whilst sorting out some crap earlier today, i came across one of the myriad notebooks that breed in dark corners of my house.  this one had (unusually) quite a lot of writing in it.  flicking through to see what that writing might be, i discovered my journal notes from our trip to France last summer (*happy sigh*), and the following horrific doggerel, which may need a little explanation, lest you think i have gone completely batshit (as opposed to just a bit batshit, which if you don’t already think i am, you clearly haven’t been reading).

some time ago, i bought The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry.  there were a couple of reasons for this purchase.  one of those is that i enjoy Stephen Fry’s voice.  i can’t recall him ever being uninteresting about anything.  the other reason was that i was completely baffled by poetry, and thought this may be the perfect opportunity to unbaffle myself – even just a little.  i thought the combination of Mr F’s humour and knowledge may help to make this subject a little more interesting and easier to understand.  however, it seems that even the great Fry cannot engage my interest in the formal structure of poetry.  christ, it’s dull.  however, at least i now know what iambic pentameter is.  hurrah!  i learned something new!

before i retired gracefully from the arena of formally structured poetry (i.e. threw in the towel because it was difficult and dull), i engaged in several of the exercises at the end of each chapter.  the result of one of which turned up in today’s notebook, and which i now lay here for your sniggering derision.  please – feel free.  i did. 😉

iambic sex(?)tameter (i dunno – the bloody thing’s got six feet, all right?!) (also alliterive arsing about…) concerning food:

with the dantiest dribble of damask plum jam

my rice cakes really are radically improved

but what i would really wish to be eating

i’m not to go near – the merest nibble is death

had i but half a choice, held on my plate would be

Aunty Pat’s astonishing and awesome roast dinner

never was food so wonderfully, wickedly good

or perhaps a plate of Kate’s perfect cauli curry

ice cream is not called for – can’t have it in the house

it would get eaten greedily, giving only regret

and besides, my bloody teeth would be on strike

chocolate’s out, oatmeal, too.  one too sweet, the other not enough

lentil soup, believe it or not, deliciously might serve

but really the bald truth is i badly want crisps

walkers plain with salt would just turn the trick

i’ve tried to deny it, tame it, truly my desire’s hot

for the salt and slippery oil, shutting my arteries

clanging and calling to Charon of the boat

but i wobble when i walk, or just when i move

so i’ll stick to the rice cakes, smile, and munch.

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