Poetry Corner
The sea is wild,
The dolphins swim free.
For this is true,
For the eye you can only see.
Now comes midnight,
The enemies are near.
The dolphin shakes with terror and fear.
These beautiful creatures,
Where have they gone?
We must stop man from destroying them,
It's so wrong.
I honestly can't decide which I like more - the sheer poetry of it (who are the enemies? would a dolphin shake with fear? why does this only happen at midnight?) or the mental image of a twenty-eight-year-old woman sitting in her kitchen in the West Midlands, rereading it and thinking "Yup, happy with that. I think I'll send it to a magazine* so that the entire readership can revel in my engaging wordcraft". Genius.
In other news, I am exhausted after a hectic evening of hot tub hi-jinks over at Fifi Sis' house. The Other Half is off to Tenerife for a week (what a terrible strain his job is) so please be aware that you will need to comment in your thousands to keep my morale boosted until his return on Friday. In return, I promise I won't talk about my divorce** any more.
Carry on.
* I am fully aware that it's my own fault for being addicted to the sort of magazines that print this stuff. So sue me.
** I do however reserve the right to bang on endlessly about Robbie Williams as I am once more in the grip of a relentless celebrity crush.
The dolphins swim free.
For this is true,
For the eye you can only see.
Now comes midnight,
The enemies are near.
The dolphin shakes with terror and fear.
These beautiful creatures,
Where have they gone?
We must stop man from destroying them,
It's so wrong.
I honestly can't decide which I like more - the sheer poetry of it (who are the enemies? would a dolphin shake with fear? why does this only happen at midnight?) or the mental image of a twenty-eight-year-old woman sitting in her kitchen in the West Midlands, rereading it and thinking "Yup, happy with that. I think I'll send it to a magazine* so that the entire readership can revel in my engaging wordcraft". Genius.
In other news, I am exhausted after a hectic evening of hot tub hi-jinks over at Fifi Sis' house. The Other Half is off to Tenerife for a week (what a terrible strain his job is) so please be aware that you will need to comment in your thousands to keep my morale boosted until his return on Friday. In return, I promise I won't talk about my divorce** any more.
Carry on.
* I am fully aware that it's my own fault for being addicted to the sort of magazines that print this stuff. So sue me.
** I do however reserve the right to bang on endlessly about Robbie Williams as I am once more in the grip of a relentless celebrity crush.
posted by surly girl at 5:17 pm
17 Comments:
Oh dear god. I'm going to pour sulphuric acid into my eyes so I never have to look at that poem again.
Also, the next dolphin I meet is getting a slap - on general principle.
an eight year old woman?
what mags are we talking about here? sugar??
um, twenty eight?
um, DOH
well, if i will speed-read (but only because i really need to pee but can't be arsed to get up from the 'puter)
still, tell us which mag: i need to read more poems like this...
I think that you should give full credit to such a lovely poem. Please do reveal the author's name and the magazine it was printed in. I would like to subscribe immediately.
The dolphins rock
But it's a shame
That this woman's poem
Is so very lame.
elvira - that brought a tear to my eye. just beautiful.
lc - me and dolphins do not mix. i was threatened with dolphin-swimming prior to our mexican extravaganza but luckily iy was too expensive. there's a post about it somewhere but i can't be arsed to link to it.
or even "it". stupid keyboard.
I'm guessing this featured in the type of magazine that has a page devoted to photos of the readers' grandchildren pulling "amusing" faces and saying "amusing" things, and a column devoted to readers' tips on how to make a piece of tin foil last nine years?
Was there a true life story involving (please delete as applicable) adultery/teenage pregancy/bigamy/marriage to a serial killer?
Word verification: ibdump
An unfortunate syptom of Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
Sorry for the overuse of quotation marks above - I'm not sure what came over me.
Hello, I got back an hour ago from my holiday in Tunisia, where I saw not a single dolphin, but I knew you'd like me to comment here, so I have.
If poetry wasn't
a) almost universaly atrocious
or
b) wilfully obscure
more people would read it.
Ahh...poetry
The arsehole up which
Night-school types studying
Eng Lit
Disappear
After lecturers assure them
That we all have something
Profound
To say
Well
Apart from night-school types
Studying Eng Lit
With something
Profound
To say.
steve, that's really rather good, you know. i liked the intricate subtext which effectively juxtaposed man's inherent struggle with the collective unconscious (as expressed in the night-school metaphor)with the sheer futility of existence.
garfer, you may have summed it up exactly.
This is great. Hey, if it rhymes, it's a real poem and should be published. I guess.
I hope to god the staff of the magazine that published this is having a good chuckle. If I worked there I would get a kick out of showcasing the worst of the worst.
welcome, meegan. i rather suspect that's exactly what they're doing. i may have to start a "poem of the week" feature where some choice offerings can be lovingly critiqued (for "critiqued" read "mercilessly slaughtered")
Keep your chin up while OH is away. Stay away from bad poetry-it is not a mood enhancer. :-)
he only went today and i've spoken to him twice and i miss him horribly already. by friday i will be a snivelling wreck shuffling wretchedly around the flat in a grubby cardigan clutching a tear-stained picture of him.
pathetic, isn't it?
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