1765. Thanks for the poetry

Hi Harvey

Just a quick note to thank you for sending me your book of poetry. Congratulations on getting it published. I was very keen to read your poems as I didn’t until today realize that you wrote poetry. It tells me a lot more about you than I ever imagined.

The book arrived in the mail just as I was about to go to the bathroom. As I was so excited to begin to read it I took it to the bathroom with me and began to peruse your poems while “enthroned”.

The first thing I noticed, and this is a little critical, is that the cover is excellent, as is the print, but why, oh why, did it have to be printed on cheap newsprint? I suppose it’s fashionable to use recycled things, but personally I was distracted by it thinking that your poetry would most certainly deserve better.

Well, I started reading your poems thoughtfully and I guess I carefully read the first half dozen. Look, I don’t want to be negative about things, but quite honestly, the poems did nothing for me. I thought they were banal and simplistic. I’m telling you this not to be cruel and offensive, but because honesty is always the best route to take. How can one improve if one already thinks that one is the cat’s whiskers?

Heave ho! upon the briny deep,
Oh sailor man.
Wither doth the waves caress the shore.
Who could wish for more
In days of yore?

I can see why you had to get it self-published.

Anyway, thanks again for thinking of me and sending a free copy.

Regards
Maurice

P.S. Don’t you just hate it – like once every eleven years or so – when you’re in the bathroom and realize you’re out of toilet paper?

Poem 92: Another thought about Heaven

Here’s a poem I wrote nearly 50 years ago! (Actually on 21 November 1972).

If I had tears in Heaven I would cry.
The Tigris flows from one eye,
the Euphrates from the other;
such is the Garden of Eden.

You cannot hear the birds sing
nor see the trees.
Our eyes are salted out.
Our mouths bawl with joy.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

Poem 89: The empty space

This space is meant to have a pome,
I haven’t witten whum,
Bare the page, still the pen,
I sit here on my bum
It’s really rather dumb
No thoughts will ever come
Things are looking glum
My brain’s forever numb
I twiddle my thumbs

CRUMBS!

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

Poem 88: The stream that flows near my house

The stream that flows near my house
comes from goodness knows where
and goes to goodness knows where.

I never visit it with dull skies,
but some days when sparkles shake the water
the dog takes a bath.

Has the stream perhaps scampered passed death;
a wild pig’s corpse
or maybe a tatty rotting bird?

Has it greeted fish of every sort;
eels and trout,
and cockerbullies* cowering in caverns?

Have the rough, rocky tumbles
bestowed both cheer and fear
on this joyful jolly journeyman jongleur?

Today I see it hubbubs happily on,
forgiving its past
and singing only of tomorrow’s adventures.

* Small New Zealand freshwater fish.

 

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

Poem 87: Gone but not forgotten

I saw my name on a war memorial
It wasn’t me of course
Same name but someone else who was
Gone but not forgotten

I fell between the cracks of wars
A rather rare occurrence
Else it would be me who was
Gone but not forgotten

They drafted names for Vietnam
Picked by random birthdays
Those born one day after me are
Gone but not forgotten

As each war comes and each war goes
And parents siblings fade
Dead soldiers are remembered in a generic sort of way
But as individuals no one would have a clue who the hell they were
They’re gone and long forgotten

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

 

Poem 86. A dire warning to lovers

Falling in love is sort of like
being diagnosed with sugar diabetes.
It’s kind of like a sugar overload
and the body can’t cope with all the syrup fast enough
so it results in a sticky mess
and you end up
chucking the baby out with the bathwater.

Falling in love is sort of like
weeding the garden;
there’s a great vision of magnificent blooms
further down the track
but there’s the inevitability of pulling flowers out
with the weeds
and chucking the baby out with the bathwater.

Falling in love is sort of like
you know
it gets more complicated than you think
and it completely stuffs up your life
because you should be finishing an assignment and
instead you end up spending all night trying to make
something to chuck out with the bathwater.

