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Showing posts with label Poet: Wendy Cope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poet: Wendy Cope. Show all posts

An Attempt At Unrhymed Verse -- Wendy Cope

Guest poem submitted by Monica Bathija:
(Poem #1764) An Attempt At Unrhymed Verse
 People tell you all the time,
 Poems do not have to rhyme.
 It's often better if they don't
 And I'm determined this one won't.

                              Oh dear.

 Never mind, I'll start again.
 Busy, busy with my pen...cil.
 I can do it if I try--
 Easy, peasy, pudding and gherkins.

 Writing verse is so much fun,
 Cheering as the summer weather,
 Makes you feel alert and bright,
 'Specially when you get it more or
     less the way you want it.
-- Wendy Cope
Here's one more by Wendy Cope, increasingly a favourite along with Sara
Teasdale thanks to Minstrels. Pencil and gherkins. Isn't that just so much
an effortless effort...

I loved it.

Monica.

The Aerial -- Wendy Cope

Guest poem submitted by Kamalika Chowdhury :
(Poem #1745) The Aerial
 The aerial on this radio broke
 A long, long time ago,
 When you were just a name to me -
 Someone I didn't know.

 The man before the man before
 Had not yet set his cap
 The day a clumsy gesture caused
 That slender rod to snap.

 Love came along. Love came along.
 Then you. And now it's ended.
 Tomorrow I shall tidy up
 And get the radio mended.
-- Wendy Cope
Strange that amidst all the hilarity of Cope's verse, little poems like this
get left behind. I have not much to say that the poem doesn't say for
itself, except to express my admiration. Its emotions are everyday-quiet and
deep, modern and somehow feminine, resigned and strong, sad and funny. It
takes life in its stride.

Kamalika.

Strugnell's Sonnets (iv) -- Wendy Cope

       
(Poem #1573) Strugnell's Sonnets (iv)
 Not only marble, but the plastic toys
 From cornflake packets will outlive this rhyme
 I can't immortalize you, love - our joys
 Will lie unnoticed in the vault of time.
 When Mrs. Thatcher has been cast in bronze
 And her administration is a page
 In some O-Level text-book, when the dons
 Have analysed the story of our age,
 When travel firms sell tours of outer space
 When aeroplanes take off without a sound
 And Tulse Hill has become a trendy place
 And upper Norwood's on the underground
 Your beauty and my name will be forgotten -
 My love is true, but all my verse is rotten
-- Wendy Cope
(from "Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis)

Notes: Parody of Shakespeare's Sonnet LV, "Nor Marble nor the Gilded
  Monuments". Strugnell is Cope's fictional creation, a 'rimer' whose
  tragedy it is to fall under the obvious influence of one great poet after
  another.

One of my happier poetry purchases over the last year was Cope's delightful
volume, "Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis". It's rare that I will sit and read
a single-poet collection through in one sitting, but Cope kept me entranced
all the way to the end, and laughing out loud as often as not.

Today's poem was definitely one of the laugh-out-loud ones, particuarly for
the superb image in the opening two lines. Many great poets have turned
their hands towards parody, but this particular form of bathos is something
Cope handles better than anyone I've seen. (For another great Strugnellian
juxtaposition of the high poetic and the utterly commonplace, see Poem #587
and its "incandescent football in the East"). After that, the poem sadly
degenerates a bit, with Strugnell amply establishing his credentials as a
Bad Poet, but lacking that touch of inspired unselfconsciousness that makes
the Strugnell/Cope poems so funny. But the ending makes up for all that,
with its utterly memorable lament - "my love is true, but all my verse is
rotten" (incidentally, a dig at yet another Shakespearean sonnet). Pure
genius.

martin

Links:
  Sonnet LV:
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/shakespeare/not_marble_nor_gilded.html
  Sonnet CXXX: Poem #44

  More on "Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis" after Poem #693, and more on Cope
  after Poem #1323

The Uncertainty of the Poet -- Wendy Cope

Guest poem sent in by Paramjit Oberoi
(Poem #1499) The Uncertainty of the Poet
 I am a poet.
 I am very fond of bananas.

