A few columns ago, we presented a playful poem by the British light verse writer Gavin Ewart. You may remember it. It’s called “Office Friendships.”
Eve is madly in love with Hugh
And Hugh is keen on Jim.
Charles is in love with very few
And few are in love with him.
Myra sits typing notes of love
With romantic pianist’s fingers.
Dick turns his eyes to the heavens above
Where Fran’s divine perfume lingers.
Nicky is rolling eyes and tits
And flaunting her wiggly walk.
Everybody is thrilled to bits
By Clive’s suggestive talk.
Sex suppressed will go berserk
But it keeps us all alive
It’s a wonderful change from wives and work
And it ends at half past five.
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Several of our readers asked to know more about Mr. Ewart, whose life dates are 1916-1995. A Londoner, he worked for eighteen years as an advertising copywriter, but his poetry proved popular, and he was once considered for a poet laureateship. He was slower to be recognized in the States because for many years he lacked an American publisher. But to get to know him now is a treat. Here’s a typical Ewart piece. He calls this a religious poem.
Young blondes are tempting me day and night.
Young blondes in dreams trouble my restless sight.
With curly heads they rampage through my thoughts,
Full-bosomed in their sweaters and their shorts.
Or lie sunbathing on an impossible beach
Naked, aloof, continually out of reach.
On the mind’s promenade, above the rocks,
Young blondes go sauntering by in cotton frocks
Or flatter cameras with their negligent poses
Or drenched in moonlight gather midnight roses.
While I am eating, smoking, working, talking
Through long romantic gardens they are walking.
Protect me, Lord, from these desires of flesh,
Keep me from evil, in Thy pastures fresh,
So that I may not fall, by lakes or ponds,
Into such sinful thoughts about young blondes!
* * *
Confirming his light verse credentials, Ewart wrote the perfect, and my favorite, literary limerick:
Prince Hamlet thought Uncle a traitor,
For having it off with his Mater;
Revenge Dad or not?
That’s the gist of the plot,
And he did – nine soliloquies later!
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Overall, the definition of light verse is poetry designed to be entertaining and amusing. The poems tend to be brief and often feature clever wordplay. Ewart’s verses are nimble, inventive, technically effortless and sometimes saucily sexual. How can anyone resist a tribute poem titled: “To a Plum-Coloured Bra Displayed in Marks & Spencer.”
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Light verse has always played a major role in English literature, going all the way back to Geoffrey Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales.” (Remember when you and your teen-age mates first encountered “The Miller’s Tale?”)
And Shakespeare? Of course. Here’s a prime example of light verse from “The Tempest.”
The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,
The gunner, and his mate,
Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate;
For she has a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, ‘Go hang!’
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch;
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch.
Then, to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
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W.S. Gilbert of Gilbert and Sullivan holds pride of place as the master poet of British light verse; but his influence extends to American poets as well. In fact, among recent practitioners of light verse, Americans can proudly point to Ogden Nash, Dorothy Parker, Cole Porter and Billy Collins. But since this column is dedicated to Brit poets, we are high-lighting Sir John Betjeman, Noel Coward, Roger McGough and Gavin Ewart. Here is a prime piece of Noel Coward light verse.
Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.
The smallest Malay rabbit deplores this foolish habit.
In Hong Kong they strike a gong
And fire off a noonday gun,
To reprimand each inmate who’s in late.
In the mangrove swamps where the python romps
There is peace from twelve to two.
Even caribous lie around and snooze
For there’s nothing else to do.
In Bengal to move at all
Is seldom if ever done,
But mad dogs and Englishmen go
Out in the midday
Out in the midday
Out in the midday sun.
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* * *
Roger McGough, still active as he approaches ninety, wrote a charming piece about what it must be like for a child experiencing the very first day of school. Here in part:
A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
Why are they all so big, other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
Must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
That don’t let me in. Games
That are rough, that swallow you up.
I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there’s puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.
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On this side of the water it is sometimes thought that the Brits are more pure and polite than their American cousins. That, in fact, is not true, particularly when it comes to witty quotes and risqué light verse. Case in point: Noel Coward once said that he was reluctant to perform the song: “There are Fairies at the Bottom of My Garden.” He said he was afraid it might come out: “There are Fairies at the Garden of My Bottom.”
So it’s no surprise that the Brits are famous for their Blue Verse . . . which is to say, risqué poems you might not share with your mother. Here are three favorites.
This is by Wendy Cope.
Verse for a Birthday Card
Many happy returns and good luck
When it comes to a present, I’m stuck.
If you weren’t far away
On your own special day,
I could give you a really nice
Glass of lager.
And this is by the ballet-loving Joan Van Poznak.
I love the ballet.
As I watch them plié
I keep wondering who’s gay,
But by oath,
I could simply not say if
Dear Rudi Nureyev
Is AC or DC
Or both.
As he leaps through the air
With his taut derrière,
His thighs engineered
Like an ox.
His nostrils aflare
I think I know where
He conveniently keeps
His old socks.
And you might expect that our friend Gavin Ewart could furnish a blue piece or two. After all, his first published poem was called “Phallus in Wonderland.”
Here he has his own take on the story of Eve and the Apple.
A young girl whose life-style the malicious
Described, loosely, as too meretricious,
Said “When the boys peel me
And delightfully feel me,
I just feel like a Golden Delicious!
And on that note of Biblical rewrite, let’s go to our Video.
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VIDEO. I was once privileged to write and produce a television program starring
Sir John Betjeman. As a favor, he agreed to let me tape a solo reading of his most famous poem, “A Subaltern’s Love Song.” The setting is Cambridge University in England.
Here is the poem and then the video of Sir John’s performance.
Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J .Hunter Dunn,
Furnish’d and burnish’d by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament – you against me!
Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.
Her father’s euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o’clock news and a lime-juice and gin.
The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.
On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
The Hillman is waiting, the light’s in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing’s the light on your hair.
By roads “not adopted”, by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o’clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl’s hand!
Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.
And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I’m engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
CLICK ON THIS LINK FOR VIDEO: BRIT LIGHT VERSE
