ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST

Father heard his children scream
from: Ruthless Rhymes, 1898

from Perverted Proverbs


What is Enough? An idle dream!
  One cannot have enough, I swear,
Of Ices or Meringues-and-Cream,
  Nougat or Chocolate Eclairs,
Of Oysters or of Caviar,
Of Prawns or Pate de Foie Grar!

Who would not willingly forsake
  Kindred and Home, without a fuss,
For Icing from a Birthday Cake,
  Or juicy fat Asparagus,
And journey over countless seas
For New Potatoes and Green Peas?

They say that a Contented Mind
  Is a Continual Feast; — but where
The mental frame, and how to find,
  Which can with Turtle Soup compare?
No mind, however full of Ease,
Could be Continual Toasted Cheese.

For dinner have a sole to eat,
  (Some Perrier Jouet, ’92,)
An Entree then (and, with the meat,
  A bottle of Lafitte will do),
A quail, a glass of port (just one),
Liqueurs and coffee, and you’ve done.

But should you want a hearty meal,
  And not this gourmet’s lightsome snack,
Fill up with terrapin and teal,
  Clam chowder, crabs, and canvasback;
With all varieties of sauce,
And diff’rent wines for ev’ry course.

Your tastes may be of simpler type; –
  A homely glass of “half-and-half,”
An onion and a dish of tripe,
  Or headpiece of the kindly calf.
(Cruel perhaps, but then, you know,
“‘Faut tout souffrir pour etre veau!”)

‘Tis a mistake to eat too much
  Of any dishes but the best;
And you, of course, should never touch
  A thing you know you can’t digest;
For instance, lobster; — if you do,
Well, — I’m amayonnaised at you!

Let this be your heraldic crest,
  A bottle (charge) of Champagne,
A chicken (gorged) with salad (dress’d),
  Below, this motto to explain –
“Enough is Very Good, may be;
Too much is Good Enough for Me!”



Jocelyn Henry Clive 'Harry' Graham ( 1874 - 1936)

from PARADISE ILLUSTRATED: A Sequence

'Come', spoke the Almighty to Adam,
'There's work to do, even in Eden.'

'I want to see what you call them,'
The Lord said. 'It's a good day for it.'
'And take your thumb out of your mouth.'
He added. (Adam was missing his mother.)

So they shuffled past, or they hopped,
Or they waddled. The beasts of the field
And the fowls of the air,
Pretending not to notice him.

'Speak up now,' said the Lord God briskly,
'Give each and every one the name thereof.'

'Fido,' said Adam, thinking hard,
As the animals went past him one by one.
'Bambi', 'Harpy', 'Pooh',
'Incitatus', 'Acidosis', 'Apparat',
'Krafft-Ebbing', 'Indo-China, 'Schnorkel',
'Buggins', 'Bollock' -

'Bullock will do', said the Lord God, 'I like it'.
The rest are rubbish. You must try again tomorrow.'

'Can't you let her name something?'
Begged Adam. 'She's always on at me
About the animals.'

'Herself a fairer flower,'
Murmured God. 'Hardly necessary.
I would say. But if it makes her happy . . . .'


o-o


'What a trek!' Eve muttered.
'The animals came to Adam . . .
Well, Mohammed must go the mountain.'

'What's that you said', the Almighty asked.
But she was on her way.


o-o


'Lady's finger,' said Eve.
'Lady's smock'.
'Lady's slipper'.
'Lady's tresses . . . .'

She paused.
'Adam's apple.'

'No,' said the Lord.
'Strike that out.'

'Old man's beard, then.'
She sped towards the mountain.

'Lily,
Rose,
Violet,
Daisy,
Poppy,
Amaryllis,
Eglantine,
Veronica,
Marigold,
Iris,
Marguerite,
Pansy,
Petunia,
Jasmine,
May.'

'I'm worn out,' she gasped.
'Belladonna -
And that's all for today.'


o-o


'She's better at names than you were,'
The Lord observed.
'They all sound womanish to me,'
Said Adam, nettled.




