POEMS - With Tongue In Cheek

[keithgood838]

The pleasure is entirely mine, Gray.
Thanks also for the other message.
The poem relates to my rapture on first
hearing Matt's mellifluous baritone on Winifred
Atwell's Radio Luxembourg show many moons ago.
Of course you, and Eman, will feature
should a book of Matt Monro verses
ever see the publishing light of day.
Here's a topical quatrain:

BARTON BONUS

Pleadings for grown-up sporting grace
belligerently unheeded
provoked the Premier League-winning space
victorious City needed.

[Gray]

Very true, Keith, being a gentleman just doesn't seem to within Mr Barton's remit.

[ROBERT M.]

Hopefully he will get a very lengthy ban, which is fully deserved .............he's just a NUTCASE

[keithgood838]

I have forwarded, to great appreciative acclaim,
Karl's Dangerous Intruder joke amd Marian's Nun at Airport
one. Such gems of humour, among others on the Today's Joke
thread, brought home to me the near-theraputic benefits
of humour. They have brought forth this verse:

HUMOUR IS ...

The pin that can deflate a pompous air;
the quip that warms a frosty atmosphere;
workouts for muscles denied attention,
and a release-valve for pent-up tension.
The shield that deflects the hurled barbs of strife -
cloverleaf route over constraints in life.

Keith Good

[keithgood838]

MONARCHIC MATRIARCH

Happy diamond jubilee, Your Majesty!
I see you as a mother figure,
there with indefatigable love for every
member of your British family.
The ultimate treasure of the nation
denied the maternal pleasure to show
your proud approbation
of one of your most illustrious sons,
the ambassadorial singer, Matt Monro.

Keith Good (2 June 2012)

[ROBERT M.]

[keithgood838]

Thanks for your one-word testimonial
to my testi-monials joke, Gray.
I hope forum members approve of this
diversionary thread, which I like to think
provides a counterpoint to the Today's Joke
one. I recall with pleasure that Lena, Harry
and Robert put their collective seal of approval
on the work of Irish poet, Francis Ledwidge:

JUNE

Broom out the floor now, lay the fender by,
And plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there,
And let the window down. The butterfly
Floats in upon the sunbeam, and the fair
Tanned face of June, the nomad gypsy, laughs
Above her widespread wares, the while she tells
The farmers' fortunes in the fields, and quaffs
The water from the spider-peopled wells.

The hedges all are drowned in green grass seas,
And bobbing poppies flare like Elmo's light,
While siren-like the pollen stained bees
Drone in the clover depths. And up the height
The cuckoo's voice is hoarse and broke with joy.
And on the lowland crops the crows make raid,
Nor fear the clappers of the farmer's boy,
Who sleeps, like drunken Noah, in the shade.

And loop this red rose in that hazel ring
That snares your little ear, for June is short
And we must joy in it and dance and sing,
And from her bounty draw her rosy worth.
Ay! Soon the swallows will be flying south,
The wind wheel north to gather in the snow,
Even the roses spilt on youth's red mouth
Will soon blow down the road all roses go.

Francis Ledwidge (1891-1917)

[Eman]

Like I always said Keith, your poems are exquisite!! It's good to see some good writing compared to what is being passed off as poetry today. One day I'd love to have a book of your poems on my bookself!!

[keithgood838]

Thanks for your kind words, Eman.
I hope you have not missed two of my favourite
Matt Monro-inspired poems, Show Song Splendour,
and Shooting Star, which appear on pages 28 & 32
respectively hereon. Please feel free to copy them
with my compliments.
Here is another favourite that was prompted by Matt's
poignant Softly As I Leave You played as the final curtain
closed at the funeral of my first cousin, Jim Hayes,
a musician:

OMNIPRESENCE

When our spirits soared like birds set free
or sank into paludal despair,
he was there.

When we were the praetorian guard of liberty
or railed against some wars' wasteful futility,
he was there.

When we failed to capture that exquisite face
or creatures needed saving from the human race,
he was there.

Especially in the delirium of love
or the loss of a loved one to another sphere
that soothing voice was there,
yet he was unaware ...

Keith Good

[keithgood838]

I never cease to marvel at the near-mystical properties
of the English language. Take the concept known as nominative
determinism whereby the name of someone in the news matches
the reported item. An recent example is that of an Essex farmer
who erected a mock Tudor castle on his land and concealed it
under piles of straw in an effort to circumvent planning laws.
His name? Robert Fidler.
Or take anagrams, which often reflect the meaning of the original word:

PRESBYTERIAN - Best in prayer
ASTRONOMER - Moon starer
DESPERATION - A rope ends it
THE EYES - They see
SLOT MACHINES - Cash lost in me

I have been intrigued by the occasional verse that comes
to me mysteriously complete with rhymes and scansion.

The WW1 poet Seigfried Sassoon found himself writing
the following liberating verse (extract therefrom) while
feeling somnolent in his study and about to take his
afternoon nap:

EVERYONE SANG

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.

Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted,
And beauty came like the setting sun ...

Seigfried Sassoon (1886-1967)

At the risk of mixing my mediums, the lines
invoke for me Matt's joie de vivre renditions
of Gonna Build a Mountain, One Morning in May
and perhaps most graphically, Strike Up The Band.
Real magic!

[Eman]

Hey Keith, thanks for this poem, I've never heard of this writer before.

[keithgood838]

Nice Olympics verse on the other thread, L&H.
I think I would have titled it, Ring Routes.
Only one of the panellists on Question Time
last night was able to recite some lines of verse
learned in their schooldays - how disappointing.
Put to the test I would readily recall the following,
which I was able to commit to memory on one reading.
It was written at the latter part was of the nineteenth
century by Irish poet, Joseph Plunkett:

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes;
His body gleams amid eternal snows;
His tears fall from the skies.
I see his face in ev'ry flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice, and carven by his power,
Rocks are his written words.
All pathways by his feet are worn;
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea;
His crown of thorns is twined with ev'ry thorn;
His cross is ev'ry tree.

[keithgood838]

I think it is time to raise the tone
of these sister threads.
It takes a special mastery of the medium
to make a memorable poem out of such
a mundane subject as:

TALL NETTLES

Tall nettles cover up, as they have done
These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:
Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.

This corner of the farmyard I like most:
As well as any bloom upon a flower
I like the dust on the nettles, never lost
Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.

Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

[keithgood838]

WIMBLEDON WIMPS
(Some affectionate sideswipes)

One game played (four points) and then they have one minute's rest,
and picnic on twin chairs accorded to only the best;
play may be brought to a halt due to hazardous light rain;
(ball-kids dispose of the players' new-racket cellophane).
They touchingly umbrella-shelter ev'ry pampered one
lest the wunderkind wilt under the unforgiving sun.
At service are offered three, sometimes four, similar balls,
plus Hawkeye is there to ensure no dubious line calls.
And here is the most egregious indulgence of all:
if they screw-up the serve they simply serve their reserve ball,
which makes one wonder if only one service were allowed
would it find favour with the aced, often rallies-denied crowd?
But such profanity is the sole preserve of the dreamers -
and sporting gods, please save us from the grunters and screamers.

Keith Good

[Lena & Harry Smith]

Very good Keith.