Credences of Summer

[AdamSmith]

I love a versatile poet!

"Vers"-atile?!

Few things are more versatile than the form called the "Clerihew," invented by one Edmund Clerihew Bentley.

The idea is to start with the name of a famous person, then rhyme it with some nonsense.

Sir Christopher Wren

Said, "I am going to dine with some men.

If anyone calls,

Say I'm designing St. Paul's."

Sir Humphrey Davie

Detested gravy.

He lived with the odium

Of having discovered sodium.

My favorite, on account of making no sense at all:

Edward the Confessor

Slept under the dresser.

When that began to pall,

He slept in the hall.

[Guest StuCotts]

You guys keep this poetry shit up and somebody's gonna call you gay!!

We could reinforce our macho cred by occasional spitting (patoo) and periodic references to planking broads. Whaddeya say? Could we make it work?

[Guest StuCotts]

Let me work on it.

OK, prose. Start a thread!

Dassen't. Insufficient moxie.

[Guest StuCotts]

"Vers"-atile?!

Few things are more versatile than the form called the "Clerihew," invented by one Edmund Clerihew Bentley.

The idea is to start with the name of a famous person, then rhyme it with some nonsense.

Sir Christopher Wren

Said, "I am going to dine with some men.

If anyone calls,

Say I'm designing St. Paul's."

Sir Humphrey Davie

Detested gravy.

He lived with the odium

Of having discovered sodium.

My favorite, on account of making no sense at all:

Edward the Confessor

Slept under the dresser.

When that began to pall,

He slept in the hall.

Does anybody remember the Rickety Rackety craze? I don't think it lasted long. It involved limericks mostly in dactylic dimeter. The first line was always Rickety Rackety or Higgledy Piggledy. I don't remember an entire one, so my example is the incomplete one below. Can anybody complete it?

Rickety Rackety

Hans Christian Andersen

Sat with two tow-headed

Boys on a shelf...

[AdamSmith]

Rickety Rackety

Hans Christian Andersen

Sat with two tow-headed

Boys on a shelf...

You keep reminding me of my age. First the "Men" lyrics; now Rickety Rackety, which rings a bell but which I too couldn't complete from memory.

Google came up empty on "rickety rackety," but "higgledy piggledy" dredged up one relevant link.

Higgledy-piggledy

Hans Christian Andersen

Sat with some towheaded

Lads on a shelf,

Mythopoetically

Hoping that fairytales

Aided in keeping his

Hans to himself.

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/...,843497,00.html

...Anthologized in Jiggery Pokery.

http://www.amazon.com/Jiggery-Pokery-Antho...5133&sr=8-1

[lookin]

Here, drink this. You'll feel better...

There is something about a Martini,

A tingle remarkably pleasant,

A yellow, a mellow Martini --

I wish that I had one at present.

There is something about a Martini,

Ere the dining and dancing begin,

And to tell you the truth,

It is not the vermouth--

I think that perhaps it's the gin.

Ogden Nash

And Dorothy Parker's alleged turn:

I like to have a Martini,

Two at the very most;

Three, I'm under the table,

Four, I'm under my host!

[lookin]

Google came up empty on "rickety rackety," but "higgledy piggledy" dredged up one relevant link.

Higgledy-piggledy

Hans Christian Andersen

Sat with some towheaded

Lads on a shelf,

Mythopoetically

Hoping that fairytales

Aided in keeping his

Hans to himself.

Sorry, but it seems this morning that all roads lead to Dorothy Parker.

At a party where she was seated with Somerset Maugham, the author asked if she would write a poem for him. "I will if you like," Miss Parker said, and scribbled out:

Higgledy Piggledy, my white hen;

She lays eggs for gentlemen.

"Yes, I've always liked those lines," Mr. Maugham commented. Miss Parker bestowed a cool smile and without an instant's hesitation added:

You cannot persuade her with gun or lariat;

To come across for the proletariat.

http://www.dorothyparker.com/nytobit.html

[Guest StuCotts]

Sorry, but it seems this morning that all roads lead to Dorothy Parker.

At a party where she was seated with Somerset Maugham, the author asked if she would write a poem for him. "I will if you like," Miss Parker said, and scribbled out:

Higgledy Piggledy, my white hen;

She lays eggs for gentlemen.

