SHIFTYCOVE'S SELECTION OF FAVOURITE POETRY

Home | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | About Me | Contact Me
- page the ninth -

 
Poetry about wild creatures . . .

Rat, O Rat ...  By Christopher Logue

Never in all my life have I seen
as handsome a rat as you.
Thank you for noticing my potatoes.

O Rat, I am not rich.
I left you a note concerning my potatoes,
but I see that I placed it too high
and you could not read it.

O Rat, dog;
my wife and I are cursed
with the possession of a large and hungry dog;
it worries us that he might learn your name
which is forever on our lips.

O Rat, consider my neighbor;
he has eight children (all of them older
and more intelligent than mine)
and if you lived in his house, Rat,

ten good Christians
(if we include his wife)
would sing your praises nightly,
whereas in my house there are only five.

 

. . . and other perennial problems

 

Boots Hotwater Bottle

by Robert Vas Dias

Getting ready for bed
you say, it's cold in here, and I say,
it's warm to me, and you:
but I am me and it's cold,
so of course I know I must go
downstairs and put the kettle on
for the light purple Boots
hotwater bottle, BS 1970:1984,
KM 14029, No.7, which I bought
knowing I would have to supplement
my body heat which is normally
sufficient to pre-warm your side
of the bed, but on nights like these
is not. And so it goes, like this:
before the water reaches the boil
I pour it into the hotwater bottle
four-fifths full, pressing out the air
so the water just reaches the base
of the spout; I then stopper
the bottle with the white stopper
provided, wipe off any excess
water, and bring it upstairs,
laying it in your side of the bed.
It also reads, made in England.

. . . and tough decisions

Donor Card - A Decision

by Peter Howard

"I request that after my death any part of my body
may be used for the treatment of others."

If I should die, my pancreas will give
New hope to some poor sod who's own's packed up,
My heart beat out so someone else can live
And smile to greet a spring-time buttercup
That I shall never see. But my eyes will
Since they may focus light unknown to me.
My kidneys (although I be dead) will still
Give some sad alcoholic leave to see
Another pub-crawl out (I'll not bet much
That they will last the course) My liver too
Is past its best, but still it is by such
Gifts that I'll live when my own life is through.

But not my willie - he will die with me
And rise in heav'n, if that should ever be.



 - more good poetry to come . . .