Cracky Sherlock Poetry
April is International Poetry Month.
In February the bonus challenge for thegameison_sh was to write a bad love poem. Well, anyone can write a bad poem, so the challenge garnered lots of entries. Here are my submissions, which are all filks of great poems (I'm so fail I can't even be original with my bad poetry). I present them along with their original forms, for those who'd prefer reading good poetry :-)
I have replaced
the plums
that were in
the icebox
with fruit
you can probably
safely
eat for lunch
Forgive me
an experiment
in food
poisoning
William Carlos Williams
This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
I have thrown out
the head
that was in
the icebox
and which
you were certainly
saving
for testing
Be angry
But 'twas decaying
Such stench
and so old
I heard a bee buzz when I loved;
The stillness round my brain
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the London rain.
The eyes beside had lit with blue,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that first onset, when the queen
Be witnessed in her power.
I willed away my logic, signed
What portion of me
I could make assignable,- then
There interposed a bee,
With gold, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the dark and me;
And then the windows opened, and then
I could observe to see.
Emily Dickinson
I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.
The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.
I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable,-and then
There interposed a fly,
With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.
How do I love thee? Let me count measure the ways.
I love thee to the depth (8”) and breadth (22”) and height (5'8”)
My soul arms can reach, when feeling out of logic not in sight
For the ends of Being Brains and ideal Grace Genius.
I love thee to the level of every day's night's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle torchlight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right Taxis;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise Sense.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs cases, and with my child adulthood's faith reason.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
I have not had one word from him
Frankly I wish I were high
When he left, he laughed
a great deal; he said to me, "This parting must be
celebrated, Sherlock. I go eagerly."
I said, "Go, and be bored within a week
but remember (you know
well) whom you leave shackled by ennui
"If you forget me, think
of our gifts to Hermes
and all the cases that we shared
"all the knit caps,
Semtex vests, jumpers and
scarves twined around your BAMF neck
"rain and dust poured on your head
and on hard floors bodies with
all that they most dreaded beside them
"while no voices chanted
clues without ours,
no crime solved in London without deductions..."
Sappho
I have not had one word from her
Frankly I wish I were dead
When she left, she wept
a great deal; she said to me, "This parting must be
endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly."
I said, "Go, and be happy
but remember (you know
well) whom you leave shackled by love
"If you forget me, think
of our gifts to Aphrodite
and all the loveliness that we shared
"all the violet tiaras,
braided rosebuds, dill and
crocus twined around your young neck
"myrrh poured on your head
and on soft mats girls with
all that they most wished for beside them
"while no voices chanted
choruses without ours,
no woodlot bloomed in spring without song..."
I think that I shall never look upon
A poem lovely as Watson.
A John whose hungry mouth is prest
Against my lithe body's throbbing breast;
A soldier that looks at criminals all day,
And lifts his steady arm to slay;
A doctor that may in surgery wear
A sterile cap o'er his hair;
Upon whose bosom scars have lain;
Who intimately lives with pain.
Poems by genius may be written,
But only Mycroft could provide John Watson.
Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
The Love Song of J. Hamish Watson
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening lights up the London Eye
Like a corpse autopsied upon a table;
Let us go, through memorised alleys and streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in overnight trains and cabs
And Chinese restaurants and hospital labs:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of unswavering intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
I'll make all clear at the next visit.
At the scene the police come and go
Talking of my brilliance so.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do they ever think?" and, "Do I care?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With the thick luscious darkness of my hair-
[They will say: "How his hair curls like sin!"]
My swirling coat, my scarf mounting firmly to the chin,
My suit rich and modest, no adornment needed, no shiny pin-
[They will say: "I envy his body so lithe and thin!"]
Do I care
If I solve the universe?
In a minute there is time
For deductions of rapidity which others find perverse.
At the scene the police come and go
Talking of my brilliance so.
For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, and nights yet,
I have measured out my life with beakers and pipettes;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the traffic from outside the room.
How can I not presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all-
The eyes that I've placed in jars in microwaves,
And when they are captured, sprawling on a pin,
When they are pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To explain all the results of my days and ways?
How can I not presume?
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the bombs, the arguments, the tea,
Among the wreckage, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have deduced the matter with a smile,
To have sorted the universe into a ball
For an answer to some underwhelming question,
To say: "I am a genius, come to the wretched,
Come here to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a blanket round his head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the stakeouts and the suspects and the chase in
streets,
After the papers, after cups of tea, after the detritus
along the floor-
And this, and so much more?-
It's impossible for you to hear what I mean!
But as if a rolling suitcase threw dirt in splatters on a
stocking:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling on a chair or throwing off a coverall,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
No! I am not Prince Mycroft, nor was meant to be;
I'm a solitary man, that consents to
Hint toward progress, solve a scene or two
Clue the police; no doubt, those simple tools,
Self-assured, glad to be of use,
Direct yet tactful, and meticulous;
Full of clear sentence, not a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost obvious-
Always, at times, the cool.
I grow bored . . . I grow bored . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my pajamas more.
T. S. Eliot
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (abridged)
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
For I have known them all already, known them all:-
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all-
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”-
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-
And this, and so much more?-
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
And one original haiku:
Bullets in the walls
severed head in the icebox
yet I love you still
All the Sherlock poems from the challenge.
If you are inspired to write any poetry yourself (good, bad or just plain ugly :-) feel free to share it here!
