A sonnet is a poem of 14 lines written to a particular rhythm and rhyme scheme. An acrostic is a poem, the initial letters of each line of which spell out some word or phrase. A Bat is someone with too much time on his hands. What more do you need to know?
Composed on the banks of the Yarra, after realising that Muriel's Concert, aka the Soprano song, wasn't nearly enthusiastic enough about my favourite voice part.
[October 1999]
After much consideration, I'm
Led to one conclusion, which is this:
Tenor girls and sops will waste your time;
Only altos bring eternal bliss.
Something in their husky, tuneful tones
Activates an instinct deep inside.
Resonating through a bass's bones;
Energies that cannot be denied.
Sappho was an alto, you can tell -
Excellence in arts for them's not rare;
Xena too (but not young Gabrielle) -
If you get an alto mad, beware!
Every bass who's tried the alto way
Recommends you do the same, today!
Composed on the hellish flight back from Hobart IV, just before the air pressure turned me into a weeping, screaming wreck.
[July 1999]
As I was sitting locked into my seat,
No less than seven videos awoke.
Sit down -- they said -- and give us your complete
Emergency attention -- and they spoke.
The seats you sit (a little squashed) upon,
They carry belts, so please observe the signs,
And do no dancing, join no walkathon
If, high above, that hieroglyphic shines.
Remain as calm as glass if air should fail.
Look up and grab the oxygen on tap.
If, due to chance, you feel the need to bail,
No worries! Grab your vest and pull the strap --
Expounded thus, the screens went silent there.
So, well-informed, we leapt into the air.
An only slightly ironic ode to the amazing conductor Andrew "Foetus" Wailes. The use of the o-e ligature may be considered cheating, or it may be considered inspired.
[July 1999]
Fairy tale or fable, that he is:
OEdipus, that well-known Mummy's boy;
Tarzan of the jungle music biz;
Ulysses, en route back home from Troy.
Some have called him rival, direst foe;
If they're still around, they're not round here...
Some have called him uncle, cousin, bro;
All have been enriched who hold him near.
What a piece of work, this mighty man!
After all have lost their heads, he stands;
None can match his talent's depth and span;
Knowing him lends strength to all our hands.
Even as we clap that famous beat
Rhythmically, we worship at his feet.
Composed during a SCUNA rehearsal, in honour of a good friend who I don't see nearly enough of any more. Jen is one of those women for whom there is only one possible bumper sticker: "I Think, Therefore I Am Single". Maybe one day some guy will get lucky...
[1998?]
Just once, she says, I'd like a man who could
Exceed my fairly simple standards, which
No one could claim are poorly understood:
Nice buns, a brain, quite tall and filthy rich.
I'm sure the world is full of men like that,
For otherwise our race would die away!
Except... my searches keep on falling flat,
Requiring me to think they must be gay!
Discovering this curse, I feel I'm bound
Exclusively to help -- it could be fun!
Let all those hunky pooftas gather round;
Voraciously I'll cure them, every one!
Eventually she stops, and faintly sighs.
She yawns, and nods, a slumber shuts her eyes.
Composed for and about the thinking man's pervert, known also as Jon the Prevert.
[1998]
Jehovah, when creating man from dust
Of all his features gave most thought to one:
Not reason, neither faith nor wit, but lust,
A quality of which He gave a ton.
This much is clear, to any who observe
Humanity at work or rest or play.
Assuredly, no trait displays the verve,
Not one, from dawn to dying of the day.
Conspicuous indeed is lust in some,
Presented clearly by their every act.
Regardless of decorum, they succumb
In every slightest art and artefact.
Consider, though, not all are trapped by lust:
Exactly one man has that slaver's trust!
Composed at Hobart IV, for one of the most hyperactively talented conductors I've ever met.
[July 1999]
Kill time, if that's your wish, and waste your life.
You'll break no laws by loitering in bed.
No jury will convict, you'll make no strife,
And even Robespierre won't have your head.
No need to set yourself some lofty goal
Designed to help you reach the brightest star.
A calmer man is he whose higher soul
Lies dormant like an onion in a jar
Expect the least; avoid that mental stretch;
Join no Crusades, nor seek for Holy Grails,
Or else you'll join that tragic class of wretch,
He who, when seeking simple boredom, fails!
No hope for peace and calm, if hard you strive:
Success will dog your heels -- if you survive!
Poor old Tomkins Of The Antarctic. This is very rude. Heh heh heh...
[2002?]
Many men, when fickle fortune farts
In their wretched faces, take the hint,
Choose to quench the flame within their hearts,
Hide their dreams like so much navel lint.
Anyone would think this fellow here,
Even though he smiles, is one of those!
Look, however, past his flaws; it's clear:
Tucked within his heart, a furnace glows!
O, ye scathing critics, judge not him
Merely by his grating, nasal drawl!
Know that brow so thick and eye so dim
In fact need not spell "Neanderthal"!
No indeed! This lad is quite unique!
See? To call him apelike would be cheek!
Composed for Nick Sellars, who I call "Mrs" Crit because he is married to Crit, and since Crit is titleless it follows that Nick must be the wife, in proper Jane Austen style.
[1998]
My knowledge of decorum tells me this:
Respectability is paramount!
Solemnity and sobre steadyness:
No qualities compared to these ones count!
If man would gain approval of his peers,
Consideration must be fully paid;
Know this, ye flighty privols, that your fears
So chill are true! The stern game must be played!
Ebullient cheer's a sin! Enjoyment's wrong!
Loud laughter looks all rude, so cut it out!
Let all your breath vent moans of angst, not song;
And never smile or grin, but only pout.
Regardless of the rules, one man remains
So cheerful as to laugh away life's pains!
Composed in choir, again, for a young and talented model and soprano.
[1998]
My years of study of the fairer sex
Support the theory, terrible but true,
Each woman has a choice (for Nature checks):
Some brains, or else good looks, but not the two.
This law denies the smart ones sex appeal,
Effectively leaves models dull as drains;
Regardless of their wishes, that's the deal,
However hard we wish, the law remains.
A tragic case, but what can mortals do?
Revile the heartless universe's laws?
Desire or depth -- which one is first for you?
I'm sure the question gives all males pause.
No matter: one exists who breaks the mould.
Genius brained, yet flawless to behold.
Composed for Crit; and yes, that is her name, on the electoral roll and all.
[1998]
Of all the women in the AICSA choirs,
Undoubtedly the most beloved is
None other than the one whose name inspires
Inventiveness for me, the sonnet whiz.
No woman uses symbols in her name,
Originating on the net, like Ch@s.
Moreover, none would rort the spelling game
Outright, as Gifford/Gyfford/Gyforde has.
Unless you're counting Charis, who is not
Seen widely in a Uni choral role,
Creative self-renaming hasn't got
Remarkable acceptance, on the whole.
It falls, in fact, to one to bear the flame:
To proudly stand without a second name.
Composed at Hobart IV when I was missing my Fabulous Monster terribly.
[July 1999]
Respectfully, my friends at times suggest
A name like "Monster" isn't quite the thing --
Considering the love I've oft expressed,
However did that nasty nickname cling?
Explaining, as I do, the reasons why,
Like Lewis Carroll, unicorns, et al,
My naming seems a little less awry;
My friends perceive the hidden rationale.
Or so they think -- the truth is stranger still,
Enunciated here at last to you:
Regardless of her beauty, brains and skill,
My Lady is a monster -- yes, it's true!
A monster to my loneliness and fear;
No trace of them's survived since she's been near.