A Good Poem -- Roger McGough

Guest poem sent in by Zubaer Mahboob

(Poem #1100) A Good Poem I like a good poem one with lots of fighting in it. Blood, and the clanging of armour. Poems against Scotland are good, and poems that defeat the French with crossbows. I don't like poems that aren't about anything. Sonnets are wet and a waste of time. Also poems that don't know how to rhyme. If I was a poem I'd play football and get picked for England. -- Roger McGough

This poem brought a wide, knowing grin to my face when I first read it. I
suspect that it will resonate with many other readers who were frustrated at
an early age by poetry that appeared wilfully obscure and who, even now,
shudder at some of the more inscrutable stuff that escapes all efforts at
analysis and understanding.

The charm of the poem lies in its directness and honesty.  Through the
poet's empathetic voice, the adolescent reader tells us just what he thinks
of poetry, and how he would like his cuppa. Who would deny him the sweet
irresistible pleasures of narrative verse, of poetry that rhymes and
rollicks and rolls off the tongue? Many of us, I'm sure, can still rattle
off from memory reams and reams of our favorite poems - think Browning's
"The Pied Piper" or Scott's "Young Lochinvar". (I especially like the
tongue-in-cheek "Also poems that don't/ know how to rhyme", given that the
poem itself doesn't rhyme either!) [It's even more tongue-in-cheek than that
- the one rhyme in the poem is "sonnets are wet and/ a waste of time/ also
poems that don't/ know how to rhyme" - martin]

McGough comes from Liverpool and rose to prominence in the 1960's. He has
been described by Betjeman as "long, tall, thin, and with drooping
moustaches."

-Zubaer

[Martin adds]

We were way overdue for a McGough poem - he used to be my favourite modern
poet (indeed, practically the only one I really liked) when I was a kid, and
it's poems like this that explain why. "If I was a poem/ I'd play football/
and get picked for England" is an utterly original, and utterly brilliant
perspective on poetry, one that cuts through the reams of deconstruction and
analysis and speaks of the universal pleasure of a good poem.

-martin

Links:

  Biography, and a sadly moustacheless picture
    http://www.contemporarywriters.com/authors/?p=auth202&state=index%3Dm

  An interview with McGough:
    http://www.mystworld.com/youngwriter/authors/roger_mcgough.html

Happiness -- Raymond Carver

Guest poem sent in by Hemant R. Mohapatra ...

Many Many thanks to a close friend Salima Virani for introducing
me to this truly enlightening piece.

(Poem #1099) Happiness So early it's still almost dark out. I'm near the window with coffee, and the usual early morning stuff that passes for thought. When I see the boy and his friend walking up the road to deliver the newspaper. They wear caps and sweaters, and one boy has a bag over his shoulder. They are so happy they aren't saying anything, these boys. I think if they could, they would take each other's arm. It's early in the morning, and they are doing this thing together. They come on, slowly. The sky is taking on light, though the moon still hangs pale over the water. Such beauty that for a minute death and ambition, even love, doesn't enter into this. Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it. -- Raymond Carver

I've always believed in the philosophy that happiness is not something you
can bump into walking back from work one fine evening. No! I believe you
have to search for it. It is necessary to look for it in every nook and
cranny of your daily life to finally get (to) it. Happiness is ephemeral
and needs to be savoured till as long as it lasts. What might seem to be
just a chore to someone could be the source of a world of joy to someone
else. I, personally, find myself capable of absorbing a lot of happiness
and joy by watching glowworms silently emitting a glum light on a dark
night. The way everything seems to look eerie and unfamiliar on a
moonlight trek is another example. In fact, I think it's hard to imagine
life without having the ability to feel one with the world watching a
clear star spangled nightsky.

The poem I've chosen for submission looks at happiness in a similar light.
Those who are familiar with `Peanuts' would instantly recognize the
resemblances with the 'Happiness is a warm Puppy' series. Nowhere does the
poem talk about meeting old friends, or earning a lot of money or
loving/`being loved by' someone. This happiness has transcended those
borders and gone way beyond the limited vocabulary of a human (Still, the
poet has done a great job going about it). All it talks about is a cold
wintery morning with two kids struggling to deliver earlymorning
newspapers.  Happiness, it seems, does come on unexpectedly and goes way
beyond any mode of expression.

This is one search we all owe to ourselves.

