Rigour

I’m not a pedant, he announces, loudly,
Just because I choose the proper word.
The language is my oyster, he says proudly,
So I won’t clam up; it’s too absurd.
Affect, effect, impact, they’re not the same,
So I won’t be pretending that they are
(I use “pretend” in its old sense of “claim”:
“Pretender to the throne”). Rigour’s no bar
To understanding, is it? We must face
The consequences when we drift, and laugh.
I counter, You're making the standard case
For stiff-necked fussing; you’re an old giraffe.
He says, Giraffe? You mean camelopard?
I answer, You’ve been pushing this too hard.

Message Interrupted

I hadn’t meant to say good-bye to you,
But at the time my head was full of chowder
And hornets. No, I couldn’t have been prouder
To be your man. I didn’t have a clue
About the sad state of the morning dew
That glistened like the future. I spoke louder,
As if enchanted by some magic powder
I’d gulped right down. I should have stopped to chew.

While I repaired the radio transmitter
I said you met me at a christening.
You laughed; you couldn’t have been listening,
Or surely you’d have fired the baby-sitter.
I looked ahead, and saw how cold and bitter
Our future lay before us, glistening.

Soft Skin and Perfume

You’re nothing but a weak man, weak and beaten,
Brought to your knees by soft skin and perfume.
Your brain is in your pants. Will we exhume
Your lost, lapsed will, or has the thing been eaten?
What happened to your face there, Buster Keaton?
It’s gone all stony, like an old legume,
A concrete bunker. All I can assume
Is that you hoped her heart might grow, and sweeten.

You’re going crazy. Once you were so proper,
But now you’ve been cooked, and your soul will melt.
She’s lovely: curvy, beautiful, and svelte,
Eyes like bright sapphires, hair like burnished copper.
I warned you, chump: here comes the heartstopper,
Here comes the one who hits below the belt.

This Ending

The music springing up was monophonic,
A single tone arising from the mine
Where hundreds languished. We thought they’d be fine,
So nothing much was done. It was ironic,
Some said, while others claimed it was demonic,
But nothing much was done until past nine
The second morning, when there was a sign,
Then silence. So this ending is iconic:

What did you really think would happen then?
We learned three hundred men were trapped inside,
And sent inadequate resources, tried —
Not hard — to beard the lion in its den.
What happened was: a hundred fifty men
Were rescued, and a hundred fifty died.