I've been in conversation with someone about Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy recently, and whilst trying to sort out the chaos in my new apartment, I found something that should better have been lost.
See, back in high school, having read English classic poetry, I suddenly fancied myself a poet, and... well. I don't think even the Vogons wrote anything as awful as this.
Here's one:
November Wind
November strips the last vestige of fall,
October's burning glory swept away,
neither cold enough for frost to settle,
nor warm enough to spark new life to grow.
November's wind: a howling spectre blows,
licks around half naked branches, tasting
coloured relics of autumn's final days.
Now a whisper: softly breathes a secret,
rustling through the yellowed grass, it pauses,
settles, then starts along its way again.
Copyright 1976 TDWoj
And another:
December Dawn
Morning dawns;
A faint light towards the east
stretches wary fingers along the ground,
and creeping thus,
paints the snowy coverlet
an old and tarnished silver.
High above,
old Selena shakes her hair,
and from it drops a single, shining star,
the Morning Star;
it fades away as day creeps
on unsuspecting dawn.
Copyright 1976 TDWoj
It gets worse with this one:
First Storm
The last, full blown gusts of summer have passed,
and now the autumn's wind has come to cool.
The trembling leaves have fallen from the trees,
now standing naked, winter's coming hail.
The greying sky forbodes an icy blast;
a bank of rolling clouds in silence comes -
and softly, softly, snowflakes start to fall.
The ground, as yet unready to receive,
lets melt the first arrivals from the storm;
but now more swiftly do the snowflakes fall,
the trees so lately bared are lost from view.
The wind surrounds, confusion takes the scene,
the swirling snow in all directions flies
and in its fury, thickly covers all.
The busy wind as suddenly subsides.
Again a hush prevails upon the plain,
but all has changed -
Once bare, the waiting landscape, is transformed
from harsh and staring outlines, sharp and stark
to show a softer beauty on its face.
The clouds have gone, the snow is softened to
a paler blue, more peaceful to the eye;
the sky, now clear, is smiling on the earth.
A gust of wind disturbs a powdery drift.
The storm moves on to work its spells elsewhere.
Copyright 1979 TDWoj
And one more (for now) to make you gag:
Bosworth Field
(author/biographer Grace Irwin liked this one, for some reason, don't ask me why)
At dawn, we meet.
The sun sets on Bosworth Field.
As I stand before my tent,
I watch it fall behind the trees.
My hands are cold, my face is damp.
Can I fear, I ask myself?
All men fear, I hope.
A king, am I.
My kingdom is uncertain,
or so I say. Does a king
reign over men, or over souls?
If kings rule men, then men I have.
If souls, then I have no one.
Men must keep their souls.
I wait, alone.
I let my trusted servants sleep.
There is no need to disturb
their troubled rest; tomorrow is
a long day. I should sleep, myself.
But I cannot rest tonight;
fear sits on my heart.
Did I do right?
I took my brother's place, no
choice of mine; it was the law.
I protected his sons; I wished
them to endure, they were my blood.
But they had no claim; *******
seed cannot take root.
I ruled, instead.
But would evil forces let me
reign in peace? Would they let me
keep the crown and oath unchallenged?
No; they fought to take the power
from my hands and give it to
him who had no right.
On Bosworth Field
shall our armies meet; at dawn
the battle begins. I fear.
Though that I am king, am I king?
I doubt even of having men.
I must trust men's trust in me.
But I am afraid.
Long live the king!
I watch as his body is
strapped across the pony's back.
I pick up the crown and place it
on its rightful head, which is mine.
An icy hand grips my heart,
and then it is gone.
Copyright 1974 TDWoj
-------
I'll spare you the rest of my Vogonish poetry... until tomorrow night! Bwah-ha-hah-hah!
See, back in high school, having read English classic poetry, I suddenly fancied myself a poet, and... well. I don't think even the Vogons wrote anything as awful as this.
Here's one:
November Wind
November strips the last vestige of fall,
October's burning glory swept away,
neither cold enough for frost to settle,
nor warm enough to spark new life to grow.
November's wind: a howling spectre blows,
licks around half naked branches, tasting
coloured relics of autumn's final days.
Now a whisper: softly breathes a secret,
rustling through the yellowed grass, it pauses,
settles, then starts along its way again.
Copyright 1976 TDWoj
And another:
December Dawn
Morning dawns;
A faint light towards the east
stretches wary fingers along the ground,
and creeping thus,
paints the snowy coverlet
an old and tarnished silver.
High above,
old Selena shakes her hair,
and from it drops a single, shining star,
the Morning Star;
it fades away as day creeps
on unsuspecting dawn.
Copyright 1976 TDWoj
It gets worse with this one:
First Storm
The last, full blown gusts of summer have passed,
and now the autumn's wind has come to cool.
The trembling leaves have fallen from the trees,
now standing naked, winter's coming hail.
The greying sky forbodes an icy blast;
a bank of rolling clouds in silence comes -
and softly, softly, snowflakes start to fall.
The ground, as yet unready to receive,
lets melt the first arrivals from the storm;
but now more swiftly do the snowflakes fall,
the trees so lately bared are lost from view.
The wind surrounds, confusion takes the scene,
the swirling snow in all directions flies
and in its fury, thickly covers all.
The busy wind as suddenly subsides.
Again a hush prevails upon the plain,
but all has changed -
Once bare, the waiting landscape, is transformed
from harsh and staring outlines, sharp and stark
to show a softer beauty on its face.
The clouds have gone, the snow is softened to
a paler blue, more peaceful to the eye;
the sky, now clear, is smiling on the earth.
A gust of wind disturbs a powdery drift.
The storm moves on to work its spells elsewhere.
Copyright 1979 TDWoj
And one more (for now) to make you gag:
Bosworth Field
(author/biographer Grace Irwin liked this one, for some reason, don't ask me why)
At dawn, we meet.
The sun sets on Bosworth Field.
As I stand before my tent,
I watch it fall behind the trees.
My hands are cold, my face is damp.
Can I fear, I ask myself?
All men fear, I hope.
A king, am I.
My kingdom is uncertain,
or so I say. Does a king
reign over men, or over souls?
If kings rule men, then men I have.
If souls, then I have no one.
Men must keep their souls.
I wait, alone.
I let my trusted servants sleep.
There is no need to disturb
their troubled rest; tomorrow is
a long day. I should sleep, myself.
But I cannot rest tonight;
fear sits on my heart.
Did I do right?
I took my brother's place, no
choice of mine; it was the law.
I protected his sons; I wished
them to endure, they were my blood.
But they had no claim; *******
seed cannot take root.
I ruled, instead.
But would evil forces let me
reign in peace? Would they let me
keep the crown and oath unchallenged?
No; they fought to take the power
from my hands and give it to
him who had no right.
On Bosworth Field
shall our armies meet; at dawn
the battle begins. I fear.
Though that I am king, am I king?
I doubt even of having men.
I must trust men's trust in me.
But I am afraid.
Long live the king!
I watch as his body is
strapped across the pony's back.
I pick up the crown and place it
on its rightful head, which is mine.
An icy hand grips my heart,
and then it is gone.
Copyright 1974 TDWoj
-------
I'll spare you the rest of my Vogonish poetry... until tomorrow night! Bwah-ha-hah-hah!
