Poem of the Week: A Good Poem

by Roger McGough

You may have noticed (though, probably not) that the once-regular Poem of the Week has disappeared for the past couple of months. This is primarily due to my general disillusionment with poetry following a Creative Writing Masters degree -- whatever they might try to teach or tell you, it seems the 'poetry establishment' (if there is such a thing) is just as elitist and pretentious as it appears from the outside. I had no aspirations to 'break in' to poetry, but I was prepared to enjoy reading and writing it for my own entertainment. Both of these activities have been damaged, rather than encouraged, by my course.

As such, Poem of the Week is no more. But here's one final entry; one that captures some of my feelings about poetry, not only in its content but also with its light, readable style. There's a reason poets like McGough are well-known and well-loved beyond just the world of poetry itself, and perhaps some of the people stuck in that world would do well to remember it.

I like a good poem
one with lots of fighting
in it. Blood, and the
clanging of armour. Poems

against Scotland are good,
and poems that defeat
the French with crossbows.
I don't like poems that

aren't about anything.
Sonnets are wet and
a waste of time.
Also poems that don't

know how to rhyme.
If I was a poem
I'd play football and
get picked for England.

Cheerio.

Poem of the Week: A Clubman's Ozymandias

by Kit Wright

Back when Watchmen hit cinemas I posted two vaguelly related poems about Ozymandias, the famous one by Percy Bysshe Shelley and a lesser-known one by his friend Horace Smith.

Well, next Monday sees Watchmen released on DVD and Blu-ray here in the UK (some lucky pre-ordering people will already have their copies), plus it was out earlier this week in the US, so here's an even-more-tenuously linked poem: Kit Wright's take on the Shelley poem.

So this chap tells this other chap
Some damned clap-trap
About how somewhere on the old map
He's seen these de-bagged legs, and to cap
It all, not a scrap
On top of them, bugger all on tap
But the desert sands and similar pap --
Just a bloody great gap --

This was first published in 1989 in Wright's collection Short Afternoons. It's currently available in Hoping It Might Be So: Poems 1974-2000, a collection of all Wright’s work for adults in that period, published by Faber Finds.

Poem of the Week: Starting from Scratch

by Ingrid Wendt

In honour of last week's Poem of the Week being put off by my move (as was the whole blog, of course), here's a poem about that very thing. (Moving home, I mean, not putting off blog updates.)

To begin with, none of your neighbors began here.
Everyone moved in years before you moved into
a pattern you found yourself part of
before you intended: flowers, fences,
attention to details your mother always took care of,
duller than film on dishes it was always your job to wipe.
Nobody spoke about courage.

Nobody said you could choose this life.
It happened, it didn't, the fact
you could choose to remain would become
what's yours to control: hours
of sleeping and waking, meals, the home
you need to go out in the world from.
Neighborhood customs you know you can count on.

Recipes, grapes exchanged for zucchini, the garden
someone will know when to plant.
The book you suggest. The pattern of limits
no one has asked for, told over coffee, lives
like yours you could have become
starting from scratch. Each day
the way you will live before what comes next.

Starting from Scratch is taken from Wendt's collection Moving the House, which features a number of poems on this subject. I'm uncertain of its copyright status, but the whole thing's available online for free here (with some copyright info that may or may not be relevant). There's also biographical detail and the like there if you're interested, and a list of years, one of which it will have been written in.

Poem of the Week is on holiday

Due to the moving issues previously mentioned, Poem of the Week will return next week.

Poem of the Week: Thriller

by Rod Temperton

With the world caught up in a fairly understandable frenzy about the death of Michael Jackson, let's have a look at the lyrics of one of his most famous songs in a semi-poetic context.

