Sinister: Friday Poem

[Linda Kerr]

Dear All,

Oh Lord, the poetry parrot landed on my shoulder and has been 
pecking away at my ear for days now:

"Get on with it, you slacker." it rasped in a parrotty way  "Don't 
you care about the list?  That Trouser snake bloke told you to post a 
poem, so SHIFT your ARSE."

"No, I can't"  I moaned  "Every one is JUDGING me....they might think 
I am shallow or crass or something."

"Just bung down any old fucking poem, you slag"  it squawked  "Or do 
a parody of all the poems so far -  that's the ticket, gobshite!."

"Noooo, couldn't do that!    I am too sensitive to what other people
might think, if it wasn't quite good enough.  Or some people might
not NOTICE it was a parody.  Even worse! "

"Life's a parody, you WANKER.  Just get on with it! You 
urine-flavoured POPSICLE." 

The parrot deposited a moist globule on my shoulder and shook its 
arse briskly.

 "Just put down something you learned at school.  I am 
off to see that Anne Ward now.  She is a proper librarian, and may be 
a little more thoughtful than you, you dozy tart."

So, here for you all, one of the most beautiful, sad but true poems 
of all time that I learned at school, and is very very topical, give 
or take a few decades. 

(From the film "Shakespeare in Love")

The Relic 

When my grave is broke up again
Some second guest to entertain,
 (For graves have learn'd that woman 
head, To be to more than one a bed)
And he that digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,
Will he not let'us alone,
And think that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their souls, at the last busy day,
 Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

 If this fall in a time, or land,
Where mis-devotion doth command,
Then he, that digs us up, will bring
Us to the bishop, and the king,
To make us relics; then
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I
A something else thereby;
All women shall adore us, and some men;
 And since at such time 
miracles are sought, I would have that age by this paper taught
What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

First, we lov'd well and faithfully,
Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why; 
Difference of sex no more we knew
Than our guardian angels do;
Coming and going, we
Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;
Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals
Which nature, injur'd by late law, sets free;  
These miracles we did, but now alas,  
All measure, and all language, I should pass, 
 Should I tell what a miracle she was.

John Donne
(1572 - 1631)


There is also the poem about the camel and the sphinx from 
Bannerman's toilet wall, but I'll save that for Valentine's Day.

Linda

btw lesley jo - what do you reckon to Gwyneth Paltrow?
btw Anne, it does mean you.
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