DJ.Enright
1920-2002

DEWPOND AND BLACK DRAINPIPES

In order to distract me, my mother

sent me on an Archeology Week.

We lived in tents on the downs, 

and walked over to the site

every morning. It was an old dewpond.

There was a boy there called Charlie.

He was the first boy I had really met.

I was too shy to go to the pub,

but I hung around the camp every night

waiting for him to come back.

He took no notice of me at first,

but one night the two of us

were on Washing-Up together.

I was dressed in a black jersey

and black drainpipes, I remember.

You in mourning? he said.

He didn't know I was

one of the first beatniks.

He put a drying-up cloth

over my head and kissed me

through the linen Breeds Of Dogs.

I love you, Charlie I said.

Later, my mother blamed herself

for what had happened. The Romans

didn't even interest her,  she said.

Selima Hill

1945

SIREN SONG

This is the one song everyone

would like to learn; the song 

that is irresistible:

the song that forces men

to leap overboard in squadrons

even though they see the beached skulls

the song nobody knows

because anyone who has heard it

is dead, and the others can't remember.

Shall I tell you the secret

and if I do, will you get me

out of this bird suit?

I don't enjoy it here 

squatting on this island

looking picturesque and mystical

with these two feathery maniacs.

I don't enjoy singing

this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,

to you, only to you.

Come closer, This song

is a cry for help. Help me!

Only you, only you can,

you are unique

at last. Alas

is is a boring song

but it works every time.

Margaret Atwood

1939

BUNTHORNE'S SONG (from PATIENCE)

If you're anxious for to shine in the high aesthetic line as a man of culture rare,
You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere.
You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind.
The meaning doesn't matter if it's only idle chatter of a transcendental kind.
And every one will say,
As you walk your mystic way,
'If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me,
Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!'

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away,
And convince 'em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture's palmiest day.
Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever's fresh and new, and declare it's crude and mean,
For Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine.
And every one will say,
As you walk your mystic way,
'If that's not good enough for him which is good enough for me,
Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!'

Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen,
an attachment a la Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean!
Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band,
If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediaeval hand.
And every one will say
As you walk your flowery way,
'If he's content with a vegetable love which would certainly not suit me,
Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!'





W.S. Gilbert
1836-1911


PS: It's even better when sung to Sullivan's tune.

HOW TO TREAT THE HOUSE-PLANTS

All she ever thinks about are house-plants.

She talks to them and tends them every day.

And she says, 'Don't hurt their feelings. Give them

Love. In all your dealings with them,

Treat them in a tender, human way.'

'Certainly, my dear,' he says. 'OK.

Human, eh?'

But the house-plants do not seem to want to play.

They are stooping, they are drooping,

They are kneeling in their clay;

They are flaking, they are moulting,

Turning yellow, turning grey,

And they look . . . . . well, quite revolting

As they sigh and fade away.

So after she has left the house he gets them

And he sets them in a line against the wall.

And I cannot say he cossets them or pets them -

No, he doesn't sympathise with them at all.

Is he tender? Is he human? Not a bit.

No, to each of them in turn he says: 'You twit!'

You're a

Rotten little skiver,

Cost a fiver,

Earn your keep!

You're a

Dirty little drop-out!

You're a cop-out!

You're a creep!

You're a

Mangy little whinger!

You're a cringer!

Son, it's true -

I have justbin

to the dustbin

Where there's better men than you!

Get that stem back!

Pull your weight!

Stick your leaves out!

STAND UP STRAIGHT!

And, strange to say, the plants cooperate.

So when she comes back home and finds them glowing,

Green and healthy, everyone a king,

She says, 'It's tenderness that gets them growing!

How strange the change a little love can bring!

'Oh yes,' he says. 'Not half. Right. Love's the thing.'

Kit Wright

1944

THE MAD GARDENER'S SONG

He thought he saw an Elephant,

    That practised on a fife:

He looked again, and found it was

    A letter from his wife.

'At length I realise,' he said,

    'The bitterness of Life!'

He thought he saw a Buffalo

    Upon the chimney-piece:

He looked again, and found it was

    His Sister's Husband's Niece.

