At the start of the year I thought I would read Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine books
What an ambitious Undertaking indeed! —I barely got thro At the start of the year I thought I would read Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine books
What an ambitious Undertaking indeed! —I barely got through one percent of those books
Do I consider Myself a big failure For failing to reach my impossible goal?
Not really I’m fine I shouldn't put pressure On myself like that it’s not good for my soul
So what of the books I did get through this year Will any of them end up lining my coffin?
More than the usual Brought laughter and tears Which does not happen to me terribly often
So here are my highlights My very best moments My top-of-the-pile super-recommendations
Wisława Szymborska She has no opponents And deserves to be read by all the world’s nations
And if you aren’t sure If poems are for you May I suggest you read some by Ken Craft?
I’ll bet you ten bucks that By the time you are through You’ll know what poetry is both fore and aft
Another cool poet Is Ms Diane Seuss Whose great book was made up entirely of sonnets
A rock & roll book So chock full of harsh loose Melodies like the ones sung by The Sonics
Then I read a novel That took place in Chile And was so impressed I wished I could live there
Then I got the flu And felt so damn chilly I couldn’t read a book let alone leave my chair
But better I got And got reading again And Stefan Zweig dynamited my bones
Seldom have I read Of nostalgia and pain In such beautiful language with sad overtones
Not a year passes by Without my reading Henry Of the novels I read two were great but one sucked
I also read Kipling Tales—more than twenty A big fat volume about Tommies sans luck
All through the summer I read essays by Borges Who took me on a trip inside of his mirror
And when I was finished My head was a forest The exit of which could be found nowhere near
I next took a plunge Into Gautier’s book In search of the lost pleasures of yesteryear
I found them all there And had a long look While drowning my senses in cider and beer
I advise anyone Who loves poesy To pick up one of the good anthologies
Published by Oxford In nineteen-oh-three Read it all the way through and no apologies
By this time I was Sick and tired of poets Who were really starting to get on my nerves
I needed some prose Nice simple prose though it’s True I myself overdo it in verse
So I read the short stories Of Katherine Mansfield Wonderful stuff I believe meant for you
There’s something about them That just doesn’t yield To one interpretation or even two
And in case you think I only read classics I picked up a book by Olga Tokarczuk
Fell in love with Janina Thought her fantastic And admired her for her humour and pluck
And last but not least There was Rachael Cusk Whose trilogy I found so fascinating
I devoured her words Down to the last husk If there are none left you know who to start blaming
One final word Before I leave this room The best things I read were some of your reviews
May many more of them Like flowers in bloom Light up the New Year from Taipei to Toulouse!...more
Let me tell you a tale ‘bout a dog I once had (Take warning though friends my story is sad) A bouvier des Flandres a big b My Dog Nada (Sad Pet Story #2)
Let me tell you a tale ‘bout a dog I once had (Take warning though friends my story is sad) A bouvier des Flandres a big bushy black dog Nada had been bred to guide sheep through the fog But the only lambkin she now had to guard Was five-year-old me in a Canadian back yard She and I were the best friends in the world Her thick canine fur and my thin hair both curled I would ride on her back like a knight on a steed Protecting my kingdom from plunder and greed All day long we would gambol as sunlight through trees Made minuscule shadows under flowers and bees Nada bit no-one and if she ever did bark You could blame those raccoons playing tricks in the dark Nada was gentle and everyone loved her From the grim Boogeyman to my sister’s young lover But Fate O Fate why must you be so cruel? Why pick on poor creatures who smile and drool? What did my sweet dog ever do to offend you That Fate you should want her big tongue to turn blue? We found our dear Nada one dark winter morning Lying dead on the ground just like that without warning What on earth could have caused her untimely death? Was it poison or murder or obstruction of breath? This no-one could be bothered to go and find out Boy did five-year-old me ever cry his heart out In a way I ain’t done all my crying as of yet And it's been a long time since I’ve had my own pet...more
