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.

Inspiration in part from thinking of characters’ POVs from reading Holly Magill’s blog poems and in part from thinking of extreme forms after reading the fascinating Adventures in Form anthology.

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.


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4 Responses to Musings

  1. Most flattered. I can visualise this poor creature quite clearly from your knowing words – oh dear, poor thing! And yes, I totally agree with you on Mr Fry….

  2. Ron says:

    Poor Poetry. Must it suffer so? :)

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