"Yes, I've always liked those lines," Mr. Maugham commented. Miss Parker bestowed a cool smile and without an instant's hesitation added:

You cannot persuade her with gun or lariat;

To come across for the proletariat.

http://www.dorothyparker.com/nytobit.html

Damn! It is a literate bunch of fuckers (meant literally and complimentarily) that hangs out on these forums. This did not figure anywhere on my list of expectations when I decided to take a flier on MER. It is always delightful, and sometimes dangerously close to intimidating. Age does not wither you, nor custom stale your infinite variety. I'll clam up before I get gushy.

[AdamSmith]

You cannot persuade her with gun or lariat;

To come across for the proletariat.

http://www.dorothyparker.com/nytobit.html

Ahh, La Parker. Welcome to the thread, lookin.

Didn't you have a quatrain in this form about, shall we say, Trapper John...?

[AdamSmith]

We could reinforce our macho cred by occasional spitting (patoo) and periodic references to planking broads. Whaddeya say? Could we make it work?

Just possibly, providing we call for the spittoon and not the cuspidor.

And if we bear in mind that remarking a woman has a nice pair of bristols a la Kingsley Amis comes across in America as very very gay. Come to think of it, many things elegant in Britain sound gay in America.

P.S. To those of us who grew up south of the Manson-Nixon line:

(1) Did your grandma dip snuff?

(2) For a spittoon, did she carry around the house a tall Dole pineapple can stuffed with Kleenex?

http://www.tspb.state.tx.us/SPB/Gallery/HisArt/06.htm

[lookin]

Age does not wither you, nor custom stale your infinite variety.

I think you may have responded to my post by mistake. Age is doing its level best to wither me, and my infinite variety peters out after Dorothy Parker, Joyce Kilmer, and a fairly prolific unknown whose primary outlet was just above the urinals at the Reading Terminal in the early sixties.

But I’d like to latch on anyway, since AdamSmith was kind enough to refer to a niche in the Church of St. Giles, and that reminded me of one more Dorothy Parker. Well, actually, she said she didn’t do it since she would never rhyme honor with Madonna. But see if you don’t think that it could have been just a case of plausible denial.

She had spent the weekend, so the story goes, at San Simeon, as the guest of publisher William Randolph Hearst and his not-so-secret mistress, Marion Davies. She was amused to see that, over the door of Davies’ bungalow, there was an alcove in which stood a statue of the Virgin Mary. Parker is alleged to have written:

Upon my honor I saw a Madonna

Standing in a niche,

Above the door of a prominent whore

Of a prominent son of a bitch.

She was working in Hollywood at the time, and Hearst could have buried her, so I can see why she might not have wanted to step forward and take credit. Plus she knew there was more where that came from.

Many thanks for the indulgence!

[lookin]

Ahh, La Parker. Welcome to the thread, lookin.

Didn't you have a quatrain in this form about, shall we say, Trapper John...?

Thanks, AdamSmith. Your thread is one that makes us think, and still is fun. So quickly autumn’s in the air. So slowly do we stop to care. The Wallace Stevens that you chose was thoughtful, moving, on the nose. Your kindness, I’m ashamed to say, stayed undefiled for just a day.

And then the thread began to drift. From lofty heights, its fall was swift. What started as a post with love went straight downhill with just a shove. I worried that you’d be distressed, but your response left me impressed. Not only did you share our smiles, you shared the bishop and his piles.

I doubt that you will ever see a quatrain from the likes of me.

But if a limerick gets it done, I’ve got a gem about a nun.

[Guest StuCotts]

I think you may have responded to my post by mistake. Age is doing its level best to wither me, and my infinite variety peters out after Dorothy Parker, Joyce Kilmer, and a fairly prolific unknown whose primary outlet was just above the urinals at the Reading Terminal in the early sixties.

No disrespect, but you're right. I meant that remark to apply collectively to the whole group of those who have elevated the literacy level of the forums.

Re age, my strategy is to tell myself every day that I'll think about that tomorrow, and to think of the face in the mirror as an abstraction.

[Guest StuCotts]

Thanks, AdamSmith. Your thread is one that makes us think, and still is fun. So quickly autumn’s in the air. So slowly do we stop to care. The Wallace Stevens that you chose was thoughtful, moving, on the nose. Your kindness, I’m ashamed to say, stayed undefiled for just a day.

And then the thread began to drift. From lofty heights, its fall was swift. What started as a post with love went straight downhill with just a shove. I worried that you’d be distressed, but your response left me impressed. Not only did you share our smiles, you shared the bishop and his piles.