The Tragic True Story of Caroline and My Poodle Ozma (Sad Pet Story #1)
When I was nine I had a dog named Ozma You wouldn’t expect a little boy to love A The Tragic True Story of Caroline and My Poodle Ozma (Sad Pet Story #1)
When I was nine I had a dog named Ozma You wouldn’t expect a little boy to love A poodle the way I loved my pooch Ozma
I was the one who chose that name for her Cause I had a big crush on Princess Ozma The heroine of my favourite Oz book
In those days we lived in Zaïre and Ozma Came to us from Loulou and Biloulou The well-groomed venerable parents of Ozma
Two fine poodles who hardly barked at all I would do anything for my sweet Ozma Walk her comb her pull the ticks from her flesh
Fight any kid who made fun of my Ozma She and I were like two pees in a pod They’d say look! there’s Ulysse and his dog Ozma
One fatal winter we travelled to France And of course we could not bring along Ozma So we left her in the care of Caroline
Who seemed so fond of adorable Ozma But when we returned from our winter trip We looked everywhere and couldn’t find Ozma
No barking panting or scratching of feet Bespoke the presence of the missing Ozma Then the telephone rang and Caroline
Audibly sobbing confessed that poor Ozma Was dead because she had accidentally Backed her car over the unfortunate Ozma
Crushing the soul out of my tender poodle … Caroline though you killed my poodle Ozma I feel it is time now to forgive you...more
Sure I had an affair with Annie Ernaux The famous French writer you all should know Do I see this as a major achievement? My answ Le Jeune Homme’s Lament
Sure I had an affair with Annie Ernaux The famous French writer you all should know Do I see this as a major achievement? My answer would have to be both yes and no
Not everyone can say he once bagged a winner Who would always pay for his cocktails at dinner Who turned a poor student into a sex god And made him feel like a saint and a sinner
But why did she write such a miniscule book About our love affair which for me shook The very foundations of my universe Leaving me empty as a coat on a hook?
What am I now but an A. on the page? The faded memory of some by-gone age An age not even that memorable Was I merely a prop removed from her stage?
So yes I had sex with Annie Ernaux Which was pretty awesome Nobel or no She’s a great lady and a wonderful writer I’m just kinda wishing her book had been brighter...more
Today Mars has entered The seventh starry house With seven crimson moons A-waxing in his mouth And bullets flying fast From atop seven hills I Janina Blake
Today Mars has entered The seventh starry house With seven crimson moons A-waxing in his mouth And bullets flying fast From atop seven hills It’s the time of the Season For Men itching to Kill
Moustachioed Men Aiming long loaded rifles Flashing cigarette-stained Vodka-wet smiles Who’ll shoot at anything With four legs that can run To make Life disappear Yes that’s what they call Fun
What’s a Woman to do When she’s old and ignored? Who as soon as she speaks Those around her look bored A childless Woman Who does nothing deemed Useful Whose kitchen is messy And Body un-youthful?
I consulted the Law But the Law shook his head “Don’t make such a big fuss In no time you’ll be dead Men have always gone Hunting It’s the way of the World Nobody can change this Least of all you old girl”
But those Tracks etchèd deep In the Flesh of new Snow Tell us eloquently What we already know Sly hunters pursue them With saturnine eyes But can they discern The bright Braille of night skies?
