C[h]atching A Matching Snatch - After Thomas Hood - A Catch, Swinburne - A Match, Et Al Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

If we could blow Monsanto
to smithereens, free seed
some soul-song esperanto,
nor brave new world nor panto-
mime of untimely greed,
then glow would grow unending,
before, behind, here bending,
there trending to shared need,
straightforwardly ascending
to harmonize bel canto
coloratura vibrato
between two hearts indeed.

If life were what the rose is
without the thorns to boot,
our loves would link together
through bright or stormy weather
where heart with heart reposes
in bliss, each kiss new root.
From story uneventful
discarding trumps resentful
to glory existential
we'd dance to magic flute.
Door opens, never closes,
vile envy must confute.
If life were what the rose is,
true Joy no longer mute.

Were life bud which encloses
enjoyment absolute,
then light as downy feather
we’d float above wild heather.
Unknown would be love's measure,
unending blissful pleasure,
eternity two treasure
unknown would be dispute.
Seeds sown bear fruit - what shows is
fair blossom's good repute.
The mirror life should show is
reflection to transmute
dust into gold, exp[l]oses
snake’s apple, rotten fruit.

If thoughts, words, deeds, were ever
identical, life’s tune
would harmonize discordant
vibrations, tongues concordant
would soften into sweetness
discovering completeness
yet ne'er obsessed by neatness
could conquer slander mordant;
temptations never-never,
and fly high as the moon.
If thought, words, deeds were never
a hot-air sky balloon.

If we were both immortal,
December mild as June
might be, we’d see life’s summer
count each day in its number.
Life would be beauty blessing
each day full dinner dressing,
no lies to be confessing
eternal swim, no plumber
to pull the plug each mortal
fear drained from heart charts soon.
If we were both immortal,
Death sting-less, Life cocoon.

If you were queen of pleasure
I, king, your hand would gain,
we’d versify at leisure
and take of each the measure
within the lines of pleasure
where neither need complain,
where nothing would displeasure
through time and time again.

Some say: 'Delight may mingle
love, lust, but life, buffoon,
spins Time’s wheel all too quickly,
today’s bloom soon shades sickly,
tomorrow’s tomb is single,
shores shown prove shoals and shingle.'
Their cares prove self-fulfilling,
with worries over-spilling
into haste's waste-chase chilling,
so rare their senses tingle.
and gloom flows out of noon,
all's vain! Life: mirage moon.
But we won't buy that tune!

In city, sandy shingle,
hopes rise, hot air balloon.
Most bubble hopes burst quickly
on meeting cactus prickly.
In town, or country dingle,
bride, groom, grow into loon
all ends as empty jingle
for “slippered pantaloon”.

Were there no dearth of readers
on earth here, how delighting!
Our writing all adoring,
vocations pure restoring,
in high demand as breeders,
would poets every nighting
Gails brave, or Joys, or Ledas,
no dearth of readers sighting.

Regretfully our leaders’
priorities seem fighting,
backbiting and exporting,
exploiting and deporting,
so altruistic pleaders
must elsewhere underwriting
seek sustenance, indicting
lacklustre lusting leaders
whose all too frequent lapses
show judgement which collapses
when tested, which perhaps is
sign they fail all, the bleeders,
due more to faulty wiring
than that of their conceders.

If you were fairy ditty,
and I an airy rhyme,
we’d keep this up for ever,
nor think it very clever,
sense, nonsense, mix themes witty
until the end of time.
If you were fair[l]y pretty,
and I an airy rhyme.

But daily nitty gritty
seems far from rose sublime.
Fond meetings soon must sever,
from henceforth and forever.
Pour on our dream themes pity,
despite bright rhyme schemes Time
wastes fauna, flora pretty,
through evolution’s climb.

If life were what the rose is
without the thorns to boot,
our loves would link together
in bright or stormy weather
where heart with heart reposes
in bliss, each kiss new root.
If life were, holy Moses! ,
a rose all could compute.

If, love's seeds sown, pretending
was classified as weed
then there would be no ending
of happiness to feed
shared passion overnightly
grown pyrotechnic brightly
as two through cues insightly
keyed to each other's need,
all bridges would be mending
endeavours all succeed.

Once love's seeds sown, descending
to fertile ground decreed,
we'd spend existence blending
our essences agreed,
see days spin fly-by-nightly
as we, together, tightly
may do no wrong but brightly
tired muscles nightly knead.
Fate, fortune, both befriending,
as on our way we speed.

