OK, So I’m a big copycat. I saw Mark Grist perform a (better, longer) univocalism called Fens last night. Here is my first attempt at one called ‘Moor’. (I’m a Yorkshire girl after all) .
EDIT: It’s longer now.
Cold swoops on t’moor. Storms howl old songs of sorrow, of folly, of loss. Cold fog blows, holds spooky forms, shows Poor Flo’s story. Long, hollow gloomy. So, look.
Only two, Flo’s joy is songs. Mom croons. “Don’t stop!” coos shy Flo, “Song! Song!” Mom knows lots of songs: of joy, of sorrow, old songs, cool songs. Mom’s songs hold Flo, show Flow worlds. So Flo holds Mom. Croons, knows joy.
Too soon, Mom’s old. Songs flown, Mom looks ghostly now. Mom’s hollow, gloomy. Flo shows Mom old photos. No.
Mom’s body rots on’t moor. Now, Only Flo croons old songs.
Now, Bob. Cool sod! Oh how Bob shoots off his gob. How Bob robs loot, lolly, dosh. Not poor, old Bob, no! Crook, not fool, Bob hooks goods, fools hoods, shoots folks for dosh. Bob’s no good, but Bob’s cool. Bob’s hot. Bob’s got lots. Downs cold Scotch, Bob’s stronghold’s old gold. Own Rolls. So, not lots Bob’s not got.
Flo knows only songs. So Flo croons for loot. Not lots. Flo’s poor. Croons songs for folks, body on show. Bob spots Flo. Flo looks, swoons.
Bob’s lost. Coo-Coo for Flo. Bob won’t shoot, won’t loot, no hoods. For Flo, Bob’s good.
Now cops know Bob robs. Bob scoffs. No cop’ll fool Bob. Bob hops town. Bob’s off. Cop’s don’t follow. Cop’s don’t know of Flo, on’t moor.
Flo won’t go from t’moor. Mom’s tomb, now.
So Bob’s now sold stronghold, gold, Scotch, Rolls for Flo. Oh! How Bob moons for for Flo, swoons for Flo!
Flo don’t know Bob’s shot folks. Bob broods. Looks on Flo: oh, shy, coy, doll. Now Bob’s moll? No! Bob’s ploy: Flo won’t know. Not of Bob’s old job, not of folks Bob’s shot. No.
Ghosts of shot folks spook Bob. Old wrongs prod Bob. Bob looks hollow. Bob’s sorrow glows, grows. Bob’s no fool. Bob knows to go from Flo.
“Oh, don’t go!” Sobs Flo, who knows Bob’s not known for pomp. When Bob’d woo Flo: no blooms, no songs, no loot. Only Bob, Bob who longs for Flo. So Flo knowsBob won’t go. No?
Oh, how Bob fools Flo. For Flo only knows Bob’s story: Bob’s cool. Bob’s good. Bob boosts Flo’s joy. Bob’s God to Flo. Bob’s got to go.
“So long, Flo.”
Flo howls, “No, no!”
Bob’s not god nor holy, no, nor good. Bob’s low. Bob’s lost. Bob’s hollow. Only Flo shows sorrow for Bob. Only Flo sobs. Bob’s sorrow grows. So now Bob knows: No show, no pomp: only go from Flo. Jog on.
“Oh no, don’t go. Don’t go!”
Bob knows to go won’t show Flo Bob’s folly. Boots on, Bob shoos Flo: “Got to go, doll, don’t howl so, sob so. No show of sorrow. So long.”
Storms howl on’t moor. Bob’s boots go down on soft sod. Foot throbs, Storm won’t stop. Bob’s cold now. Fog – frosty, soggy gloom – holds Bob. No howl, no sob from Bob. Only, low, “Sorry Flo”
Flo sobs, rocks to, fro, to, fro. Longs for Bob. Croons old songs “My boy, My boy, My only joy” Sobs for Mom, for Bob,
Flo knows Bob’s on’t moor. Flo’s got old now, longs for Bob. Good Bob, cool Bob. Holy, godly Bob. “Soon, soon.” croons Flo. Don’t go for so long , my boy, my only Bob.” Not only Flo, now. Flo’s got Toto – poor dog –howls on stoop. Flo coos –good dog, good dog. Toto howls for Flo, now. Flo’s dog.
So Flo holds Toto. Looks, won’t stop. Sobs for Bob. Dog howls,Flo croons on’t moor.
“My Boy, my boy”
Flo’s loopy. So old now. So long, so long, Bob Told Flo. Oh, so long! Flo sobs so!
Only got Toto, poor old dog, to worry, now. “Good Toto. Good boy. Howl for my Bob. Spot Bob on’t moor. Soon, oh, soon. Good dog”
Flo’s dog howls. No cry from Flo now. No song, No sorrow. Nowt. Flo’s off to Bob.
Only Toto now.
So, here we are at post 100
I’ve finished as I started, with a sestina, but this time it’s a rhymed one.
