the adventures of alfred tennyson and charles babbage

charles babbage, the english mathematician and father of the modern computer wrote the following to alfred tennyson in response to his poem, “the vision of sin” »

In your otherwise beautiful poem, one verse reads,

Every moment dies a man,
Every moment one is born.

… If this were true, the population of the world would be at a standstill. In truth, the rate of birth is slightly in excess of that of death. I would suggest:

Every moment dies a man,
Every moment 1 ¹/₁₆ is born.

Strictly speaking, the actual figure is so long I cannot get it into a line, but I believe the figure 1 ¹/₁₆ will be sufficiently accurate for poetry.”

sapless like a withered flower

wiener problems are embarrassing to write about but usually make for a very entertaining read. such is the case with john wilmot’s “the imperfect enjoyment” which tackles the heavy-hitting subject of premature ejaculation (or for discretion when talking about it with your doctor: pee period ee period).

proceed with caution: the following excerpt is enn-ess-eff-double-you in the way that only bawdy restoration poetry can be (it contains a very vulgar word that rhymes with cunt):

But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev’n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart —
Stiffly resolved, ‘twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where’er it pierced, a cunt it found or made —
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.

spam or the avant-garde?

O motherless, O sunlit jumper cables! O cancerous chandeliers!
Blame our spermicidal honeymoon on these inebriated bicycles.

the definitive answer may be found here.

he who smelt it...

i was perusing my favourite dictionary while doing 300 crunches to make my abs look awesome, and came across this gemma°:

randle (răn’dəl) - n. a nonsensical poem recited by irish schoolboys as an apology for farting at a friend.

i immediately consulted the OED to find out more… but nothing. nothing more on the internet either—just amateur dictionaries that have the same definition word for word.

RATS! i want to know if the nonsense poem has specific words or any uttering will do. is one allowed to rip one in the vacinity of one’s good pal and then recite jabberwocky and everything will be congenial again? also, why would this randle placate the poor feller who has just been farted upon? it would have to be a pretty awesome poem to keep me from wailing on my assailant—something by the likes of marvell or donne (before he sold out and started getting hot and heavy with all the god stuff).

reductio ad absurdum

maurice sagoff makes it his business to reduce history’s greatest literature into cutesy poems. here is his take on roth’s portnoy’s complaint.

Alec Portnoy, none too choosey,
Went for any willing floozie;
Still a jerk in matter phallic
Alec also went for Alec.

Sex he snatched in wild adventures
Sure to jolt some readers’ dentures;
Here are details, cruddy, mealy,
Blow by blow. There’s nothing really
To imagination left
In this—er—roman à cleft.

To his shrink he spills the saga
How his Mama drove him gaga,
Slathered him with guilt and shame,
Pa did pretty much the same;
“Doctor, help me! I’m a bloke
Trapped inside a Jewish joke—
Look, I’m over thirty-eight,
Is it maybe not too late?
Can I ever hope to wrench
Out of this and be a mensch?”

Doctor scratches thoughtful chin:
“So. Now vee perhaps begin?”

maurice sagoff, shrink lits (1970).

my encounter with a poet

suppose you meet someone that introduces themselves as a poet. then suppose you follow up with the all-too-predictable “have you written anything with which i might be familiar?” which is countered by, “i doubt it,” (with a straight face).

would you consider this a subtle insult cast your way OR part of this alleged poet’s self-deprecating ways?