19 February 2008

Notes on 'Ode to Wine'

Just a bit of fun really, and a celebration of the complexity of flavour in this gift from God of, to quote the Bible, 'Wine that maketh glad the heart of man.' (Hic!) The driving rhythm adds to the tension of the poem.

Ode to Wine

O glass of wine, you speak to me
Of flavours that must foreign be
To all of your consistency.
Yet, speak you will of more than vine,
And tease and taunt this tongue of mine
To stay no longer anodyne
But name the fruits from lands afar
Whose representative you are
In silent, virtual agency.

From far-flung fields and forests fair
Each tenuous taint and tincture there
Within you fixed through vintner’s care
Unveils itself – is made to hide
By other Flavours swept aside,
Who strive to rise from out the tide
And tempt me in insidious game
Their faint, deceitful guises name
Or else my palate’s skill forswear.

Too late! You’re gone, your secrets held
Secure within your liquid’s meld –
Irresolute convictions felled!
But wait! There’s hope, for I have seen
Within the depths of bottle green
Three of your kin, each one who’s keen
To pass the lip and cross the tongue
To trip around and play among
My taste buds ’til the query’s quelled.

The second temptress joins the fray
And almost gives the game away
But, keeping climax just at bay,
Subsides and swoons and ends the shame
Of cravings roused by passion’s flame
And tantalised in cruellest game.
And then, she’s gone, and so, alas,
I stare into an empty glass
And wonder if the third will play?

The third I all too eager find
To tempt the tongue and tease the mind
But keep her secrets still confined.
This joyful playmate lifts the heart,
Bids tortuous reasoning depart,
Pours scorn on ponderings of Descartes:
With her I am content to be,
With vacant mind from thinking free.
This world is better for her kind.

The fourth comes forth, her sisters’ clone.
My singing tongue begins to moan,
And thus, at last, your cover’s blown!
Not just by taste do you deceive –
This corpse of balance you relieve;
And so I bid you gone – please leave!
For, no, you have not hurned my tead –
You’ve spade the moon to rim instead.
Now, where’s the Great White Telephone?

Copyright © 2007 Desmond Hilary

Notes on 'Ode to Curry'

This was first penned as an email to my diving buddies (perhaps there'll be a scuba diving sub-blog soon). We went for a curry and enjoyed it very much.

Curry is a food that satiates the five senses - touch, taste, sight, sound and smell. Unfortunately, it tends to provide an experience we can share with others long after we have left the restaurant. You will see the progression through the senses as you read.

This is a classical poem, written in iambic pentameters. Just like Shakespeare, only not as good!

Ode to Curry

O fare in which our senses all delight,
Thou beckon'st all to Eastern joys partake;
And, for our part, a none too distant night
Shall see us meet and for thy dwelling make.

Thy pungent odour first doth have its say,
Thy rich aromas of the Orient
Sent far abroad to waft thy willing prey
To dark purveyors of thy luscious scent.

Thy colours all like tapestry display
Unto our sight a feast to cheer our hearts,
E'er yet, as eager gourmets, we convey
Thy stain into our secret, hidden parts.

But O, thy taste, which, bursting on our tongues,
Doth succulently render up in flame
Exquisite, burning pleasure that belongs
Alone to those enraptured by thy name.

Thy texture lips and tongue and throat doth thrill.
With gentle ease thou slippest to thy doom,
Thy willing sacrifice our void to fill;
For liquid joys alone thou leavest room!

But then, alas, thy sound shall haunt next day,
Announcing echoes of thy wondrous smell,
And all our near and dear shall drive away;
Where we have been, the poorest mind can tell...

Fancy a curry?

Copyright © 2003 Desmond Hilary

Notes on 'A Birthday Poem to make Purple Ronnie Jealous'

Well. What can I say? I actually printed this on a friend's birthday card. It was as much an exercise in the expressive use of fonts (some of which may not be shown by your browser) as it was a literary adventure. If you want to use it on your friend's birthday card, please do, but I would appreciate your showing the copyright notice and the address of this blog (http://all-about-what-poetry.blogspot.com).

A Birthday Poem to make Purple Ronnie Jealous

Although your birthday now is here,

It’s no excuse for drinking beer

Until your legs all wobbly go

And fail to keep you upright.

So, my advice is find a chair

And get your ale served to you there;

Then gravity’s  negated , so

You’ll keep on drinking all night!

Copyright © 2005 Desmond Hilary

Notes on 'Our Doggy'

We rescued a wonderful dog called Max, and we are just as besotted with him three years later as we were when we first adopted him into our family. Yes, he has his issues but we're working on them. I may be biased but I think he's the best dog in the world. This poem was written shortly after his arrival. It was inspired by him, and again was sketched out whilst riding my bicycle. Every word of it is true.

As for the censored bits, there is nothing really very naughty. The rhyme serves to provide you with clues to the words I have omitted. The censureship is really a humorous device.

One day, I'll post a picture of our wonderful Maximus Flatus.

Our Doggy [Censored Version]

I’m going home to see our doggy;
He’s much better than a moggy.
Dog, doggy-doggy, doggy, dog.

He has a great long tail that he
Wags to show he’s pleased to see me.
Dog, doggy-doggy, doggy, dog.

He tries to lick my face but misses,
Ends up giving me French kisses!
Dog, doggy-doggy, doggy, dog.

We go for walks in pleasant places,
Up and down and round he races.
Dog, doggy-doggy, doggy, dog.

A happy dog, he bounds and frolics;
Can’t think why – he has no [censored].
Dog, doggy-doggy, doggy, dog.

When other dogs we meet, he’ll greet them,
Hedgehogs? Well, he’ll try to eat them.
Dog, doggy-doggy, doggy, dog.

He swallows blades of grass in vain as
Each, entire, falls from his [censored].
Dog, doggy-doggy, doggy, dog.

He hates to walk on hot days: how sad!
’though I’m English, he is not mad.
Dog, doggy-doggy, doggy, dog.

When we are eating dinner, our pet
Stands there, dribbling on the carpet.
Dog, doggy-doggy, doggy, dog.

We find, sometimes, our eyes are smarting.
That’s because the dog keeps [censored].
Dog, doggy-doggy, doggy, dog.

O, doggy, doggy, doggy, doggy,
Doggy, doggy, doggy, doggy.
Dog, doggy-doggy, doggy, dog.

Copyright © 2005 Desmond Hilary

18 February 2008

Notes on 'Ode to a Dung Fly'

'Ode to a Dung Fly' was composed whilst riding my bicycle across the Town Moor. The moor is a place where cattle are grazed and their droppings, which, in places, required great care to avoid, may well have been the inspiration for this work.

Ode to a Dung Fly

O happy little dung fly, with all your dung fly chums,
You speed on wings to swarm on things that fall from horses' bums.
Yet 'horse' has no importance, for cow- or sheep- or pig-
Or any poo will do for you, you do not care a fig.
As long as who's first eaten leaves nourishment behind,
The smell, the taste? Who cares? It's waste: disposal's on your mind.

You gather with your thousands, detritus to devour;
You munch away throughout the day, unstinting, every hour.
When some great beast approaches, all lift away in fright,
Then, panic gone, all carry on and have another bite.
You flit about while feasting, you never use a chair -
But I'm the fool, you have a stool, and you're quite happy there!

When arduous labour's over, at fall of eventide,
You leave the swarm for somewhere warm and, preferably, inside.
An open window beckons, where cake and morsels sweet
Arrayed on lace seems just the place to rest and wash your feet.
With what you've had your feet in, please don't land on my tea.
If you do that you'll end up flat, so stay away from me!

Copyright © 2003 Desmond Hilary