I* once knew a young man* in Norwich
who enjoyed** teaching classes*** in college****
I liked a good rhyme*****
if a few at a time******
flurb******* flergle flarg fliggle floridgh********
*actually same person
*****debatable, both the good and the liking
******is this even English
********You just gave up, didn’t you?°
[°but you rhymed, well done. I guess.]
He lived in this ugly old slum
and uglier than him there were none.
With his black carapace
and his pincer-filled face –
though he was dearly loved by his mum.
Another twisted idiom from Italian, this time the Neapolitan ‘Ogni scarrafon’è (b)bello a mammà soja’, literally translated as ‘Even a cockroach is beautiful to its mum’. Not too far from ‘Face only a mother could love’, really.
Yes I know I should’ve been writing
but yesterday was way too eggciting!
We were tracking a rabbit
and he just wouldn’t have it:
he would not give ’em up without fighting.
Late poem in the aftermath of chocolate day. Vaguely inspired by this guy.
I once knew this grumpy old fart
who was actually really quite smart –
he looked at his heels,
and stuck on some wheels:
shot to fame as the first human cart!
The prompt is my own, inspired by my current PhD chapter: take an non-English idiom, translate it literally, make a poem out of it. It was inevitably going to be nonsensical.
For the curious, the original Tuscan idiom is ‘se il mi’ nonno c’aveva le rote, l’era un carretto’ – literally ‘if my grandad had wheels, he’d’ve been a cart’. Similar in meaning to the English ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride’.
Oh look, it’s April already!
Got pencils and pen at the ready
along with the screen
the keyboard’s pristine
..and I’m already out of rhymes – dammit.
The first week of term, School of Literature Drama and Creative Writing, UEA. The Wyatt storm hits. New students are subjected to seeing one poem (‘They flee from me’) over and over and over again, from lectures to corridors to social media. So I did my part with the two following short pieces on Twitter:
Sounds of fleeing feet
softly stalking my own heart:
hunter or hunted?
Tom Wyatt, that bearded old Tudor,
fancied himself Boleyn’s suitor.
Even though they were wed
they both lost their head,
one admittedly more than the other.
I met-a this Tuscan young man,
who’s Yorkshire on t’side of his nan.
He says he’s a poet
but I don’t believe it
as he can’t even finish a silly limerick, for crying out loud.
This is a thing now. http://www.napowrimo.net/
So here’s the first product, a bit rushed as I was travelling all day and only decided to actually join in at night. I’ll post today’s later this evening.
This month we’re all writing poems,
but I’m having some trouble with rhymes.
This may not be perfect
but the last line is worth it:
jeroboam, totem and owens.