Do the Tracks lead to Death Whither you and I go? It’s all written up there In the night’s indigo Like a Poem you can read If you're into good Verse Unveiling the Secrets Of the whole Universe
Including the Secret I’m about to reveal But hush not a word now My lips remain sealed (view spoiler)[If I open my mouth And tell you what I see It's a hundred to one You will never forgive me (hide spoiler)]...more
Hi my name is Frank and I have many friends most of them are famous I like talking about them by using their first names only you’re supposed to know who Hi my name is Frank and I have many friends most of them are famous I like talking about them by using their first names only you’re supposed to know who they are and if you don’t you shouldn’t be reading my poems
there’s Norman for instance you know Norman he’s famous curates an art gallery on the upper east side I get invited to all his dinner parties which is lucky for me cuz otherwise I wouldn’t eat there’s literally one yoghurt left in my frigidaire and the expiry date should be in a museum
Boy am I bohemian
anyway Norman was telling me about Selma who’s a famous Cubist dancer (she practically invented square dancing) Selma was involved in a shoplifting scandal on 53rd & 3rd and if you don’t know exactly what store I’m talking about You shouldn’t be reading this poem
she got off easy tho Selma cuz her folks Harry and Liz they are so old money you know the type penthouse on Park Avenue 3 Cézannes 4 Douanier Rousseaus chippendales in every room they’re loaded
(not that I care)
Selma is married to Rock who is superfamous but word has it their marriage is on the rocks If you don’t know who the hell Rock is you shouldn’t be reading poems at all
well I’ve filled about three pages of this almost-square city lights pocket poet series paper and I’m about to call it a day
did I mention my name was Frank? you probably knew that already from reading Ulysse’s poem about moi tho I never mentioned him in any poem of mine
That what has given us supremacy over every other species on earth is our ability to talk behind each otherHarari tells us we are mammals who gossip.
That what has given us supremacy over every other species on earth is our ability to talk behind each other’s backs.
Bad-mouthing people is our way to survive.
Stories forge communities, communities become nations and nations attack other nations because each one believes its own story to be the only true story.
We also specialize in destroying, by merely breathing, any eco system that has had the misfortune to make our acquaintance.
Harari puts homo sapiens on trial for mass murder and concludes that everyone, without exception, is guilty.
That's right folks, we’re all of us rotten to the core and so very, very BAD.
How depressing.
Call me a Neanderthal but sometimes I wish I’d been born a flower so I wouldn’t have to bad-mouth certain books....more
Gautier sat at his big desk Wrote a book called Les Grotesques Quill in hand tried to defend Bards whose lives came to an end Twixt the pageLes Grotesques
Gautier sat at his big desk Wrote a book called Les Grotesques Quill in hand tried to defend Bards whose lives came to an end Twixt the pages of a work Penned by poesy’s greatest jerk One of those prim lesson-givers Churning black bile in their livers O twas sudden death to know Cranky bellicose Boileau Though his name sounds very nice You would just as soon think twice ‘Fore you let him read your stuff Boileau’s middle name was “Gruff” Monsieur “Gruff” Boileau it was Who at Helicon cleaned house Getting rid of what he saw As the Muse’s biggest flaw I.e. her imagination To his mind like masturbation Reign it in he would declare Clip your hedges cut your hair Wear a wig and bow to Him Else be torn from limb to limb Task which he did undertake Making more than one mistake Stuffing in his garbage can Arms and legs with the whole man Anyhoo after this long Introduction to my song Where I barely scratch the surface Of my mind with silly verses I have now run out of steam Like a runner in a dream Trying hard to get away From some grotesque alleyway This book review I am sure Won’t turn said book less obscure Nor can anything I say Make you read my man Gautier Nor do I have my own desk Now isn’t that simply grotesque?...more
O Death you are Man’s oldest joke Handed down from the original folk Who lived here before houses were built After Eve had experienced ouHalloween Review
O Death you are Man’s oldest joke Handed down from the original folk Who lived here before houses were built After Eve had experienced our guilt Hey guess what they said life ain't eternal Ha ha good one but why's Adam so purple?