 I am bananas.
 I am very fond of a poet.

 I am a poet of bananas.
 I am very fond.

 A fond poet of 'I am, I am'-
 Very bananas.

 Fond of 'Am I bananas?
 Am I?'-a very poet.

 Bananas of a poet!
 Am I fond? Am I very?

 Poet bananas! I am.
 I am fond of a 'very.'

 I am of very fond bananas.
 Am I a poet?
-- Wendy Cope
Published in "Serious Concerns", 1992, Faber & Faber.
-------------------------------------------------------

This was the first Wendy Cope poem I read...  and it was the beginning of my
discovery of how much joy there could be in poetry.  I love the poem for its
wonderful irreverence, spartan simplicity, and just the fact that it always
makes me smile.  I have no idea what she's talking about though, so I'd
appreciate an analysis by one of you.

-param

[Martin adds]

I've always loved this one too, both for the fact that, like Paramjit, it
always makes me smile, and for the sheer playfulness with which Cope dances
the boundary between poetry and antipoetry. It doesn't really show off her
skill as a parodist as well as some of her other poems, but it strikes a
note of lightness (and, yes, unabashed silliness) that is delightful to
read. I also have a fondness for this particular sort of wordplay - easy to
do, but hard to do well.

martin

Being Boring -- Wendy Cope

Guest poem sent in by Zenobia Driver
(Poem #1444) Being Boring
 If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say
 Except that the garden is growing.
 I had a slight cold but it's better today.
 I'm content with the way things are going.
 Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
 Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
 I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
 I know this is all very boring.

 There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
 Tears and passion-I've used up a tankful.
 No news is good news, and long may it last,
 If nothing much happens, I'm thankful.
 A happier cabbage you never did see,
 My vegetable spirits are soaring.
 If you're after excitement, steer well clear of me.
 I want to go on being boring.

 I don't go to parties. Well, what are they for,
 If you don't need to find a new lover?
 You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
 And you take the next day to recover.
 Someone to stay home with was all my desire
 And, now that I've found a safe mooring,
 I've just one ambition in life: I aspire
 To go on and on being boring.
-- Wendy Cope
The title of this poem caught my eye and I knew I just had to read it.
Somehow heading a poem 'being boring' promises an interesting poem (it
cannot be a confession, it has to be sarcy or humourous or something). Dunno
the theory of meter and all, but the words march along very briskly when I
read it aloud. I think the poem is something you can imagine some character
played by Emma Thompson reciting in a movie.

zenobia

Strugnell's Sonnets (VI) -- Wendy Cope

       
(Poem #1323) Strugnell's Sonnets (VI)
 Let me not to the marriage of true swine
 Admit impediments. With his big car
 He's won your heart, and you have punctured mine.
 I have no spare; henceforth I'll bear the scar.
 Since women are not worth the booze you buy them
 I dedicate myself to Higher Things.
 If men deride and sneer, I shall defy them
 And soar above Tulse Hill on poet's wings --
 A brother to the thrush in Brockwell Park,
 Whose song, though sometimes drowned by rock guitars,
 Outlives their din. One day I'll make my mark,
 Although I'm not from Ulster or from Mars,
 And when I'm published in some classy mag
 You'll rue the day you scarpered in his Jag.
-- Wendy Cope
 From "Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis", published 1986.
 Attributed by Ms Cope to Jason Strugnell, the somewhat impressionable
but always enthusiastic Bard of Tulse Hill.

 Being a good poet is hard enough; being a good _bad_ poet is (dare I
say it) even harder. Wendy Cope's creation, the irrepressible Jason
Strugnell, can be tiresome sometimes, but by and large his 'work' is
marvellously funny. Like William McGonagall or Julia Moore, he remains
blithely unaware of his shortcomings; it's his utter lack of
self-consciousness that makes him so memorable.

