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National Poetry Month Day 24
I have been outed as an instigator again, in this instance in murbling happily about Polly Walker/Idris Elba as ex-spies. JE NE REGRETTE REIN, MOTHEFUCKERS
swear_jar wrote a poem from the perspective of the colonial Alexander Jonathan Bruce (it is deliberately terrible, Alexander is no poet):
A Story For Edward
Here is a story Edward dear
(Though not impressive, great or queer)
Sitting on the train's bench here
My attention flies to birds I fear
I know you're wholly unsurprised
That winged creatures draw my eyes
Your smile I picture, knowing, wise
I have watched as the flock flies
Past my window: soft grey dove
Ravens wheeling up above
A flock of starlings fly below
An upright sulpher crested fellow
Three in fact, their heads bright yellow
Magpies dance, sharp eyed indeed
(Though not so handsome as those I feed)
Mudlarks flit across the gravel
And then one minute more of travel
Till one black cat upon a hill
Sitting royally, paws quite still
Looking down upon my train
As it passes by again
As it must do every day
Continuing along its way
I am not a poet, dear
And clumsy is this verse I fear
But like an Englishman at war,
Who loves the native he fights for,
Tries to make a lovers token,
Learning of the language spoken,
By his lover's lips and heart
(Thinking, now, how your lips part)
So I wrestle with my words,
Your native tongue for native birds
-- Alexander Jonathan Bruce
And I decided this was a fun game (work is as ever boring) and decided to write one of Edward Ewan Batterbee's horrific poems in return, not intended for Alexander's eyes at first, and so looked up poets of the time and found Yeats, whom, it transpires, I CANNOT FUCKING ABIDE. Anyway, I nicked the format of one of his poems and went to town:
Do not long
Angels, an imposing heavenly throng,
Look upon your face and long
They long for your eyes, as do I,
composing many a feeble song.
Like saints at stakes and broke on wheels,
I bear the longing with grace;
Like angels songs burst forth from larks,
the light of God shines in your face.
But bishops, who know nothing of love
would say that here I do wrong,
to look upon your God-created lips
and let myself long and long.
-- Edward Ewan Batterbee
Work was annoying today, my wisdom tooth hurts again, two people committed suicide on my route home thus tripling the time it took for me to get back to my house, my shoulders and back hurt, and I can't pull a sick tomorrow because I just paid my fucking travel insurance for holiday and it costs a day's wages. Still can't find a bike for under a hundred quid, and haven't been able to have a peaceful lunch in ages because of rain.
I have not quite resorted to cutting yet but have bitten a bruise into my knuckle and hurt my head smacking it off a window.
National Poetry Month Day 24
I have been outed as an instigator again, in this instance in murbling happily about Polly Walker/Idris Elba as ex-spies. JE NE REGRETTE REIN, MOTHEFUCKERS
swear_jar wrote a poem from the perspective of the colonial Alexander Jonathan Bruce (it is deliberately terrible, Alexander is no poet):
A Story For Edward
Here is a story Edward dear
(Though not impressive, great or queer)
Sitting on the train's bench here
My attention flies to birds I fear
I know you're wholly unsurprised
That winged creatures draw my eyes
Your smile I picture, knowing, wise
I have watched as the flock flies
Past my window: soft grey dove
Ravens wheeling up above
A flock of starlings fly below
An upright sulpher crested fellow
Three in fact, their heads bright yellow
Magpies dance, sharp eyed indeed
(Though not so handsome as those I feed)
Mudlarks flit across the gravel
And then one minute more of travel
Till one black cat upon a hill
Sitting royally, paws quite still
Looking down upon my train
As it passes by again
As it must do every day
Continuing along its way
I am not a poet, dear
And clumsy is this verse I fear
But like an Englishman at war,
Who loves the native he fights for,
Tries to make a lovers token,
Learning of the language spoken,
By his lover's lips and heart
(Thinking, now, how your lips part)
So I wrestle with my words,
Your native tongue for native birds
-- Alexander Jonathan Bruce
And I decided this was a fun game (work is as ever boring) and decided to write one of Edward Ewan Batterbee's horrific poems in return, not intended for Alexander's eyes at first, and so looked up poets of the time and found Yeats, whom, it transpires, I CANNOT FUCKING ABIDE. Anyway, I nicked the format of one of his poems and went to town:
Do not long
Angels, an imposing heavenly throng,
Look upon your face and long
They long for your eyes, as do I,
composing many a feeble song.
Like saints at stakes and broke on wheels,
I bear the longing with grace;
Like angels songs burst forth from larks,
the light of God shines in your face.
But bishops, who know nothing of love
would say that here I do wrong,
to look upon your God-created lips
and let myself long and long.
-- Edward Ewan Batterbee
Work was annoying today, my wisdom tooth hurts again, two people committed suicide on my route home thus tripling the time it took for me to get back to my house, my shoulders and back hurt, and I can't pull a sick tomorrow because I just paid my fucking travel insurance for holiday and it costs a day's wages. Still can't find a bike for under a hundred quid, and haven't been able to have a peaceful lunch in ages because of rain.
I have not quite resorted to cutting yet but have bitten a bruise into my knuckle and hurt my head smacking it off a window.