'Unless you leave this house,' he said,

    'I'll send for the Police!'

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake

    That questioned him in Greek:

He looked again, and found it was

    The Middle of Next Week.

'The one thing I regret,' he said,

    'Is that it cannot speak!'

He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk

    Descending from the bus:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Hippopotamus.

'If this should stay to dine,' he said,

    'There won't be much for us!'

He thought he saw a Kangaroo

    That worked a coffee-mill:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Vegetable-Pill.

'Were I to swallow this,' he said,

    'I should be very ill!'

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four

    That stood beside his bed:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Bear without a Head.

'Poor thing,' he said, 'poor silly thing!

    It's waiting to be fed!'

He thought he saw an Albatross

    That fluttered round the lamp:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Penny-Postage Stamp.

'You'd best be getting home,' he said:

    'The nights are very damp!'

He thought he saw a Garden-Door

    That opened with a key:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Double Rule of Three:

'And all its mystery,' he said,

    'Is clear as day to me!'

He thought he saw a Argument

    That proved he was the Pope:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Bar of Mottled Soap.

'A fact so dread,' he faintly said,

    'Extinguishes all hope!'

Lewis Carroll

1832-1898

In case anyone is wondering what has happened to the usually so serious tone of Friko's poetry blog since the long August break, I have decided to stay with humorous verse for a bit.

THE JAMES BOND MOVIE

The popcorn is greasy, and I forgot to bring a Kleenex.
A pill that's a bomb inside the stomach of a man inside

The Embassy blows up. Eructations of flame, luxurious
cauliflowers giganticize into motion. The entire 29-ft.

screen is orange, is crackling flesh and brick bursting,
blackening, smithereened. I unwrap a Dentyne and, while

jouncing my teeth in rubber tongue-smarting clove, try
with the 2-inch wide paper to blot butter off my fingers.

A bubble-bath, room-sized, in which 14 girls, delectable,
and sexless, twist-topped Creamy Freezes (their blond,

red, brown, pinkish, lavender or silver wiglets all
screwed that high, and varnished), scrub-tickle a lone

male, whose chest has just the right amount and distribution
of curly hair. He's nervously pretending to defend

his modesty. His crotch, below the waterline, is also
below the frame - but unsubmerged all 28 slick foamy boobs.

Their make-up fails to let the girls look naked. Caterpillar
lashes, black and thick, lush lips glossed pink like

the gum I pop and chew, contact lenses on the eyes that are
mostly blue, they're nose-perfect replicas of each other.

I've got most of the grease off and onto this little square
of paper. I'm folding it now, making creases with my nails.




May Swenson
1913-1989

THINGS

There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.

There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,

committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things

than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.

It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in

and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.

Fleur Adcock

born 1934 in NZ, of English/N. Irish origin

OFFICE FRIENDSHIPS

The Heartless Girl Loses Her Job - Postcard - 1909 

Eve is madly in love with Hugh

And Hugh is keen on Jim.

Charles is in love with very few

And few are in love with him.

Myra sits typing notes of love

With romantic pianist's fingers,

Dick turns his eyes to the heavens above

Where Fran's divine perfume lingers.

Nicky is rolling eyes and tits

And flaunting her wiggly walk.

Everybody is thrilled to bits

by Clive's suggestive talk.

Sex suppressed will go berserk,

But it keeps us all alive.

It's a wonderful change from wives and work,

And it ends at half past five.

Gavin Ewart

1916-1995

Unless the mood takes me, or I receive requests to the contrary, enough now of levity, back to the serious matter of poetry in September. 

ON THE RHINE

Paddle Steamer 'Rheinland', passing the Loreley Rock.

On, on the vessel steals;

Round go the paddle-wheels,

And now the tourist feels

As he should;

For king-like rolls the Rhine, 

And the scenery's divine,

And the victuals and the wine

Rather good.

From every crag we pass'll

Rise up some hoar old castle;

The hanging fir-groves tassel

Every slope:

And the vine her lithe arm stretches

Over peasants singing catches -

And you'll make no end of sketches,

I should hope.

