Between blotch and blok

Elle jouait avec sa chatte,
Et c'était merveille de voir
La main blanche et la blanche patte
S'ébattre dans l'ombre du soir.
Elle cachait - la scélérate ! -
Sous ces mitaines de fil noir
Ses meurtriers ongles d'agate,
Coupants et clairs comme un rasoir.
L'autre aussi faisait la sucrée
Et rentrait sa griffe acérée,
Mais le diable n'y perdait rien...
Et dans le boudoir où, sonore,
Tintait son rire aérien,
Brillaient quatre points de phosphore.

 Paul Verlaine

hobbitblue suggested this. Pass it on.

[here's hoping for preservation of accents during posting]

... Andrew Motion's contemporary nursery rhyme, "The Man".

Mother! Mother! Why's that man
Behind us on the bus?
Sssh my darling, look away
And he won't look at us.

Mother! Mother! Why's his face
So angry and so cold?
Sssh my darling, never mind
And do as you are told.

Mother! Mother! Why's that clock
Tick-tocking on his chest?
Sssh my darling, take my hand
It's just the way he's dressed.

Mother! Mother! Why's the world
No longer passing by?
Sssh my darling, come with me
It's time we said good-bye.

It's superb. There's a historic particularity, which I often feel in the generality of a nursery rhyme. It's got the right language, the right use of repetition, and the right rhythm for a nursery rhyme. What I think marks it out is the handling of the final line of each stanza, the first three almost plonkingly pedestrian and exactly what a mother would say (I know I've said at least one of them), the final one just as banal but, with the double import of that goodbye--the commonplace au revoir and a fatal, final adieu--utterly shocking.

Wow. [with tears in my eyes]

Having failed previously to memetically post a poem--having thought variously of Milligan's "String" and Auden's "Shield of Achilles" and nowt in between--this is now my contribution.

Teetered from a brink
Their slick, slim fall suspended
Winter stilettoed.

Not sure it in any way redeems four unproductive months. But there it is.

Carapace bursts, lights
Spill bead-strung across the blue.
Dull snails draw in horns.

I'm onto a loser pastiching/parodying (more the former, I believe) Wendy Cope of all people.

Still, it could be the sum total...

3olet


I used 2 thnk tXt msgs moronic--
Gr8 4 the immature, the asi9, & tw@s.
& thN I sNt a few. Yet it's iconic
I used 2 thnk tXt msgs moronic.
Smileys adorn a 4m th@'s Mbryonic:
Vwls omitted; digits, ampers&s and @s.
I used 2 thnk tXt msgs moronic--
Gr8 4 the immature, the asi9, & tw@s.

Based on Wendy Cope's Triolet which begins "I used to think all poets were Byronic" and to which I'd put a link if I could find a legitimate one: the poet cares about copyright (link courtesy of Neil Gaiman's journal way back in April sometime).

I didn't manage to use every single digit in the piece either, which I'd sort of hoped to do.