Best Dickens Poems
Yesterday I swear I saw Charles Dickens
His quaint style today would take a lickin' --
So he's changed up the Dodger
Now he's the 'Artful Todger' --
He whips it out ~ the plot really thickens
Chuzzlewit Chuzzlewit
Nicolas Nickleby
Pickwick, Scrooge, Dombey
And more of their kind
Two hundred years, filled with
Dickensiania
Real, just like you:
It is all in the mind
Charles Dickens
was said to be the pickings
of literature in the nineteenth century,
but I couldn't make it pass page three!
Let's stroll down the London old silent streets,
where the stones of cathedrals never age,
when the orange sun sets on the London Bridge,
and the grotesque, historical Buckingham Palace;
look down: the Thames River gently flows like perfect rhyme,
to revive with its waves' sound someone's lost dreams,
while lampposts await darkness to arrive...
isn't this the city that Charles Dickens loved as deeply as Catherine's face?
Pride of England: the glory of what it was and
still is for all the English that adore their land...
even Shakespeare with his theatrical mind, must have felt great emotion
in contemplating it near dusk to give him an instant surge of inspiration.
London's Dawn-7:40 pm
Ghost of Christmas past is back
The ghost of Christmas past dropped in
You see. he was completely out of wine
He had two stops to make by three
so, he borrowed some of mine
He asked me how i was getting on
since, he came around that night
with Jacob and the other two
and took me on that flight
i told him i was doing well
but, i thought he had to know
i was succeptible to pnuemonia now
since they dragged me through the snow
it's just the nature of the beast
that you may get a cold
the younger ones, not quite so much
it's just that you were old
i asked him where he had to go
and who he had to see
he told me , Ebby you know the rules
but, i can give you guesses...three
the first place that i'm off to now
is really not that far
this one, used to be a beatle
peace and love is for this starr
i was surprised that it was Ringo
he said, he had to be reeled in
his ego grew a little bit
and to his boss that was a sin
The second place he had to go
he needed wine for the bar
because he was going out to celebrate
and he brought a good cigar
He said this one, he's off his head
He's gone back fifty years
There's a lot of things he needs to see
So, with your wine, I'll need some beers
If everything goes as we hope
And he can make amends
He plans on calling Cuba
And saying...it's time that we were friends
LEISURE FROM LISTFULNESS
A long & dreary time,exquisite
delight has passed.A perverse
unaccountable feeling.A moment’s
reflection,a store of recollections
a painful task to concentrate upon.
Questions come thronging my pen,
difficult to convey,a matter of doubtful
expediency,leisure from listfulness,
dreamy,beautiful,inconsistent,reflective.
Passion and affections a mute sense of
attachment,yet gratifying. The end of a struggle
From Letters of Charles Dickens
A Phrasis is a structured verse where the poet uses selected prose phrases of another writer’s(not a poet) to compile unique poetry therefrom as a tribute thereto,the word phrasis is Greek for phrase.
Listen to me read this phrasis on youtube under name of ichthyschiro
Charlie was dead
Charlie was dead: to begin with,
There is no doubt whatever about that.
I leave my residue to Carol for Christmas
and Little Dorrit his faithful Tom Cat.
There’s been hard times here in Bleak House,
Villainy and miserly crime capers,
I spent my fortune in shops of curiosity,
Pickwick wrote of it, in his gossip papers.
You gather here with great expectations,
Of bequeaths, chattels and yield.
But listen well to my loyal Trustees,
Messrs Chuzzlewit and Copperfield.
To that twister and Street Urchin Oliver,
and to show I bear him no grudge,
I do leave a Crown and one Farthing,
and a sixpence to Barnaby Rudge.
To our mutual friends Dombey and Son,
Please accept my cane and fine silk scarf.
May you prosper all the year round,
As comfortable as a Cricket on a hearth.
So, here is my last Will and Testament,
Yes, I’m worthless, so whimper and brood.
Where did it all go, there is no mystery,
Lost at Cards to Nickleby and Drood.
KS 6/11/2017
Dickens Had A Quickie Meal
limerick
Dickens had a quickie meal
And chilled out on a harp seal
Dickens was burping
The harp was harping
'Hey, you have not paid my hunch bill’
(C) Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
2014/12/03
Wife Lucy gave me the dickens for being late
How could I say I had an appointment with Kate
Kate was creamy saucy
How could I be bossy?
Yes I admit those things could be briefer -ill fate
To her kin Catherine was I in flesh married
To my young beloved Mary was my soul wed
Too long that eve at my play we all three tarried
And all of six hours later was my soulmate dead.
In my aching arms where now lifeless she did lay
Catherine calmly the obsequies did prepare
Where I did but reflect in grief upon that play
"Is She My Wife?" which thought I found so hard to bear.
