Heroic Cutlets

To my certain Norwich, not since school daze have I composted a pome in heroic cutlets. Hand to hart, pen to paper, it's just not my stylo. Those neat rose of foot soldiers, ranks of the iambic pent amateurs... te tum te tum te tum te tum te tum. Good lord, te deum!

Only once have I, even Steven, ventured 'remotely close' - now there's a poxymoron - to writing a comic pome in rhyming pears and that was tenures ago. You can find it here:  Death By Chocolate, defiantly not heroic!

Nerveless, just for today, I'm going full heroic cutlets. Think of this new pome as a spiritual prequel to the one linked above. Read my home groan tail and weep. Chop chop!

A Savoy Savory

There was a village in the south of France

much troubled by the native boars' advance.

Down from the Alps the tusky porcines swarmed,

searching out troubadours where they performed

in squares and halls, for boars hated music,

roused them to a spiteful pitch of physic

and an urge to purge all such antic sounds.

Even when the minstrels had gone to ground

the hyped up beasts laid waste to all around,

and this one village in Savoy they found

so much to their liking, they chose to stay!

The frightened folk hid in their church to pray

for deliverance from this massacre.

The pigs meanwhile munched all the brassica,

a staple of the region's cabbage soup.

While the citizens huddled in a group

came riding by a Knight of the Long Knives

accompanied by his two lovely wives.

They saw at once what needed to be done

and laid about them till the final one

of the squealing, charging, mad-eyed tuskers

crusading against the tribe of buskers

was flung atop the bloody pile! Starving

villagers rejoiced, joined in the carving

by their Hero and his couplet of dames

(though history does not record their names)

then built a massive fire with orange flames

and while the chops were grilling they played games

of 'blind man's buff' and other lively sports -

'squeak, piggy, squeak', 'defender of the forts' -

until such time as everything was prepped.

Then to their seats the grateful peasants stepped.

They tucked into the butchers' prime cutlets

(for vegans the wives provided nutlets :-)

and most said roast boar chops with rosemary

were quite the thing, though a few were chary,

but everyone agreed they feasted well.

Here ends my tale, there is no more to tell.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Heroic Couplets

                     

I hadn’t opened my study copy of Chaucer’s ‘The Wife of Bath’s Tale’ since it was required reading for English A Level. I’ve forgotten everything, after all this time, except Chaucer’s constant use of ‘heroic couplets’. I cast my eyes over the first page, trying to read and make sense of Old English, glad that the work is translated into modern English for the likes of me. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what I wanted to share here, so I looked elsewhere, and spent hours chuckling at Pam Ayres – she makes it look and sound easy.

Mrs May’s Hair

One thing I do admire in Mrs May:
She’s not afraid to let her hair go grey.
No dye from pricey crimpers does she seek,
To keep the fabled barnet looking chic.

Unlike us timid ones, who monthly go,
To cover up the roots as white as snow,
And, in our fight to look less like an Alp,
Endure the fiery tint upon the scalp.

We, who pay a fortune as we leave,
Remember Mrs May, and softly grieve,
Though some may choose to take the cheaper path,
And do the job themselves, over the bath.

                                                                Pam Ayres

Iambic pentameter. I’ve been there, counting syllables, finding the right rhythm, da dum da dum. I still search for words to fit and count on my fingers like a child doing maths. I try very hard. Sometimes it hits the mark, sometimes it doesn’t. Here’s one,

The Ballad of a Lady Rock Singer

Jazz tempo piano and bluesy guitar,
It’s gone 2 a.m. in the Cyclops Bar.
She sips pink gin through a long, curly straw
And sits and waits, with one eye on the door.
He said he’d be along to see her set,
But he’d promised before – not made it, yet.
Perched on a bar stool, cigarette in hand,
Minutes away from her spot with the band,
She leans a bit further back on her seat
And her red stiletto taps out the beat.
She’s laughing, swaying, about to begin,
Adrenaline rush, or too much pink gin.
She’s out of her mind, not really crazy,
Her vision’s soft focus, smoky and hazy.
Snug black and red dress, short, strapless and low,
Especially chosen for this kind of show.
She clutches the mic stand, a hint of a smile
Then bangs out a song in Joplin-esque style.
The heat and the smoke hit hard on her throat,
But she stays on key, not losing a note.
Whistling and cheering, the Jazz Club’s alive.
Lorna kept singing ‘til quarter to five,
Then went out happy to greet the next day,
Her bass playing new love leading the way.

                                                                   PMW

This one isn’t strictly heroic couplets, but I hope you enjoy my quirky humour,

Mary, the sister of Anne Boleyn

Determined that she would have her way,
She walked ahead of him to court one day
And stood near the doors as he went in,
Mary, the sister of Anne Boleyn.

He saw a vision of sweet delight,
Young and blonde, beautiful and bright.
His lecherous thoughts were full of sin.
Mary, the sister of Anne Boleyn.

She was pure and youthful, fresh and new,
He was eagerly lustful and untrue,
Wanting an easy conquest to win,
Mary, the sister of Anne Boleyn.

Henry fulfilled his urgent desire
As her body set his soul on fire,
Until he trembled with joy, within
Mary, the sister of Anne Boleyn.

                                               PMW
Thanks for reading, Pam x

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