It's close to midnight and something evil's lurking in the dark
Under the moonlight, you see a sight that almost stops your heart
You try to scream but terror takes the sound before you make it
You start to freeze as horror looks you right between the eyes
You're paralyzed

'Cause this is thriller, thriller night
And no one's gonna save you from the beast about strike
You know it's thriller, thriller night
You're fighting for your life inside a killer, thriller tonight

You hear the door slam and realize there's nowhere left to run
You feel the cold hand and wonder if you'll ever see the sun
You close your eyes and hope that this is just imagination, girl!
But all the while you hear the creature creeping up behind
You're out of time

'Cause this is thriller, thriller night
There ain't no second chance against the thing with forty eyes, girl
Thriller, thriller night
You're fighting for your life inside a killer, thriller tonight

Night creatures calling, the dead start to walk in their masquerade
There's no escaping the jaws of the alien this time
(They're open wide)
This is the end of your life

They're out to get you, there's demons closing in on every side
They will possess you unless you change that number on your dial
Now is the time for you and I to cuddle close together, yeah
All through the night I'll save you from the terror on the screen
I'll make you see

That this is thriller, thriller night
'Cause I can thrill you more than any ghost would ever dare try
Thriller, thriller night
So let me hold you tight and share a
Killer, diller, chiller, thriller here tonight

'Cause this is thriller, thriller night
Girl, I can thrill you more than any ghost would ever dare try
Thriller, thriller night
So let me hold you tight and share a killer, thriller, ow!

(I'm gonna thrill ya tonight)
Darkness falls across the land
The midnight hour is close at hand
Creatures crawl in search of blood
To terrorize y'alls neighborhood

I'm gonna thrill ya tonight, ooh baby
I'm gonna thrill ya tonight, oh darlin'
Thriller night, baby, ooh!

The foulest stench is in the air
The funk of forty thousand years
And grizzly ghouls from every tomb
Are closing in to seal your doom

And though you fight to stay alive
Your body starts to shiver
For no mere mortal can resist
The evil of the thriller.

Thriller was released in 1984, sung by Michael Jackson with a soliloquy read by Vincent Price. Despite the success of the album of the same title and other successful tracks from it, Thriller the song only reached number four on the US Billboard singles chart and number ten on the UK singles chart. It's probably most famous for its 14-minute short film-like music video.

The lyrics are as close as I could find them on the Internet. (Yes, this is a fairly silly idea for Poem of the Week.)

Poem of the Week: Sonnet 130

by William Shakespeare

I don't think I've included any Shakespeare in Poem of the Week before. Here's his debut then, as something of a break from all the modern comic poetry of recent weeks -- though the Bard's not necessarily at his most serious as he "mocks the conventions of the garish and flowery courtly sonnets in its realistic portrayal of his mistress."

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,—
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
      And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
      As any she belied with false compare.

For more information on this sonnet, try Wikipedia and its associated links.

Poem of the Week: Limerick

by Roger McGough

Apologies for missing Poem of the Week last week. We're back on track with this:

Back in April I featured a poem from McGough's latest collection, Slapstick, called Gateway to the Atlantic. Here's another from that collection, which in part provided the inspiration for a couple of poems in my recently-submitted-for-assessment collection. I may share those here when the marks come back.

Anyway, back to McGough:

A poet passing through Limerick
Determined to write a fine limerick
He worked day and night
But try as he might
He never got the hang of the limerick.

Clever, eh? Though some won't be impressed. Just wait 'til you see mine...

As mentioned above, Limerick is taken from Slapstick (aka Slapstick Poems), McGough's 2008 collection published by Puffin.

Poem of the Week: Just In Case

by Charlotte Mitchell

A third and final (for now) venture into the poems offered by . This one rang very true for me. I'm sure sensible people don't do it, but I'm also sure you must know someone who does.

I'm going to the see for the weekend,
in a couple of days I'll be back,
so I'll just take my little brown suit and a blouse
and a beret and carry my mac.