./hemant

Links:
  Carver biography and poems: [broken link] http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/carver/

Indoor Games near Newbury -- John Betjeman

Guest poem sent in by Frank O'Shea

(Poem #1098) Indoor Games near Newbury In among the silver birches, Winding ways of tarmac wander And the signs to Bussock Bottom, Tussock Wood and Windy Break. Gabled lodges, tile-hung churches Catch the lights of our Lagonda As we drive to Wendy’s party, Lemon curd and Christmas cake Rich the makes of motor whirring Past the pine plantation purring Come up Hupmobile Delage. Short the way our chauffeurs travel Crunching over private gravel, Each from out his warm garage. O but Wendy, when the carpet Yielded to my indoor pumps. There you stood, your gold hair streaming, Handsome in the hall light gleaming There you looked and there you led me Off into the game of Clumps. Then the new Victrola playing; And your funny uncle saying "Choose your partners for a foxtrot. Dance until it's tea o'clock Come on young 'uns, foot it feetly." Was it chance that paired us neatly? I who loved you so completely. You who pressed me closely to you, Hard against your party frock. "Meet me when you've finished eating." So we met and no one found us. O that dark and furry cupboard, While the rest played hide-and-seek. Holding hands our two hearts beating. In the bedroom silence round us Holding hands and hardly hearing Sudden footstep, thud and shriek Love that lay too deep for kissing. "Where is Wendy? Wendy's missing." Love so pure it had to end. Love so strong that I was frightened When you gripped my fingers tight. And hugging, whispered "I'm your friend." Goodbye Wendy. Send the fairies, Pinewood elf and larch tree gnome. Spingle-spangled stars are peeping At the lush Lagonda creeping Down the winding ways of tarmac To the leaded lights of home. There among the silver birches, All the bells of all the churches Sounded in the bath-waste running Out into the frosty air. Wendy speeded my undressing. Wendy is the sheet's caressing Wendy bending gives a blessing. Holds me as I drift to dreamland Safe inside my slumber wear -- John Betjeman

Your comment about childhood innocence and the difficulty of putting words
on child thoughts [Poem #1097] brought this beautiful poem to mind.

I have a recording of Betjeman reading the poem. It is a gem. Here is this
70-year old getting inside the mind of a child in a way that is completely
innocent. Given our modern paranoia about child abuse, I wonder if anyone
other than Betjeman could get away with it.

Frank

NB: Just as I tried to send this, my email program pointed out that it
might offend! Can you believe - even the machines are paranoid.

The End -- A A Milne

(Poem #1097) The End When I was One, I had just begun. When I was Two, I was nearly new. When I was Three, I was hardly Me. When I was Four, I was not much more. When I was Five, I was just alive. But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever. So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever. -- A A Milne

        (from "Now We Are Six")

I'm almost certain that Billy Collins had this childhood classic at the back
of his mind when he wrote "On Turning Ten" [Poem #1096]. He appears to have
answered from an adult perspective -- but one that would be interesting to
share with a 10-year-old,"  whereas Milne wrote from what he must have imagined
was a child's perspective. However. I think children of six have a much clearer
sense of anticipation of the future than the title of Milne's poem -- "The End"
-- would imply. They are just starting school, learning to read and write, and
they can already count quite well, certainly up to and beyond what Collins
calls "the first big number." I think that excitement about what comes next,
even if it is a little scary, is probably more dominant than the complacency of
"I think I'll be six for ever and ever."

Writing what is in children's minds, or what was in ones own mind as a child
or indeed at any time in the past,  is always a challenge; the more I look
at children the more I believe that even very small children think in more
complicated ways than many adults would like to believe.

To its credit, though, "The End" is a fine poem for early readers of
English, with its reassuring repeated syntactical structures on the one hand
and the rhymes that exhibit the devilish vagaries of English spelling on the
other.

-- Vivian

On Turning Ten -- Billy Collins

Guest poem sent in by Gregory Marton

(Poem #1096) On Turning Ten The whole idea of it makes me feel like I'm coming down with something, something worse than any stomach ache or the headaches I get from reading in bad light-- a kind of measles of the spirit, a mumps of the psyche, a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul. You tell me it is too early to be looking back, but that is because you have forgotten the perfect simplicity of being one and the beautiful complexity introduced by two. But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit. At four I was an Arabian wizard. I could make myself invisible by drinking a glass of milk a certain way. At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince. But now I am mostly at the window watching the late afternoon light. Back then it never fell so solemnly against the side of my tree house, and my bicycle never leaned against the garage as it does today, all the dark blue speed drained out of it. This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself, as I walk through the universe in my sneakers. It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends, time to turn the first big number. It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light. If you cut me I could shine. But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life, I skin my knees. I bleed. -- Billy Collins

A very new friend, quickly becoming someone I feel like I've known my whole
life, sent me yesterday's poem, Litany in one of our first exchanges of
email, and so introduced me to our poet laureate.  I laughed and enjoyed it
and started to explore his other work online.  I found his imagined children
comforting, and his flawed adults familiar.  On Turning Ten was my favorite
and with it I replied.

Where Litany had beautifully caricatured beauty (of which Atwood's
'Variations on the word "sleep"'[Poem #1093] was a delightful example), On
Turning Ten reminds us that we each have it inside.  We sat on a sailboat
yesterday immersed in wonder, and she said if you would cut her today, she'd
shine.  So, indeed, would I.

Warmest wishes,
Gremio