We've a nun here (called Thérèse),

Two couriers out of place,

One Yankee with a face

Like a ferret's;

And three youths in scarlet caps

Drinking chocolate and schnapps -

A diet which perhaps

Has its merits.

And day again declines;

In shadow sleep the vines,

And the last ray through the pines

Feebly glows,

Then sinks behind yon ridge;

And the usual evening midge

Is settling on the bridge

Of my nose.

And keen's the air and cold,

And the sheep are in the fold,

And Night walks sable-stoled

Through the trees;

And on the silent river

The floating starbeams quiver; -

And now the saints deliver

Us from fleas.

C.S. Calverley

1831-1884

Poet and Wit

C.S. Calverley was the literary father of what has been called the "university school of humour".

THE ALL PURPOSE COUNTRY AND WESTERN SELF PITY SONG

Image via shutterstock

He jumped off the box-car

In Eastbourne, the beast born

In him was too hungry to hide;

His neck in grief's grommet,

He groaned through his vomit

At the churn

And the yearn

At the turn of the tide.

He headed him soon

For a sad-lit saloon

In back of the edge of the strand,

Where a man almost ended

Sat down and extended

His speckled,

Blue-knuckled

And cuckolded

Hand.

Cried, The wind broke my marriage in two.

Clean through the bones of it,

Christ how it blew!

I got no tomorrow

And sorrow

Is tough to rescind;

So, forgive me if I should break wind, son,

Forgive me

If I should break wind.

At this the bartender

Addressed the agenda,

A dish-cloth kept dabbing his eye,

Said, Pardon intrusion

Upon your effusion

Of loss but none wooed it

Or rued it

As I.

For after the eve of Yvonne,

My God, how it hurts now the woman has gone!

Heart-sick as a dog,

I roll on like a log

Down the roaring black river

Where once sailed

A swan.

Then the dog on the floor,

Who'd not spoken before,

Growled, Ain't it the truth you guys said?

I may be a son-

Of-a-bitch but that bitch

Was my Sun

And she dumped me,

The bitch did,

For dead.

So three lonely guys in the night and a hound

Drank up, and they headed them out to the Sound,

Threw up, then they threw themselves

In and they

Drowned.

O dee-o-dayee

Odee-o-dayee

Woe-woe-dalaye

Kit Wright

b. 1944

SUN AND FUN

The Hangover

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec 1861-1904

French Painter, Printer, Draughtsman and Illustrator

Song Of A Night-Club Proprietress

I walked into the night-club in the morning;

There was kummel on the handle of the door.

The ashtrays were unemptied,

The cleaning unattempted,

And a squashed tomato sandwich on the floor.

I pulled aside the thick magenta curtains

- Regency, so Regency, my dear -

And a host of little spiders

Ran a race across the ciders

To a box of baby 'pollies by the beer.

Oh sun upon the summer-going by-pass

Where everything is speeding to the sea,

And wonder beyond wonder

That here where lorries thunder

The sun should ever percolate to me.

When Boris used to call in his Sedanca,

When Teddy took me down to his estate

When my nose excited passion,

When my clothes were in the fashion,

When my beaux were never cross if I was late,

There was sun enough for lazing upon beaches,

There was fun enough for far into the night,

But I'm dying now and done for,

What on earth was all the fun for?

For I'm old and ill and terrified and tight.

John Betjeman

1906-1984

"Poet and Hack"

I have decided to lighten the tone of my August Selection.

There will be more Light Verse during the Holiday Month.

DON'T LET THAT HORSE

Marc Chagall
Russian Painter
1887-1985

Don't let that horse

                                                 eat that violin

                                  cried Chagall's mother

but he kept right on 

                    painting

And became famous

And kept on painting

The Horse With Violin In Mouth

                                 And when he finally finished it

                                 he jumped up upon the horse

and rode away

waving the violin

And then with a low bow gave it 

to the first naked nude he ran across

                                 And there were no strings

attached.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

1919-

Ferlinghetti was born in Yonkers, New York, and educated at Columbia University and the Sorbonne.