But what if the house is a cold one,
the house where I'm going to stay,
no fires after April, no hot drinks at night
and the windows wide open all day?
I'd better take one -- no, two cardys
and my long tartan scarf for my head,
and my chaste new pyjamas in case they decide
to bring me my breakfast in bed.
And what about church on the Sunday?
I could wear my beret and suit,
but if it were sunny, it would be a chance
to wear my straw hat with the fruit.
I can't wear my little brown suit, though,
not with the straw with the fruit,
so I'll just take a silk dress to go with the straw
and a silk scarf to go with the suit.
I'll just take my jeans and that jumper
in case we go out in a car,
and my Guernsey in case we go out in a boat
and d'you know where my swimming things are?

D'you think I should take that black velvet
in case they've booked seats for a play?
And is it still usual to take your own towel
when you go somewhere to stay?
I had thought of just taking slippers,
but they do look disgustingly old,
I'd better take best shoes and sandals and boots
for the church and the heat and the cold.

I daren't go without my umbrella
in case I'm dressed up and it rains;
I'm bound to need socks and my wellies
for walking down long muddy lanes.

I'd rather not take my old dressing gown,
it is such a business to pack,
but 'spose they have breakfast before they get dressed
I'd have to take mine in my mac.

I'm going to the see for the weekend,
in a couple of days I'll be back,
so I'll just take my little brown suit and a blouse,
     two cardys, my long tartan scarf,
     my chaste new pyjamas,
     my straw hat with the fruit,
     my silk dress, my silk scarf,
     my jeans, that jumper,
     my Guernsey, my swimming things,
     my black velvet, my towel, my
     slippers (no one need see them)
     my sandals, my boots, my
     umbrella, my socks, my wellies,
     my dressing-gown, no, not
     my dressing-gown, OK, my
     dressing gown
and a beret and carry my mac.

This was first published in Mitchell's volume Just in Case: Poems in My Pocket in 1991, a collection connected to her radio series (also title Just in Case). She's also an actress who was involved in The Goon Show donchaknow.

Poem of the Week: Casey at the Bat

by Ernest Lawrence Thayer

As promised last week, here's another selection from The Nation's Favourite Comic Verse. It's about baseball -- or, to us Brits, 'glorified rounders' -- though a lack of knowledge on that front is no barrier to enjoyment, as the basic theme of this could easily apply to most sports (and for much of it could be about most sports).

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
So when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same,
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, 'If only Casey could but get a whack at that --
We'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat.'
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a fake;
So upon that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled in the mountaintops, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the hillside and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped --
'That ain't my style,' said Casey -- 'Strike one,' the Umpire said.
From the benches black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signalled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the Umpire said, "Strike two."
'Fraud!' cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered, 'Fraud!'
But one scornful look from Casey and the multitude was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville -- mighty Casey has struck out.

This was first published in a newspaper in 1888, a year which looks kinda nice written down. It's clearly Thayer's most famous poem and has its own Wikipedia page here with more info than you could ever need.

There's also a version of the poem at Wikisource which has many notable differences to the one I've published here, which is taken directly from The Nation's Favourite Comic Verse. It's not just a case of formatting or punctuation -- some lines are almost entirely different. Wikisource says their version is the original from the paper; I don't know where this (revised, presumably) version originates.

Poem of the Week: 'You cannot hope...'

by Humbert Wolfe

A brief one this week and Wolfe's most famous piece, as evidenced by its prominent inclusion on his Wikipedia entry. Though it was first published in 1930, it's decidedly truthful to this day.

You cannot hope
     to bribe or twist,
thank God! the
     British journalist.

But, seeing what
     the man will do
unbribed, there's
     no occasion to.

Discovered in The Nation's Favourite Comic Verse (as will be the next couple of Poem of the Week entries), but originally published in The Uncelestial City.

Poem of the Week: Photographs of the Notebook

by Luke Kennard

There are two common misconceptions about prose poetry:

One, that it's a bit of writing that fails to tell a story effectively or fails to sound good enough to be poetry, so is lumped somewhere in between. While I'm sure it can be this, good examples are not. Yes, they fall somewhere between the two stools of literature, but they land closer to poetry -- it is, for whatever reason, a poem in prose form.

