When did you last jot down a limerick? Perhaps at primary school, maybe a rude one at high school, a clever one at work or in a writing class? Chances are you have never heard or read a limerick (depending on your age or location) and if this is the case, you are missing out on centuries of tireless amusement.
In my opinion limericks are not classy nor really poetic, and can be risqué, but they are a fun five-lines with a specific rhyme scheme (AABBA) and a nice sing-song beat ending with a great punch line. Let me show you two examples with classic endings: (A) “I sat next to the Duchess at tea, Distressed as a person could be. Her rumblings abdominal Were simply phenomenal – And everyone thought it was me!” (Anonymous) (B) There was an old man of Nantucket Who kept all his cash in a bucket; But his daughter, named Nan, Ran away with a man, And as for the bucket, Nantucket. (Anonymous)
Now I will show you four of my own attempts at limerick writing and notice the rhyming format: (1) There was an old lady from Wolfbane, Day after day she had pain. She cursed the cold weather, And her shoes made of leather, But really she suffered chilblain. (2) Brisbane city is deemed arcane, Said to have sunshine never rain. Such a fable the locals dictate, To keep a high tourism rate, And increase their monetary gain. (3) There was a young man from Bugbane, Who suffered from bad stomach pain. He ate onions on the job, His boss said ‘you’re fired Bob’. So he went home on the early train. (4) Wild wind on the beach today, No children or dogs out to play. I zipped up my jacket, Trussed up like a packet, Then my hat flew into the bay!
MY PHOTOGRAPHS show a carpet python resting on the pathway where I walk beside the creek. It prompted this blog entry. I have added the wonderful D.H. Lawrence ‘Snake’ poem in a similar vein although much deeper and more meaningful than something I could write. 🧡 Gretchen Bernet-Ward 2024
MY EXPERIENCE felt almost primordial. The snake must have just woken from its winter slumber and was enjoying the September spring sunshine and the warmth of the concrete path. It looked a bit thin and I hoped it wasn’t unwell. Perhaps it had not yet eaten, not fattened up on creek rats and other creatures of the murky water mixed with suburban drains. This carpet snake had chosen to stop just in line with the shadows of the tree branches. An instinctive gesture? But I saw him first. I spoke to him/her (are living things really its) in a conversational tone saying ‘Now don’t you go up that embankment to the road. It wouldn’t be a good idea.’ The head turned and watched me as I snapped two photos and walked up the grassy embankment and stepped between the low pine-log fence posts. I looked around but saw no-one. It was nice to know a cyclist or mother with a pram were not coming this way. Poor python, he’d never get lunch if he attracted a crowd. I hope that patterned smooth skinned creature grows and matures and lives a quiet life. He’s probably asleep now on a flat grey rock at the edge of the creek, a bulge in that otherwise slim body. I went on my way to post a letter, how old-fashioned of me. GBW.
‘Snake’ is one of the best-known poems from D. H. Lawrence’s nature-themed collection Birds, Beasts and Flowers (1923) D.H. Lawrence was born 11th September 1885, Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, England and died 2nd March 1930, in Vence, France. He was an English author of novels, short stories, poems, plays, essays, travel books and letters. His ‘Snake’ poem is in the public domain.
‘SNAKE’ by POET D.H. LAWRENCE A snake came to my water-trough On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, To drink there.
In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree I came down the steps with my pitcher And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.
He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough And rested his throat upon the stone bottom, And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness, He sipped with his straight mouth, Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body, Silently.
Someone was before me at my water-trough, And I, like a second-comer, waiting.
He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do, And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do, And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment, And stooped and drank a little more, Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me He must be killed, For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.
And voices in me said, If you were a man You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.
But must I confess how I liked him, How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless, Into the burning bowels of this earth?
Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel honoured? I felt so honoured.
And yet those voices: If you were not afraid you would kill him.
And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more That he should seek my hospitality From out the dark door of the secret earth.
He drank enough And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken, And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black, Seeming to lick his lips, And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air, And slowly turned his head, And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream, Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.
And as he put his head into that dreadful hole, And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered further, A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole, Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after, Overcame me now his back was turned.
I looked round, I put down my pitcher, I picked up a clumsy log And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.
I think it did not hit him, But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste, Writhed like lightning, and was gone Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front, At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.
And immediately I regretted it. I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act! I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.