Anyway, despite my warning,
by the time you realize you’re in love
it’s too late. You’re completely caught in the net.
Every song on the radio is about you. The only way out
is not to get up in the morning
or to move towns and that’s tantamount to
chucking the baby out with the bathwater.

Be warned! Love’s sort of like a horse and carriage:
every wedding’s followed by a marriage.
It’s not that you can’t do it;
it’s just that so many for a thousand different reasons blew it.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

Poem 83: Under the influence of Ezra Pound

Let’s face it:
most people don’t have a clue
what Ezra Pound is talking about.
Quotiescumque manducamus panem hunc…
That doesn’t mean to say he’s not a great poet;
many who like Pound (who loved Hitler)
understand Pound’s poems, aren’t dumb,
and find his poems accessible.
I don’t.
Itis apis potanda bigone.

He’s such an intellectual.
All those different languages
and so many references to mythologies and stuff!
Cryptus rushes onward,
‘tis zucchinis for Louis-Marie Grignion de Montfort.
But look! Look! Listen!
He had a big influence on others, Eliot for example;
Eliot wrote about cats.
If I ended up in the same place I started
I’d know there was a wrong turn somewhere.
Quotiescumque manducamus panem hunc makes even a cat look academic.
Meow.

Methinks
the emperor has no clothes.
Itis apis potanda bigone.
…um …er …oh …
It is a pis pot and a big one.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

Poem 84: Stuck inside on yet another rainy day

It’s raining on my pomposity.
Now my pomposity’s all wet.
It’s a monstrosity.

Precipitation precipitates with considerable velocity.
There’s no stopping ‘locity
with or without an apostrophe.

Perhaps I should try reciprocity.
But rain falls with such ferocity
it makes reciprocity preposterously an impotossity.

If I’d been born a rhinoceros I’d have a lot more rhinosity.
I tell you, once my pomposity gets wet
I get filled with ridiculous verbosity.

It’s a philosophical atrocity,
especially when stuck inside
on yet another rainy day.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

 

Poem 82: Thank God I’m not famous

God has not allowed me to become famous
lest it go to my head.
“Shall I compare me to a summer’s day?”
is all that need be said.
I’d spend all day reading my own poetry
out loud and to myself.
It would be seasons of missed and shallow fruitlessness.
Yes! Yes! I’m glad I’m not famous;
otherwise I’d end up writing infantile poetry instead of stuff like this.

God has not allowed me to become famous
lest I needlessly trample all over those less fortunate than myself;
like Margery Hansen who lives down the road
and Anita Gladsberry and … oh the list goes on and on – interminably.
I never realized until now just how unfortunate most people are,
yet poetry pours out of me like a gushing waterfall.
Yes! Yes! I’m glad I’m not famous;
otherwise I’d end up writing mindless poetry instead of stuff like this.

God has not allowed me to become famous
lest I lose all sense of humility
like Harold Kingsbury this nutcase I know
who has a carrot up his arse and his nose in the air
and writes the most ridiculous poetry that doesn’t even rhyme
unlike mine
at least some of the time
which is fine
if you want to write inanities like Harold Kingsbury this nutcase
who has a carrot up his arse and his nose in the air.
Yes! Yes! I’m glad I’m not famous;
otherwise I’d end up writing crap instead of stuff like this.

Listen to the poem read aloud HERE!

Poem 79: How long the shadows fall

How long the shadows fall
this breakfast time. How tall in height,
(as if in evening light)
the fence posts stand, as might night guards,
freezing in sun’s weak shards.
A bitter morning. Hardened ice.
Desolate wind with vice
-like grip, ready to slice the heart.

For me to light the fire
is to admit that you’re not here.
The early morning’s cheer-
ful warmth that only yesterday
you lit, your final day,
before the Fates held sway and snipped
your thread of life, and clipped
forever what bound you to me.

How long the shadows fall
this first breakfast time.

Listen to the poem read aloud HERE!