 Strugnell's intolerable egotism, his unrelieved seriousness, and his
laughably narrow horizons all make him the perfect tump (Cope's acronym
for "typically useless male poet"). In presenting her (fictitious)
protagonist, Cope makes some serious points about the qualities (and
flaws) of the latter group. But Strugnell is not merely a figure of
ridicule. He's certainly funny, but in his shallow, self-centred way,
he's also somewhat sad. He may not be very likable, but he remains
pitiable nonetheless.

thomas.

[Minstrels Links]

More from the irrepressible Strugnell:
Poem #587, Strugnell's Rubaiyat
Poem #693, Strugnell's Haiku

Non-Strugnell Cope poems:
Poem #859, Waste Land Limericks
Poem #859, An Unusual Cat-Poem

And Bill Shakespeare's original:
Poem #363, Let me not to the marriage of true minds (Sonnet CXVI)

[Other Links]

Here's a very nice article on Ms Cope and her poetry:
[broken link] http://books.guardian.co.uk/Print/0,3858,4193029,00.html

Here's an essay on Wendy Cope and the weight of light verse:
http://www.n2hos.com/acm/rev1299a.html

Both are well worth a read, do take a look.

An Unusual Cat-Poem -- Wendy Cope

       
(Poem #1059) An Unusual Cat-Poem
 My cat is dead
 But I have decided not to make a big tragedy of it.
-- Wendy Cope
Indeed.

t.

[Minstrels Links]

There's no shortage of usual cat-poems on the Minstrels, no, none at all:
Poem #165, The Owl and the Pussy-Cat  -- Edward Lear
Poem #167, Pangur Ban  -- Anon. (Irish, 8th century)
Poem #258, Macavity: The Mystery Cat -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #273, How a Cat Was Annoyed and a Poet Was Booted  -- Guy Wetmore
Carryl
Poem #282, Fog  -- Carl Sandburg
Poem #401, To a Cat  -- Jorge Luis Borges
Poem #572, Mort aux Chats -- Peter Porter
Poem #574, Growltiger's Last Stand -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #575, To Mrs Reynolds' Cat -- John Keats
Poem #577, The Cat and the Moon -- William Butler Yeats
Poem #659, Poem -- William Carlos Williams
Poem #660, On a Night of Snow -- Elizabeth Coatsworth
Poem #661, Jubilate Agno -- Christopher Smart
Poem #662, Cat -- Jibanananda Das
Poem #663, A Child's Nightmare -- Robert Graves
Poem #674, Aunt Jennifer's Tigers -- Adrienne Rich
Poem #727, Milk for the Cat -- Harold Monro
Poem #955, Gus: The Theatre Cat -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #1008, Cat -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #1010, Cats -- A. S. J. Tessimond

Waste Land Limericks -- Wendy Cope

       
(Poem #859) Waste Land Limericks
 I

 In April one seldom feels cheerful;
 Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful;
 Clairvoyantes distress me,
 Commuters depress me--
 Met Stetson and gave him an earful.

 II

 She sat on a mighty fine chair,
 Sparks flew as she tidied her hair;
 She asks many questions,
 I make few suggestions--
 Bad as Albert and Lil--what a pair!

 III

 The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep;
 Tiresias fancies a peep--
 A typist is laid,
 A record is played--
 Wei la la. After this it gets deep.

 IV

 A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot
 About birds and his business--the lot,
 Which is no surprise,
 Since he'd met his demise
 And been left in the ocean to rot.

 V

 No water. Dry rocks and dry throats,
 Then thunder, a shower of quotes
 From the Sanskrit and Dante.
 Da. Damyata. Shantih.
 I hope you'll make sense of the notes.
-- Wendy Cope
Reams of critical analysis are all very well, but sometimes I think the best
thing to have come out of "The Waste Land" is Wendy Cope's inspired summary
of the poem. Her stripped down version of Eliot's rather impenetrable
masterpiece is (as we've come to expect from Cope) excruciatingly funny, but
it's also amazingly faithful to the original - she seems to capture the
essence of each (long and complex) section in just a few short lines. And in
the pithiest of language, too: phrases such as "After this it gets deep"
invariably set me laughing out loud.

thomas.