Two, that it's very modern and avant-garde. Not so. There are examples of prose poems dating back thousands of years, especially in Japan, and even the modern 'popularity' can be dated to the mid 19th Century. Since then it's been adopted by more outside movements and steadily moved into the mainstream, but it's hardly a modern invention.

I'm no scholar on prose poetry -- in fact, I'm no scholar on poetry as a whole -- but having recently been introduced to a few examples, here's one I thought worth sharing. It exhibits many poetic qualities, but I think is also an entertaining read for anyone (especially if you're a writer). There's also an argument to be made that readers not versed in verse may find prose poetry more accessible, as it's closer to the more-widely read form.

I used to keep a notebook on my person at all times -- to write down ideas, observations, openings for stories. It took me almost a year to realise that the book was hexed, that as long as I had it in my pocket or rucksack I would be blank -- not only deaf and blind to the world around me, but mute as well: unable to express even this strange impotence in anything other than silence.

I ripped out all ninety-six pages of the notebook, one by one. I filled the empty leather cover with ninety-six photographs of the notebook and had it rebound. I gave this book of photographs to an artist I know in the city. She sealed it in an envelope and mailed it to herself -- so as to copyright the idea -- but it must have been lost in the post. She is no longer speaking to me, but that's because of something else.

I shredded the ninety-six ripped-out notebook pages and used them as stuffing in a writing cushion. I took the writing cushion to a shop where it was immediately bought by an old man with pince-nez who has since died in obscurity.

I used so many cameras and films when I was taking the ninety-six photographs of the notebook. Even now a set of photographs will come back to me from the developers and among the smiling friends and rivers and parties, there will be a perfect portrait of the notebook, just there, in between us like a reminder that we're all going to die.

Today I bought a new notebook, but so far this is the only thing I have written in it.

This piece is taken from Kennard's book The Harbour Beyond the Movie, published by Salt in 2007, which was shortlisted for the 2007 Forward Poetry Prize.

Poem of the Week: Verse and Subversion Go Hand in Hand, but Whither?

by Kit Wright

A non-poetry-lover's poem. If you can get past its occasional deliberately-self-aware poetic style, that is. Kit Wright is one of the more enjoyable poets I've been experiencing recently so expect to see more of his work here in the future.

An automatic and unquestioned nostrum
Currently purveyed from page and stage and rostrum
Is that all true verse, diminutive or discursive
Is subversive.
Oh never ask subversive of what!
It is not only the Armani Anarchist who will then berate you as a sans-culotte;
Nor the Gucci Guerilla alone, nor soley the Alternative
Millionaire,
But everyone from everywhere.
On no account enquire how it subverts or with what degrees of success;
You will then be deemed a dinosaur and an undesirable denizen of Loch Ness.
Oh hear the binding law from which there is no severance:
About all things shalt thou be
Irreverent, except
Irreverence:
A paradoxical orthodoxy upon the air dispersive --
And I think I may have said something mildly subversive.

Taken from Hoping It Might Be So: Poems 1974-2000, a long collection that "brings together all of Kit Wright’s previous collections for adults as well as three dozen new poems". This is one of those new poems, first published in 2000. Hoping It Might Be So is currently in print from Faber Finds (a Faber & Faber imprint, of course).

Poem of the Week: Gateway to the Atlantic

by Roger McGough

While I was generally quite down on Slapstick when I covered it yesterday, it still has a decent number of worthwhile poems. Here's one of my early favourites because of its nice rhyme and rhythm, as well as a fairly clear topic and theme.

I am the warm hello and the sad farewell

I am the path to glory and the road to hell

I am the gull on the wing and the salt in the air

I am the night patrol and the morning prayer

I am the port register, read the names with pride

I am the thickening fog and the quickening tide

I am the ferryboat, the slaver, the man-o'-war

I am the keeper of the quays, welcome ashore

I am the starstruck, eternal romantic

I am the gateway to the Atlantic.

