Over-the-Top: POETRY with Pizzazz . . . and a CONTEST!

By Kim Harris Thacker, writer and mommy

I’m married to a poet.  A real, professional poet, not just a love-poem-on-Valentine’s Day poet (Those kinds are nice too).  Which means I’ve had remarkable poems thrust into my hands quite frequently.  Being a writer of fiction for young people, however, I feel a certain affinity toward very whimsical poetry—the kind of poetry that got my attention as a kid.

You’ve read the kind of poetry I mean—clever rhymes that make you giggle, extraordinary poems that put you in awe of the writer’s grasp of the English language.  Poetry is everywhere!  Even in fashion.  Bookshop Talk’s own Amy Finnegan saw a t-shirt the other day with this haiku on it (A haiku is a Japanese three-lined poem that traditionally evokes images of the natural world using five syllables in the first line of the poem, seven in the second, and five in the third line):

Find this here 

Haikus are simple

And they needn’t make much sense

Hippopotamus

Amy had a fit of giggles resulting in an epiphany, wherein she suggested to me and to our host, Jessica Day George, that Bookshop Talk should do a post on over-the-top poetry.  What fun!  Let’s dive right in, shall we?

Back in 1906, Charles Scribner’s Sons published a collection of poetry called, A WHIMSEY ANTHOLOGY.  The poetry was collected by Carolyn Wells and is a pure delight.  I’d like to share with you a few of my favorite, over-the-top poems from A WHIMSEY ANTHOLOGY.

In time for Valentine’s Day, here’s a love poem with horrid grammar, by A.W. Bellaw:

Conjugal Conjugations

Dear maid, let me speak

    What I never yet spoke:

You have made my heart squeak

    As it never yet squoke,

And for sight of you, both my eyes ache ache as they ne’er before oak.

With your voice my ears ring,

    And a sweeter ne’er rung,

Like a bird’s on the wing

    When at morn it has wung.

And gladness to me it doth bring, such as never voice brung.

My feelings I’d write,

    But they cannot be wrote,

And who can indite

    What was never indote!

And my love I hasten to plight—the first that I plote.

Yes, you would I choose,

    Whom I long ago chose,

And my fond spirit sues

    As it never yet sose,

And ever on you I must, as never man mose.

The house where you bide

    Is a blessed abode;

Sure, my hopes I can’t hide,

    For they will not be hode,

And no person living has sighed, as, darling, I’ve sode.

Your glances they shine

    As no others have shone,

And all else I’d resign

    That a man could resone,

And surely no other could pine as I lately have pone.

And don’t you forget

    You will ne’er be forgot,

You never should fret

    As at times you have frot,

I would chase all the cares that beset, if they ever besot.

For you I would weave

    Songs that never were wove,

And deeds I’d achieve

    Which no man yet achove,

And for me you never should grieve, as for you I have grove.

I’m as worthy a catch

    As ever was caught.

O, your answer I watch

    As a man never waught,

And we’d make the most elegant match as ever was maught.

Let my longings not sink;

    I would die if they sunk.

O, I ask you to think

    As you never have thunk,

And our fortunes and lives let us link, as no lives could be lunk.

And another cleverly-spelled poem with an anonymous author:

The Cow—a Bovinity

O gentle cau,

Contented frau,

Inert, exempt from violence.

We will allau

That you know hau

To chew your cud in siolence.

Here’s a shaped poem, also by an anonymous author:

A Type of Beauty

Here

hang my bangs

o’er eyes that dream,

And nose and rose-

bud lips for cream.

And here’s my

chin with dim-

ples in.

This is my

neck with-

out a speck,

which doth these snowy shoulders

deck;   and   here    is  —  see,   oh,

double  T – O - N, which girls all

wear,   like  me;   and   here’s  a

heart, from cupid’s dart, safe-

shielded by this corset’s art.

This is my waist too tightly

laced on which

a bustle big

is placed.

This  is  my

dress.  It’s cost,

I  guess,  did  my

poor papa much dis-

tress, because, he sighed

when  mamma  tried it on,

and    scolded    so    I    cried;

but mamma said I soon would

wed  and buy pa’s clothes for him

instead.   It’s   trimmed   with    lace

just  in this place,  ‘neath  which  two

ankles  show,  with  grace, in  silken hose

to catch the beaus who think they’re lovely. 
 I suppose.             These are
  my      feet             in slippers
 neat,   and             now if we
should chance to            meet we’ll flirt
       a    little   on   the            street. How sweet.

Did you catch the bra joke in the middle? 

Moving on.

Did you ever send messages to your friends using only letters of the alphabet and numbers?  Like, “E Z 2 C U R A Q T.”  Sorta like primitive texting.  Well, here’s an anonymously-authored love poem for today’s text-happy youth, particularly suited for young women named Emily: 

An Alphabetical Wooing

Let others talk of L N’s eyes,

And K T’s figure light and free,

Say L R, too, is beautiful—

I need them not while U I C.

U need not N V them, for U

X L them all, my M L E.

I have no words when I would tell

How much in love with U I B.

So sweet U R, my D R E,

I love your very F E G;

And when you speak or sing, your voice

Is like a winsome L O D.

When U R I C, hope D K’s,

I am a mere non- N T T.

Such F E K C has your smile,

It shields from N E N M E.

For love so deep as mine, I fear,

There is no other M E D.

But that you love me back again—

O, thought of heavenly X T C;

So, lest my M T heart and I

Should sing for love and L E G,

T’s me no more—B Y’s B kind,

O, M L E, U R, I C!

Here’s a marvel in alliteration—an anonymous poem that uses only words that start with M:

My Madeline

My Madeline, my Madeline!