And I thought of the albatross, And I wished he would come back, my snake.
For he seemed to me again like a king, Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld, Now due to be crowned again.
And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords of life. And I have something to expiate: A pettiness.
POSTSCRIPT Morelia spilota, commonly known as the carpet python, is a large snake of the family Pythonidae found in Australia, New Guinea, Bismarck Archipelago, and the northern Solomon Islands.
MY POST IS DEDICATED TO ALICE EATHER INDIGENIOUS POET FROM ARNHEM LAND, NORTHERN TERRITORY, AUSTRALIA.
In her powerful poem “Yúya Karrabúra” (Fire is Burning), Indigenous poet Alice Eather paints a complex picture of two colliding worlds of which she is a product. In the middle, Alice brings the two worlds together “to sit beside this fire and listen”. Alice was an Aboriginal Australian slam poet, environmental campaigner and teacher from Australia’s Northern Territory.
A moving YouTube video of Alice’s own recital was posted 9th July 2019 and I acknowledge her poetry on ThoughtsBecomeWords 9th July 2024 for NAIDOC Week.
Alice Eather quote “I walk between these two worlds, a split life, split skin, split tongue, split kin. Everyday these two worlds collide and I’m living and breathing this story of black and white.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice_Eather#
Poster title ‘Urapun Muy’ by Artist Deb Belyea 2024
NAIDOC Week is celebrated in Australia from Sunday 7th July to Sunday 14th July. The acronym NAIDOC stands for National Aborigines and Islanders Day Observance Committee. NAIDOC has its roots in the 1939 Day of Mourning, becoming a week long event in 1975, and from the first Sunday to second Sunday in July each year.
I acknowledge the Traditional Owners and Custodians of the lands on which I live and work and pay my respects to Indigenous Elders past, present and emerging. Sovereignty has never been ceded. It always was and always will be, Aboriginal land. Vale Alice Eather.
Poet notation:“If a bicycle could have a soul this is a poem that my favourite bike ‘Loretta’ would have written to me after a long period of neglect as I recovered from some injury or other.” July 2014
This 1908 poem extract from William Blocksidge captures the mood.
“And, interspersed among the spangled sheen, Looks out in differing shades the darkened green— A background whereupon, in outline bold, Stands the rich mintage, silver mixed with gold.”
For all its floridness, this poem is quite cutting and the topics are quite revealing. Our modern sensibilities tend to forget the trials and trauma of establishing a town in a new land. Not to mention the brutality towards convict labour and the rightful Indigenous population. Interestingly this is the year the Victorian Government passed the Adult Suffrage Bill 1908 granting female suffrage for the first time. Women’s suffrage is the right of women to vote in elections. Australia was the first nation in the world to grant women these dual rights.
For those keenly interested in the entire version of this past century’s rather long yet insightful poem from a man whose real estate family is well-known in Brisbane, Queensland, below is a copy from AIC for your reading pleasure. Strong billy tea is recommended with damper and golden syrup if you have it handy.
Brisbane, thou art a city of the sun, A forest queen, a sea-nymph, joined in one! Here Summer loves to spin her lengthened rule, While Winter’s care is but the earth to cool; Here golden wealth, from many a distant plain, Is piled in ships, to swim the billowy main — Here Commerce floods the tides, and minions toil To prove the measure of her mounting spoil!
How often, perched above the hilly bounds That wrap thee as a nest its brood surrounds, Wooing the wind that bears the ocean’s breath, And many a tale to such as listeneth — How often have I lovingly surveyed The scene before my wondering gaze displayed — The lengthening spires, that point the lofty way While yet the soul is idling in its clay; The spacious pile that lifts its stately head; The winding river, to its lover wed; The hills that rise above to kiss the sky; The valleys that within their shadows lie; The shipping crowding on the silver stream; The living threads that through the mazes teem!
And when soft Night, in sable vestment gown’d, Has wrapped her stole thy tranquil form around, ’Tis then, in panoramic splendour viewed, Thou’d be by fond Imagination wooed; For then, fair Brisbane, when thy fading bowers, Tipped with their beacons, turn to fairy towers, Thy beauty scorns the bounds of words, for dumb Are these, and ’neath the burden soon succumb! Now myriad lamps, upon its margin’s crest, With gleaming pennons light the river’s breast; And where the city’s constellation lies The glimmering haze ascends to gild the skies. The villas blazing on the craggy hills Augment the golden flood the night that fills; The bridge displays, above the Garden Bend, Its fiery lines, that in the cluster blend.