I doubt that you will ever see a quatrain from the likes of me.

But if a limerick gets it done, I’ve got a gem about a nun.

Now you've given me guilt feelings about having driven the tone of the thread down from its original level. Fortunately for types like me, Adam seems incapable of a reaction that is other than urbane.

[AdamSmith]

But if a limerick gets it done, I’ve got a gem about a nun.

lookin, you're too kind. And too attentive -- I just quoted; you wrote. Humbling.

True story about staid, straightlaced Wallace Stevens: He came into a meeting at The Hartford one day and ebulliently repeated a joke he had just heard. "You know why they're called nuns? 'Cause they ain't never had none, and they ain't never going to get none!"

[AdamSmith]

Now you've given me guilt feelings about having driven the tone of the thread down from its original level.

Stu, please don't feel bad. I was glad you and others even read such a thread, much less contributed.

I like all the interaction here. Maybe I just have no standards! Anyway -- with marcanthony as my guide! -- more is more. "One impulse from a vernal wood / Is not enough to do much good!"

incapable of a reaction that is other than urbane.

One of my secret heroes is urbanity's very namesake -- Fr. Urbain Grandier.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urbain_Grandier

[AdamSmith]

I'll clam up before I get gushy.

In contrast to escorts and clients who gush and then get clammy.

[Guest StuCotts]

Stu, please don't feel bad. I was glad you and others even read such a thread, much less contributed.

I like all the interaction here. Maybe I just have no standards! Anyway -- with marcanthony as my guide! -- more is more. "One impulse from a vernal wood / Is not enough to do much good!"

One of my secret heroes is urbanity's very namesake -- Fr. Urbain Grandier.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urbain_Grandier

Having read Grandier's wikipedia, I find myself torn between wishing you his ability to inspire lust in others and hoping that you don't have to suffer for it the way he did.

[lookin]

Having read Grandier's wikipedia, I find myself torn between wishing you his ability to inspire lust in others and hoping that you don't have to suffer for it the way he did.

Me too, AdamSmith. I've also been wondering about your position on nuns. His Holy Urbanity was said to have picked up some shady habits along the way.

[AdamSmith]

Me too, AdamSmith. I've also been wondering about your position on nuns. His Holy Urbanity was said to have picked up some shady habits along the way.

I admit I've never picked up a habit with quite the same verve as Grandier.

My view of him is based not on Wikipedia's brutally clear-eyed report but rather the humanizing portrait by Aldous Huxley in The Devils of Loudon and Ken Russell's lionizing portrayal in "The Devils." If you only know Russell from "Faster, Pussycat, Kill, Kill" and the like, rent "The Devils" sometime. This over-the-top writeup nails it:

http://members.aol.com/streettb/krussell/devils.htm

[AdamSmith]

One more from the Sage of Hartford. By way of thanks to an esteemed poster here, for squiring a certain escort to Boston last winter!

Earthy Anecdote

Stevens

Every time the bucks went clattering

Over Oklahoma

A firecat bristled in the way.

Wherever they went,

They went clattering,

Until they swerved

In a swift, circular line

To the right,

because of the firecat.

Or until they swerved

In a swift, circular line

To the left,

Because of the firecat.

The bucks clattered.

The firecat went leaping,

To the right, to the left,

And

Bristled in the way.

Later, the firecat closed his bright eyes

And slept.

...although I can't imagine our firecat69 doing anything to discourage the bucks from approaching!

[AdamSmith]

Time for my annual genuflection to Stevens's great ode to midsummer.

With climate change this can shortly be 'Credences of Endless Summer.'

[RA1]

Simply from local empirical evidence we have had the coolest spring and early summer that I can remember. Only last week did we go into what most expect to be summer weather. One thing that does seem to be happening is a slide or shift of the traditional seasons by a month or two. In other words, the seasons are arriving late. It will be interesting to see if summer here lasts until late OCT or NOV.

Best regards,

RA1

[AdamSmith]

Lucky you. Central NC has been an oven for weeks now.

I read however that the sun is entering a 'Maunder minimum' such as caused the Little Ice Age in the 1700s, so a little respite from global meltdown at least til I am safely insulated by the topsoil.

[RA1]

Oh, it doesn't matter. I only wash my clothes and answer my email/pay my bills here.

Last week the high was 79 in Indiana where I was. Next week, who knows?

Best regards,

RA1