If All the World were Paper

If all the world were paper,
And all the sea were inke;
If all the trees were bread and cheese,
How should we do for drinke?

If all the world were sand’o,
Oh then what should we lack’o;
If as they say there were no clay,
How should we take tobacco?

If all our vessels ran’a,
If none but had a crack’a;
If Spanish apes ate all the grapes,
How should we do for sack’a?

If fryers had no bald pates,
Nor nuns had no dark cloysters;
If all the seas were beans and pease,
How should we do for oysters?

If there had been no projects,
Nor none that did great wrongs;
If fidlers shall turne players all,
How should we doe for songs?

If all things were eternall,
And nothing their end bringing;
If this should be then, how should we
Here make an end of singing?

Anon

Treasury Islands (a cute site you should definitely check out if yo're faicnated by children's literature) says this piece appeared in John Mennes and James Smiths  Facetiae, published in or after 1658.

It's always interesting to speculate about the inspiration for any work -  and I can't help but wonder if it could have been this piece from the Quran. There are various translations but this is the simplest I've found. "If the seas were ink and trees were pens, the words of Allah would not be exhausted." Such magnificence. Every so often I wish I could read something in it's original language, and that is definitely the case here. 

And all this was because I thought an "If" poem would be a great way to introduce my students to poetry. But I'm so taken with if poetry, next week, don't be surprised if you see another "If" poem. (Not necessarily mine) 

Have a great week

A.J.

Under the Surface

Deep,

deep 
in the ocean

a story squirmed on a hook.

I tried to reel it in

struggling to the surface,

but my calamari twisted

just out of reach -

not yet ready to loosen its hold to life.

I wanted to taste the sea,

smell the sweetness

of lemons on fried fish,

I wanted most things

a writer wants

when an idea plays with them,

dangling wantonly,

before diving into the depths of the ocean.

In aggravation

I tried to pin it down with words

and pull it in,

my monster.

Its slippery skin

refused the invitation,

wriggling in meters,

drumming its eight legs to the beat of the ocean.

Squid, octopus, monster of the deep

opened an enormous maw

and sucked me in

until there was nothing left

but

teeth

inky paper

and stories

lurking

deep

deep in the ocean.

 A.J. Ponder

It seems Lorraine is right - I often cannot seem to help but want my poems to tell a story.  And the sea is definitely a recurring theme.  Maybe it's because it's so close, breathing in and out like an old friend, but more likely it is the fear - the "Here be Dragons" marked on the borders of maps; the giant squid, the octopus my father caught that tugged him around several bays in the sounds; the sharks; the stingrays, so silent and dark, like barbed shadows in the water... or maybe it is simply an inability to see clearly through to the sands and stones below.  I'm leery of the "big-bath", have been since I was old enough to speak.  Now don't get me wrong, I do sometimes go swimming, rational fears and irrational fears not being the same thing.  But there is something enticing and frightening about the ocean, something almost alive, so that even if only the friendliest minnows lived inside, I think there would be the fear of not coming back. And still the catch fascinates us, we are happy to sit in boats all day with a line over the side, trying to catch the big one, the one that got away.  For writers it is much the same, the patience, the work, the hope, the one that got away, and the deep dark fears that we tease out from as deep a water as we can find.

Click here for more links to fairytale poetry, some mine, and some from other great authors. 

 

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And tell me which poems you'd like to see in my upcoming poetry book—2024? https://ko-fi.com/ajponder

Murdering Poetry

I would kill

for a voice that could read poetry

as finely honed as a boning knife

Plunged into the heart.

Incisive as fangs

sliced across arteries

spilling blood in fountains

onto the slavering faces

of howling wolves

 

My cheerful brogue slipping

into dark nightmares

and flourishing

as a bone deep canker

eating you away

from the inside

and slipping

the noose

tight 
around your neck

until the air

kicking under your heels 
is still.

See, the powdered words

no longer dry upon the page
arise

a poisoned ink

that flows

within your veins

and through your soul

until your heart

no longer pains

and your death is wholly 
entertain'd.

A..J. Ponder - 

It always amazes me just where and how inspiration strikes.  This poem has been brewing dormant for the best part of a year but it wasn't until Harvey commented on Rudyard Kipling that it hurried out faster than a smuggler with the redcoats after him. 

Click here for more poetry, back at the Tuesday Poem hub: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com/