Dragon Poems

A confluence of random things conspired to bring me to today's poem about a dragon:

1. Season 5 of Merlin on BBC.
2. A t-tiny soft spot in my cold, black heart for light verse.
3. ....and Ogend Nash
4. I finally watched "How to Train Your Dragon."

Today's poem is brought to you by the letter D.


 
THE TALE OF CUSTARD THE DRAGON
By Ogden Nash

Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week!, which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage. 

And Miles to Go

Photo Credit: Valentina Ceccatelli

I used to hate poetry.

More accurately, I was too lazy for poetry. I didn't deserve poetry.

"It's not you, Haiku, it's me."

Do you remember that time in your life when you  were just too self-centered to really be useful to anyone? Maybe it started when you became a teenager and lasted until you graduated from school at...whatever age.

For me that period lasted, basically, from age 12 until 35. It was during this chunk of time that I just couldn't be there for poetry, you know?

So despite exhibiting signs of sheer poetic genius at an early age, and borrowing a book of  Shakespeare's sonnets from the library SO many times over the summer break between fifth and six grades that the librarian finally told me, "Just hold onto it until you're through" I didn't take much notice of poetry after age 11.

Except, of course, in high school where you really can't avoid things like essays and novellas and poetry. I remember an in-class exercise, with all the accompanying moaning and groaning, wherein we deconstructed "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."

We'd dragged our desks into a circle and gone around the room talking about the contrasts in the poem and the real meaning behind the words.

All the while I was thinking, "Jesus and all the Saints, who cares about the contradictions? Why can't we just read the poem? It's about snow! And a horse! Leave it alone!"

As it turns out, my adolescent reaction was not unique. At least, that's what Billy Collins says.

The explanation of how I finally - and very recently - came around to poetry is a story for another day.

In the meantime, read this funny little poem.
Enjoy it and try not to read too much into it - sometimes rope is  just rope.

Introduction to Poetry, by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem   

and hold it up to the light   

like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem   

and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room   

and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski   

across the surface of a poem

waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do

is tie the poem to a chair with rope   

and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose   

to find out what it really means.

National Poetry Month

...isn't until next April.

In the meantime we here at Righteous Polka are celebrating our OWN Poetry Month and syncing it with with National Blog Posting Month to create:

Thirty Righteous Poems in Thirty Righteous Days

Just imagine it! Thirty days of epic-ish poetry delivered directly to your Facebook page or RSS feed! For free! And look! Six exclamatory statements in one paragraph! It's madness!

Let's get the party started with a slam poem:


Definitions -  by Rudy Francisco

Envy is when someone walks around with a pocket full of “that should’ve been me”
Hate is what happens when you put a shotgun to the face of understanding and it cowers in the corner
Truth  is everything you tell yourself when you realize that no one is looking
Courage is ripping your heart from your chest and saying “here…hold on to this for me”
Trust is when you jump into someone’s arms knowing they would never let you hit the ground
Love is a tablespoon of hemlock I’ve been dying to try
Faith is doing what you love for a living and watching the bills pay themselves
Failure is when you talk yourself out of becoming something amazing

Dorsimbra

I love word puzzles. You can keep your Sudoku and your "If two trains leave the station traveling at 50 mph when do they collide in a mass of twisted steel?"

Give me a crossword puzzle or an episode of Sunday Puzzler  and I'm as happy as a lark.

Introduce me to an imperious poem format, playing hard-to-get, and I'm a goner.

Add a juicy prompt to that cock-sure poetic form and I lose the ability to focus on anything other than Solving the Word Mystery. It's like trying to keep Velma Dinkley away from a Haunted House. It can't be done.

So imagine my nerdy rapture when I found the perfect haughty form and an irresistible prompt in the same week.

The poem format is the Dorsimbra and  was created by three lovely, I'm sure, masochists - Eve Braden, Frieda Dorris and Robert Simonton - either on a bet or after a long night of sitting too near a simmering batch of meth. It is a 12-line prose poem incorporating blank verse, free verse, envelope verse and Sicilian Quatrain.

First 4-line stanza: Iambic Pentameter, rhyming ABAB
Second 4-line stanza: Free Verse
Third 4-line stanza: Blank Verse

Oh, and the 12th line should repeat the first line, and it should all make perfect, seamless sense.

The prompt came from the tremendously talented organizers of a local spoken word group, Boxcar Voices. The theme of their October performance was "Murder. Macabre."

Who, I ask you, can resist a word like Macabre?

The following poem is the result of Dorsimbra + Macabre. Please be gentle as she is a work in progress. The last stanza needs to be reengineered so as to repeat the first line, but I was working on a deadline and nailing the iambic pentameter was all I could manage.

