August’s poem (more Mother Goose)
A colleague of Karin’s asked if I fought in the Vietnam War.
I didn’t. I was born in 1981.
POTUS 45’s house was raided by the FBI. Makes you wonder where they got the warrant, Karin’s colleague said.
From the judge, Karin told him. (We don’t watch all those crime shows for nothing.)
On Facebook, one of my friends has been comparing Trump’s “martyrdom” to that of William Wallace, in Braveheart.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
R.I.P. Raymond Briggs, author-illustrator of The Snowman and other books, whose work I didn’t encounter until I had children. He illustrated a rather large volume of Mother Goose. Like Rosemary Wells, he got his texts from the Opies (Iona & Peter).
I am now going to discuss some formal qualities of this fine poem, which I hardly ever do; my remarks will be obvious ones. Each odd-numbered line slant-rhymes its own middle. But the even-numbered lines don’t just rhyme each other: they beat their ending-sounds to death. The effect is tidy and off-kilter – and almost sickeningly jaunty for something that treats the cold-blooded murder of little animals.
Briggs’s (Quino-like) drawing of the bullets replicates this monstrous jollity.
The Opies transcribed lots of chants used for schoolyard games like “Miss Suzie,” jumping rope, etc. This poem has a similar feel, though I’d lay ten to one it was written by an adult.
I didn’t. I was born in 1981.
POTUS 45’s house was raided by the FBI. Makes you wonder where they got the warrant, Karin’s colleague said.
From the judge, Karin told him. (We don’t watch all those crime shows for nothing.)
On Facebook, one of my friends has been comparing Trump’s “martyrdom” to that of William Wallace, in Braveheart.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
R.I.P. Raymond Briggs, author-illustrator of The Snowman and other books, whose work I didn’t encounter until I had children. He illustrated a rather large volume of Mother Goose. Like Rosemary Wells, he got his texts from the Opies (Iona & Peter).
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
There was a little man, and he had a little gun,
And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead;
He went to the brook, and shot a little duck,
Right through the middle of the head, head, head.
He carried it home to his old wife Joan,
And bade her a fire for to make, make, make,
To roast the little duck he had shot in the brook,
And he’d go and fetch her the drake, drake, drake.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
I am now going to discuss some formal qualities of this fine poem, which I hardly ever do; my remarks will be obvious ones. Each odd-numbered line slant-rhymes its own middle. But the even-numbered lines don’t just rhyme each other: they beat their ending-sounds to death. The effect is tidy and off-kilter – and almost sickeningly jaunty for something that treats the cold-blooded murder of little animals.
Briggs’s (Quino-like) drawing of the bullets replicates this monstrous jollity.
The Opies transcribed lots of chants used for schoolyard games like “Miss Suzie,” jumping rope, etc. This poem has a similar feel, though I’d lay ten to one it was written by an adult.
