The poems you see here were brought into being by a
process known as "writing one line and then passing the piece of paper to the
person on your left who writes the next line and so on until it seems to be
finished or to have ground to a halt". I know it's not a snappy title for the
method but it does explain why they are, as they are!
Here they are:
Terrible wombats in league with satan
and toast with fish au-gratin.
Torture waiters chase the cook
disgraceful deeds on the holy book.
But little did the devil know
in the fires below
a few more joints for a final feast
made by God,
who's now deceased.
The Lament of Gillian Reynolds.
My choice this week on Radio Four
is tune to
As everything I've heard since June
repeats just something
How is it that when music comes
it's opera or
This can't be all that radio's for?
Let's Jive, let's
Saddam and Dubya came to tea
at Downing Street
Scones and buns and chocolate cake
disguised the fact it's
Saddam ate the chocolate cake
and Tony ate the
leaving Dubya there to make
kind commentations on the scones.
In the bitter grip of time
The sublime rhythm
of a clock
A beat to which the dance of life
Performs a sympathetic
The spring must one day all run out
The dance of
life must stop - but until then
The bitter grip of time
clocks and men.
Great poets walk.
Coleridge and Wordsworth went walking out one
Said Coleridge to Wordsworth "Now I've got something to
"You've got to sail on stranger seas,
To look beyond the distant
Whilst I trample on these daffodils,
Your boring poem kills"
"You claim immense imagination
Yet it's all from pills"
"I fear, dear sir," proud William said
write my best when you are dead!"