Poem: I Built My Love A Menstrual Hut

Written after an especially long week in February, in closed quarters with a woman who, oddly enough, has failed to reply to my most recent inquiries.

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.

That I might have some solitude
When roses blush her cheeks.
Away, my love! Get thee to hut,
And stay you for a week.

And stay awhile, till calm returns,
That I won’t have to bear
Thy grinding voice, and hissing tongue
That claws my inner ear.

For I’ve got work to do, you know,
And I can’t keep my head.
My love she bursts in tears and
Flings herself upon the bed.

And, oh, what stench, my bleeding one!
‘Tis like a stagnant fen.
The air declares “Lake Netherclam
Hath turned itself again.”

The dogs have gathered at the door.
They think I’ve slain a lamb.
The vultures fix their baleful eyes
Upon her wounded clam.

They think I’m making dinner,
For the stench hangs thick and strong.
And if I had a bouillon cube,
They wouldn’t be far wrong.

So low her lips, they leave a trail
As from a pilgrim slug.
Yet must she drag her meat-flaps
‘cross my oriental rug?

With panties at her ankles ,
My love shuffles ‘cross the room.
It’s “Boo-hoo-hoo” and “Nag! Nag! Nag!”
Each time she’s on her moon.

Almighty Christ, her voice is shrill,
Like nails against a slate,
And I can’t find a quiet place
To go and rake the gate.

Don’t ask her for a reach-around,
She’ll beat thee with a rock.
I s’pose I’m to apologize
Because I have a cock.

But I need flesh! Yet so much blood,
Tis more than I can take.
If blood were what I wanted, hell,
I’d fuck an uncooked steak.

So out! To fling thy changing moods
And wring thine anxious hands!
Go hence to burn thy dinner, too,
And nag some other man.

Aye, hie thee to that sodden hut,
To wail without surcease.
Sweet menstrual hut! I built thee well.
At last I’ll have my peace.

--A.G.H. 1588

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

A Hearthside Conversation

A Hearthside Conversation

Where go you, my father? Good father, where now?
You pace by the door and you furrow your brow.
Good son, I go nowhere. I stay here with thee.
I thought I heard voices, and got up to see.

But father, sweet father, you smell of cologne.
Your bodkin is washed, and your moustache is combed.
You glance at your watch and you pull at your beard.
Where go you, my father? Why stay you not here?

Wee daughter of mine, why speak you this way?
I’ll soon go to sleep, for I’ve had a long day.
I’m not going out! I stay here instead.
Now please, my good children, repair you to bed.

Oh husband of mine, where go you, my love?
You’ve saddled the horse, and you’ve put on your gloves.
What business should take you away from our home?
Tell us, dear husband, what bids thee to roam?

God damn it to hell! If you must know the truth,
I’m off to the whorehouse to pump me a few.
I’m hard as a millstone, but what do you care?
You’ve not flashed that yam hole in over a year.

You notice the horse and my gloves and my watch,
But you don’t seem to notice this bulge in my crotch.
I s'pose it’s not worthy of mention from you.
Well screw it. I’m horny, and here’s what I’ll do:

I’ll grab me a whore and I’ll lift up her skirt
And I’ll pound that sweet meat till my testicles hurt.
I don’t care if she’s toothless, obese, or infected.
My poor little fatty’s been sadly neglected.

Get back here you bastards! You asked, so you’ll hear:
I’ll slam my good ham in the first derriere.
I’ve got buckets of chowder just waiting to fly.
I’ve never done anal. But I’m willing to try!

I might pleasure a lesbian. Or fondle a moose.
Or fist up a nun, till she’s sloppy and loose.
I’ll find me a milkmaid a-fillin' her pail-y,
And I'll bibble her lips with my beefy shillelagh.

I’ll find me a bumpkin, who’s stupid and dull,
And I’ll dick-knock the very last tooth from his skull.
I might ass-rape a quaker. Or cream-pie an elf.
And there’s things I might try when I’m all by myself.

I might put on a bodice and stroll by the docks.
And give ‘em a scare when I unleash my cock!
And if I get bored, why I’ll butter a midget,
Tickle his wink-hole, and watch how he fidgets!

I’m sick of this house. I’m sick of charades.
I’m sick of parchesi. I wanna get laid!
So screw you, I’m leaving this mirthless grey hut.
I shan’t be back soon, so please don’t wait up.

