Ooops! Wrote blog, lost blog page. So here’s a rewrite…
I’d started by wishing everyone a belated happy new year. (Even more belated now.)
Then posted a new – written yesterday – poem. So here it is:
He has a lustful crush on Ian Hislop,
subscribes to Private Eye. He sends
clippings, ideas, sketches; small tokens
of his love but they are all condemned,
returned while love is not. Lost in Keats –
illumination! – a certainty
for Pseuds is the vanity of modern verse –
its navel-gazing, arse-dribbling inanity.
Vers libre is so easy it’s impossible;
like free love’s tease its complications
baffle him, leave him floundering;
his opus will require foundations.
He invents new forms of poetry
each more damnéd than the last;
he tortures syntax, ruptures meaning,
a hint of sense engenders wrath.
Example: months of counting calories
(poet’s bum is ego-matching massive):
a dietary code, from which take letters,
O E D words or Roget magic.
But Pseuds continues to eschew him;
you end up clipped in there pretentiously
by accidental slip of pen, whereas
poetry’s deliberate, not to mention
no one reads it, except as affectation.
Disclaimer: Poem is absolutely NOT based on any real person.
Pseuds Corner is a regular feature in Private Eye.
“Arse dribble” was a Stephen Fry description of free verse (specifically) when he was plugging The Ode Less Travelled, his book on form. I take issue with it as so much “form” verse is just as crap – even National Treasures can be silly sometimes. I’ve previously mentioned it in poems here and here.
And, lastly, a photograph of Great Malvern from the hills in a brief morning of frost a few weeks ago.