Seed theme needs no defending,
dear reader, pray concede,
your wisdom willing lending
to writer's closing screed.
No ruse one rues contritely,
no blues ensues, so tightly
attention pay as lightly
our white poetic steed
is reined in recommending
YOUR pen should now proceed...

30 August 1991 revised 14 July 2006 June 2005 and 30 April 2008
see below for previous version

A Catching Matching Snatch

If life were what the rose is
without the thorns to boot,
our loves would link together
through bright or stormy weather
where heart with heart reposes
in bliss, each kiss new root.
If life were what the rose is,
each joy no longer mute.

Were life bud which encloses
enjoyment absolute,
then light as downy feather
we’d float above wild heather.
But the glass that life shows is
reflection to transmute
gold into dust, exploses
snake’s apple – rotten fruit.

If thoughts, words, deeds, were ever
identical, life’s tune
would harmonize, - discordant
vibrations, tongues too mordant,
would soften, we’d endeavour
to fly high as the moon.
If thought, words, deeds were never
a hot-air sky balloon.

If we were both immortal,
December mild as June
might be, we’d see life’s summer
eternal swim, no plumber
to pull the plug each mortal
fear drained from heart charts soon.
If we were both immortal,
Death sting-less, Life cocoon.

If you were queen of pleasure
I, king, your hand would gain,
we’d versify at leisure
and take of each the measure
within the lines of pleasure
where neither need complain,
where nothing would displeasure
through time and time again.

Although delight might mingle
love, lust, - life fades, buffoon,
Time’s wheel spins all too quickly,
today’s bloom soon shades sickly,
tomorrow’s tomb is single,
and gloom flows out of noon,
So though sweet senses tingle,
all’s vain! Life’s mirage moon.

In city, sandy shingle,
hopes rise, hot air balloon.
Most bubble hopes burst quickly
on meeting cactus prickly.
In town, or country dingle,
bride, groom, grow into loon
all ends as empty jingle
for“slippered pantaloon”.

Were there no dearth of readers
on earth here, how delighting!
Our writing all adoring,
vocations pure restoring,
in high demand as breeders,
would poets every nighting
Gails brave, or Joys, or Ledas,
no dearth of readers sighting.

Regretfully our leaders’
priorities seem fighting,
backbiting and exporting,
exploiting and deporting,
so altruistic pleaders
must elsewhere underwriting
for sustenance seek! Leaders
are busy with in-fighting!

If you were fairy ditty,
and I an airy rhyme,
we’d keep this up for ever,
nor think it very clever,
sense, nonsense, mix themes witty
until the end of time.
If you were fairly pretty,
and I an airy rhyme.

But daily nitty gritty
seems far from rose sublime.
Fond meetings soon must sever,
from henceforth and forever.
Pour on our dream themes pity,
for ‘spite our rhyme schemes Time
wastes fauna, flora pretty,
through evolution’s climb.

If life were what the rose is
without the thorns to boot,
our loves would link together
in bright or stormy weather
where heart with heart reposes
in bliss, each kiss new root.
If life were, holy Moses! ,
a rose all could compute.


30 August 1991 revised 14 July 2006

A Catch

If you were Queen of bloaters,
And I were king of soles,
The sea we’d wag our fins in
Nor heed the crookèd pins in
The water dropt by boaters,
To catch our heedless jolse;
If you were queen of bloaters –
And I were king of soles.

If you were Lady Mile-End,
And I were Duke of Bow,
We’d marry and we’d quarrel,
And then, to point the moral
Should Lord Penzance his file lend,
Our chains to overthrow;
If you were Lady Mile-End,
And I were Duke of Bow.

If you were chill November,
And I were sunny June,
I’d not with love pursue you;
For I should be to woo you –
(You’re foggy, pray remember) –
A most egregious spoon;
If you were chill November,
And I were sunny June.

If you were cook to Venus,
And I were J 19,
When missus was out dining,
Our suppetites combining,
We’d oft contrive between us
To keep the platter clean;
If you were cook to Venus,
And I were J 19.

If you were but a jingle,
And I were but a rhyme,
We’d keep this up for ever,
Nor think it very clever,
A grain of sense to mingle
At times with simple chime.
If you were but a jingle,
And I were but a rhyme.

