Start the Week with Macarnie

We won’t gyp you Macarnie!


Here is some great blog-revelation through the verses below – great kick-start to the week.

Keep the poems coming …

Macarnie tells me that he writes poems all the time – drafts six a day and completes about two each day. He finds that it fills the gap in his life since he lost his wife four years ago. Here is a snapshot of how his life has developed into one that is all the richer for his poetry writing:

“I always wrote a few daft ditties , and the occasional poem swearing eternal love to my wife: you know the sort of thing: a bunch of flowers always seemed more complete with a little poem. It has now become my main hobby. I like to think of the thrusts against B liar as being useful, at least to me to vent the ire , without doing much good really. You asked about speed of writing : I tend to write the first line of maybe half a dozen possible themes during each day, and will then complete perhaps two a day. I do write quickly, with edits. I particularly like Boris’s style, and opposed to what some of the press seem to think, he has an incisive side which , I believe , he should show more.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Boris: dares utter what others think

Should it prove that there is a talent
For joining words up to make sense.
I’d gladly forego all those pleasures;
If I read someone climbed off the fence
The media would fain bury Boris;
They say that he’s prone to make gaffes
So what do they think about Tony,
Was the Black Watch a bundle of laughs?
Boris; the choice of the people
Dares utter what others just think
The simple, bald, truth of the matter
Our Country’s half way down the sink
Too many believe it’s just Boris:
Not so; there’s a Party somewhere.
If they’d only come in from the desert
One could see that there’s more than blond hair.
The last time: you voted for Tony,
Twas his teeth and his big boyish grin,
Now you see how he’s lied through the former,
Will you vote Bush’s Poodle back in?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Twit My Family

I like to twit my family somewhat, as this will show:
Another week has come and gone, I wonder where time goes
It’s easy seeing where it’s been. I’m older and it shows.
At least that’s what the family says . I still believe I’m young
My joints may creak a little, but still lisssom is my tongue
A wee bit tart at times, I fear, tinged with acid ; poison tipped
I unleash it only seldom: If I think that I’ve been gypped
I’m told I should know better at my age: that’s hard to take
Since habits of a lifetime are so very hard to break.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Love Story

I miss the gentle banter, as it flitted to and fro,

I miss the clink of glasses, as the drink began to flow,

I miss those little meetings, we’d sit and have a chat,

I miss the mealtime gatherings, no apologies for that

l miss the little arguments, which happened now and then,

I miss the spoken word a lot, no need for ink and pen

I miss the human element; the touch; the glance; the kiss

I can’t describe the savage longing , for all those things I miss .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So it isn’t just politics or love poems; I go where I fancy.
I’m retired, I live on my own and I have a dog for company.

That is more than enough from me.

Best blue blog regards

Macarnie

26 thoughts on “Start the Week with Macarnie”

  1. Ah,ha…the poets are alive and living on BJ’s blog. This is so cool. I must now go and compose something about Cheerleaders. Although like all of my best poems they tend to be a little surreal…

  2. Macarnie – what a pleasurable read. Not many of those around nowadays.
    Melissa – I offer my novice poster painting skills to the ‘Boris ‘tell it like it is’ electoral campaign.’ You can choose the font.

  3. Sure, send us some samples to our office:

    Boris Johnson MP
    House of Commons
    London
    SW1A 0AA

    they could be the best thing since Monet!

  4. ‘Crooked Timber’ came up with this interesting take on John Locke, it may be a little too ‘urban’ for some Telegraph readers:

    “I gotta viewa human nature that

  5. Tonight ( Mon.) on the news, NHS row

    It happens all too often: faecal matter hitting fan,
    And when it does, it really makes you think.
    You think you’ll not survive it, but then you find you can :
    Leaving just the simple matter of the stink.
    In the world of politicians, it happens every day
    The promises of what they cannot give
    Hoping you’ll forget just what it was they had to say
    And you end up having lost the will to live
    Promise: shorter waiting lists, for those who need an op
    Keep confusing sets of records: now that’s true
    Release a bulletin to catch the press out; on the hop
    But still the last one in the theatre is you.
    God knows how big the budget, on management is spent,
    There used to be a Matron: only one
    Wards were clean, the nurses keen, you might say, ” heaven sent”.
    But now the super bugs are having fun
    Labour’s fighting rearguard actions, to try to save the day,
    But the spin created doesn’t do the trick
    There’s not a single thing believed, which labour’s lot might say
    Words won’t cure the NHS from being sick.

