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

Hope is not for others to give
It is the reality of living
In the world we live

Is poetry words on a page?
Or is't perhaps birds in the air?
Should we lock it up in a cage?
Or release it for all to share?

Is poetry words on a page?
Or a song at a summer fair?
Is it best performed on a stage?
Does anyone know? Or care?

(on its own terms, not because you liked my nonsense - it's exceptionally good, concise, vivid, WFAT - sorry, bad)

Jabs

You're too kind, Jabs (but thanks). The thing is, I asked Polly the other day if she knew of any poems by Rupert Brooke which had been set to music. She said no, and added that she found the very idea sacrilegious. I was a bit surprised, because I nearly always 'sing' my 'poems', and there are one or two of Rupert's which I sing to myself as well (when no-one's listening) but it did set me thinking. And that's always a mistake.

[Siegfried Sassoon, a contemporary of Rupert Brooke, wrote the poem "Everyone suddenly burst out singing," which was set to music by Peter Willsher.]

EVERYONE suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on—on—and out of sight. 5

Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away ... O, but Everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.



[The story behind the poem was that in 1918, when the First World War ended, the poet suddenly had an immense sense of relief, which resulted in the poem coming to him all at once. So, does bad poetry come from sudden inspiration, or from obsessively focussing on indivual wordfs and phrases to the detriment of the whole? )

I dunno. Nice one, though, Paul.

Krabatt II

Funny bunnies sell pots of honey,
which makes them a lot of money.
Lying down all curled,
eating raspberry ice cream that's swirled.
Spreading on their bread their runny honey,
which they use as a marinade for the gunny.
Then at tea break, going in the back for a brew,
made by Sue who's apart of the crew.
With Winnie the Pooh toys are on view,
which have made a bob or two.

Paul - the Sassoon should answer the inspiration/thought bit- it's simply stunning.
And bad poems (like this) can come from sudden thoughts too - just like punning!

The rest answers itself for you,
Once 'to its detriment' is used.


Jabs

English Holiday Sestina - for B'El

The rain it raineth every day
We all get bloody wet
The tramp he drinks his life away
Prolly to forget
Father drives his car away
Before the rain gets set

Before it’s raining all the day
And we get soaking wet
Father drives his car away
Too fast. Mum whispers “don’t forget
Before you throw our lives away
Stay calm, get quiet, get set.”

The sun has really gone away.
I think we’d better set
Off quick. Down by the sea it’s wet, do not forget,
And it’ll get wetter every day -
It’s oh, so wet!
This rain won’t go away,

It just won’t go away
It simply will not go away,
It stays, and we get wet
I think these clouds are set
To raineth all and every day
We’d better not forget

So Father don’t forget
To drive this bloody car away
More carefully than the other day
When you almost threw your life away
You almost threw your life away
By driving too fast in the wet.

Yes. In the wet
Do not forget
To change that mind set.
You have a family now; don’t go away
Without us. Just do not speed away
Each and every single day!

The rain it raineth every day
Do not forget – take us away
The weather’s set in, wet – let’s carefully race away.

[Speechless]












At times I feel quite sane, but then,
At others? Lost my mooring.
I'd like bad poetry to write,
But not if it is boring.

Charles Dickens Invents The Typo


I heard that Charles Dickens went hypo (low)
When he found he'd invented the typo
And so laid himshelf down, soft and slow,
Later gottingt up pand having annother go

He didn't shirk
But itt diddn't werk

So he went and took a hatchet
To the pen that kept writing 'Bob Scratchit'
And it was only then, with another pen,
That he felt he could really, successfully, start again.




[note: 'again' rhymes with 'pain' or with 'pen', acc. to geographical and other factors. Where I come from it rhymes with 'pen' every time except where I need it not to in a poem - poetic licence]

The Poetic Police pulled me over. I found myself pleading,
"But, officer, I wasn't driving, so how could I be speeding?"
"Your iambs, they went much too fast, with bad alliteration.
Poetic licenses require some good versification."

“Hello, hello ,hello “he said
I stopped and had to scratch my head
“You cannot be talking like that around here”
Oh gosh a spell in prison I fear
“You not heard its bad said day”
“ now bugger off and be on your way”

I went out of the escape hatch,
to escape from the gnats.
That were causing me to scratch,
from their bites on my arms.
And for I took out my good luck charms,
to protect me from all harm.
So I escaped from the submarine,
followed by a group of itchy royal marines.
Who were very tough but also very serene.

I dreamt that I saw the blue boar
In a drawer outside the pet store
With the king's head covered in gore
While the white horse pawed at the floor
And the green man said he was sure
The cross keys won't unlock the door
To Victoria's arms and he swore
The Temporary signs which he saw
Were something one ought to deplore
Then the eagle started to soar
And I heard the red lion roar
The pig whistled for an encore
Which made Mrs Tickle so sore
That she shouted at me Don't snore
Now I may have said this before
But I'm NOT going to drink anymore

I won't drink anymore, won't drink any less,
I guess that by now you know I'm a mess.

Bless Kess as she tried to play chess,
by the Loch Ness.
But she made a mess,
as she was under a lot of stress.
So she knocked over all the pieces,
and put on one of her fleeces.
Given by her niece Caprice,
who then offered to smoke the pipe of peace,
But the secret police,
who were all disguised as geese.
Said No, as they said it only can be done by priests.
Who all come Greece and are all named Reese.

I'm hidden away in a corner alone,
Where nothing much happens. I'm turning to stone.

There are rumours, including from the dedicatee, that no. 2970 wasn't a sestina.

It was. The trouble is that there are many different forms that some people aren't aware of.

Refce:The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms (Paperback)
by M Strand (Author)

Jabs

I wrote this acc. to the rules, in a Cortina
Beware
Of imitation love
I insist I'm not just a hack
There's no need for hauteur
It's all summed up in the

(A form I just made up, not exactly seriously, end of each line rhymes, except the last, which repeats, from the top).