Thomas HOOD 1799_1845

A Match

If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes
Green pleasure or grey grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death,
We'd shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling
And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death.

If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy,
We 'd play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons
And tears of night and morrow
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.

If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May,
We 'd throw with leaves for hours
And draw for days with flowers,
Till day like night were shady
And night were bright like day;
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We 'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.

c 1865/1866
Algernon Charles Swinburne 1837_1909 Parody Thomas HOOD – A Catch

Another Match

If love were dhudeen olden,
And I were like the weed,
Oh! we would live together
And love the jolly weather,
And bask in sunshine golden,
Rare pals of choicest breed;
If love were dhudeen olden,
And I were like the weed.

If you were oil essential,
And I were nicotine,
We'd hatch up wicked treason,
And spoil each smoker's reason,
Till he grew penitential,
And turned a bilious green;
If you were oil essential,
And I were nicotine.

If you were snuff, my darling,
And I, your love, the box.
We'd live and sneeze together,
Shut out from all the weather,
And anti-snuffers snarling,
In neckties orthodox;
If you were snuff, my darling,
And I, your love, the box.

If you were the aroma,
And I were simply smoke,
We'd skyward fly together,
As light as any feather;
And flying high as Homer,
His gray old ghost we'd choke;
If you were the aroma,
And I were simply smoke.

Author Unknown Cope's Tobacco Plant

A Highly Valuable Chain of Thoughts

Had cigarettes no ashes,
And roses ne'er a thorn,
No man would be a funker
Of whin, or burn, or bunker.
There were no need for mashies,
The turf would ne'er be torn,
Had cigarettes no ashes,
And roses ne'er a thorn.

Had cigarettes no ashes,
And roses ne'er a thorn,
The big trout would not ever
Escape into the river.
No gut the salmon smashes
Would leave us all forlorn,
Had cigarettes no ashes,
And roses ne'er a thorn.

But 'tis an unideal,
Sad world in which we're born,
And things will 'go contrairy'
With Martin and with Mary:
And every day the real
Comes bleakly in with morn,
And cigarettes have ashes,
And every rose a thorn.

Andrew LANG 1844_1912

Another Match

If I were Anglo-Saxon
and you were Japanese,
we’d study storks together,
pluck out the peacock’s feather
and lean our languid backs on
the stiffest of setees.
If I were Anglo-Saxon
and you were Japanese,

If you were Della Cruscan,
and I were A–Mooresque,
we’d make our limbs look less in
artistic folds, and dress in
what once were tunics Tuscan
in Dante’s days grotesque;
If you were Della Cruscan,
and I were A–Mooresque.

If I were mock Pompeian
and you Belgravian Greek,
we’d glide ‘mid gaping Vandals
in shapeless sheets and sandals,
like shades in Tararean
dim ways remote and bleak;
If I were mock Pompeian
and you Belgravian Greek.

If you were Culture’s scarecrow,
and I the guy of Art
I’d learn in latest phrases
of either quaintest crazes
to lisp, and let my hair grow,
If you were Culture’s scarecrow,
and I the guy of Art.

If I’d a Botticelli,
and you’d a new Burne-Jones,
we’d doat for days and days on
their mystic hues, and gaze on
with lowering looks that felly
we’d fix upon their tones:
If I’d a Botticelli,
and you’d a new Burne-Jones.

If you were skilled at crewels,
and I, a dab with rhyme,
I’d write delirious ‘ballads’
while you your bilious salads
where stitching on two ells
of coarsest crass at times:
If you were skilled at crewels,
and I, a dab with rhyme.

Author Unknown

Life's Seasons

I
When all the world was Mayday,
And all the skies were blue,
Young innocence made playday
Among the flowers and dew;
Then all of life was Mayday,
And clouds were none or few.

II
When all the world was Summer,
And morn shone overhead,
Love was the sweet newcomer
Who led youth forth to wed;
Then all of life was Summer,
And clouds were golden red.

III
When earth was all October,
And days were gray with mist,
On woodways, sad and sober,
Grave memory kept her tryst;
Then life was all October,
And clouds were twilight-kissed.

IV
Now all the world's December,
And night is all alarm,
Above the last dim ember
Grief bends to keep him warm;
Now all of life's December,
And clouds are driven storm.

Madison Julius CAWEIN 1865_1914