The Adventures of Aloysius Humblebrag
Aloysius Humblebrag knows little of finance
(Yet his shares would make a Malcolm weep).
Aloysius Humblebrag believes in process
(But his poems are only seen in the Best Places).
Aloysius Humblebrag hates blogs like football
(Though he once wrote a villanelle about football
called “Aiming For Smaller Posts.” So amusing!)
Aloysius loves the working classes
(in Theory, which is an island near Manus).
Aloysius doesn’t read much written by women
(All this stuff about gender is so tedious, he opines.)
Aloysius Humblebrag has composed his epitaph,
and just managed to edit it to tombstone size.
(We all pray that he will publish that very soon.
I, for one, will give it a most positive review.)
P.S. Cottier
We all know poets like Aloysius, I’m sure.
Now I am dragging my exhausted carcass off to try and also write a poem for 365 + 1. We’ll see if I can last a month; there are people who have been doing it for six months! That site is well worth a look, although I am finding the process of writing something every day difficult. Like Aloysius, I love the emphasis on process (really, in my case), but the process must be made concrete during this time, which is challenging. (The concrete need not be set, but it must at least be mixed and trowelled.)
This blog remains my true sweetheart.
The poet I dislike is writing
He frowns, and two buttocks
appear on the outside
of the vertical line
creasing from nose to baldness.
He finds the word for the poem,
the exact right nugget,
and squeezes it from his head.
He wipes it on the paper.
A study in brown, he continues.
He strains towards immortality.
P.S. Cottier
Wistful and vicious
Now from Wednesday June 1st, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day at a different site, called Project 365 + 1. Here’s the link. I’ll see how it goes for a month. But poetry will continue to appear here, usually on Tuesdays, even if I may lapse into egregious loveliness from time to time.
Death to all poetry gardens!
In my garden I grow hebetude
just near the wistfulsteria.
The nodding fields of dilligafs
raise two-petal fingers,
yellowed with gorgeous nicotine.
(They hate the word roseate,
beloved of neat poetry gardeners.)
Then the rose ate the budgie,
and westringia strangled the cat.
P.S.Cottier
Looks a tad roseate to me
I’ve become heartily sick of a certain type of Very Nice Poem which moves too easily between description of nature as a mere pretty thing and the poet’s (often fairly tedious) personal reflections. Doesn’t mean I won’t write one again, but I will slap myself with a tulip as I do so.
In June I will be attempting to write a poem a day at another site; more on that soon. I’ll also keep posting at least once a week here. So now I’m off to tend the worm-poem farm, to help with the fervid compostition.
Next week: Less puns.
Tuesday poem: Third in a long series of nasty little poems
April 25, 2016
Third in a long series of nasty little poems
Her stilettos so sharp
her brain the chewing gun
beneath one heel;
occasionally a thought sticks.
P.S. Cottier
Image by MOs810, CC-BY-SA-3.0
I may take a break from all this nastiness next week and write a Lovely Poem About Puppies. Or not. Particularly after I just read Of Mice and Men.
Tuesday poem: Second in a long series of nasty little poems
April 18, 2016
A ‘brilliant young man’ from Sydney
Unfortunately ruptured a kidney —
For his black jeans won’t zip
Round the tenure of hip,
Which perplexed our ‘young’ man from Sydney.
I am the last person in the world to suggest that people should dress in an ‘age-appropriate’ way, which for women seems to mean a sudden desire for demure suits and mousy blonde bobs past the age of forty. Neither am I inclined to judge people by their size.
But when you see a fellow who is sailing into late middle age rigged out in a grungy something that would challenge a very fit twenty-two year old, well it’s not good, my dear. It’s not good approaching, and it’s infinitely worse from behind. Mental vanity can sometimes be expressed in inability to see the body, let alone to mark its changes. Play and pastiche in clothes are one thing, but black skinny jeans are quite another.
Next week I promise a return to my normal politically astute observations of the world. Either that or more dodgy style tips from one who tends to favour Rorscharch blotches in neon colours.
This series is proving great fun and shows no sign of ever ending. This poem was actually the fourth one I have written, but as the first one was also about a woman, I wanted a man to feature as well! And the third is so toxic (and identifiable) that I may keep that for my own amusement.
You can see which other poets are posting on Tuesday by checking out the sidebar here.
PS Cottier 