I hate to chortle at the sound of broken laughter,
Just like I refrain from weeping when dancing smoke fills my eyes . . .
But when dogs mourn alone,
I chafe my hands with the cold of tears of solitude.
Monuments and cairns I crave among the icy
Terrains, where dogs’ paws leave eternal marks —
The print-marks of an important visit,
Evidence of life on desiccated earth.
On board The Fram they sailed majestically
In the beginning,
Before joining a steam of blizzards they escaped from,
Returning home, northwards, gelid and depressing,
For a funeral of dogs,
The ceremony of age,
Attended largely by silent yaps of strayed thunder.
O my dear Charlie,
How could you just forget,
Our love for chocolate,
Which was given to you as a factory.
You loved it and had magic,
To make the owner get elevated from tragic,
He was impressed and gave it to you,
And you took it as a gift from him too.
You are the boy of words,
And who flies higher than even birds,
The public now asks you to fulfill the responsibility,
Of distributing chocolates to them and bringing them stability....
- THIS POEM IS WRITTEN KEEPING IN MIND THE STORY OF CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY BY ROALD DAHL.
I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.
—Groucho Marx
Adventure is just bad planning.
—Roald Amundsen
Must Be A Carnival
Lady, what did you see
advertised? Boat leaves the dock.
Your apparel, a shock.
Going cruis’n…cruis’n you say.
No time
to be lose’n.
Lady, did you pack light? …for
romantic nights. Take a peek
out the window. It’s after dark.
Tourists, look a bit screwy,
you’re near. Must be a Carnival,
it’s not.
This ship is a swing’n.
Everyone’s going out
for some drink’n.
You weren’t expecting
hot chocolate. Your Summer dress
blow’n in Alaskan winds.
The cold wrapping your legs
sans warmers. Your sandals
flopping upon the deck.
Lady, people are staring.
Have you beamed aboard?
Did someone blindfold you?
Were you buffaloed? Petunia,
are you dense? Pretense,
that you are at ease.
“I meant to dress this way.”
or perhaps it was a dare.
Daring for sure.
Lady, the ship looks a bit
lopsided,
with you.
Roald Dahl 'The Rowing Song'
¶
.. .. . ¶ ¶
¶ ¶
~~~~~~~~-- \ \ \ \ \ \ \--~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~ / / / / / / / ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~-- \ \ \ \ \ \ \--~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ / / / / / / / ~~~~~~~~~~~
The publisher of Roald Dahl’s books
Thought changes should be made
To make the books “inclusive,”
But attention has been paid
With many writers speaking out
To criticize the plan
(Despite the fact that Dahl’s ideas
Made many not a fan).
An example that I read of
Would remove the use of “fat”
If a character was overweight –
Now what’s the use of that?
What they’d substitute, I wonder;
Still, most children are aware
Of dishonesty in writing
As in life, which isn’t fair.
Yet another word replacement
Would be “parent” used instead
Of both “mother” and of “father,”
If one’s gone – divorced or dead.
Or if someone has two mommies
Or two dads, perhaps they mused
That by substituting “parent,”
Kids would not then be confused.
Still, a writer’s words are sacred
And reflective of the times,
Therefore, posthumous replacements
Feel like literary crimes.
Now the publisher’s decided,
After unexpected flak,
There’ll be two competing versions,
Which, to me, seems out of whack.
Books burners are on the loose again
Wanting to change honoured works to not offend
Noddy and Big Ears have gone
And Roald Dahl’s classic have lost their song
But these burners don’t have Jack boots
And Heil Hitler is not their salute
For burning with bonfires is old fashioned
Changing book text is their way of bashing
For protected we all will be
From naughty adjectives they do see
And describing is out of touch
Changing the text destroys the work enough.
© Paul Warren
septic
nightfall scroll,
languishing bed...
indecent snores of kin
...restless
2/3/2020
Before Charlie unwrapped the golden ticket,
all 4 grandparents rested in a slow death bed.