He is identified with the Beat movement. He has said that much of his work was written by talking into a tape recorder and was designed to be read aloud.

6 A.M. THOUGHTS

Karl Spitzweg
The Nightwatchman fallen asleep

As soon as you wake they come blundering in

Like puppies or importunate children;

What was landscape emerging from mist

Becomes at once a disordered garden.

And the mess they trail with them! Embarrassments,

Anger, lust, fear - in fact the whole pig-pen;

And who'll clean it up? No hope for sleep now -

Just heave yourself out, make the tea and give in.

Dick Davis

1945

A BOOKSHOP IDYLL

Arcimboldo - The Librarian

Between the GARDENING and the COOKERY

Comes the brief POETRY shelf;

By the Nonesuch Donne, a thin anthology

Offers itself.

Critical, and with  nothing else to do,

I scan the Contents page,

Relieved to find the names are mostly new;

No one my age.

Like all strangers, they divide by sex:

Landscape near Parma

Interests a man, so does The Double Vortex,

So does Rilke and Buddha.

'I travel, you see', 'I think' and 'I can read'

These titles seem to say;

But I remember You, Love is my Creed,

Poem for J.,

The ladies' choice, discountenance my patter

For several seconds;

From somewhere in this (as in any) matter

A moral beckons.

Should poets bicycle-pump the human heart

Or squash it flat?

Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;

Girls aren't like that.

We men have got love well weighed-up; our stuff

Can get by without it.

Women don't seem to think that's good enough;

They write about it,

And the awful way their poems lay them open

Just doesn't strike them.

Women are really much nicer than men;

No wonder we like them.

Deciding this, we can forget those times

We sat up half the night

Chockfull of love, crammed with bright thoughts, names, rhymes,

And couldn't write.

Kingsley Amis

1922-195

THE JOURNAL OF SOCIETY

Oh, have you seen the Tattlesnake and have you seen what's in it,
About - dear me! Tut! What's his name? I'll tell you in a minute.
Thwaites? No, not Thwaites. McCorquodale? No, Gillingwater? Coutts?
The man who wears a high-crowned hat and patent-leather boots.

In philanthropic circles he is known as 'Ready Bob;
I think he lives out Kilburn way and rides a chestnut cob.
He gets it in the Tattlesnake! I wonder how he feels
When all his friends their shoulders shrug and turn upon their heels.

We thought him such a thoroughbread! And now it's all found out,
They'd hardly dare to write like that, if there were any doubt.
Besides, twixt you and me, there was a something queer
About his early history, I think I used to hear.

You don't remember? Well, I do; although I could not say
Precisely what the story was, at such a distant day.
These things will always hang about a fellow's after-life,
Oh, now I know! Yes. Was there not some talk about his wife?

Or else it was his sister, or his mother, or his aunt;
Though if I'm asked to give the facts, I frankly say I can't.
But get the Tattlesnake, my boy; you'll find it worth the money,
Unless, of course, you're one of those, who don't find scandal funny.

That class of writing lacks, I own, the literary zeal
To add a charm to Addison, or polish put on Steele,
Between the Tattlesnake and them it's not a case of choosing;
But personality, if dull, is in its way amusing;

Although the way's not that of wit, nor graciousness, nor grammar,
You would not have a rapier-point upon a blacksmith's hammer!
But what of that? On certain ears wit blunted tells the best,
And satire glads the public heart when as a libel dressed.

Of course, I don't defend the thing: It's bad in many ways;
But is not this 'the golden age'? And I suppose it pays.
So get the Tattlesnake.  -  It's dead? Bless me! You don't mean that?
Well, after all, I'm not surprised. I thought it rather flat.

By chance I saw it once or twice, and then I found it slow;
That shameful article I read about a month ago.

But still some dirt will always stick; and long as he may live,
That that same dirt had not been flung a thousand pounds he'd give;  -

When all his old acquaintance cut and every urchin hoots
The man who wears the high-crowned hat and patent-leather boots.



Godfrey Turner
1825-1891

Writer and Journalist