< Eel Meal Appeal >

[rayheinrich]

--------- < Eel Meal Appeal > ---------

Not very genteel and a wee bit surreal
As the barnacles peel off the paint (almost teal)
They reveal that the keel of your boat's made of steel
And it's not quite ideal to have me at the wheel
As you deal with an eel with your rod and your reel

So what's the appeal of a creel filled with eel?
The feelings she'll feel at the sight of the meal?
The sound of her squeal when your meal you reveal?
Her face so unreal as the whole deal congeals?

It's all for the steal of a kiss to unseal
It's the fear that you'll feel the weight of her heel
That she'll give you a yes to your spiel as you kneel
It's your hearing the sound of the wedding bell peal

So much zeal to conceal and your vows to repeal!
If it's love that you feel, then I make this appeal:
Leave the eel to that seal, it's best to have veal.

[grannyjill]

Wow - this is yours I take it? I do so love it when poets do clever things with words....internal and end rhyming!

Now, I'm wondering about how you did it. I suppose if I go to my Penguin rhyming dictionary flick though it and find a word which has masses of rhymes and I spend hours trying to say something which makes at least some kind of sense....then I could produce a poem too (maybe but I doubt it)

[rayheinrich]

Wow - this is yours I take it? I do so love it when poets do clever things with words....internal and end rhyming!

Now, I'm wondering about how you did it. I suppose if I go to my Penguin rhyming dictionary flick though it and find a word which has masses of rhymes and I spend hours trying to say something which makes at least some kind of sense....then I could produce a poem too (maybe but I doubt it)

Yes, you're right. I tried to write something that contained every
simple word that rhymed with "surreal". While kinda terrible in most
ways, my dog seems to like it. (The cats don't, but that's cats for
you.) I just went to my fav rhyme dictionary and copied its list.
(Which is, BTW, RhymeZone. It's not only a rhyming dictionary but
does fun full-text searches on anything by Shakespeare or Mother Goose
(I'm not kidding). http://www.rhymezone.com/

[billy]

yeah rhymzone is no 1
and the poem is effin spot on excellent.
btw do we call you ray or do you have another nom you don't mind us using?

i think some of the clever poems are too clever by half but this one is wholly clever to the full.
loved it.

ps, you can put your site in your signature if you like. we don't worry about that sort of stuff here

[grannyjill]

I went away and thought about my response to your poem, and pondered on my inability to enjoy the Robert Browning on offer the other day.

First verse below

Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop--
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
(So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.

because he is doing a very clever repetitive rhyme thingy -

I meant everything I said about your poem - but you knew when to stop.
Robert Browning goes on for 7 verses (of the same length as this) and this made it tiresome (I reckon he was just showing off to the detriment of his poem)

[rayheinrich]

grannyjill said:
"I meant everything I said about your poem - but you knew when to stop.
Robert Browning goes on for 7 verses (of the same length as this) and this made it
tiresome (I reckon he was just showing off to the detriment of his poem)"


Yeah, well, doggeral written for fun is a lot easier to appreciate
(especially when it's mercifully short) than earnest (and longer) pieces
written in an unfamiliar past. I personally like (don't love, just like)
this poem, especially for its great title. I also love the movie with this
same title staring Katharine Hepburn and Laurence Olivier. (It's a love
story and they were both quite old when they made it, hence "ruins".)

Here's another famous poem by Browning that may be more to your liking:


Porphyria's Lover            - Robert Browning


The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me--she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!

- - -

---

billy said:
"... btw do we call you ray or do you have another nom you don't mind
us using?...

"Ray" is just fine (as since it's my real name I'm more likely to recognize it).
Besides, I like it. (The proof of which is that I retained it after my sex change).


ps, you can put your site in your signature if you like. we don't worry
about that sort of stuff here"

And, ha, yes, good. I really succeeded in pissing off the webmiz on that
one. (Either because other people rebelled, or because I sent her nice,
respectful, rational arguments about re-instituting links in signatures
every two or three days until I started up about the "delete button" about
once a day.) But... she really IS a benevolent (if absolute) ruler and I AM
a natural-born troublemaker who (even worse) really enjoys it. (Trolls-R-Us)

[grannyjill]

Why did you do that to me? Why? There was me getting all hot under the collar as the (obvious) sexual union was about to take place between a poor lady named after the disease that King George III had and dear, dear Robert.

BUT unbeknown to me

He turns out to be be a psychopath (which is different from a cycle-path...at least with the latter you usually end up alive at the end of your journey)....as you can see, I've had a tiring day (ironing AGAIN) so all sense has gone out of the window...best I can do. I'm off to bed.

[rayheinrich]

.
jannygrill spake thus: "...I've had a tiring day (ironing AGAIN) so all sense has gone out of the window..."

What is "ironing"? If it's anything like "painting" I can just imagine
how tired you must be as iron is SO much heavier than paint.
And the fumes! No wonder your senses have left their windows.

[grannyjill]

Very funny, ha ha. Listen! - you said you were a women now. Well, you're not a fully fledged, paid up member until you've spent at least two hours every day for three days ironing. Your time starts -NOW.

Ironing is a form of torture
devised by men to keep us chained
Day in day out we labour
a great deal lost, and nothing gained.
As soon as each pristine garment
briefly on a hanger stays
Some great hulking, hairy monster
takes it,
wears it,
stains it
drops it,
leaves it on the floor for days
we collect it
wash it
dry it
iron it
replace it on the hanger
once again
.....AND GET NOTHING FOR OUR PAINS

[rayheinrich]

     "So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married
      and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you
       went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state."
       - Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

[billy]

Sylvia is one of those women who writes about her tortured life, and commits suicide just to prove a point
i wonder how often she actually hefted an iron?
and that can't be Sylvia, she hasn't a fag in mouth
up until recently last year, i thought the bell jar was a poem

[grannyjill]

Isn't it? I'm having a bad day. Not only am I dumb, I am ignorant, too.

So much to learn, so little time.
Of course, if I wasn't ironing for us, my daughters and my daughter-in-law and mending, and shopping, and helping people move house, and preparing for Christmas, and cooking, and cleaning and bathing, and chatting, and taking walks in the park, and caring for grandkids,and taking glances at the tv (in no particular order) I could be EinSTEIN.
And
my life would be prime

I think my line lengths might need a little adjustment

[billy]

enjambs, pjambs they all seem to too much to sort out at times.
maybe we're the lucky ones, the ones who were never driven to suicide
through poetry, as they seem to have been. though i suppose their issues were real enough.
i think lack of sanity makes for a less robust poet

[rayheinrich]

Old (somewhat à propos ) poem:


< the purpose of poetry >

poetry gives words
a place to go

it gives me
something to do
something easier
than life

poetry can save you
from work
and relatives
and love
and suicide

it saved Sylvia Plath
for years
and then
it helped her

poetry gives artists
who can't draw
a place to paint
and novelists
who can't write
a place to speak

- - -

[grannyjill]

Well, that doesn't do much for my ego, I can tell you. I'm obviously a failed painter and a failed author...and as I'm at the bottom of the food chain poetry-wise I might just as well go and stick my head in the gas oven....so, Sylvia Plath and I finally have something in common.

Only joking!