Fucking Wendy Cope, man. THIS is how you make writing a villanelle look easy. It's one of the most difficult forms, and she pulls it off in a poem that's understandable, fun, and GOOD. I much prefer poetry that works well without the need for super fancy language or obscure ideas. Lonely Hearts Can someone make my simple wish come true? Male biker seeks female for touring fun. Do you live in North London? Is it you? Gay vegetarian whose friends are few, I'm into music, Shakespeare and the sun, Can someone make my simple wish come true? Executive in search of something new - Perhaps bisexual woman, arty, young. Do you live in North London? Is it you? Successful, straight and solvent? I am too - Attractive Jewish lady with a son. Can someone make my simple wish come true? I'm Libran, inexperienced and blue - Need slim non-smoker, under twenty-one. Do you live in North London? Is it you? Please write (with photo) to Box 152. Who knows where it may lead once we've begun? Can someone make my simple wish come true? Do you live in North London? Is it you?
Here are a few excerpts from Joe Wenderoth's "Letter's to Wendy's." It's a series of short free-verse that he wrote on the comment cards while eating at Wendy's. This next one described a problem that I think a lot of writers deal with.
I loved the Shel Silverstein books, this makes me want to buy a copy of one of his books. This makes me think of all the books I had when I was a little tike, which is a bit off topic since they weren't all poetry books, but man there were some good ones. Caps for Sale, The Giving Tree, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, Harold and the Purple Crayon, The Berenstain Bears, Jumanji, Polar Express, etc, etc. I could go on for a while. Man that makes me nostalgic. Of course, non of them compared to one of my all time favorite picture books: It was about an elephant and his eleventh birthday, and in the end it turns out that (Spoiler!) the feast that he had prepared for his friends had been eaten while they played birthday games. The cool part was that there were clues hidden in puzzles on every page, and if you solved all of them then you could figure out who had eaten all the food. There were even some sealed pages at the back with the solution to all the puzzles, it was great. I also had one other favorite that I cannot remember the name of for the life of me, and I can't seem to find through Google searches. Something about a little bear or something waking up and not being able to find his pants (been there), but I remember all the art being a very artistic, photo-realistic kind of thing that was really neat. Ring any bells for anyone? Edit: Found it. Little Bear's Trousers.
Have to agree with Bill Watterson. Calvin and Hobbes dominated my middle school years, and certain scenarios still make me think of his strips. Like the other day somebody was talking about Poland and all I could think of was.... well, I'll just post it: Made me giggle.
It's not exactly kids stuff, as little by Bukowski is. But when you're at your bitterest and most cynical, the poem "Bluebird" is a good read. Semi-inspired by an old RMMB board member who introduced me to the poem, I've been considering getting a tattoo related to it for some time now. Spoiler there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you. there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pur whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he's in there. there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe? there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep. I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad. then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there, I haven't quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it's nice enough to make a man weep, but I don't weep, do you? Also, the greatest Dr. Seuss book is The Lorax. It's not even close. To suggest otherwise is pure folly. He speaks for the motherfucking trees.
Let us not forget Yertle the Turtle. Possibly the finest book ever written on the subject of stacking turtles.
Wow, a lot of you were entertained with some real fancy pants shit when you were kids. Gene, Gene made a machine Joe, Joe made it go Art, Art let a fart Blew the whole damn thing apart Here I sit all broken hearted Tried to shit but only farted Then one day I took a chance Tried to fart, but shit my pants When you're sliding into first with your pants about to burst, Diarrhea. Diarrhea... etc. etc. I was a very gifted child.
This was read to us many many times as children from a dusty old book, often around an open fire, we loved it. This thread reminded me of it, so thanks for that. I was surprised how easy it was to find, the internets are an amazing place. It’s long, so don’t read it if you're a lazy little prick. Scotty's Wild Stuff Stoo Spoiler Scotty's Wild Stuff Stoo The cause of all the trouble Was McCabe, the jackeroo, Who had ordered what, facetiously, He’d christened “Wild Stuff Stew” He had shot a brace of pigeons And had brought them home unplucked; It was not the first occasion, And no wonder Scotty bucked As aside he threw the pigeons And addressed the jackeroo: “Ye’ll pluck those blinded pigeons, Or ye’ll get no blinded stoo.” But the jackeroo objected, And objected strongly, too. But Scotty didn’t argue much, He winked across at Blue And, turning to the slushy, said, “I’ll give him ‘Wild Stuff Stoo’.” The next day it was Sunday, and, Not having much to do, We all assisted Scotty In the making of a stoo. We raked along the wool-sheds, In the pens and round about – It was marvellous, all the wild things That us rousies fossicked out; There was Ginger found a lizard, Which they reckoned was a Jew – It was rather rough to handle, But it softened in the stew; Then Snowy found some hairy things Inside a musterer’s tent; And Splinter found a lady frog – And in the lady went. From McGregor, who’d been foxing, We obtained a skin or two, It should have gone to bootlace But it went into the stoo. Then someone found a “Kelly” That the boundary-rider shot – It was more or less fermented, Still, it went inside the pot; And Scotty found some insects With an overpowering scent, And the slushy trapped a mother mouse – And in poor mother went. There was some hesitation ’bout a spider in a tin: We didn’t like the small red spot, But Scotty dumped it in. There were a host of other things - I can’t recall the lot – That were cast into eternity Per medium of the pot. Those strange and weird concoctions That the Abos sometimes brew Would be as mild potations If compared with Scotty’s stew . . . And when the jackeroo arrived A happy man was he To find that Scotty, after all, Had cooked a stoo for tea. He rolled his eyes, and snuffed the fumes, ’twas dinkum stuff he swore; He complimented Scotty, and He passed his plate for more. And when we’d let him have his fill, We took him round to view A list of what had left this world To enter Scotty’s stew. I grant you there were wild things Connected with that stoo, But there was nothing wilder Than McCabe the jackeroo. He got the dries and then the shakes, And we felt shaky too; We were thinking of the spider With the red spot in the stoo. We rushed him to the homestead, They told him there ’twas flu, But us rousies, we knew better – It was Scotty’s “Wild Stuff Stoo”. But Scotty isn’t cooking now, For Scotty is long dead; They say he turned it in through booze At Thurlagoona shed; And away across the border There’s a certain jackeroo, Who for years has never tasted What he christened “Wild Stuff Stoo”.