    Rock on Boris and Michael

  6. My ego shows up in my verse,
    It’s bad: but it could have been worse.
    I’m fascinated by death,
    To my very last breath,
    Ergo , ego ends up in a hearse.

    D’escartes, that old thinker of note,
    Made a comment, and this, here, I quote
    Cogito ergo sum,
    There you have it old chum,
    It’s true, and I learnt it by rote.

    Unfortunate: listening to me,
    Pessimistic you’re likely to be
    Life isn’t a ball,
    It’s a very close call,
    Between living and dying , you see.

    ———-
    I’m morbid: I know that quite well
    My morbidity’s rotten as Hell
    My thoughts dwell too long
    On my life, is that wrong,
    If it is: I wish someone would tell.

    Age is an illusion, I’d say,
    You live life, as it is, day by day,
    You’re as old as you feel
    And the cards which you deal
    Allow you, your own poker to play.

    You ought not gamble too high,
    If you do, and you lose, then you’ll cry
    A gambler should know
    When he’s lost enough dough,
    That it’s time to cash in, and then fly.

    As a coward at heart, I confess
    I can own up without too much mess,
    My sanity, I fear,
    Will decline, year on year
    Till I’m mad : then ,
    good night, dear Vienna: God bless

  7. Jozef,
    Just read your fascinating, and infinitely sad, story.Inspiring tale with a happy ending, You are safe, and no matter how black the night , there’s always the dawning.

    DIY

    If you’re feeling suicidal,
    and your life you’d like to end
    Never ask for help from strangers:
    Always best to ask a friend

    Thoughts on a possible suicide

    Suicide is so drastic; it’s the last thing one should do.
    Think of the alternatives; all the methods facing you:-
    Number one; take poison, but it tastes so very bad.
    Number two: there’s hanging: think of those stiff necks you’ve had,
    Number three: the oven; the stench of gas might make you ill.
    Number four: a well aimed bullet; but who’d pay the cleaning bill?
    Number five: leap off a bridge: heights always make you dizzy.
    With such a plethora of choice; you’re really in a tizzy.
    Overall, there’s nothing pleasant, to bring your problem to a close.
    Best call it off: you’ll soon forget
    that such a problem ever rose

  8. Tues. 10.0 0’clock News

    Another last ditch promise, the NHS again
    Another one to break: that’s what I say.
    Dr. Reid the Minister, desperation in his voice
    Says the waiting list confusion ends today.
    Has it finally registered, that lies come home to roost?
    They always fiddled waiting lists before.
    It’s not so much the waiting list: it is ACTION needs the boost.
    (As well as disinfection of the floor.)

  9. Macarnie, your poem two above has an Al Alvarez flavour and perhaps a little Sylvia Plath.

    See the new book:

    A guide who opens eyes
    A Writer’s Voice
    Al Alvarez
    Bloomsbury, 126pp, £12.99, ISBN 0747576289

    See review here:
    http://www.spectator.co.uk/archive_books.php?id=2704&issue=2005-02-12

    I was particularly moved to see that the reviewer Lloyd Evans wrote:
    “His analysis of Plath’s poem ‘The Moon and the Yew Tree’ is in itself persuasive enough to make me return to a body of work which I long ago dismissed as morbid hysteria”.

    I like that admission *take note old boy Philip Hensher (might make him relent about some Plath bullyisms)*

  10. You are too kind Melissa,
    I was never married to Ted Hughes, but I do sympathise with the dichotomy of Sllvia Plath’s
    relationship with herself.
    I am probably outstaying my welcome; so after posting these two totally different poems, I promise I will not hog the site.
    ,
    Paralysed by shock, as I lost my founding rock,
    So many words of love were left unsaid.
    The days, without an end, with which I must contend,
    Are empty as I lie upon my bed,
    Though months have drifted by in the blinking of an eye,
    I feel she’s with me, as t’were just yesterday,
    Her memories never dim, and often, on a whim,
    I’ll talk to her, for there’s still so much to say.
    Though acclimatised to loneliness; it’s really not my way,
    And the company of a mate I have not sought,
    She’s the only one for me, ever was and still shall be
    Till the everlasting ticket I have bought.
    ============================================
    And in different vein;

