#44 by Amergin » Dec 12, 2010 11:04 pm
Thanks for the kind response to 'Moth' . Greatly appreciaited.
In the post before this one I mentioned poetry need not always be serious in tone. I wrote the following as an exercise in irony and because was fascinated by the many ways we have of saying the same thing. It is supposed to be funny.
The Periphrasist.
A word with you if I may, sir,
a moment of your time,
why thank you, I am grateful,
I shall not keep you long,
my father, it was, who often averred
that prolixity, sir, was a sin
and verbosity an indulgence of the undisciplined mind,
to say the least, and I am my father’s son, blood and bone,
and will not, therefore, beat about the bush,
but come straight to the point,
for circumlocution, I know you will agree,
is a great waste of breath and time
and being a gentleman whose life,
I am sure, is as full and busy
as I assure you mine is also,
cannot afford the ineffectual and inefficient expense of either,
so I will get right to the heart of the matter,
not go round the houses, in needless perambulations,
for I eschew tortuous long-windedness, sir, deplore it utterly,
for I am not, you will have gathered
from our brief acquaintance, by nature, loquacious,
my flow of words dams up with ‘ums’ and ‘errs’ and ‘as it weres’.
You understand, I’m sure, the need for pith and punch
a rapier of swift debate, I’ll be bound, an abjurer of idle chatter,
the pastime of women and sparrows, sir, I always say,
yes, a man after my own heart, I know it,
damn my eyes, sir, I knew it right off,
not a man to bluster and prevaricate,
no penny-a-liner he, I thought,
starve he would if he were paid per word, I thought.
Am I right, sir, am I right? Of course I am right,
I have always prided myself upon my astute judgment of a man,
and you, sir, I can tell at a glance, are a man of few words
I can detect the odour of terseness about you, the aura of brevity,
never use two words where one might suffice, eh,
a coiner of the telling phrase, the apt response,
the witty thrust, the barbed word,
the bon-mot, the riposte that disarms.
My old father, I mentioned him before you will recall,
may he rest in peace, dead these twenty years or more, you know,
choked one Easter on a piece of crackling from a Wiltshire hog,
greatly upsetting my mother who was seated opposite him,
as she had been accustomed to since they were wed,
now he was a man who could still a room with a word,
admired around the town, he was, guest at many a feast,
invited for his conversation, no less,
which blazed finely with brandy,
he was a person of some note, his savoir-faire renowned,
his repartee a thing of legend, ah, the parties he regaled
but I digress, where was I……?