Death you grave rejuvenator You sweet-talking exterminator In touch with the world’s latest fashions Dapper slim wicked and handsome You live alongside each of us And keep yourself androgynous
Without you Death there would be no laughter Though it's true you are no laughing matter And the poets you love to converse with Reenact for us the Orpheus myth You’re to poets what good wine to France is You're the bounce in the brain when it dances
It’s when you’re most serious you’re funny If you don’t see this Death you’re a dummy But really I’m just pulling your leg Your forgiveness My Lord I do beg This silly mood I am in you should know Is to be blamed on that joker Queneau
So spare me Death one instant more I promise I shan't be a bore...more
Cécile Coulon young French poet young runner Free verses flowing like hair in the wind I'm not even gonna try to outrun her The wind blowFour Quatrainers
Cécile Coulon young French poet young runner Free verses flowing like hair in the wind I'm not even gonna try to outrun her The wind blows as good in front as behind
*
Some writers go running in order to write Or simply because they can’t sleep at night Wordsmiths they say are not the best sleepers That’s why you see them in bed with their sneakers
*
The writing of poetry is somewhat like running For both require rhythm and breathing and time But you can work out all your poems just fine While lazing in bed every day ain’t that cunning?
*
I went for a jog inside my own poem And found I had strayed so far from my home Dark overgrown trails and trees looking wild These made me feel like a forsaken child
Verlaine your name like a face in the rain Verlaine your brain like the wind's weathervane Verlaine your veins full of absinthe and champagne Verlaine yo Verlaine your name like a face in the rain Verlaine your brain like the wind's weathervane Verlaine your veins full of absinthe and champagne Verlaine your pain like a misty northern plain Verlaine your fame like some dark forbidden lane Verlaine your finger-stains your immaculate pen Verlaine your small nose and your dirty long fingernails Verlaine your insane skull shining under a lamp Verlaine your rain drops falling like a chain Verlaine your Rimbaud and Verlaine Verlaine your hurricane no-one could contain Verlaine you villain treat your wife like a dame! Verlaine yours the shame yours the wolfsbane Verlaine there ain't no pill for what you can’t explain Verlaine I would not have liked to meet you on a train But Verlaine I will read your poems again and again...more
In truth he might have lived a richer life: Now here he lies, a poor writer of verses; He always kept his wit sharp as a knife, Bu EPITAPH ON A VERSIFIER
In truth he might have lived a richer life: Now here he lies, a poor writer of verses; He always kept his wit sharp as a knife, But never would he use it to cut purses.
Katherine Mansfield née Beauchamp Wrote many a Short Story— Though some say she was a Vamp— Why should that make you sorry?
The most important Thing in Li Katherine Mansfield née Beauchamp Wrote many a Short Story— Though some say she was a Vamp— Why should that make you sorry?
The most important Thing in Life is Not Whom you go to Bed with But How you wake up after Crisis— I can’t recall who said this—
Relationships are difficult From every Side of Sex— Unless you join a Sixties Cult Where they cease to exist—
Besides had you a serious Case Of K’s Tuberculosis— Would you wear a studious Face And prance around—like Moses?—
Your time on Earth is limited— This you don’t have to learn— But in a life inhibited Your Candle won’t less burn—
This was supposed to be a Review— Not a self-help Column— When did I shift my Point-of-View And get to be so—solemn?
Perhaps it was while reading “Bliss” A Story about Delusion Where in lieu of a deep—long—Kiss I got a sad Conclusion—
Mansfield was so good at these un- Expected final twists— I daresay her Stories—um— Did more than match—my Wits—...more
August morning Sun shining through my window Wife out walking in the woods Son reading quietly next door
Young horses galloping in n Samba for Umberto Saba
August morning Sun shining through my window Wife out walking in the woods Son reading quietly next door
Young horses galloping in nearby field Mischievous mice playing in the attic Furious flies buzzing against the windowpane Fat spiders sleeping at the centre of worlds
Coffee cup steaming Lawnmower mowing Apples growing Cherries falling Insects crawling Kestrels calling
Blue skies everywhere Summer far from over And I just got paid Yippee!
