h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

FROM ME (NB)
More is a bore
So less is best -
I'll go and have a rest.

lied,tried,died

If you be good,
All's understood.

A reminder of the terrible stuff there is out there. This is the current lead poem ( or lead poem in the sense of lead piping!!) on a 'literary' How-To-Write site. What I'd like to know is whether there is any reason whatever to regard it as a poem.

Rhythm, rhyme, imagery, development, perception, feelings, metaphor, understanding of and skill with language etc. are ALL absent. [The Screaming Popes is a triptych painting by Francis Bacon - the modern painter, not the former Lord Chancellor and empiricist philosopher]. Here we go then:


"Upon Contemplating the Screaming Popes of Francis Bacon", by Leslie Sincher of Fresno CA.


Why were they screaming?
Was it the pain they caused?
Was it out of agony?
Was it their entry into what they thought was heaven?
Was it the illicit relationships they spawned?
Was it because they were finally free of life?
Was it because they finally looked into the face of death?
Was it because they were frozen in fear?
Was it because heading the Catholic church was not all it’s cracked up to be?
Was it because they were not as holy as God expected?




http://www.editred.com/Uploads/st_96122_Upon_Contemplating_the_Sc

"was it" because she was on medication

Perhaps they had been attending to too many boring meetings.


Boring Meetings

I do not look forward to the weekly boring meeting.
with endless themes and agendas, keep on repeating.
The only break from the boredom is when we go eating.
And that is when I go on tweeter and start tweeting.
Whilst other members read poems by the only and only Keating.

Anyone can die at any time
Old people and young people
And people in their prime
Suddenly get blown away
Without reason or rhyme
Cuz nobody's too young to die
And nobody's too old to cry
There's no use in wondering why
It happens all the time


[Sorry. Just been to a funeral. ]

Excellent, WFAT, though I'm sorry about the circumstances. Your strong feelings come out in the poem:

Cuz nobody's too young to die
And nobody's too old to cry
There's no use in wondering why
It happens all the time

That was full of controlled feeling, transmuted through skill into art, especially by the contrast and balance of the first lines quoted here. I don't say such things lightly. The whole poem, especially ending like this, had quite an effect on me. Put it all together, and that's genuine art. Especially considering that 'Cuz' is Hootooese for 'Because' or 'For' - writing for the audience and not just for yourself.

Jabs

I too agree with Jab

and my sadness for your loss of a relative or friend W4

Thank you both for your kind words.

When my Dad died, it was so hard to bear,
and life seems so to me to be very unfair.
It seems like a terrible nightmare,
and that I'll wake to my Dad sitting on his favourite chair.
Watching the news and drinking his favourite pint of beer.
Then telling a few joks, which caused a lot of cheer.
But I know that will not happen again,
and I will ty to bear the pain, like he did.
So, I will keep my happy memories of my Dad alive in my heart,
and then it will feel as though we are never apart.

(My Dad died of lung cancer over 3 years ago but there are days that I do get very down but it's slowly easing and it's by remembering the happy memories of my Dad that helps)

i wake again and pull on my dirty clothes
and struggle into life from darkest slumber
this shirt has been on my back at least ten years
my trousers tattered ill fit these last fifteen

each day i wake and pull these dirty clothes
and pass the clean folded pile of scented robes
preffering tatty rags through habit have taken my form
i find my clean clothes at the days end as i change for bed

(my dad died of cancer 14 years ago-i miss him too)

walking alone on well shawn - green, green, grass
raindrops start to fall, and like a football one hits me
and knocks me out
i dream of dreams i've never dreamt
and times i've never spent
and wake in candleight
the room is full of shadow
the walls move like a lovers last dance
the floor starts to rock like a jovial earthquake
my eyes slowley throw off their sleepy fug
and one by one then two by two strange faces populate the dark spaces
soon like a jigsaw the room is near full
short tall, strange shaped all
the sleepy crowd hums - a thousand, soft snores/caws/purrs and nays
i try and get a few hours sleep before Noah appears - its gonna be one of those days

the farmer grinned as scanned the scene of the unending sun-baked road
as a swirl of dust appeared on the far off tangerine horizen
as the truck pulled up a greeting party appeared an ambush of smiling faces
the farmer through the throng threw flew arms embraceing
leading off the guest of honour from his dusty D.M.C
into the fields a small group soon back - a rejoiceing whoop!
" The Man from Del Monte - He say Yea !!!!"
Says the farmer" now lads your new - so here's the cou --
-- its a hot day-so eat as many as you want-but be careful --
-- and fill the basket gently with the best fruit that you find"
with that, singing dancing into feilds the pickers went
the farmer and his onterage , took Mr del monte to lunch - oh whattt ahh lunch mmm!
3 hours gone and the fields all quiet
the foreman walked among picked friut trees
but no baskets full he found only footprints on the ground
and near the edge of the orchard stood an old man with an old dog
"whats happened sir-where have they all gone?"
in an sad voice: " they rejoiced at the farmers generous spirit -
and they did their best- and cleaned the field of fruit from branch of tree - they were evidently hungry - now they've moved on" said he
so the truck went home with a bemused, tipsey man wearing a panama sun hat
and the pickers made up a song about a farm they once worked at

i left the house today
for the shop 2 minutes away
but noticed a window open
but hey its on the second floor - i thought
no need to worry i'll be back in a jiffy
you would need a ladder to get up there
who would be able to get to that window
i was assured - till the thought stopped me in my track
THE FIRE BRIGADE!!
i quickly sprinted back and bolted up the stairs
shut window, bolted door, set booby trap, and my tape of a barking dog
better paraoid than sorry--eh?

I love when the rain is raining,
I love when the sun is shine,
I love whatever is coming
Because
I love you dear old LIFE!

this is blue bird/ waumau now
Well than how is that brown cow?

My computer mouse died upon me,
as I was making a cup of tea.
Whilst my neighbour wailed like a banshee,
and laughed on the telephone,
whilst having a good moan and groan.
Then my other neighbours had a fight,
to their guest's great delight.
But when they sang it gave them a terrible fright.

i sat down for lunch with a sandwich plain and wholesome
airy white thick slice delight with butter and a slice
in the morning i had bought from the exotic newsagents-
-a sandwich in a frilly box with exotic frilly fill
-and sat down to eat it early before the day had started
-limp, damp, unwholesome , tasteless-mess : bread??
-dead lettuce, and an awful vinegary taste in my mouth
-from an inocent looking sliced tomato-errrr

as i take a bite of my plain sandwich-just airy fresh thickslice bread
no frills, from my hand made the night before- mmmm
a dull fresh honest sandwich-bliss,
i think:i love the taste - of my boring comfy life <freshair&birdsong>

I bought some clotted cream which had a lot of clout.
Which made me pout when I ever wanted to sal on my yacht.
But my friends had a plot to learn how to squat,
and come aboard my yacht for a few totties.
They hid in the larder in the giant pots,
shouting out about the dry wood rot.
Which was sending them potty,
as they became very hot.
I caught them in the pantry tieing knots,
to coins of bahts.
But they failed in their quest and make them more dotty.
Now they think that they are rabbits,
and that they are monks from Babbit.
Who wear long normadic habits with their leader who is an abbot.

I whish I cud rite inn rhim and verse
As gud a sonnet as Shakesspear did
Hand ave my werk immortalised
Annd played hon stages around the globe
Bhut alass I didnt nowa ‘im well
Too lern the triks ofv the traid
So ailse battel hon in hope forlawn
That won day hit will haul come together