With apologies to Thomas Hardy:
The Ruined Maid
Last night I met a comely girl
With blushing cheek and golden curls.
A maiden pure as glittered snow,
And to my chamber we did go.
Yet when the sun dispersed the moon,
I woke to find this maid was ruined!
And so I’d like to take her back.
For look behind, you’ll see she’s cracked.
She’s lost that new-maid smell, it’s true.
No, she’s been used. And badly, too.
What once shut tight now flops about.
It lets in light and slops without.
I’ve been misled! This isn’t right!
Her maidenhead didn’t last the night.
You see, she’s ruined! Quite ruined, I say.
I want a new one, right away!
Her knees are scuffed beyond repair.
And hand prints on her derriere!
She winks at every passing bloke.
Her legs have bowed, and now she smokes.
I did not drop her from a height,
Nor left her outside, overnight.
And yet she’s weathered, worn, and frayed.
She wasn’t like that yesterday.
This maiden’s ruined. So take her back.
The bill of sale is in the sack.
It’s virtue I demand, or else
I’ll take my virtue somewhere else.
--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1588
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Poem #7: I Built My Love A Menstrual Hut
This is the version I have settled upon, one that is truer to my own compass. Such as it may be.
I BUILT MY LOVE A MENSTRUAL HUT
By Arthur Greenleaf Holmes
I built my love a menstrual hut.
I built it out of clay.
With earthen halls and wattled walls.
I built it far away.
For peace laps at these cottage-walls,
And gathers in the dell.
Yet one week out of four my peace
Goes utterly to hell.
For always my love bursts my calm,
To grant the moon her wish.
And I must cower ‘neath the bed
Each time she breaks a dish.
What slamming doors! What ass-kicked cat!
I can’t compose my rhyme.
And I have not the fortitude
To ask when’s suppertime.
It’s ‘neath the stairs I crouch myself,
Or in the flour bin
On mornings when Lake Netherclam
Hath turned itself again.
Come hut! Convey my love from me,
And soothe this troubled shore.
For I need time alone to spend
With Jennifer, next door.
Sweet Jennifer, who lives next door,
As fair as polished glass.
She’s pure, demure, and what is more,
Her time of month hath passed.
For how am I to lie with thee,
Whose fits I cannot slake?
I’d just as soon well-fornicate
A slab of uncooked steak.
So out, my love! Depart awhile.
To spend those days alone.
Thus quarantine thy misery
While I’m back here at home.
Aye, fling thy violent, changing moods!
And wring thine anxious hands!
Go hence to burn thy dinner, too,
And nag some other man.
Away! Away! My strident one,
To wail without surcease.
Sweet menstrual hut! I built thee well.
At last I’ll have my peace!
--A.G.H. 1588
I BUILT MY LOVE A MENSTRUAL HUT
By Arthur Greenleaf Holmes
I built my love a menstrual hut.
I built it out of clay.
With earthen halls and wattled walls.
I built it far away.
For peace laps at these cottage-walls,
And gathers in the dell.
Yet one week out of four my peace
Goes utterly to hell.
For always my love bursts my calm,
To grant the moon her wish.
And I must cower ‘neath the bed
Each time she breaks a dish.
What slamming doors! What ass-kicked cat!
I can’t compose my rhyme.
And I have not the fortitude
To ask when’s suppertime.
It’s ‘neath the stairs I crouch myself,
Or in the flour bin
On mornings when Lake Netherclam
Hath turned itself again.
Come hut! Convey my love from me,
And soothe this troubled shore.
For I need time alone to spend
With Jennifer, next door.
Sweet Jennifer, who lives next door,
As fair as polished glass.
She’s pure, demure, and what is more,
Her time of month hath passed.
For how am I to lie with thee,
Whose fits I cannot slake?
I’d just as soon well-fornicate
A slab of uncooked steak.
So out, my love! Depart awhile.
To spend those days alone.
Thus quarantine thy misery
While I’m back here at home.
Aye, fling thy violent, changing moods!
And wring thine anxious hands!
Go hence to burn thy dinner, too,
And nag some other man.
Away! Away! My strident one,
To wail without surcease.
Sweet menstrual hut! I built thee well.
At last I’ll have my peace!