And, interspersed among the spangled sheen, Looks out in differing shades the darkened green — A background whereupon, in outline bold, Stands the rich mintage, silver mixed with gold. Now sound (for Night has giv’n the magic key) The pregnant chords of heavenly harmony; And softly floats across, in mingling rhyme, The mellowing cadence of the pealing chime — Such tones as wake the soul’s celestial lyre When pensive memories the theme inspire; And, each with each in concord blending true, With holy rapture flood the heart anew.
Ah, was it but a century ago When thou did’st in the womb of earth lie low, And yet unborn to bear the shame of men, And, rising, throw the burden off again? — When down the hollow gale, that trembling fled, At dusk and dawn, the wailing for the dead In eerie numbers woke the echoes weird, Till, floating down the vale, it disappeared? And was it where those stately buildings stand, Where lofty Art displays her lavish hand, That plenteous game before the huntsmen sped? Or down the maze the dusky dancer led? That round the turrwan, with his magic stone, The sick revived by simple faith alone; Or, failing this, full-toothsome morsels made To tempt their brothers to the festal shade?
Ah, yes, those primal scenes, with plenty crown’d, Made all the wooded valley hallowed ground, Till came the time — ill-omened, true, for them — When, first by truce and then by stratagem, The settlement unfolded in the vale, ’Neath Logan’s iron rule to fret and quail!
What curses now the trembling wretches spend As ’neath the blows their bleeding bodies bend — As, shackled to the rude triangle’s lines, The gory flood th’ adjoining ground defines! I seem to hear again the clanking chain, The creaking treadmill grinding small the grain; And see the convict turn the stubborn clod, Or, ’neath the pine, the sluggard bear the rod.
But why dilate? Those cruel days are done: Time’s ceaseless round has blotted every one: A fairer scene now meets the favoured eye — Thou, smiling city, ’neath my gaze dost lie. What though land-hungry Gipps thought passing fit To cripple where he lacked improving wit! Among the first of Austral fair will stand The one disfigured by his vandal hand!
And while the ages roll their waning round, Till earth’s but mortal mould the shades confound, May Plenty’s best thine every call attend, And smiling Peace her priceless treasure lend! May noble sons thy benison e’er bless, And daughters fair thy tender claims confess; And thus may every tongue conspire to name Thee and thine offspring heirs to Honour’s fame!
Hope you made it this far. William touched on a nerve, quite the fascinating poet. ❤ Gretchen Bernet-Ward 2024
The Turrbal and Yuggera peoples have lived in the Brisbane area for more than 32,000 years and their ancestors go back more than 60,000 years. The Turrbal and Jagera people speak Yuggera and their name for Brisbane is Meanjin. Written on Sunday 26th May 2024 National Sorry Day
I guess every blogger at some time or another decides to take a break, whether it is because of lifestyle changes, work pressures or just that nothing seems to jump out and say “Blog me!” My recent lackadaisical approach is due to high tropical heat and incredibly torrential downpours which have played havoc with both inland regions and coastal towns of Queensland, Australia.
Here in subtropical Brisbane we have had massive plant growth (and soggy lawns, water under the house, humidity which is exhausting) and my photograph is proof of Nature’s unequivocal love of water. The lawn (grass really) is up to my knees; overnight the lavender grew out of its pot, and you can see by the rainwater bucket (used on potted indoor plants) keeps replenishing day and night. Instead of high heating bills, this summer the electricity source is working hard on air-con and ceiling fans.
Still, there is always something to do and life does go on, and on, and on, helped or hindered by weather cycles. Perhaps this time next year Brisbane City Council will introduce hand-watering and I will probably be doling out cupful’s of the precious liquid. Water is really survival itself!
Something which has been taking a bit of my attention away from blogging is poetry. A quote from Fishing for Lightning explains why— “In defence of difficulty in poetry I would say this: poetry tries, as best it can, to wrestle with our most complex and ineffable emotions, and in order to do so the poet must forge a language that is equal to the task.”