In February the bonus challenge for thegameison_sh was to write a bad love poem. Well, anyone can write a bad poem, so the challenge garnered lots of entries. Here are my submissions, which are all filks of great poems (I'm so fail I can't even be original with my bad poetry). I present them along with their original forms, for those who'd prefer reading good poetry :-)
I have replaced
the plums
that were in
the icebox
with fruit
you can probably
safely
eat for lunch
Forgive me
an experiment
in food
poisoning
William Carlos Williams
This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
I have thrown out
the head
that was in
the icebox
and which
you were certainly
saving
for testing
Be angry
But 'twas decaying
Such stench
and so old
I heard a bee buzz when I loved;
The stillness round my brain
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the London rain.
The eyes beside had lit with blue,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that first onset, when the queen
Be witnessed in her power.
I willed away my logic, signed
What portion of me
I could make assignable,- then
There interposed a bee,
With gold, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the dark and me;
And then the windows opened, and then
I could observe to see.
Emily Dickinson
I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.
The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.
I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable,-and then
There interposed a fly,
With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.
How do I love thee? Let me count measure the ways.
I love thee to the depth (8”) and breadth (22”) and height (5'8”)
My soul arms can reach, when feeling out of logic not in sight
For the ends of Being Brains and ideal Grace Genius.
I love thee to the level of every day's night's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle torchlight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right Taxis;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise Sense.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs cases, and with my child adulthood's faith reason.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
I have not had one word from him
Frankly I wish I were high
When he left, he laughed
a great deal; he said to me, "This parting must be
celebrated, Sherlock. I go eagerly."
I said, "Go, and be bored within a week
but remember (you know
well) whom you leave shackled by ennui
"If you forget me, think
of our gifts to Hermes
and all the cases that we shared
"all the knit caps,
Semtex vests, jumpers and
scarves twined around your BAMF neck
"rain and dust poured on your head
and on hard floors bodies with
all that they most dreaded beside them
"while no voices chanted
clues without ours,
no crime solved in London without deductions..."
Sappho
I have not had one word from her
Frankly I wish I were dead
When she left, she wept
a great deal; she said to me, "This parting must be
endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly."
I said, "Go, and be happy
but remember (you know
well) whom you leave shackled by love
"If you forget me, think
of our gifts to Aphrodite
and all the loveliness that we shared
"all the violet tiaras,
braided rosebuds, dill and
crocus twined around your young neck
"myrrh poured on your head
and on soft mats girls with
all that they most wished for beside them
"while no voices chanted
choruses without ours,
no woodlot bloomed in spring without song..."
I think that I shall never look upon
A poem lovely as Watson.
A John whose hungry mouth is prest
Against my lithe body's throbbing breast;
A soldier that looks at criminals all day,
And lifts his steady arm to slay;
A doctor that may in surgery wear
A sterile cap o'er his hair;
Upon whose bosom scars have lain;
Who intimately lives with pain.
Poems by genius may be written,
But only Mycroft could provide John Watson.
Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
The Love Song of J. Hamish Watson
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening lights up the London Eye
Like a corpse autopsied upon a table;
Let us go, through memorised alleys and streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in overnight trains and cabs
And Chinese restaurants and hospital labs:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of unswavering intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
I'll make all clear at the next visit.
At the scene the police come and go
Talking of my brilliance so.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do they ever think?" and, "Do I care?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With the thick luscious darkness of my hair-
[They will say: "How his hair curls like sin!"]
My swirling coat, my scarf mounting firmly to the chin,
My suit rich and modest, no adornment needed, no shiny pin-
[They will say: "I envy his body so lithe and thin!"]
Do I care
If I solve the universe?
In a minute there is time
For deductions of rapidity which others find perverse.
At the scene the police come and go
Talking of my brilliance so.
For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, and nights yet,
I have measured out my life with beakers and pipettes;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the traffic from outside the room.
How can I not presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all-
The eyes that I've placed in jars in microwaves,
And when they are captured, sprawling on a pin,
When they are pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To explain all the results of my days and ways?
How can I not presume?
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the bombs, the arguments, the tea,
Among the wreckage, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have deduced the matter with a smile,
To have sorted the universe into a ball
For an answer to some underwhelming question,
To say: "I am a genius, come to the wretched,
Come here to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a blanket round his head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the stakeouts and the suspects and the chase in
streets,
After the papers, after cups of tea, after the detritus
along the floor-
And this, and so much more?-
It's impossible for you to hear what I mean!
But as if a rolling suitcase threw dirt in splatters on a
stocking:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling on a chair or throwing off a coverall,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
No! I am not Prince Mycroft, nor was meant to be;
I'm a solitary man, that consents to
Hint toward progress, solve a scene or two
Clue the police; no doubt, those simple tools,
Self-assured, glad to be of use,
Direct yet tactful, and meticulous;
Full of clear sentence, not a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost obvious-
Always, at times, the cool.
I grow bored . . . I grow bored . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my pajamas more.
T. S. Eliot
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (abridged)
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
For I have known them all already, known them all:-
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all-
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”-
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-
And this, and so much more?-
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
And one original haiku:
Bullets in the walls
severed head in the icebox
yet I love you still
All the Sherlock poems from the challenge.
If you are inspired to write any poetry yourself (good, bad or just plain ugly :-) feel free to share it here!