumes. After two or three times, I stopped even allowing the use of, and cursed myself for once again wasting my stamps.
Another vanity outfit with which I had a dalliance were the Forward Press of Peterborough (who I later discovered were definitely not connected to the Forward Poetry Prize). Again, I avoided sending them any actual money, though I did allow them to use a couple of my poems in their magazine. I even won a £10 cheque for the best poem, which caused me to order the issue in question. Alas, they went bust before it arrived, but I did get to download the electronic version (though that has been lost on an abandoned hard-drive long ago). I distinctly remember which poem won, because it was the weakest of the ones I sent them, which in itself inspired another poem along with this one.
When did poetry become so small ? When did we all become about the ‘me’ ? Self-centred pseudies up our own arses, Full of minutia we’re bursting to free. I blame Romantics for swooning and moping While other folk got on with stuff. We’re just not that int’resting – nobody cares ! So spare them our whiny old guff. When did poetry become so small ? Obsessed with the truth, when it used to tell tall…