--A.G.H. 1588
Friday, July 24, 2009
Poem #6: A Serenade For Cardinal W.
(I was summoned to recite my poetry before The Archbishop Of Canterbury. I journeyed to Croydon, a summer palace not far from my home, which was used as a retreat by the Archbishop during the warmer months. I had launched into a recital of "I Bought A Cheese And thought Of You", yet soon became distracted by the boorish display from Cardinal W. I watched in horror as the Cardinal devoured not one, nor two, but three whole chickens. Great, meaty, slurping noises dispatched from his lips, and he washed down the meat with great obscene gulps of vintage. The servant boys seemed rightfully fearful of him, as he kicked at them whene're they allowed his chalice to empty past half-full. As I watched this display of corpulance and corruption, a poem formed in my head, and cascaded out of my mouth. If it appears unfinished, it is. I had to flee Croydon.)
Serenade For Cardinal W.
That’s right, fatty, pack it in.
Thou may’st not see such food again.
Behold! The veal. The tripe. The lamb.
Grab it with thy porcine hands!
Open wide and shove it down.
By the fistful! By the pound!
For every moment you’re not feeding
Is time that’s wasted by not eating.
What’s that, my liege? Thy food is gone?
You’ve chewed the fat and sucked the bone?
Yet tis not so, thou art mistaken!
Feed upon thine own back-bacon.
Chew the blubber ‘neath thy chin.
There’s precious nutrients within.
Could any crumb escape thy fork?
You’d eat a hammer wrapped in pork.
Don’t stop to rest. Don’t stop to breath.
Nor wipe thy waddle on thy sleeve,
Just cram it in, and do it now!
Thou godforsaken two-ton cow.
Fatty fatass fattsalot!
What’s cooking in your fattass pot?
Serenade For Cardinal W.
That’s right, fatty, pack it in.
Thou may’st not see such food again.
Behold! The veal. The tripe. The lamb.
Grab it with thy porcine hands!
Open wide and shove it down.
By the fistful! By the pound!
For every moment you’re not feeding
Is time that’s wasted by not eating.
What’s that, my liege? Thy food is gone?
You’ve chewed the fat and sucked the bone?
Yet tis not so, thou art mistaken!
Feed upon thine own back-bacon.
Chew the blubber ‘neath thy chin.
There’s precious nutrients within.
Could any crumb escape thy fork?
You’d eat a hammer wrapped in pork.
Don’t stop to rest. Don’t stop to breath.
Nor wipe thy waddle on thy sleeve,
Just cram it in, and do it now!
Thou godforsaken two-ton cow.
Fatty fatass fattsalot!
What’s cooking in your fattass pot?
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Poem #5: The Wee Irish Man
The Wee Irish Man
As I went down to Donegal one morning for to spy
The restless sea entangled with the vex’d and furied sky,
I saw a little Irish man, a-dancin’ in the glen.
Tell me, little Irish man, and then tell me again.
I see a sack a-hangin’ there, a-danglin’ by your side.
Prithee, little Irish guy, do tell what be inside!
What be this inside me sack? A Mumbly-Sprite, for sure!
It wiggles, woggles, does a jig, then knocks you to the floor!
And here’s a Katie-Bar-The-Door, no bigger than a sigh.
Have a Whoops-The-Baby, too. Don’t let it hit your eye!
A Stick-It-In-Your-Kumquat makes a thought-provoking gift.
A Fudgie-In-The-Manhole gives thy pants an extra lift!
Slap me with a clam pie and yodel up my skirt.
Pump it twice and let ‘er rip! Stand back before it squirts!
Munch my muffin! Fluff my pillows! Coax it till it swells!
Grip it tight until it’s white! Enjoy its many smells!
Google me with buttered corn! Flog the naughty elf!
Cup the dumplings! Burp the turnip! With friends or by yourself!
Pull the goalie! Stuff the gamecock! Glaze the honey bun!
Beat a path to Tuna Town. It’s stinky, but it’s fun!
Wiggle Willy in the bush! Play the meat-flap reed.
Shtump the pumpkin! Jerk the gherkin! Make the page-boy bleed!
On and on he raved until I slowly moved away.
I left him in that glen and he may still be there today.
So please avoid the Irish guy, I’m sure he’s workin’ blue.
