This was written, probably, in 1985, or even earlier, maybe, in a fit of exasperation over the appearence on the office noticeboard of a long, rambling epic (on some local affair) which had rather laboured rhymes and absolutely no scansion whatsoever.
The perpetrator was a cheerful, beautiful, superbly constructed young woman nearly two metres tall.
She made absolutely no attempt to disguise her height (by that common habit that many tall women have of hunching over in an unbecoming stoop) but carried it proudly and very, very well.
Oddly, she had a startling facial resemblance to my equally personable, tho' considerably shorter, daughter.
She never, so far as I know, wrote another poetic line but went off and married a Rumanian instead.
I can only wish her the best of all possible lives.
I can't really remember her name: Marilyn something, I think.....Marilyn Mac...ummm, I dunno; as I said it was quite a while ago.
(Maybe I should have titled the piece "Ode to an unknown Marilyn", but then it really isn't about her at all, and besides people might think I'm harking back to that Monroe woman, which would be the wrong idea entirely, so I think I'll just stick with the title I've got.)
This is the only poem (if, indeed, it actually is one) that I have ever written.
That was the only time that I ever really felt the urge.
Which is probably just as well.
WITHOUT FURTHER ADO,
THE MAIN FEATURE!
Poetry's more than a matter of rhyme:
ya gotta have rhythm. You must take the time
and also the trouble, and all the sweat needed
to properly write, with all excess outweeded.
So, next time you're feeling the touch of the muse
and write in this fashion, I hope you will choose
not only to pick the right words for your treat,
but also remember: YA GOTTA HAVE BEAT!
(Guaranteed: Not a Poem in the lot)
You hardy souls who have ventured this far may now claim your reward!
Go now to
LETTERS FROM GRAHAM
for a little humour.
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