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

A WHOLE HALF of Portrait? Flippin' heck! Well done Muse. I managed a few pages but found it completely unreadable. I'm a Philistine though ...... obviously

Anyway come on you clever literary types. Here's a little clue: your man Joyce revised and renamed it a couple of times. The verse above is from the final version.

In addition to everything else he couldn't even make up his mind! How can we be expected to remember the thing thing when he keeps changing it.

Anyway it was Cabra, Ruminants and finally Tilly (and I had to go into the book shop -which I try not to do on Sundays - to dig that up.)

Found this one while I was there -

"O hearts, O sighing grasses,
Vainly your loveblown bannerets mourn
No more will the wild wind that passes
Return, no more return."

Bannerets? What could be less poetic than bannerets.

Beth


PS To be honest it was probably less than half of Portrait.

Pomes Penyeach (re posting 79).

D'you know what we've found, my dear friends? We've found a true ancestor of me - a Vogon genius! Every pome he wrote was truly Vogon! Or, in his case - never mine of course - Truly Awful!

A real literary discovery. I think I shall write to The Times, or I would do if it resembled itself any more.

Actually, you're the ones who discovered him, but it's only natural that I take most of the credit.

Graciously,


Hullabaloo, Poet and Tragedian

Yes, you have it Beth. Sorry you had to trek off to the book shop. I hope it wasn't too far and there wasn't one of those famous Canadian blizzards fighting you every step of the way. Found that "bannerets" one in the same book then? Hull's right. I think we've hit the mother-lode here

It's "Watching the Needleboats at San Sabba".

Here's another. I couldn't decide which verse was more Vogon so I closed my eyes and stuck in a pin:

"Blind me with your dark nearness, O have mercy, beloved enemy of my will!
I dare not withstand the cold touch that I dread.
Draw from me still
My slow life! Bend deeper on me, threatening head,
Proud by my downfall, remembering, pitying
Him who is, him who was!"

Hint: you didn't take that book back to the shop did you?

Back to the Game. It was Watching the Needleboats at Sam Sabba. I thought Joyce's poetry was pretty rotten, but I hadn't realised its full vogonity before. They're all as terrible/wonderful as each other, so let's move on - and forward in time to an English male poet who had his five minutes of fame around 1980, with this poem in particular inaugurating a short-lived School/style of poetry:

Caxtons are birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings -

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.


Hull

I must admit that I'm a little disappointed that no-one has yet thanked me profusely for sharing the credit with them for discovering Joyce as a genuine Vogon Poet. But to show I'm not vindictive, here are two more clues:

The school this poet founded was the Martian school of English poetry, (Vogons weren't well known back then), and this formed the impetus behind Blake Morrison and Andrew Motion's 'Penguin Book of Contemporary British Poetry', (1980).


Hull

Oi you queue jumper. See post 84. Honestly!

However, since you're our glorious leader, I'll let you off and admit I have no idea who this Martian is nor what he's on about. Are 'caxtons' birds?

Tibley

I think we must make the assumption that Hull did in fact type the answer before you did. He then may have lapsed into a poetic trance and that caused a delay in hitting the post button thereby allowing your post to appear before his.

There was indeed a good old Canadian blizzard here today. However it did not hinder my progress to the book shop. There is a door in my kitchen the leads directly to the shop - I just try to avoid going there on Sundays.

It would seem that you have omitted to acknowledge Hull's gracious acknowledgement of your part in the discovery of Joyce as the great Vogon poet.

I am of course avoiding the actual current question. I suspect a guy called Raine - maybe Carl or Claude. With out going to look I know that I don't have the relevant book.

Beth

O Wondrous Tibs,

A thousand apologies for appearing to jump the queue. Truth was, I was in a reverie, much as Beth indicated. Have some to show I don't bear grudges

Please. Please! No more Joyce. No more Joyce I beg of you! I'll have no arm left at all - (I can't reach my leg to gnaw at it without falling over).

That was 'A Prayer'. Probably to the God Of The Vogons.

Caxtons are printing presses, being compared to birds. Beth's hot on his trail. He was dead fashionable for some time, but he's dead rotten. He's not dead though.


