By Lily Rae
Hello you fine fellows! Ah, there’s nothing better than sitting inside on a snowy day with a cup of steaming poetry and a nice chocolate biscuit. But those fancy schmancy lines of devastating poetic beauty can sometimes be a bit bewildering! So let’s see if we can’t untangle ‘em, eh?
TODAY! Let’s examine some EMILY DICKINSON, some CHRISTINA ROSSETTI, and some T. S. ELIOT.
First up: there’s no-one in the world like Emileeeeeeee.
image: gradesaver.com
Fun fact: I went to Emily Dickinson’s house in Amherst, Massachusetts. She wasn’t in.
I had no time to hate, because
I HAVE NO TIME FOR SHENANIGANS. NO TIME.
The grave would hinder me
If I allowed myself to start hating things I would DIE BEFORE I FINISHED.
And life was not so ample I
LIFE IS TOO SHORT FOR YOUR BULLSHIT
Could finish enmity.
TOO. SHORT.
Nor had I time to love, but since
What? Well. I mean yeah, maybe I could be nicer, but I am just so busy.
Some industry must be,
This bookshelf isn’t going to build itself, you know.
This little toil of love, I thought
Oh for god’s sake fine we can go out sometime
Was large enough for me
BUT JUST THE ONCE.
NEXT: Christina Rossetti.
image: enotes.com
Fun fact: Christina Rossetti wrote the words to In The Bleak Midwinter!
I never said I loved you, John:
John. This is getting ridiculous.
Why will you tease me day by day,
It’s 2am.
And wax a weariness to think upon
You are drunk and I am tired.
With always “do” and “pray”?
You come round here, mumbling the same old nonsense
You Know I never loved you, John;
Look, we had one decent weekend
No fault of mine made me your toast:
– I SAID I WAS SORRY ABOUT THE TOAST –
Why will you haunt me with a face as wan
Take that face off, John.
As shows an hour-old ghost?
No-one’s died.
I dare say Meg or Moll would take
Why don’t you go ask one of your WHORES
Pity upon you, if you’d ask:
For a sympathy cuddle
And pray don’t remain single for my sake
OH DON’T THINK I DON’T KNOW ABOUT THEM
Who can’t perform the task.
Guess I’m just not SLUTTY ENOUGH FOR YOU.
I have no heart?-Perhaps I have not;
Oh cry me a river John
But then you’re mad to take offence
It is not my fault you’re clearly mental.
That don’t give you what I have not got:
John you know perfectly well what I’m talking about.
Use your common sense.
Dick.
Let bygones be bygones:
We can still be friends
Don’t call me false, who owed not to be true:
IF YOU STOP BEING SUCH AN ARSE
I’d rather answer “No” to fifty Johns
But to be honest if you and I were the last people on earth
Than answer “Yes” to you.
I’d try and mate with a vaguely attractive sheep.
Let’s mar our pleasant days no more,
We had fun
Song-birds of passage, days of youth:
But that was ages ago
Catch at today, forget the days before:
Build a bridge
I’ll wink at your untruth.
And get over it.
Let us strike hands as hearty friends;
Now put your pants back on John
No more, no less; and friendship’s good:
I’m telling you as a friend
Only don’t keep in view ulterior ends, And points not understood
No-one. Wants. To see it.
In open treaty. Rise above
You’re better than this, John!
Quibbles and shuffling off and on:
I’m so bored of arguing about it
Here’s friendship for you if you like; but love,-
Look we can try and stay friends but if it’s a shag you’re after
No, thank you, John.
In the words of Bartleby the Scrivener: LOL, NO.
And finally! TS Eliot: Whispers of Immortality.
image: blogspot.com
FUN FACT: when TS Eliot incarcerated his first wife, Vivien, in an insane asylum for chronic PMS, all his poetry went to shit and he wrote the hit musical CATS!. Sort of.
Webster was much possessed by death
Webster was an emo kid
And saw the skull beneath the skin
Who thought about really deep things
And breastless creatures underground
Like, imagine if people had no tits
Leaned backward with a lipless grin
Skeletons don’t have tits. Or lips. DEEP.
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
And imagine if you had daffodils…
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
…INSTEAD OF EYEBALLS.
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Eh? Eh? Imagine, eh?
Tightening its lusts and luxuries
I bet it sucks to be dead.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
And don’t even get me STARTED on John Donne
Who found no substitute for sense
Proper fun sponge.
To seize and clutch and penetrate
He’s a bit touchy-feely.
Expert beyond experience,
Total know-it-all.
He knew the anguish of the marrow
He knew a lot about marrow.
The ague of the skeleton;
He knew a lot about bones in general, actually.
No contact possible to flesh
For example. Because they have no skin
Allayed the fever of the bone.
Skeletons are generally miserable.
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Anyway CATS!
Is underlined for emphasis
He is quiet he is small he is black – from his ears to the tip of his tay-ull
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
God, imagine if cats had tits.
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
…I just went to a dark place in my head.
The couched Brazilian jaguar
OH, WELL, I NEVER
Compels the scampering marmoset
WAS THERE EEEEEEEVER
With subtle effluence of cat;
A CAT SO CLEVER AS
Grishkin has a maisonette;
MAGICAL MIST-AH MISTOPHELES
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
You know, these wildlife documentaries
Does not in its arboreal gloom
About giant cats in trees
Distil so rank a feline smell
Make you realise how weird it is
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
That little pussycats and big jaguars are related… BUT THEY ARE.
And even the Abstract Entities
Eh?
Circumambulate her charm
Long word
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
Death and cats are somehow related
To keep our metaphysics warm.
Do you know what metaphysics are?… DUN DUN DUUUUUUUN
Bad Salad 