[Links etc]

Wendy Cope rules. Check out
Poem #587, Strugnell's Rubaiyat
Poem #693, Strugnell's Haiku
on the Minstrels website.

T. S. Eliot rules too, but in a more, well, rarefied way. See
Poem #9, La Figlia Che Piange (The Weeping Girl)
Poem #107, Preludes
Poem #193, The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock
Poem #248, Sweeney Among the Nightingales
Poem #258, Macavity: The Mystery Cat
Poem #291, The Journey of the Magi
Poem #466, Rhapsody on a Windy Night
Poem #532, Little Gidding
Poem #574, Growltiger's Last Stand
Poem #630, To Walter de la Mare
Poem #846, The Hippopotamus

and especially
Poem #354, The Waste Land (Part IV)
Poem #858, The Waste Land (Part V)

The entire text of this poem, quite possibly the most influential of the
20th century, can be found at http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html

"The Waste Land" has a (not completely unwarranted) reputation for being
rather hard to parse. I recommend Hugh Kenner's essay "The Invisible Poet",
and "The Waste Land: A Critique of the Myth" by Cleanth Brooks for perceptive
(if somewhat dated) readings of the poem, and descriptions of Eliot's
then-revolutionary poetic technique. My enjoyment of Cope's limericks was
enhanced immeasurably by my reading of these two scholarly articles (and
others; John Wain's Waste Land Casebook is a good compendium, if you really
want to go into depth).

Strugnell's Haiku -- Wendy Cope

Another, errm, masterpiece of sorts from Jason Strugnell...
(Poem #693) Strugnell's Haiku
 (i)

 The cherry blossom
 In my neighbour's garden - Oh!
 It looks really nice.

 (ii)

 The leaves have fallen
 And the snow has fallen and
 Soon my hair also...

 (iii)

 November evening:
 The moon is up, rooks settle,
 The pubs are open.
-- Wendy Cope
 From "Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis", first published in 1986.

 Poor Strugnell. The syllables number seventeen, properly arranged in a
5-7-5 pattern; the seasonal references are all present and accounted for;
why, there are even cherry blossoms and falling leaves and the winter
moon...

 ... and yet there's _something_ about his haiku that doesn't quite work. Oh
well.

thomas.

PS. <grin>

[Quoting from a previous encounter with Cope and Strugnell]

 This is but one of several works attributed by Wendy Cope to the
impressionable South London poet Jason Strugnell, whose misfortune has been
to fall under the all-too-obvious influence of one great poet after
another...

[Links]

 The said previous encounter was "Strugnell's Rubaiyat", which you can read
at poem #587

 The above page has a lot more material on parodies - analyses, links, the
works. Check it out!

[Moreover]

 Today's poem is from "Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis", Cope's first book,
which I found at a bookstore just this afternoon. Quoting extensively from
the dust-jacket:

 ""Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis", Wendy Cope's first book, was an
immediate bestseller, delighting readers with its unconventional mixture of
satire, candid love poetry, and parody. It includes examples of work by
Jason Strugnell, the haplessly influenceable bard of Tulse Hill, as well as
poems in Wendy Cope's own voice...

 ... Wendy Cope was born in Erith, Kent. She was educated at Farringtons
School and read History at St Hilda's College, Oxford. After university she
worked for fifteen years as a primary-school teacher in London. In 1987 she
received the Cholmondeley Award for poetry and, in 1995, the American
Academy of Letters Michael Braude Award for Light Verse. She is now a
freelance writer. She has written another collection of verse, "Serious
Concerns", a book of rhymes for children, "Twiddling Your Thumbs", and a
long poem, "The River Girl", and she has edited an anthology of women's
poetry for teenagers, "Is That the New Moon?"."

     -- Dust-jacket of "Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis", Faber & Faber, 1986

[Bonus Poem]

 The collection's title poem is unskippable:

 "Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis"

 It was a dream I had last week
 And some kind of record seemed vital.
 I knew it wouldn't be much of a poem
 But I love the title.