Hullabaloo

Well, I said I'd let you off but I guess I'll just have to settle for you letting me off

I'm prepared to give full credit to Hull for discovering the awfulness of Joyce. Well done Hull! Isn't he a clever genius Beth?

You'll just have to learn to type with your elbows if you were forced to chew your arms off . You didn't get past your elbows did you?

I must say, you seem to have found an even worse one. Hard to believe really. Truly dire. At this rate the legs will be next and you'll have to roll.

Well done. I give up

Hi Tibs, ,

Thanks for your gratitude, which I graciously accept. Beth played her part too, so I hope she'll get around to thanking me as well.

Thanks also for your interest in my health - I kept to just below the shoulder to protect my Wondrous Gift

Worse than Joyce? Praise indeed.

This one is A Martian Sends A Postcard Home by Craig Raine. The 'Martian' idea was to look at the world as if you'd never seen it before. The result was a lot of mannered nonsense such as this. Craig Raine - watch out for him - and avoid!!

I thought we'd have a treat this time. These verses aren't Vogon at all. I'm sure you know them and the whole poem is completely marvellous.

Non-Male Non-English poet, (for a change), c.1863. No title required as there is no title. Just the poet please.

Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me -
The Carriage held but just Ourselves -
And Immortality.

We slowly drove - He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too
For His Civility -


Hull

Oh yes of course, great Hull, thank you. I just thought that Tibley desrvered more of the secondary credit and therefor had more of a responsibility of offering thanks to you.

I suspected at first Christina Rossetti for you latest offering but the date was wrong so now I suspect Emily Dickenson.

Beth

Dear Beth

Thankyou for your gracious gratitude. Indeed Tibs played the major part (apart from mine), but you played your part too.

Yes, it's Emily Dickinson. A near-neighbour of yours, from New England, I think. None of her poems have titles, so they're known by their first lines, in this case 'Because I could not stop for Death'.

Your turn, afore ye go on that marvellous trip, and I hope you enjoy yourself and chill out thoroughly - (no pun intended, seeing as you're in Canada!).


Hull

Well

Why are we waiting, whyyyy are we waiting, why are we waaaaaiting, why are we waiting

I liked that Emily Dickinson poem . Does that mean we're not limited to naff stuff?

Hi Tibs,

We're waiting because Beth lives in the Colonies and it takes a few weeks for a missive to get there. It's her turn, you know.

Whether we're limited to Vogon poetry (naff? this means a duel if you include me!) is up to us. I simply thought a good poem was needed after all that dross, but we could open it up to good stuff if we like. I don't mind either way. But the signs are that once Beth's gone it'll be hard to keep going - Peta hasn't got the time, shazz has lost interest, Sal's Pooter seems to have died and Josh has never taken part.

Meanwhile, you can enjoy, (if that's the right word), my latest poem, dedicated to Peta (in italics).

Beth - can you tell Tibs where you're going and make her really jealous?


Hull

Sorry - in another reverie I got my identity mixed up with the dying Grimethorpe. I wish I was him - he's so much cleverer than me - (although he's no artist) - but I'm not.

Enigmatically,


Hull

Sorry - so much to do, so little time. I haven't had time to come up with something really good. However the poem that ends with the following I've always considered to be a complete waste of space -

...................Oh Cruelty!
To steal my basil-pot away from me.


Beth (I did have time to remember who I am, however.)


Tibley
I'm heading west on Thursday to beautiful British Colombia for a two month visit.

Beth

(Remembering who he is)

'Tis John Keats (1795–1821)
 
Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil


Isabella's a form of Elizabeth, like Beth is, coincidentally.


Have a great trip. keep in touch if you possibly can


Hull

I haven't lost interest honestly... I've just been rather too busy the last few days but I've still been reading and enjoying your posers.

I knew the Keats instantly but arrived too late!

I'll try to drop back tomorrow when I have 'The Post' done and rejoin the fun!

shazz

Thanks for the message, shazz

I never doubted you for a moment. It was Tibs really

OK. There are 2 verses to this poem. The second one's a bit vogonish, as if he'd run out of ideas (yes, sorry it's yet another male), but I prefer to offer the more well-known and really very good first verse:

This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best;
And they sit outside at 'The Travellers' Rest',
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and the west.
And so do I.

Name of poet and title of poem please.


Hull