I feel like dancing the samba With Umberto Saba But Saba will not dance the samba With me
I feel like dancing the Saba With Umberto Samba But Samba will not dance the Saba With me…
I’ve never really understood The poet Jean Cocteau There’s no denying he’s pretty good As far as poets go
But there’s so much I want to read Of time so lit I’ve never really understood The poet Jean Cocteau There’s no denying he’s pretty good As far as poets go
But there’s so much I want to read Of time so little left That I don’t feel a pressing need To guard this book from theft
So if you wish to break into My house and steal a book I have here a map for you To show you where to look
As you walk in through the front door Turn left and then turn right Then up the stairs and left once more And then switch off your light
That’s my bed and that’s my nightstand Feel its little drawers The one on top pull open and —Oh mind the hardwood floors!—
The two or three things you'll find there Are there for you to keep Now tiptoe on back down the stairs And don’t disturb my sleep...more
So long as the sun sees the top of the sky And rolls down to the earth crying wheeee!
So long as the night spills a trillion stars On her bosom of black So long as the sun sees the top of the sky And rolls down to the earth crying wheeee!
So long as the night spills a trillion stars On her bosom of black jubilee
So long as young people hold books in their hands And appear to be mumbling a prayer
So long as the old with their trembling hands Take hold of their dreams like a stair
So long as some oak leaves grow far past the roofs Of crumbling fairytale castles
So long as the princess looks into her glass And admires her lovely long tassels
So long as the goat or the stoat or the lizard Hangs onto its tail for a while
So long as the words that pour out of my mouth Can still make my sweet darling smile
So long as two lovers will peer at each other Through keyholes of doors that don't squeak
So long will French literature live in my heart So bright and so rich and so chic!...more
Oh Oscar why did they treat you so bad? And wasn’t Lord Alfred Douglas a cad For leaving you stranded all by yourself Sad as a book without reader or she Oh Oscar why did they treat you so bad? And wasn’t Lord Alfred Douglas a cad For leaving you stranded all by yourself Sad as a book without reader or shelf? When the gavel came down smack on the table And six prosecutors clad in their sable Robes shook their wigs and pointed at you Twisting your words to make them untrue You hung down your head and felt so much shame —You who had climbed the summits of fame!— That you were just ready to give up your name And set everything you stood for aflame My dear Oscar Wilde you were so good with words But not good enough to counter the herds Of ignorant stupid prejudiced haters Who parade as men but who are just praters Ready to condemn anyone they can For veering from what is considered a man But these so well-dressed educated people Were not even fit to paint a church steeple Let alone stand in the same room as you As you lay on your deathbed deep in some rue Fighting in Paris with ugly wallpaper All drab and lit up by a single taper But what seems above all not so absurd Is that you in the end would have the last word And the idiots who once called you a crook Shamefully and forever live on in your book...more
By the ripe age of five and twenty This Arthur Rimbaud of the Raj Having written more than plenty Really yearned for a massage
Words flowed out of him in By the ripe age of five and twenty This Arthur Rimbaud of the Raj Having written more than plenty Really yearned for a massage
Words flowed out of him in torrents Poems novels sketches stories Depicting in fine shades the torments Of colonial British Tories
They all said he was a natural At least that’s what the great James said His genius (far from gradual) Sprung fully formed from his young head
Rudyard was unstoppable While his pen was running hot But he awoke one day unable To write like James Joyce and whatnot
He changed his subject not his manner And went on publishing good stuff Which helped him pay for his large manor But the critics on him were tough
I guess you can’t stay cool forever Especially when your stock and trade Consists of not deciding whether To sit out in the sun or shade
Can’t have your cake and eat it too Not when your cake’s an empire Now any reader sees right through Your words when you’re a vampire
But I’m not here to point a finger At Tom Dick Harry or Jane I do not like to dwell or linger On an author’s slightest stain
What I look for is good writing And what a writer Kipling was (Though I don’t think I would invite him Over for dinner at my house)
For all the length of this fat book A single page I could not skip Yes I confess my spirit shook Under the spell of Master Kip...more
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