     -- Wendy Cope

Strugnell's Rubaiyat -- Wendy Cope

This is but one of several works attributed by Wendy Cope to the
impressionable South London poet Jason Strugnell, whose misfortune has been
to fall under the all-too-obvious influence of one great poet after
another... here, Strugnell encounters Edward Fitzgerald and Omar Khayyam:
(Poem #587) Strugnell's Rubaiyat
 1

 Awake! for Morning on the Pitch of Night
 Has whistled and has put the Stars to Flight.
 The incandescent football in the East
 Has brought the splendour of Tulse Hill to Light.

 7

 Another Pint! Come, loosen up, have Fun!
 Fling off your Hang-ups and enjoy the Sun:
 Time's Spacecraft all too soon will carry you
 Away - and Lo! the Countdown has begun

 11

 Here with a Bag of Crisps beneath the Bough,
 A Can of Beer, a Radio - and Thou
 Beside me half asleep in Brockwell Park
 And Brockwell Park is Paradise enow.

 12

 Some Men to everlasting Bliss aspire,
 Their lives, Auditions for the heavenly Choir:
 Oh, use your Credit Card and waive the Rest -
 Brave Music of a distant Amplifier!

 26

 Oh, come with Strugnell - Argument's no Tonic.
 One thing's certain: Life flies supersonic.
 One thing's certain: Man's Evasion chronic -
 The Flower that's blown can never be bionic.

 51

 The Moving Telex writes, and having writ,
 Moves on; nor all thy Therapy nor Wit
 Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line
 Nor Tide nor Daz wash out a word of it.
-- Wendy Cope
Wendy Cope is one of the most gifted parodists around, and Strugnell's
Rubaiyat invariably has me laughing out loud - especially the line about
"the incandescent football in the East". Actually, it's not just the one
line; the entire poem is blisteringly funny, transforming the sublime to the
ridiculous with effortless ease. Where Khayyam talks amout Life and the Soul
and Desire, Strugnell's subjects are humbler: the distant Amplifier, the
Moving Telex, Therapy, Tide and Daz...

thomas.

PS. Time's Spacecraft - perhaps a descendant of Time's Winged Chariot? See
Andrew Marvell, poem #158

[Links]

The complete Rubaiyat can be found at
http://www.arabiannights.org/rubaiyat/index2.html

We've run a few excerpts from it in the past (including several of the
verses parodied above); you can read them at
poem #162
poem #342
poem #545

[Britannica on the Art of Parody]

(Greek paroidía, "a song sung alongside another"), in literature, a form of
satirical criticism or comic mockery that imitates the style and manner of a
particular writer or school of writers so as to emphasize the weakness of
the writer or the overused conventions of the school. Differing from
burlesque by the depth of its technical penetration and from travesty, which
treats dignified subjects in a trivial manner, true parody mercilessly
exposes the tricks of manner and thought of its victim yet cannot be written
without a thorough appreciation of the work that it ridicules.

        -- EB

[thomas on the ditto]

Incongruity, technical ingenuity, the inversion of the normal relationship
between form and content, the conscious walking of a fine line between
structural exactitude and semantic absurdity... I like parodies <grin>.

[More Links]

Parodies:
poem #400
poem #468

Oft-parodied poems:
poem #85
poem #88
poem #90

Poems run specifically for their parodies:
poem #376
poem #378
poem #380

The most ingenious parody I've ever read:
http://members.aol.com/s6sj7gt/mikerav.htm

[Moreover]

One of the most notorious hoaxes of recent years is Alan Sokal's classic
paper "Transgressing the Boundaries: Towards a Transformative Hermeneutics
of Quantum Gravity", which you can read at
http://www.physics.nyu.edu/faculty/sokal/transgress_v2/transgress_v2.html

Paul Boghossian has an interesting followup thereto:
http://www.nyu.edu/gsas/dept/philo/faculty/boghossian/papers/bog_tls.html

And finally, I leave you with this

[Bonus Poem]

 I liked the project not one bit.
   I didn't think I had a hope,
 But got it done, and this is it:
   A parody of Wendy Cope!

        -- Kit Wright