Soon, I will blog post about a U3A Zoom poetry class I am attending online – due to the heat and rain – and confidently tell you that I am slowly grasping the concept. The book I am studying is titled ‘Fishing for Lightning’ compiled by Sarah Holland-Batt, I won’t divulge the story behind the title, subtitled ‘The Spark of Poetry’. The only poem spark I remember grasping was William Wordsworth’s daffodils in ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’ but as an adult I am prepared to give it another go. Stay tuned!
Oh, now just a self-indulgent notation: Due to this year’s phenomenal plant growth, all gardening clean-up services (and lawnmower men) are fully booked. Even a local lad who works on weekends is not returning calls. Some ute-and-whipper-snipper operators are charging grossly inflated prices because it is an industry which is not regulated. This strange turn of events prompted me to request a Green Bin from our city council; it’s like a normal rubbish bin except it’s green and clean and recycles garden waste. Just wait until the weekend!
And finally, a little nudge to all those lazy, off-hand, patronising and sometimes whingey gardener guys who came to quote and never rang back, ignoring my pleas and cash; just you wait until the weather cycle changes and everything turns to drought. Will the work be there? Or will we lawnmower-challenged suburbanites shrug and say “Sorry, the lawn and garden are totally dried out, no need of your services, I can hand-trim the odd blade of grass myself.” (Ah, the power, cue evil laughter 😀)
OLD SCOTTISH NURSERY RHYME. MY PARENTS QUOTED THIS POEM TO ME WHEN I WAS A CHILD BUT IT DID NOT HELP ME SLEEP…
Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
Upstairs and downstairs, in his nightgown;
Rapping at the window, crying through the lock,
“Are the children in their beds?
It’s past eight o’clock.”
Penned by Glaswegian poet William Miller, it originally appeared as a fiveverse rhyme written in the Glasgow UK vernacular in 1842.
Perhaps you know it. Over the years the wording and ending has varied, for example the original poem is longer and specified ten o’clock. See Quora for information:
Here’s the beginning of the extended version – “Wee Willie Winkie rins through the toon, Up stairs and doon stairs in his nicht-goon, Tirling at the window, cryin’ at the lock, Are the weans in their bed, for it’s now ten o’clock?”
Under the sweet-peas I stood And drew deep breaths, they smelt so good. Then, with strange enchanted eyes, I saw them change to butterflies.
Higher than the skylark sings I saw their fluttering crimson wings Leave their garden-trellis bare And fly into the upper air.
Standing in an elfin trance Through the clouds I saw them glance… Then I stretched my hands up high And touched them in the distant sky.
At once the coloured wings came back From wandering in the zodiac. Under the sweet-peas I stood And drew deep breaths. They smelt so good.
By Alfred Noyes
Alfred Noyes was a British poet. He was born 16th September, 1880, Wolverhampton, Staffordshire, UK. He passed away 28 June, 1958, on the Isle of Wight. A traditional English poet, mainly remembered for his lyrical verse. The heart-wrenching “The Highwayman” and “Drake” are his best known works and illustrate his love of the sea.
It is said that the Romantic poets such as Tennyson and Wordsworth greatly influenced him. In 1949, due to his increasing blindness, Noyes dictated all his subsequent works. He also wrote for children and in 1952 he published a very popular children’s book “Daddy Fell into the Pond” and other poems. Info: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/alfred-noyes
🌺 An annual plant of the pea family, sweet-pea flowers are cultivated throughout the world for their beautiful petals and soft perfume. Their rather unflattering botanical name is Lathyrus odoratus but the meaning comes from the Greek word lathyros meaning pea and the Latin word odoratus, meaning fragrant. Alfred certainly liked them!
Henry Van Dyke (born 10 November 1852, Germantown, Pennsylvania, USA, and died 10 April 1933, Princeton, New Jersey USA) He was a Presbyterian minister, short-story writer, poet and essayist popular in the early decades of the 20th century. Van Dyke married Ellen Reid in 1891 and they had nine children.
A leading writer of his age, Henry van Dyke wrote profusely in the fields of religion, literature, diplomacy, education, nature and public service. He was an admirer of Alfred, Lord Tennyson and met him while overseas.
Van Dyke’s great love of the outdoors was a crucial part of his Christianity, and in the early twentieth century he became a conservationist speaking out for the preservation of Yellowstone. His belief in nature and religion drove his literary criticism and other writings throughout his life.
Thoughts Become Words 