Poem: The Wyfe Addresseth Her Husband

Forgive me, Chaucer. But I felt I must pay thee some homage, otherwise I fear I should still be married.


The Wyfe Addresseth Her Husband

Well, look who’s here at half past four!
And lest thou fill’st my ears with more
Excuses, fables, why’s, wherefore’s,
And hitherto untold folklore—

Shut up! I’m speaking! Close thy mouth!
You tell me north, you give me south.
What was it this time? Let me guess:
A broken wheel? A frilly dress

Is probably the reason why
Thou smell’st of perfume, piss, and rye.
I said shut up, thou drunken lout!
I’ve half a mind to throw thee out!

Half a mind! Take heed of that
With all the half a mind thou hast.
Thy brain’s a flag stuck at half-mast.
I would I’d wed a monkey’s ass.

What tumbles from a monkey’s hole
At least hath substance, if not soul.
Thou hast neither. Look at me!
I might as well talk to a tree!

I might as well, for all my braying.
And how long is thy brother staying?
Lying feckless on the floor.
Thou said’st t’would be a week, no more.

And if my memory serves me right,
You promised on our wedding night,
A honeymoon of thirty nights.
You did! You said the Isle Of Wight!

Ha! What a laugh! I’m laughing still!
I should have married Eustace Mills.
He’s a doctor! Fancy that!
He hath a wife. A child. A cat.


Fifty acres rimm’d with trees.
(I hear he winters in Belize.)
You took the best years of my life!
A withered womb, a wasted wyfe.

Now get to market! Thou hast legs!
We’re out of milk, and low on eggs.

--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1587

To Guinness

(Sometimes I write a poem for myself alone, but later discover that others want access to it.  This is a departure in tone, but what of it?)

To Guinness
 

What dismal brew comes now to rest
Before my disenchanted breast?
Brew, I say?  This cannot be!
A brew has weight and dignity.
But this?  This piddle, thin and bleak,
This sallow swill with sunken cheek.
If barleycorns must crack their chests,
Then let them die a noble death.

Let them lie in sacred state
Within the walls of St. James Gate.
A princely stout!  A poet's milk!
With creamy crown and robes of silk.
Thy brooding brow. Thy nodding head,
Adrift upon a midnight bed.
I know not if I'm fit to sip
and bless my most unworthy lip.
And yet, you heed no rank nor class
But fill the same each eager glass
Of statesman, scholar, journeymen,
And all who labor with their hands.

Good traveler, quit your hurried call,
And peer within these lively halls
On gentlefolk with courteous hearts
Who choose but mirth before they part.
Come doctor, welder, lawyer, nurse.
Come drink what's worthy of your thirst.
Come ladies, with your flow'ry styles
And revolution in your smiles.
Come poets, players, lift your voice.
Come distant shades. Come Yeats! Come Joyce!
Come gather round this festive board.
Be kinsmen in a happy hoard.
We'll drink to all that glows within us.
And God in heaven, make it Guinness.

--AGH