Danse Macabre

The Angel of Death so light on his feet
begs of you one dance on this your last night.
You draw a last breath and rise from your seat
enthralled, entranced, moving toward his dark light.

Beneath a chandelier of skulls he takes your hand
shakes back a velvet sleeve and pulls you near.
As he spins your fragile form in a waltz across the floor
other specters, in respect, step aside.

When, at last, thoracic music ceases
your pensive partner bows to brush pale lips
and takes away so gently carnal life
leaving your soul to cross the river Styx.
Copyright RighteousPolka 2012 

A note to Amy and Fabs (aka the only people who read this blog, and I'm fine with that): November is NaBloPoMo and I will endeavor to post an interesting (not original) poem every day for 30 days. Meh, I may throw in something hand-crafted. Maybe a random haiku? We'll see - stay tuned.

legitimaterapeletherdietransvaginalmorningaftercoverviagrabutnotbirthcontrolhealthcareinsanity

As much as I want to rail and wail and scream and stomp my blog feet about the women-hating horse crap that headlined the news this week - and has been trending all year - this is not the appropriate forum.

The correct forum would have been The Old Blog, with Country Girl. The nonstop rant-fest I miss every. damn. day. 

But here I want to focus on writing and poetry, and share these lovely things with you.

Poetry is often considered a more acceptable - and let's face it, attractive - way of communicating things we shouldn't discuss in polite company. It also comes in handy when we can't manage to find words of our own to express ourselves.

It's the vehicle of choice for angst-ridden teens who scribble away in spiral-bound notebooks they hide under their beds.

It's the device that helped a domestic violence and rape survivor stand behind a microphone and share her secrets and struggles: "This is my therapy." 

It's how young people express feelings they don't completely understand.
Jack and Jill sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. 

And it is absolutely how many adults express feelings they don't completely understand. I would love to know how many relationships began with someone scrawling Roses are Red/Violets are Blue...  on a Post-It note.

So at the close of this Week of Disgust and Anger, I will express myself using a poem instead of the much clumsier semi-articulate rant.

‘Vagina’ Sonnet - Joan Larkin

Is “vagina” suitable for use

in a sonnet? I don’t suppose so.

A famous poet told me, “Vagina’s ugly.”

Meaning, of course, the sound of it. In poems.

Meanwhile, he inserts his penis frequently

into his verse, calling it, seriously, “My

Penis.” It is short, I know, and dignified.

I mean of course the sound of it. In poems.

This whole thing is unfortunate, but petty,

like my hangup concerning English Dept. memos

headed “Mr./Mrs./Miss”–only a fishbone

in the throat of the revolution–

a waste of brains–to be concerned about

this minor issue of my cunt’s good name.


I probably lost a few of you with that last line but, damn, it was worth it.

Reprinted without permission, and begging forgiveness.

Pragmatic Poetry

Until two years ago I hated poetry.

Go ahead, admit it: At some point in your relationship with Words you hated it too.

You may still hate it.

Poetry  ::eye roll::
It's pompous.
It's random.
It's artsy.
It's feely.
(Have I mentioned pompous?)
It seems random sometimes.

You once had to deconstruct a poem in Sophomore Lit and you still haven't recovered.

To me, and this is my blog so mine is the only vote that counts, a good poem uses plain language and either tells a story or makes a point. It's relatable, understandable and enjoyable.

It's pragmatic.

I think (see "my blog" above) everyone would enjoy poetry if they could be custom fit to it, like a bespoke suit.

Bespoke poetry. I like it. Copyright Righteous Polka....

If there was some sort of Poetry Configuration Tool on Facebook, where a person could complete a profile and be Matched with a selection of poems that fit his or her taste, everyone would 'discover' poetry.

In a crazy dream, Poetry.com becomes the new Pinterest.
"This is my Sonnet board."

Take it to the masses! Make it easy to understand. Show people that writing a poem can be as clear and concise a way of expressing yourself as Twitter.  Heck, haikus are shorter than Twitter posts. #575

I will tell the (mercifully short) story of what changed my mind about poetry, but not today.

Today, you get a poem.

Salad is Incompatible with Life - Mark R. Slaughter 1999

Yes, my waist is fifty inches -
Big for me because I'm short.
And yes, I like my cheddar cheese
When partnered with a vintage port.

Okay, okay, that double cream
Is always served with pud,
And cake and biscuits with my tea
Are just no bloody good

For my poor hardened arteries
But see my point of view,
Please dear wifey if you please,
A Salad makes me spew!

I'd rather eat a bowl of air
Than crunch away on greens;
Drink water from the toilet bowl
Or nibble on my jeans!

But salad! Are you there?
You know it makes me snappy -
So let me fill my face with grub,
Stay fat, and die young happy!