Today we bid farewell to national poetry month. Having waited until the last possible moment to get in on the poetry love, I do want to point out that I am technically not late since this is being posted on April 30th.
A couple things: I am not a poet. I used to be, back when poetry meant producing rhyming couplets and calling it a day, but after we were supposed to outgrow that stage, I lost interest and talent and have been defiantly wading in the shallow waters of my rhyming pool ever since. Occasionally I have turned out works of what I like to call poetry, and will continue to defend them as such. You, of course, are free to think otherwise. I will not judge you for it.
Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I will.
Two notes on the poem below:
1) The picture is of Caravaggio's painting, "David with the Head of Goliath." 2) It should be "thee," not "thou" in the second line, but I wrote it as thou before I thought about it and I sort of thought it was funny that way. Also my friend Sarah told me she thought it should stay thou, and she's smart and has a great sense of humor and also generally makes sense, which are compelling reasons for me to listen to her. (Interesting side note: when John Lennon was singing "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" to Paul McCartney, he accidentally sang "two foot small" instead of "two foot tall," which was what he had written. Paul liked the phrase as it was sung, and said it should stay that way. And it did. So there you go.)
David with the
Head of Goliath And Mother (offstage)
God’s name, what has he brought home now?
Young man, I've had it up
to here with thou!
Don’t thinketh thee
can bring that in
Thou dost not knoweth
where it’s been!
Goliath or Gabriel, I
don’t care.
His head stays
outside, is that clear?
I’ve just spent the
morning cleaning,
Last thing I need’s a
head that’s bleeding.
Thou waltzeth back
here from a fight,
Disheveled and thine
hair a sight,
Expecting–what–Congratulations?
Hmph! What thou needs is castigation.
I do not calleth
thee a winner.
What I calleth thee
is late for dinner.
Now return that head
where it belongeth,
Then wash thine
hands, and run alongeth.
And if you've read this far, here is a poem by Ogden Nash as a reward for your perseverance:
Further Reflections on Parsley
Parsley
Is Gharsley
Was there ever a better poet? I ask you!
Happy last day of Poetry Month!