He’s filthy, crude, and just plain wrong. And he’s a rapist, too.
--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1587
As I went down to Donegal one morning for to spy
The restless sea entangled with the vex’d and furied sky,
I saw a little Irish man, a-dancin’ in the glen.
Tell me, little Irish man, and then tell me again.
I see a sack a-hangin’ there, a-danglin’ by your side.
Prithee, little Irish guy, do tell what be inside!
What be this inside me sack? A Mumbly-Sprite, for sure!
It wiggles, woggles, does a jig, then knocks you to the floor!
And here’s a Katie-Bar-The-Door, no bigger than a sigh.
Have a Whoops-The-Baby, too. Don’t let it hit your eye!
A Stick-It-In-Your-Kumquat makes a thought-provoking gift.
A Fudgie-In-The-Manhole gives thy pants an extra lift!
Slap me with a clam pie and yodel up my skirt.
Pump it twice and let ‘er rip! Stand back before it squirts!
Munch my muffin! Fluff my pillows! Coax it till it swells!
Grip it tight until it’s white! Enjoy its many smells!
Google me with buttered corn! Flog the naughty elf!
Cup the dumplings! Burp the turnip! With friends or by yourself!
Pull the goalie! Stuff the gamecock! Glaze the honey bun!
Beat a path to Tuna Town. It’s stinky, but it’s fun!
Wiggle Willy in the bush! Play the meat-flap reed.
Shtump the pumpkin! Jerk the gherkin! Make the page-boy bleed!
On and on he raved until I slowly moved away.
I left him in that glen and he may still be there today.
So please avoid the Irish guy, I’m sure he’s workin’ blue.
He’s filthy, crude, and just plain wrong. And he’s a rapist, too.
--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1587
Letter: Arthur To His Sister Babette, From Ireland, 1587
Dear Babette,
This letter I compose from a pub in Donegal; aye, Babette, I have traveled to Ireland alone. My muse bade me arise and leave for this bobbing emerald, and when may a poet ignore the advice of his muse? This land, so full of the dead. The very earth heaves with the clamour of their bones, and tis a wonder that the living find a place to lay their heads.
I have journeyed from Kilkenny to Killarney, to Galway, Dingle, Doolin, Doodle, Dangle, Piddle, Paddle, and Shmingle. I would that I may stay longer, so great is my affection for this land. The only disquieting incident did come in the towne of Doodle, which is a towne beset by hordes of amourous dogs. I have composed this poem:
Oh, the poodles of Doodle are villainous beasts.
They'll hitch to thy leg, and they'll hump without cease.
They don't ask permission, the lecherous sinners.
Oh, ye poodles of Doodle! At least buy me dinner.
I then journeyed north, to Donegal, where I met the most fanciful man. A wee sprite of a fellow, I engaged him in a lively conversation, and thereupon I began the first lines of a new poem. Thou knowest me well enough to expect its arrival in but a short while.
And Edmund? Is he responsive?
--Arthur, 1587
This letter I compose from a pub in Donegal; aye, Babette, I have traveled to Ireland alone. My muse bade me arise and leave for this bobbing emerald, and when may a poet ignore the advice of his muse? This land, so full of the dead. The very earth heaves with the clamour of their bones, and tis a wonder that the living find a place to lay their heads.
I have journeyed from Kilkenny to Killarney, to Galway, Dingle, Doolin, Doodle, Dangle, Piddle, Paddle, and Shmingle. I would that I may stay longer, so great is my affection for this land. The only disquieting incident did come in the towne of Doodle, which is a towne beset by hordes of amourous dogs. I have composed this poem:
Oh, the poodles of Doodle are villainous beasts.
They'll hitch to thy leg, and they'll hump without cease.
They don't ask permission, the lecherous sinners.
Oh, ye poodles of Doodle! At least buy me dinner.
I then journeyed north, to Donegal, where I met the most fanciful man. A wee sprite of a fellow, I engaged him in a lively conversation, and thereupon I began the first lines of a new poem. Thou knowest me well enough to expect its arrival in but a short while.
And Edmund? Is he responsive?
--Arthur, 1587
Monday, July 6, 2009
Poem #4: Ode To An Extremely Provocative Knothole
Ode To An Extremely Provocative Knothole
Thou hole! Thou lurid, lusty hole!