As mentioned above, Gateway to the Atlantic is taken from Slapstick (aka Slapstick Poems), McGough's 2008 collection published by Puffin.

Poem of the Week: Anchor Baby

by Tim Burton

Apologies for being 24 hours late. Maybe I should just move this to Saturdays...

Anyway, this piece is my favourite tale from Burton's volume The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy & Other Stories. A little more about it following the poem itself:

There was a beautiful girl
who came from the sea.
And there was just one place
that she wanted to be.

With a man named Walker
who played in a band.
She would leave the ocean
and come onto the land.

He was the one that she wanted the most.
And she tried everything
to capture this ghost.

But throughout all their lives
they never connected.
She wandered the earth
alone and rejected

She tried looking happy
she tried looking tragic,
she tried astral projecting,
sex, and black magic.

Nothing could join them,
except maybe one thing,
just maybe...
something to anchor their spirits...
They had a baby.

But to give birth to a baby
they needed a crane.
the umbilical cord
was in the form of a chain.

I t was ugly and gloomy,
and as hard as a kettle.
It had no pink skin,
just heavy gray metal.

The baby that was meant
to bring them together,
just shrouded them both
in a cloud of foul weather.

So Walker took off
to play with the band.
And from that day on,
he stayed mainly on land.

And she was alone
with her gray baby anchor,
who got so oppressive
that eventually sank her.

As she went to the bottom,
not fulfilling her wish,
it was her, and her baby...
and a few scattered fish.

Better known as a film director (you've heard of him, right), Burton started out in animation, crafting a lot of his own characters and stories. In 1996 he published The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy & Other Stories, a volume of poetic stories with his own illustrations. Whether they were all written around that time or some date back to his earlier pre-directing career, I don't know. The style of the pieces is typical of what you might expect from Burton -- fairytale-like, but also very dark and macabre. "Twisted", some would surely say.

For my thoughts on the whole book you can look back to when I read it about a month ago (it feels considerably longer, I must say). You can also read the full text online here, complete with illustrations, though I don't know if this is legal. The book itself is published by Faber & Faber, and their page for it is here.

Poem of the Week: Peter Cottontail

by Beatrix Potter

A slightly delayed poem this week -- because it's Easter! Mmm, chocolate. And in that sort of spirt, here's a lovely bit of Beatrix Potter.

Before we begin, I should point out that the titular rabbit is, of course, Peter Rabbit. Apparently; because, as I'm sure you know, Peter and Cottontail are two different bunnies in The Tale of Peter Rabbit. I'm afraid I have no clarification on this point.

Here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity, hoppity,
Easter's on its way.

Bringin' every girl and boy Baskets full of Easter joy,
Things to make your Easter bright and gay.
He's got jelly beans for Tommy,
Colored eggs for sister Sue,
There's an orchid for your Mommy
And an Easter bonnet, too.

Oh, here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity, hoppity,
Happy Easter day.

Here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Look at him stop,
And listen to him say:
"Try to do the things you should."
Maybe if you're extra good,
He'll roll lots of Easter eggs your way.

You'll wake up on Easter morning
And you'll know that he was there
When you find those choc'late bunnies
That he's hiding ev'rywhere.

Oh, here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity, hoppity,
Happy Easter day.

Happy Easter Day indeed.

Poem of the Week: Jabberwocky

by Lewis Carroll

I was rather surprised to discover I hadn't had this for Poem of the Week yet (I'd merely suggested the idea a couple of months ago), and so, in need of a speedy one this week, here it is.

As usual, first the poem, then some brief notes.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Jabberwocky is, of course, a nonsense poem, and quite possibly the most famous of them all. It was originally published in 1871 as part of the novel Through the Looking Glass, the sequel to Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, both of which are fairly nonsensical in themselves. (They're also both great, quick reads, incidentally, if you've never read them.)