Mark my melodious midnight moans

Much may my melting music mean,

My modulated monotones.

My mandolin’s mild minstrelsy,

My mental music magazine,

My mouth, my mind, my memory,

Must mingling murmur “Madeline.”

Muster ‘mid midnight masquerades,

Mark Moorish maiden’s matrons’ mien,

‘Mongst Murcia’s most majestic maids

Match me my matchless Madeline.

Mankind’s malevolence may make

Much melancholy music mine;

Many my motives may mistake,

My modest merits much malign.

My Madeline’s most mirthful mood

Much mollifies my mind’s machine;

My mournfulness’ magnitude

Melts—makes me merry—Madeline.

Match-making mas may machinate,

Manoeuvring misses me misween;

Mere money may make many mate;

My magic motto’s “Madeline!”

Melt, most mellifluous melody,

Midst Murcia’s misty mounts marine,

Meet me ‘mid moonlight—marry me,

Madonna mia!—my Madeline!

Who doesn’t love made-up words that follow grammatical rules that make them seem real?  This poem by Lewis Carrol is probably very familiar to most of you: 

The Jabberwocky

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:


All mimsy were the borogoves,
  

And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
  

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!


Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
  

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
  

Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
  

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
  

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,


Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
  

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
  

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!


He left it dead, and with its head
  

He went galumphing back.

“And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
  

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!


O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
  

He chortled in his joy.


‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

My poet husband has a Roman nose, so I had to include this next poem (which has every line ending in a word that rhymes with all the other lines) in his honor.  It is attributed to Merrie England, which may be someone’s pen name, but is more than likely just a generic name used when a witty bit of writing is of English origin.

The Roman Nose

That Roman nose! that Roman nose!

Has robbed my bosom of repose;

For when in sleep my eyelids close,

It haunts me still, that Roman nose!

Between two eyes as black as sloes

The bright and flaming ruby glows:

That Roman nose! that Roman nose!

And beats the blush of damask rose.

I walk the streets, the alleys, rows;

I look at all the Jems and Joes;

And old and young, and friends and foes,

But cannot find a Roman nose!

Then blessed be the day I chose

That nasal beauty of my beau’s;

And when at last to Heaven I goes,

I hope to spy his Roman nose!

Until now, I’ve shared with you poems that rhyme (aside from the hippopotamus haiku).  But does poetry have to rhyme?  Nope.  In fact, lots of poetry doesn’t rhyme at all.  So does that mean that a person can write anything and call it a poem?  No.  Even free-verse poetry follows rules.

The following, non-rhyming poem is by Miller Williams.  It is a sestina, which means that it has six stanzas of six lines each, and each line ends with one of six words, which are repeated in a fixed order.  Go ahead and read—you’ll see what I mean.  Why did I choose this somewhat somber poem for this over-the-top poetry post?  Because this sestina goes way beyond many sestinas, in that it shrinks in size, making it very difficult, I imagine, to keep the form.  It. Is. Awesome.

The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina

Somewhere in everyone's head something points toward home,

a dashboard's floating compass, turning all the time

to keep from turning. It doesn't matter how we come

to be wherever we are, someplace where nothing goes

the way it went once, where nothing holds fast

to where it belongs, or what you've risen or fallen to.

What the bubble always points to,

whether we notice it or not, is home.

It may be true that if you move fast

everything fades away, that given time

and noise enough, every memory goes

into the blackness, and if new ones come—

small, mole-like memories that come

to live in the furry dark-they, too,

curl up and die. But Carol goes

to high school now. John works at home

what days he can to spend some time

with Sue and the kids. He drives too fast.

Ellen won't eat her breakfast.

Your sister was going to come

but didn't have the time.

Some mornings at one or two

or three I want you home

a lot, but then it goes.

It all goes.

Hold on fast

to thoughts of home

when they come.

They're going to

less with time.


Time

goes

too

fast.

come

home.

Forgive me that. One time it wasn’t fast.

A myth goes that when the quick years come

then you will, too. Me, I’ll still be home.

Ahhh….Pretty amazing, huh?  Let’s make that our last poem—aside from those that you, dear readers, leave in the comments! 

Bookshop Talk would like to invite you to participate in an Over-the-Top Poetry Contest, which will be judged by you - the readers.  Write some over-the-top poetry that will make your fellow Bookshop Talkers laugh!  It can be gushy, slapstick, overly-introspective, even bad poetry, anything goes, as long as it’s over-the-top (but let's keep it clean and kind).

This is all in good fun (no critiquing allowed, all you English professors out there!) so let's have a good time!

To enter the contest, write your poem in the comments section of this post, starting it off with "POETRY ENTRY," then give your poem a brief name so people can remember it when they vote. You don't even need to tell us your real name!

Then, you can all vote on the poem that you find most entertaining. SUBMIT YOUR VOTES TO BOOKSHOPTALK@GMAIL.COM (we couldn't get a poll working quite right). You can vote at any point before Feb 13th at 11:59 PM. Each email address can submit a vote for a new poem at any time, and you can also vote for more than one poem in a single email, but you can only vote one time for each poem.

The winner of the Bookshop Talk Over-the-Top (say that ten times fast) Poetry Competition will win a copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.  Yahoo!  You can enter as many poems as you want (as well as solicit as many friends as you want to vote for your poem)!

The winner will be announced on VALENTINE'S DAY, Febrary 14th! 

We also wanted to let you know that the Poetry Foundation is hosting a give-away in honor of National Poetry Month, which is in April.  You can receive up to ten copies of their April issue of Poetry for free.  Click here for more information.

Now get crackin’ on those poems!