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This month, "The God of Jinks is Nesting in my Hair", by Judy Jones of Hickory, North Carolina.
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THE GOD OF JINX IS NESTING IN MY HAIR
The god of Jinx is nesting in my hair.
He's setting up for an extended stay,
and quite prepared to keep Good Luck at bay,
while making sure that I have nothing to wear
except misfortune: and I've been seen in that
so often that it's sure to be remarked.
The Bad-Luck Buddha is securely parked
atop my brain, and weaving a doormat
of my new perm. He's steering me astray.
I stumble in the dark and bark my shins.
I stub my toes and curse out loud; he grins.
Resigned, I put my life on tape delay.
At this point in my life, I've learned it's wise
to just capitulate with heavy sighs.
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Marmaduke Fortescue selects some of his favorite short works. This issue's gem is from W. H. Auden.
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"To the man in the street, who, I'm sorry to say,
Is a keen observer of life,
The word Intellectual suggests straight away
A man who's untrue to his wife."
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To Tina, On the Occasion of Her New Breasts
By Rupert Hogwalloper
Tina, Tina
I've never seen a
Pair of paps like those.
Two proud titties
Sitting pretty
And pouting through your clothes.
Grown from Nature's small creations,
Thanks to Mankind's skill and patience.
See the ripened fruit that burgeons
And thank the Lord who gave us surgeons.
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Last month's poem, by noted Australian poet, Rupert Hogwalloper, was greeted with such universal critical acclaim that we're publishing it again, together with Marmaduke Fortescue's incisive review.
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A first reading of "To Tina, on the Occasion of Her New Breasts" leaves one in no doubt that one is in the presence of a truly extraordinary work. Of course, on one level, there is an undeniably earthy, even pithy quality to the poem. One is immediately put in mind of the ubiquitous Young Lady of Buckingham, whose colorful exploits have inspired so many poets through the ages. And yet surely there is more, much more, to this work.
Of course, Queensland's vibrant poetry scene is justly famous for its earthy qualities. No one who has read "Will You Look at the Arse on that Sheilah?" by Bruce Figgins or "My Enormous Trouser Snake" by Richard Head can be in
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any doubt of the significant stirrings that are taking place Down Under.
What imparts to this poem its peculiar power? Surely it is the sheer honest and uninhibited joy with which Hogwalloper approaches his theme. This is a celebration of the breast, a hymn to the mammary. One imagines the poet leering at the eponymous objects over a half-empty pint of Fosters in a sleazy Brisbane bar, and what could be more, totally, vibrantly, rapturously alive than that?
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Movie Review
Brigadier General Sir Crispin Maddingley Snorrt, K.B. (retired) reviews "Stuart Little".
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