    Eating abroad

    It’s funny what you miss when you can’t have it
    In particular, the food you know from home,
    We’ve all been there, I know; when to Italy we go,
    And we wonder at the sight of Peter’s Dome
    We look round for a restaurant or a cafe;then we find one, and we start to lick our lips.
    First we read the menu: there’s nowt but foreign muck,
    There’s nothing there with which to come to grips
    Antipasto and linguini; spaghetti; fettucini;
    But there’s not the merest hint of fish and chips.

    In Paris; it’s le weekend; you’ll enjoy it; come what may;
    You’re getting pretty peckish about noon
    There’s a bistro on the corner; take a seat; it’s only fair
    You’d like to eat al fresco; you’re hungry; so real soon.
    The menu (en francais ), you find quite enchante
    As your wife upon her cassis gently sips,
    Escargots avec herbes fines, if you like good French cuisine:
    Hommard thermidor to tickle taste bud’s tips
    Mais; sacre bleu ma chere, you could have my bloody share
    If I could only have a plate of fish and chips.

    Moving down to Munich, its autumn after all
    And beer is flowing like a mountain stream
    The Loewenbraeu Bier Keller is full to overstretch
    And the oompah bands are playing like a dream
    But now I’m feeling peckish; getting ready for a meal
    “Herr Ober! Speisekarte bitte:” I need to see, he quips;
    There’s Sauerkraut mit Rippchen: Eisbein mit Puree
    There’s nothing on the menu for which my heart does flips.
    Even Bockwurst; Jaeger Platte, no! There’s nothing that could touch;
    My beloved British favourite: fish and chips

  11. You know how to rock the foundations Macarnie,

    It is only in the hindsight that life reveals whether the foundation is built on sand or stone … Poems and prose by Sylvia are too filled with many paradoxes – Are all suicides wrong just like the generalisations?

    So many oxymorons deep within our very own skin. It is a brave poet to predict any prophetic generalisations

    PS: That special kindness of the strangers – soul to soul – touch is appreciated Macarnie … May you have many, many, more revelations and without any self-censored attachments to them!

  12. Last night, on channel 5 it was
    Politics, right there in Britain’s face.
    It probed what we in Britain want
    For each colour, yes and race
    The Tory leader Howard
    Did a really splendid job
    If he had been a boy scout
    I’d have said he’d earned his bob,
    Some people nigh unravelled,
    But Michael held the ends
    He might have made an enemy
    But he made lots of friends.
    I know this site’s for Boris
    But it’s for the Party too
    Who wins the next election
    Depends on votes from you.
    For we are the electorate
    Politics is their game
    So first, let’s get the Party in
    Then; worry ’bout the name.

  13. Thank you for the unexpected invitation,
    When Boris is PM: you’ll be a Dame,

    The week was full of interest , dear Melissa
    I’ve enjoyed the fifteen minute Warhol ‘fame’
    ————————–
    Another dawn, with more new stealth taxation
    Even though that’s not a word that they’ll admit
    If, post the poll, it’s still New Labour’s Nation
    We’ll end up being paupers: Holy S**t

  14. Melissa

    If you, in the very near future,
    Are not dubbed as a Dame of the realm;
    It will only be because Boris
    Hasn’t taken his place at the helm.
    Elizabeth II,our dear Sovereign ,
    Should touch both your shoulders with sword;
    Since your Doric support for our Boris
    Deserves better than verbal reward.

  15. …Macarnie – just as so often with Boris, I had to reach for the dictionary to check on a word – Doric. Yay! something new learnt today.

    Very classic – Boris would heartily approve!

  16. Melissa. You are unlucky that I couldn’t find a suitably complimentary rhyme for Ionic. Goodnight!

    To steal from the Bard; or maybe to borrow
    To part, it’s been said, is such sweet sorrow.
    We learned this in school, remember; my dear
    Partir-toujours est un peu mourir,
    Far worse; and this I’m bound to state
    Is when my train is running late

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