Category Archives: Poetry

How Do You Find the Good Stuff?

Laura Miller of Salon.com says if the predictions of a wonderful world of self-publishing materialize, average readers will have a very large pile of poor writing to weed through. She describes reading The Slush Pile, that growing mound of unsolicited manuscripts that some publishers assign to an editorial peon.

Miller writes that we on the outside of publishing should fear what we don’t know: “Civilians who kvetch about the bad writing of Dan Brown, Stephenie Meyer or any other hugely popular but critically disdained novelist can talk as much trash as they want about the supposedly low standards of traditional publishing. They haven’t seen the vast majority of what didn’t get published . . .”

In a world where any manuscript can be published and placed with online retailers, readers will suffer. Reading bad writing can hurt. “[I]nstead of picking up every new manuscript with an open mind and a tiny nibbling hope, you learn to expect the worst. Because almost every time, the worst is exactly what you’ll get.”

It's June, Sweetheart

To My Dear and Loving Husband

by Anne Bradstreet

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me ye women if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.

Thy love is such I can no way repay;

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,

That when we live no more we may live ever.

The Landlord ended thus his tale

Like great men before me (Lars, for one), I am taking leave of the blog for a few days. In the words of Longfellow:

25th Garmisch-Partenkirchen Beard Champioships

The Landlord ended thus his tale,

Then rising took down from its nail

The sword that hung there, dim with dust

And cleaving to its sheath with rust,

And said, “This sword was in the fight.”

The Poet seized it, and exclaimed,

“It is the sword of a good knight,

Though homespun was his coat-of-mail;

What matter if it be not named

Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale,

Excalibar, or Aroundight,

Or other name the books record?

Your ancestor, who bore this sword

As Colonel of the Volunteers,

Mounted upon his old gray mare,

Seen here and there and everywhere,

To me a grander shape appears

Than old Sir William, or what not,

Clinking about in foreign lands

With iron gauntlets on his hands,

And on his head an iron pot!”

All laughed; the Landlord’s face grew red

As his escutcheon on the wall;

He could not comprehend at all

The drift of what the Poet said;

For those who had been longest dead

Were always greatest in his eyes;

And be was speechless with surprise

To see Sir William’s pluméd head

Brought to a level with the rest,

And made the subject of a jest.

"What melodious sounds I hear"

From the cross uplifted high

Where the Savior deigns to die

What melodious sounds I hear

Bursting on my ravished ear

Love¹s redeeming work is done

Come and welcome, sinner, come.

Sprinkled now with blood the throne

Why beneath thy burdens groan

On my pierced body laid

Justice owns the ransom paid

Bow the knee and kiss the Son

Come and welcome, sinner, come.

Read more from this hymn by Thomas Haweis (1732-1820)

Limericks, huh? Well two can play that game…

And just to show that limericks aren’t all giggles:

A trio was playing the blues
When she told me, “I have to refuse.”
I swayed with the band
As I stared at my hand,
And the tickets I never would use.

There Was an Old Man from . . . Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One

It’s still April, National Poetry Month, so I am compelled by the forces of nature and nature’s stewards, your neighborhood climatologists, to post a substantive poem for your cultural enrichment. What better choice could I make than an Edward Lear limerick.

There was an Old Person whose habits,
Induced him to feed upon rabbits;
When he’d eaten eighteen,
He turned perfectly green,
Upon which he relinquished those habits.

But wait! If you act now, you can get two limericks for the price of one.

There was a Young Lady whose eyes,
Were unique as to colour and size;
When she opened them wide,
People all turned aside,
And started away in surprise.