Interestingly, it's managed to take on quite a life of its own beyond this. As well as its independent popularity and featuring in some of the adaptations of the Alice books, there's been both a feature-length film adaption by director Terry Gilliam and, before that, a short film featuring the whole poem by Czech surrealist Jan Švankmajer. I've seen neither, so can't vouch for either's quality.

Poem of the Week: Cabbage

(after 'I like that stuff' by Adrian Mitchell)
by Roger McGough

This is, to my mind, Good Poetry. It's funny, but with a serious point too, and therefore very dark. I may set my sights on writing stuff like this, only I'm not sure I'd be good enough.

Humphrey Bogart died of it
People are terrified of it

cancer
I hate that stuff

Peter Sellers was laid low with it
one in five of us will go with it

heart attack
I hate that stuff

Monroe's life turned sour on it
Hancock spent his last half hour on it

sleeping pills
I hate that stuff

Jimi Hendrix couldn't wait for it
Chemistshops stay open late for it

heroin
I hate that stuff

Mama Cass choked on it
Blankets get soaked in it

vomit
I hate that stuff

Women learn to live with it
No one can live without it

blood
I hate that stuff

Hospitals are packed with it
Saw my mother racked with it

pain
I hate that stuff

Few like to face the truth of it
We're all living proof of it

death
I hate that stuff

Schoolkids are forcefed with it
Cattle are served dead with it

cabbage
I hate that stuff

First published in 1979 in Holiday on Death Row, this was copied from his 2003 volume Collected Poems (in which some poems are revised, though there's nothing to indicate which). The latter volume contains 397 pages of work spanning almost 40 years of his career, including seven previously unpublished pieces.

Poem of the Week: The Ballad of Dr Manhattan's Change of Fortune

by Richard Nelson

Watchmen's been out for a good few weeks now, and here's the final part of a trilogy of poems about the film. Well, related to the film -- the first two were rather tenuous, whereas this one was composed by my good self in the wake of the film... and the Internet discussions about it, which seemed to focus around one particular member of the cast.

When it was normal-coloured he
had trouble getting laid,
but then there was the accident
which changed its fleshy shade:

No longer was it ugly, pink
and changeable in size,
but now a constant, hanging there;
pleasant blue to the eyes.

His fascinating phallus lets
him have it his own way:
he can have any girl he wants
('cept Silhouette -- she's gay).

This is the first instance in a long time where I've posted a poem of my own composition. Just because I'm writing more doesn't mean this will be occurring more often.

Poem of the Week: Ozymandias

aka On A Stupendous Leg of Granite, Discovered Standing by Itself in the Deserts of Egypt, with the Inscription Inserted Below
by Horace Smith

As detailed last Friday, I've had this poetic pair lined up since November to tie in with the cinema release of Watchmen. It was great, wasn't it? What do you mean you've not seen it yet?

Anyway, here's the second of the pair:

In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,
     Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
     The only shadow that the Desert knows --
"I am great OZYMANDIAS," saith the stone,
     "The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
"The wonders of my hand."-- The City's gone,--
     Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.

We wonder,-- and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness
     Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess
     What powerful but unrecorded race
     Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

Again as explained before, this was written in 1817 (published sometime in early 1818) as part of a writing competition with Smith's friend, Percy Bysshe Shelley. Shelley's poem is well-remembered and quoted; Smith's is now mainly known as a footnote. Poor guy.

Next week, no more tenuously-linked-to-new-releases poetry. Promise. (It's explicitly linked instead.)

Poem of the Week: Ozymandias

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

You know, I've had this poem lined up since November -- that's almost four months ago. Why so long? Well, that's when I found it, and realised it would be a good enough choice for today -- Watchmen Day. It's not necessarily got a great deal to do with said comic adaptation, but that does have a major character called Ozymandias, and some of the poem's imagery is appropriate...

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said:-- "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

It was written in December 1817 (published January 1818) as part of a writing competition with Shelley's friend, Horace Smith. So guess what I'll be publishing on Monday...