Bog Crossing
Written within five minutes, being a parody of the artless vacuity of observational 'poetry'
(By Tedward Weeney and Seamus Spews)
The large wind in the treetop tells the blackbird its own voice. The yellow grainyard
resounds to the clodding of my farmer's clunking footseps. Winter is
growing colder at this time of year. The black bird is a wooden soldier, its tin hat
opens and shuts and is silent as the frost. We picked turnips once in Winter. The
grain has grown barren. Trees stand tall and bare. I walk the bog now
devoid of what August extended, in leaves, like book leaves, to its limners.
I write it now. You farting gargles of windy peaks among the branchlets,
forgotten sentinels of the sun that is no more as I cross through fields and boggy ditches,
this poem is finished. It is done. The big black bird is thin and wiry.
My pen rests in its woollen nest between two arms of my sleeves.
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I think this is a much better poem than you intended it to be.
And better than anything than Heaney could do :)
*Can't help loving it, parody or no. I mean you've got "You farting gargles of windy peaks among the branchlets,"and" boggy ditches," and "turnips once in winter."
Thanks Samuel and Nonnie. Sam, Heaney did write a couple of good poems, but I can't remember the titles. They weren't the one where he compares a spade to a pen. Nonnie - Sometimes it's only possible to write 100 percent rubbish when you're not intending it.
Just read an essay by Brodsky in which he mentions the differences between American and British "nature" poetry. Interesting. *
John Riley - Observational poetry in Britain is pretty much dead. It's been replaced re establishment favour by Marxist propagandist performance poetry rubbish, where SJWs just write bad rap lyrics to complain about free market Capitalism while living off the fiscal privilege their parents worked hard to grant them. But the reductionism of high theme and meaning is ideologically identical, in a demotic semantics context, and observational verse was once everywhere. You could hardly even get printed by the Far Left establishment unless you churned endless imitations of Seamus Heaney out.