From her rich dark tresses I plucked a precious lock
To be ever after kept, held close to my breast
Her ring on my finger her death struggled to mock
While oft in my sad heart her spirit I addressed.
Without her who was so young,beautiful and good
The magic of family began soon to fade
Her memory my mind nourished better than food
The fine weeds did I cherish of my once fair maid.
My broken heart in my empty life for her will sigh
But Catherine sadly less and less means to me
Whene'er death comes,with my Mary I'll surely lie
And from my earthbound wife will I be ever free.
Oh, don’t flatter me with presents from the Ghost of Christmas Past.
Tis the season for nostalgia, but those feelings never last.
It’s a gift-wrapped empty promise not worth tuppence on the street,
Or a ticket to the opera when you’ve nothing left to eat.
Oh, don’t weary me with visions from the Ghost of Christmas Gone.
It’s a fairy tale for paupers who’ll be just as poor come dawn.
I’ve no sympathy for indolence, nor ignorance and want.
If you’re looking for compassion, find another bank to haunt.
Oh, don’t bother me with worries from the Ghost of Christmas Done.
Send those children of the gutter to the workhouse, every one!
Put their noses to the grindstone in a more productive game;
Earning porridge making bootstraps for the barefoot and the lame.
Oh, don’t humbug me with pleadings from the Ghost of Christmas Lost.
Sir, the figures on my balance sheet won’t justify the cost.
So, our business is concluded and I’m free to wash my hands.
Tell the Sisters of St. Alban’s, the eviction notice stands!
born February 7, 1812,
whose living descendents
I would be thrilled to befriend,
hence if anonymous reader
by some genetic fluke
linkedin to said
prolific storied author
please kindly reciprocate.
greetings mutual friend,
hard times dash
great expectations in this bleak house,
whereby battle of life ensues
when Sunday chimes
from master humphrey’s clock
issue somber american notes
invoking overshadowing doom
from young gentlemen:
oliver twist, nicholas nickleby, barnaby rudge
martin chuzzlewit, david copperfield,
young cricket and on the hearth little dorrit
collaborated on pickwick papers
with dombey and son detailing
how I (a haunted man/
ghost’s bargain) alias mudfog
got self absorbed in his old curiosity shop
hunted down by boyhood days
(akin to an endless Christmas carol
frieze as child’s history),
now a thick dust covered holiday romance
memory portraying this signal-man
(according to george silverman’s explanation)
eerily similar to the mystery of edwin drood,
exiled after his trial for murder
birthing three ghost stories
inhabiting a haunted house
affecting the young couples lamplighter
an uncommercial traveler
evidenced by pictures from italy
prone to speeches, sketches
by boz and his lazy tour
an oft repeated tale of two
cities best read at dusk.
Jingle bells
and reindeer smells --
note to Mrs. Clause:
before Eve-trip, to reduce
scent and slip, no beer
and sardines for Rudolph!
That damn Guiding Red-nose
needs to find other fuel for
his radiant beam-glows! (takes a lot
to piss-off Santa)
It was a foul dilemma:
Every time Dancer, Donner and Blitzen
rose, Santa was forced to awkwardly stretch and
pinch each tortured, dutiful nose; poor deer, eyes
stinging and runny (not the least bit funny)
(Rudolph laughing like a ridiculous fool) (Santa
thinking, next year, to take his place, perhaps a
levitating green-schnoz mule)
fumes causing the team to terribly
blink -- every inch higher, a half inch
lower the sled would breathlessly sink --
Note to Mrs. Clause: especially disallow,
one last huge, gulp for the long cold road -- that
parting toast proved particularly disastrous to Santa's
precious gift load,
when the old saint paused to
light his pipe: Rudolf let loose with
one extraordinarily ripe -- when the match was
struck, ignited the night, flaming presents needing
no additional lift to literally take brilliant flight --
A Christmas to remember
when Rudolf went on a Sardine, Beer
Bender.
love through sacrifice even unto death . . . a lost soul’s hope for salvation
"Miss Stokes, what do you think Pip was thinking?"
Uh-oh. I possibly should not have pretended to be my twin today.
I am taking her classes, pretending I am sick, rather than she.
This is 7th grade English, and I have not even heard the word
Great Expectations because my twin hates English as much as I
despise math.
In my English class we are tearing sentences apart and doing boring tree things out of them.
Um....
"I think I have to go to the bathroom!" I yell, clutching myself, running out of the classroom.
My classmates laugh.
Some have been laughing through math and science too.
They all know which twin I am.
It is only the teachers who cannot tell us apart.
I return to see a pop quiz face down on my sister's desk.
The first question is about Pip with enough space to write
sixteen paragraphs.
I begin cautiously.
"Pip is a wonderful dog," I write.....