It’s mine and my wife’s fourth wedding anniversary, and the fourth anniversary is apparently the fruit and flowers anniversary. I still don’t know who makes this stuff up…
So, this has been fun. I hope everyone’s enjoyed it!
Our anniversary of fruit and flowers
A strange tradition, different every year
There’s paper, cotton, leather… Love like ours
Needs no materials to prove it, Dear,
For we share food and jokes and friends and showers
Who needs these things to tell us we are near
Each other’s hearts? They can’t even come near!
I know I love you without fruit or flowers
We don’t need strawberries or falling showers
Of petals to remind us, that this year
Our wedding’s four years old and you’re as dear
To me as when I’d known you 20 hours.
Now married nearly forty thousand hours
(Well, give or take – that number’s pretty near)
I might forget, sometimes, to say how dear
You are to me, and so perhaps the flowers
And fruit do serve a purpose, and each year
They make sure that we keep on sharing showers
And sadly, in this world nobody showers
Us with approval for this love of ours
Though things are getting better every year,
And to equality we’re getting near,
Certain receptions, limousines and flowers
Tell us that ‘straight’ is held as far more dear.
So we must celebrate our love, my dear,
Though we don’t need those crazy wedding showers
We have the right to have our fruit and flowers
And tell the world about a love like ours
And say that we are happy to be near
Each other every day of every year
And so, my love, it’s been another year
I hope that you do not regret it, dear!
And as our sixtieth draws ever near-
Er than it was, lets hope that money showers
On us, so when the diamond year is ours
We’ll celebrate with more than fruit and flowers!
I’m glad we’re near each other, and, this year,
I’m glad to give you fruit and flowers, dear
So here’s to mutual showers that last for hours!
This poem isn’t a fib, it’s the truest poem in this sequence. But a Fib is the name for a poem that takes its syllable count from the Fibonacci sequence.
This, on the eve of our 4th wedding anniversary, is for my wife.
Important at first.
But it wasn’t too long before
Our love began to develop exponentially
So fast, so intense that it became difficult to remember how it was before.
The day I met you. That chance meeting began a sequence that sometimes seems to make no sense but step back, see our love’s perfect spiral symmetry.
OK, since I’m nearly at the end, I’m indulging in another dedication poem. This one is for two storytellers who are getting married, and have been wonderfully encouraging of this crazy project.
It’s lovely to hear them tell stories each in their own unique way, but also to spot how they’ve influenced each other, both consciously and unconsciously. (One side effect was that Robin Hood inadvertently became a real mensch.)
This poem is an inexpert attempt at capturing that.
This is a Georgian form, by the way, (the country, not the historical period) called a shairi.
So this is for Simon and Shonaleigh
Come close and listen carefully to what I have to say because
Old Robin Hood is not the green-clad nobleman you thought he was.
He could have been just one of many peasants forced to break the laws
But the stories I can tell you, whether true or not, will draw applause.
Now gather round and listen well to what I have to say to you
Because I am your dru’tsyla, can make the old sound like the new
And keep alive the stories that sustain and keep our culture true
And maybe when you hear them they will influence the things you do.
Now Robin Hood, his chutzpah earned him lots of notoriety
And Moishe Pupik slew the dragon, using guile and trickery
The Sheriff was a goniff and his mishegas was plain to see
And deep in darkest England dwelt some schmucks as bad as they could be.
Sometimes we take our stories and we blend them, make a hybrid of
The one and then the other, mixing rainbows from the stars above
But now we see these cultures come together like they are in love.
And this we hope to celebrate with cries of “cheers!” and “mazel tov!”
Also known as Onegin Stanza, this form was created by the writer Alexandr Pushkin.
This is vaguely influenced by my favourite line in Margaret Atwood’s novel Cat’s Eye:
Little girls are cute and small only to adults. To one another they are not cute. They are life sized.
I know the grownups cannot see it
They look at us and think it’s sweet,
The way we play, my friends and me, it
Looks so friendly, prim and neat.
But Poppy is a cruel dictator
She terrifies us and we hate her.
She makes the rules of every game
Each time we play it is the same:
It seems like fun to an outsider
Really, what it’s all about
Is ways to single someone out.
If one girl fails, we all deride her
With no-one daring to refuse
We all have far too much to lose.
Another Hymn form today, Long Hymnal Measure is the same form that the hymn Jerusalem is written in, so this is also a bit filky, too.
This, to be sung to the tune of Jerusalem, is the first official hymn of the Church Of Cake, into which I was recently ordained by Kate, on Foley’s behalf.
I’m not the sort to kneel and pray
Temples and churches leave me cold
I cannot follow, day by day
Teachings judgmental, cruel and old
I cannot even say I’m sure
That there is any god at all
And I don’t think I am impure
I don’t believe from grace I’ll fall
Bring me my bowl and wooden spoon,
Bring me my sugar, eggs and flour.
This miracle shall happen soon
When it has been baked for an hour!
If you would share in our delight
In our communion, please partake:
We know you’ll savour every bite!
Come join us in the Church of Cake!