Good Gnus -- P G Wodehouse

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian,
along with a longish prologue. Read on:

This poem is supposedly by Charlotte Mulliner, one of Mr Mulliner's endless
procession of relatives ... a poet and animal lover who comes under the
"spell" of Bludleigh Court, a country house full of avid hunters and one
poet boyfriend who suddenly starts to hunt rats with an umbrella when he's
at Bludleigh.  This spell makes even the most refined poet and animal lover
a ravening hunter after prey ranging from big game to rats and sparrows.

Charlotte thinks she hasn't been affected by the spell, till she gets a poem
that she sent to an animal rights magazine rejected: something that has
never, ever happened before. Here's the poem ...

(Poem #1537) Good Gnus (A Vignette in Verse) When cares attack and life seems black, How sweet it is to pot a yak, Or puncture hares and grizzly bears, And others I could mention; But in my Animals "Who's Who" No name stands higher than the Gnu; And each new gnu that comes in view Receives my prompt attention. When Afric's sun is sinking low, And shadows wander to and fro, And everywhere there's in the air A hush that's deep and solemn; Then is the time good men and true With View Halloo pursue the gnu; (The safest spot to put your shot is through the spinal column). To take the creature by surprise We must adopt some rude disguise, Although deceit is never sweet, And falsehoods don't attract us; So, as with gun in hand you wait, Remember to impersonate A tuft of grass, a mountain-pass, A kopje or a cactus. A brief suspense, and then at last The waiting's o'er, the vigil past; A careful aim. A spurt of flame. It's done. You've pulled the trigger, And one more gnu, so fair and frail, Has handed in its dinner-pail; (The females all are rather small, The males are somewhat bigger). -- P G Wodehouse

(Attributed to Charlotte Mulliner, in the short story "Unpleasantness at
Bludleigh Court", from Wodehouse's book "Mr Mulliner Speaking").

Wonderfully funny, with just the right combination of bombastic poetry,
nonsense rhymes (who but PGW can rhyme "yak" with "black" when talking of
the blackness of life) and a liberal sprinkling of classic PGW like "handed
in its dinner pail", all of which is mixed in with the sort of sanctimonious
and didactic wording used by highbrow journals that cater to the "arts and
poetry" type of crowd that eats at "The Crushed Pansy" (the restaurant with
soul) and tends to read portuguese love sonnets bound in mauve leather.

        srs.

Keeping with the title of the poem, this email has been written using gnus
on emacs 21.3. No gnus were harmed in the typing of this poem.

Caliban at Sunset -- P G Wodehouse

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian:

Was re-reading "Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit" and ran across this poem by Percy
Gorringe (the "bloke with side whiskers" who loves Florence Craye).  He is
talking with Bertie at Brinkley Manor (Aunt Dahlia's place) and they are
watching a particularly fruity sunset, which Bertie describes as "being aflame
with glorious technicolour"  ....

(Poem #408) Caliban at Sunset I stood with a man Watching the sun go down. The air was full of murmurous summer scents And a brave breeze sang like a bugle From a sky that smouldered in the west, A sky of crimson, amethyst, gold and sepia And blue as blue were the eyes of Helen When she sat Gazing from some high tower in Ilium Upon the Grecian tents darkling below. And he, This man who stood beside me, Gaped like some dull, half-witted animal And said, "I say, Doesn't that sunset remind you Of a slice Of underdone roast beef?" -- P G Wodehouse

What a lovely anticlimax - Wodehouse does it really well, using just the sort of
stuff a mediocre poet would write, with all the typical conceits (florid
"poetic" language, classical allusions, attempts to describe a sunset ...) and
then bringing in the bit about the sky being like "underdone roast beef", which
is in really good, simple English, unlike the rest of the poem.

Kind of reminds me of Wordsworth's poem "Peter Bell" - something about a guy who
sees only "a flower" where others see a beautiful blue primrose.  I've often
seen "Peter Bell" contrasted with "Daffodils", btw.

Suresh.

Missed -- P G Wodehouse

This week I'll be running a series of poems by writers far better known for
their prose.