The spreading cherry bares her soul!
She spills her lobed and liquid lips
And bids the sap rise ‘tween my hips.
What fleshy knots arouse my sense
To sweet bilabial recompense?
Fair hole! Oftimes I’ve walked alone
In verdant forests overgrown
To flee the soured memory
Of woman’s love fast-fled from me.
‘Twas all for naught! For now I see
The fairest holes do grow on trees!
For woman's form but grows distressed,
And hangs in sad cascades of flesh.
Those teats that gravity once cheated,
In time must fall to earth defeated.
Yet thou, sweet hole, make’st my mood lighter
To think next year, thou wilt be tighter!
I would that I had wood enough
To stuff inside thy mossy muff.
I’d strip thy bark, I’d tap thee, tree.
I’d poke thy precious chokecherry.
Or would I choke thy pokeberry?
It matters not! Thy hole’s for me!
--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1586
Thou hole! Thou lurid, lusty hole!
The spreading cherry bares her soul!
She spills her lobed and liquid lips
And bids the sap rise ‘tween my hips.
What fleshy knots arouse my sense
To sweet bilabial recompense?
Fair hole! Oftimes I’ve walked alone
In verdant forests overgrown
To flee the soured memory
Of woman’s love fast-fled from me.
‘Twas all for naught! For now I see
The fairest holes do grow on trees!
For woman's form but grows distressed,
And hangs in sad cascades of flesh.
Those teats that gravity once cheated,
In time must fall to earth defeated.
Yet thou, sweet hole, make’st my mood lighter
To think next year, thou wilt be tighter!
I would that I had wood enough
To stuff inside thy mossy muff.
I’d strip thy bark, I’d tap thee, tree.
I’d poke thy precious chokecherry.
Or would I choke thy pokeberry?
It matters not! Thy hole’s for me!
--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1586
Letter: Arthur Greenleaf Holmes to his sister Babette.
Dearest Sister,
I write from my little cottage in Stoke-On-Trent-By-Darcy-Upon-Avon-By-The-Sea. I think I shall enjoy this dwelling well; I have a fyne space for a fire, and a humble desk that looks out on a meadow, and beyond that, a gentle woode. Evenings finds the taverne lively and full of goode cheer, and I have already well-fornicated a hunchback.
Yestermorn I endeavored to go for a stride in the woode beyond the meadow. I paused to rest beneath a chestnut tree, one with a great spreading canopy and stout trunk. Where I laid my head, I saw that the woode of the tree gave way, nay, spilled out, in a most arousing knothole. I fancied the woode was made pulp, pouring out in fleshy liquid folds, ululating like great quivering lips. Was it wrong to feel mine own sap rising at the allure of this knothole? How the crisis of this moment resolved itself, I shan't say here. Yet I hurried home to begin composing a new poem, one that I shall unfurl at its completion.
What news of little Edmund? I am most sorry to hear of his great fall from the window. Thank heavens for the nail that caught his eyelid, and so saved his life. I agree, I think a wooden eyelid would suit him well.
I must off, to compose.
Cheers,
Arthur
I write from my little cottage in Stoke-On-Trent-By-Darcy-Upon-Avon-By-The-Sea. I think I shall enjoy this dwelling well; I have a fyne space for a fire, and a humble desk that looks out on a meadow, and beyond that, a gentle woode. Evenings finds the taverne lively and full of goode cheer, and I have already well-fornicated a hunchback.
Yestermorn I endeavored to go for a stride in the woode beyond the meadow. I paused to rest beneath a chestnut tree, one with a great spreading canopy and stout trunk. Where I laid my head, I saw that the woode of the tree gave way, nay, spilled out, in a most arousing knothole. I fancied the woode was made pulp, pouring out in fleshy liquid folds, ululating like great quivering lips. Was it wrong to feel mine own sap rising at the allure of this knothole? How the crisis of this moment resolved itself, I shan't say here. Yet I hurried home to begin composing a new poem, one that I shall unfurl at its completion.
What news of little Edmund? I am most sorry to hear of his great fall from the window. Thank heavens for the nail that caught his eyelid, and so saved his life. I agree, I think a wooden eyelid would suit him well.
I must off, to compose.
Cheers,
Arthur
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