fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

against these bonds it is not hard to chafe

not knowing what or who will keep us safe

nor where each danger lies there's the true rub

a deadly serpent hiding under shrub

or bolt of lightning out of cloudy sky

truth hurts enough we cling to comfy lie

in hope that when the pain we feel abates

there won't be monsters howling at our gates

no certainty was given us at birth

today we've plenty and tomorrow dearth

those are our choices all the while we scorn

the hard decisions made by those who torn

between the injuries of times long past

and those of futures into which we cast

not only hope but all the goods of chance

have chosen wrongly now we take the pain

not out of reason but since you abstain

from complete judgment there's no better path

between the harvest and the aftermath

out of the vision that which we desire

is not the only evil to acquire

darkness is all the best path to forget

we are in chains because we lost the bet

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
I can observe the voices rise and swell
defining verse, and what is doggerel;
while others, with hardly time for pause,
proclaim that art is subject to some laws
not stated in plain, ordinary terms.
But what can I (and other suchlike worms)
declare anent a subject of such heft?
With all the force that in me has been left
I'll take no cudgels up, nor seek to hide
the fact that here I will not take a side.
Some find the haiku and the sonnet terse,
and think heroic couplets rather worse
than limericks. But, for my humble part,
I'd say that all craft has its art.
(Did I say humble?) Also, every craft
requires a skill not shown by dull and daft.
It's New Year's Eve, I'll head off to my bottle
and leave in peace the ghost of Aristotle.

 
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

 Og the gigantic, with a hideous roar,
commenced to sodomise a dinosaur,
but, with a curse, in the Jurassic rain
declared the whole thing was a total pain.
The truth is dino sex ain't for the meek,
they're structured so you can't find what you seek.
Deplorable I know. Still there's relief
in letting others know your horrid grief.

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
Pseudonymous fools develop fits of pique
when first confronted with a straight critique;
all that then follows, in their twisted sight,
is further evidence of their sad plight.
So to blame those who merely took the mickey
for stupid slurs, sure indicates a thicky.
We aren't surprised that falsehoods they retail
in tones that signify moronic wail,
they hope the reader will lack common sense
and fall in line with their silly pretense.
We aren't supposed to think, merely agree
while they of fact and courtesy are free;
with idiotic threat they seek to cow
any who won't to their slight wisdom bow.

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
Whanne that Septembre doth the summer ende
vnto the schooles the myriad noobs do wende;
they think nat of the trouble and the frette
that they will cause vpon the Internette.
In daies long past svch swaines wee did nat see
vntille they rechéd college or vniuersitie,
bot nowe at everich schole compvters waite
instrvmentes alike of childish loue and hate.
As sone as youngstre on the net doth logge
bot thatte hee (or shee) doth make an blogge,
opon the uuiche the bratte doth lightlie write
of matteres simple and of svbjectes trite:
howe one beth lamer, yet another leet,
and howe they never shalle knowe defeat.
Gentillesse and chivalrie do soffre rout
whanne these yonge men and women doe come out;
whilom there was on the Nette true cortesye
bot nowe gode manners doe from the Webbe flee.
UUee elders loke, and we ovre heads doe shake
and uuonder whether twas alle an mistake.
One thing there beth that doth drive us alle bats,
and thatte is alle those goddamned swivinge lolcatz!
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

Where's Juliet, that Italian dame,
whom Shakespeare gave immortal fame?
Where's Gloriana, the bard's great Queen?
It's a long time since ever she was seen.
Where's Ninon whose memoirs seem to burn?
None of these ladies now will ever return.
Where's the Armouress? And, as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's Aphra Behn, who once so fine did write?
Where's Milton's wife, who the great poet did spite?
Where's Lady Winchelsea? I must enquire.
It seems that all have gone into the fire.
Where's Fanny Burney, who though rather short,
gave finest service to the King at court?
Where's that barmaid? And, as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's George Sand, who disguised as a man,
seduced both women and that chap Chopin?
Where's George Eliot, who, and it's a loss,
covered up the name of Mary Ann Cross?
Where's Harriet Stowe, who thought slavery a sin
and told us all in Uncle Tom's Cabin?
Where's that hot whore? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's Hanna Arendt, who against the night
looked to the ancient Greeks for proper light?
Where's Beauvoir, who continues still to vex
all sexists who must read The Second Sex
Where's Angela Carter, she who lightly wrote
such things as many men would blush to quote?
Where's Anaïs Nin? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Princess, who sits and watches at the gate,
keep us from falling into most ignoble fate.
We wish we'd known great ladies such as these,
but Dame Nature has set us as she must please.
Where's dear Mae West? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
Chavcer his uuritinges myn herte and minde impresse,
farre fro the uuorlde in holie sothfastenesse,
bot ich uuolde asken alle ye gentille folke
uuho clamovren for ease fro hethene ioke
uuether tis trewe thatte euille-sovning uuorde
thatte swich rhyming ben nat worthe an torde?
For myn parte it ben trewe that Chavcer bin
Ovre greetest rhymer, to saie else war sinne.

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March 2015

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