(Poem #179) Missed The sun in the heavens was beaming, The breeze bore an odour of hay, My flannels were spotless and gleaming, My heart was unclouded and gay; The ladies, all gaily apparelled, Sat round looking on at the match, In the tree-tops the dicky-birds carolled, All was peace -- till I bungled that catch. My attention the magic of summer Had lured from the game -- which was wrong. The bee (that inveterate hummer) Was droning its favourite song. I was tenderly dreaming of Clara (On her not a girl is a patch), When, ah, horror! there soared through the air a Decidedly possible catch. I heard in a stupor the bowler Emit a self-satisfied 'Ah!' The small boys who sat on the roller Set up an expectant 'Hurrah!' The batsman with grief from the wicket Himself had begun to detach -- And I uttered a groan and turned sick. It Was over. I'd buttered the catch. O, ne'er, if I live to a million, Shall I feel such a terrible pang. From the seats on the far-off pavilion A loud yell of ecstasy rang. By the handful my hair (which is auburn) I tore with a wrench from my thatch, And my heart was seared deep with a raw burn At the thought that I'd foozled that catch. Ah, the bowler's low, querulous mutter Points loud, unforgettable scoff! Oh, give me my driver and putter! Henceforward my game shall be golf. If I'm asked to play cricket hereafter, I am wholly determined to scratch. Life's void of all pleasure and laughter; I bungled the easiest catch. -- P G Wodehouse

Wodehouse, I hope, needs little introduction[1]; however he is not very well
known as a poet. And not without reason - his poetry, while beautifully
crafted, lacks a certain something. I think part of the problem is that it
is crafted; unlike some poets, Wodehouse doesn't really have the knack of
making contrived rhymes and complicated constructions work. Somewhat
surprising, actually, given the sheer unadulterated genius of his prose,
though it may very well be that the selfsame prose has led me to judge this
little piece too harshly. Still, it is a pretty enough poem, if not a
'great' one, and well worth the read.

[1] and if he does, do yourself a favour and read some of his sublime and
ridiculous novels - I recommend 'Joy in the Morning'.

Biography:

 Wodehouse, Sir P.G.

 b. Oct. 15, 1881, Guildford, Surrey, Eng. d. Feb. 14, 1975, Southampton,
 N.Y., U.S.

  in full PELHAM GRENVILLE WODEHOUSE, English-born comic novelist,
  short-story writer, lyricist, and playwright, best known as the creator of
  Jeeves, the supreme "gentleman's gentleman." He wrote more than 90 books
  and more than 20 film scripts and collaborated on more than 30 plays and
  musical comedies.

  Wodehouse was educated at Dulwich College, London, and, after a period in
  a bank, took a job as a humorous columnist on the London Globe (1902) and
  wrote freelance for many other publications. After 1909 he lived and
  worked for long periods in the United States and in France. He was
  captured in France by the Germans in 1940 and spent much of the war
  interned in Berlin. In 1941 he made five radio broadcasts from there to
  the United States in which he humorously described his experiences as a
  prisoner and subtly ridiculed his captors. His use of enemy broadcasting
  facilities evoked deep and lasting resentment in Britain, however, which
  was then practically under siege by Germany. After the war Wodehouse
  settled in the United States, becoming a citizen in 1955. He was knighted
  in 1975.

  Wodehouse began by writing public-school stories and then light romances.
  It was not until 1913 (in Something New; published in England as Something
  Fresh, 1915) that he turned to the farce, which became his special
  strength. He had a scholar's command of the English sentence. He delighted
  in vivid, far-fetched imagery and in slang. His plots are highly
  complicated and carefully planned. Whatever the dates of publication of
  his books, Wodehouse's English social atmosphere is of the late Edwardian
  era. The young bachelor Bertie Wooster and his effortlessly superior
  manservant, Jeeves, were still together, their ages unadvanced, in Much
  Obliged, Jeeves (1971), though they first appeared in a story in The Man
  with Two Left Feet (1917).

        -- EB

Links:

  There's a P.G.Wodehouse appreciation page at
  <[broken link] http://www.smart.net/~tak/wodehouse.html> with a lot of other nice links
  hanging off it.

  A few more of his poems can be found at
  <[broken link] http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Acropolis/2012/poems/wodeh01.html>