“Whoever tied the Mylar birthday balloon to the dead squirrel on Main Street thinks big.“
Jennifer L. Knox
Days of Shame & Failure, Bloof Books
Note: I rarely buy poetry, but I like to read about poets—especially one who writes a poem titled “Iowa Plates,” with a first line that would make a great caption-less gag cartoon. I just received the collection in the mail; the poem plus the book title alone is well worth $15 . . .
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Posted by Jim
Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1841-1935(An itch for scribbling.)
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Gavin Ewart, 1916-1995—New Review critic
I always try to dislike my poets, it’s good for them, they get so uppity otherwise, going around thinking they’re little geniuses— but sometimes I find it hard. They’re so pathetic in their efforts to be liked. When we’re all out walking on the cliffs it’s always pulling my coat with ‘Sir! Oh, Sir!’ and ‘May I walk with you, Sir?’— I sort them out harshly with my stick. If I push a few over the edge, that only encourages the others. In the places of preferment there is room for just so many. The rest must simply lump it. There’s too much sucking up and trying to be clever. They must all learn they’ll never get round me— Merit has nothing to do with it. There’s no way to pull the wool over my eyes, no way, no way . . . By Gavin Ewart —The Oxford Book of Comic Verse Edited by John Gross
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I’ve been going through what seems like a ton of old letters, plus the drafts of my replies; the idea being to get rid of most of that stuff so my kids and/or grandkids won’t have to deal with it when—as the saying goes— “the time comes.” During this recent purge, I came across a scrawled attempt at comic verse that I had mailed to my younger brother some years ago in Virginia for his 69th birthday. Here it is:
A man named Ernie
Lived by the tracks,
Ate little kids
Instead of snacks.
He was so mean
It was often said,
He’d never die
Just stay in bed.
He lived so long
(In the hundred-threes),
Then he finally did go
With brand new knees!
I know it sounds a bit like one of those “Burma Shave” series of “poetry” signs on the side of the road that I used to love to read as I whizzed past. His 75th birthday is coming up later this month and I’ll call him, as usual, and I plan to recite the verse to Ernie when I do. This year, I want to see if he remembers it, and if he does, I’ll ask him to remind me what he thinks of it. I have the feeling I’ll have to once again justify myself by saying, “Hey, it’s the thought that counts.”
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Doodlemeister's Weblog 