Ode: To Warwick

When vexed Demeter purples yonder corn,
And once-flushed maple waxes hollow-cheeked.
When soft-riped apples quit their bended branch
To sink beside the molten pumpkin-flesh
While mournful bees bemoan their dying church,

Then will I to Warwickshire return.
Not conveyed by tedious plodding step,
But on the spirit of remembered scenes,
And charmed by sweet Euterpe’s lustful pipe.

Here duke and yeoman pressed around one board,
And leaned above their foamed and pregnant grails,
While breathless lovers slipped the prudent eye,
And hastened to that mossy secret point
To kiss awhile before the murmuring reeds.

But turn you round and gaze upon yon hill—
The cemetery in that little wood.
There lies our Roland, he that kept the inn.
And Willy, too, who mirthed us well with mud.
Here a watchman, there a thief.
Crazy Kate. Nathan of Heath.

What little lives! What little tears!
What little steps from here to there!
And tho’ they slumber, flesh restored to dust,
They call to us. They call to us.

Yet shake this mood! For comes a newer thought:
That we, in turn, do call them from their rest.
That every laugh and playful rolling jest
And merry song, and cheerful quote,
Lithesome hands that tickle at their throats.

In Rome there lies a poet from this land.
I knew him not, but call him friend.
At six and twenty he slipped this world.
He wrote his best in but a year.
Upon his headstone thou may’st read these words:
“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”

Should a stone endeavor thus to mark
The soul not of a person, but this place,
This merry wood, this gentle shire,
This hallow’d circle, bless the mark!
I propose these words to carve,
And stain the stone for ever after:

Here’s a place whose name was writ in laughter.

--AGH 1585

Lord Wentworth My Son

Oh where have you been, Lord Wentworth, my son?
And where have you been, my virtuous one?

Oh, father, I went to the deepest of woods,
And I saw what I saw, and I took what I could.

And what did you see, Lord Wentworth, my son?
And what did you see, my wandering one?

A thistledown tree, where the nightingale cried,
And beneath it a stag with a wound in its side.

And I saw a fair maiden with skin pale and fyne,
On a bed of wild heather, and bound with a vine.

Aye, bound with a vine, so I drew forth my blade,
And I cleaved well the vine, till I freed the poor maid.

And what did you do, Lord Wentworth my son?
And what did you do, my bravehearted one?

Oh, father, I tore off her long purple robe,
And I plied her sweet plumb with my cumbersome lobe.

And I bent her down low, and I gave her a ride,
And I glazed her with porridge all down her backside.

And I threw her fair legs way up to the sky,
And we fisted and felched til my flesh pipe went dry.

Yes, we diddled and doinked in various manners!
And my pizzle is sore, but her ass is much tanner.

In every crevace, and in every position,
We hung down the stinky in ways that ain't Christian.

Did she take you in mouth, Lord Wentworth my son?
Did she take you in mouth, my cavalier one?

Alas, no, she didn't, tho' I lay in her bed.
For father, I searched, but I ne'er found her head.

Poem: A Father To His Son

A Father To His Son

O child, wee child, come sit by the fire.

Thou may’st be whatever thy wild heart desires.

For thy life is a carpet that spindles before,

And an ocean that tickles the strangest of shores.

Oh, Father! Good Father, thou dost my heart good!

For I wish to be king of a land past the wood.

I will rule with great justice. The poor shall rejoice.

And they’ll praise my good name in a glorious voice.

So sorry, my child, but it brings me great pain.

Thou shan’t be a king, for thy blood is too plain.

For thy mother and I, we were cousins, you know.

T'is why you walk sideways and your speech cometh slow.

Oh Father, my father, if truth thou dost speak,

A knight I shall be, and it’s honor I’ll seek.

I’ll vanquish my foes with a virtuous sword.

And they’ll sing of my vict’ries around a great board.

O, nonsense, my child why can’st thou not see?

The life of a knight is no good life for thee.

You’re cross-eyed and stupid, and shaped like an egg.

You haven’t a chin, and you piss down your leg.

You’re feeble of mind and soggy of tit.

We don’t feed you cheese, for you scream when you shit.

You're useless and fleshy, and smell like a wharf.

You're beaten by Buddhists and taunted by dwarfs.

Thy forehead slopes o’er, and your back hath a hunch,

You fart in the tub and you can’t take a punch.

T’was only a fling, but two nights made a wrong.

So back in the attic, that’s where you belong.

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