Willie Wonka of Chocolate Factory fame saved
their life (Author Roald Dahl)
R-ead
O-ne
A-uthor's
L-ine
D-enoting
D-ivine
A-nd
H-eavenly
L-ife
Topic: Birthday of Poet Roald Dahl (September 13)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Last thing before bed
And the first upon waking,
Before he gets dressed
And finds out what's been shaking,
A book is what Henry
Is glued to as tight
As a kite-flyer clings
To the string of his kite.
Right now Harry Potter's
His evening fare.
Both Mommy and Daddy
The chapters do share;
And mornings when Nana
Is there, Roald Dahl
And his novels hold Henry
Completely in thrall.
A lifetime of stories
And reading awaits,
But rather than trust it
To chance or the fates,
Our Henry has learned
How the mind of a boy
Can, from words on a page,
Fill with journeys and joy.
R-hyme
O-f
A-crostic
L-yric
D-elightfully
D-ovetails
A-nd
H-armonizes
L-ines
Topic: Poet (Roald Dahl)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
What's it like travelling in cold,
you think you know but do you know,
the white lands set before your eyes,
sweet summer sun shines up in sky,
I'm Mr Roald trying strong winds,
Burning my face I never knew,
in winters' sane you would not know,
this part of cold the part that burns,
the part that scorns but yet spurs me,
I'm Mr Ready I bred me for this,
I'm searching strange lands,
men little but know,
lands where the rainfall is snow,
lands with grounds all thick ice,
I'm Mr Explore I dare to find,
Here are lands no government bides,
the only emperor is a tall penguin,
too bad for him how could I know,
later on in heat his palace ruins,
I'm Mr Man I rule and ruin,
Canned beef or stew, cold biscuits hard bread,
my food for months my crew with me,
the ponies are pretty but soon they must leave,
on supplies we're short and so far gone,
I'm Mr Leader I make the hard choice,
I'm at my limits even now I quiver,
rigid bodies left behind here you must shiver,
check my compass then look uncharted lands,
lost but unforgotten I've charted the path,
I'm Mr Scott now one dead-famous.
A Limerick for Eileen Manassian
A Tribute to Her Muse
Eileen had a Golden pen
Gifted by Roald Amundsen
Her incredible ink
Essence of ruby pink
Made manna drink on a ben
Little Benny Ben told Roald Amundsen
Let's go to South Pole with my pretty hen
The hen was very stocky
Came to Ben with gait low-key
Asked for a diary and a gel pen
In the centre of the silence, a giant fills the space
He carries but a trumpet and a battered old suitcase
I watched with baited breath, the street was dimly lit
He puts the case upon the ground but holds on to his trumpet
His monumental hands unscrew a tiny little jar
The contents seemed to dance and swirl and glitter like the stars
He tips the foggy matter into his blowing device
Then pokes it through a window, I don't dare blink my eyes
The dream that he has captured, collected, then released
Now floating in the mind of the reciever as she sleeps
The giant, big and friendly, satisfied his job complete
Picks up his battered suitcase and moves on to the next street
*I took inspiration from Roald Dahl's 'The BFG' book.
19th Jan 2012
Erster am Südpol
Geheimer Wettlauf mit Scott
Im ewigen Eis
Auf Rettungsflug für Nobile
Verschollen im Eismeer
----------------------------------------
First at the South Pole
In a secret race with Scott
In the eternal ice
On a rescue flight for Nobile
Missing over the Arctic Ocean
----------------------------------------
Primero en el Polo Sur
En carrera secreto con Scott
En los hielos eternos
En vuelo savamento a Nobile
Desaparecido sobre el océano Ártico
Note: Roald Amundsen (1872 – 1928), a Norwegian explorer of polar regions led the first
Antarctic expedition to reach the South Pole (1910-1912). He was the first person to reach
both poles. Me was reported missingin at plane crash during a rescue mission for Umberto
Nobile in 1928 northwest of Bear Island in teh Arctic Ocean. Umberto Nobile (1885 – 1978)
was an Italian airship pioneer and general. He was injured when he crashed and rescued by
a Swedish pilot. Mussolini degraded him and Nobile emigrated first to the Sovjet Union,
later to the USA and to Spain. In 1945 he was rehabilitated and returned to Italy.
Related Poems