901

BROWN PENNY
A Poem by
William Butler Yeats

I whispered, "I am too young,"
And then, "I am old enough";
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
"Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair."
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

BROWN PENNY
Song of the Ghetto (duet)

I whispered, "Am I too young?"
Then, "I hope I am old enough";
Whereupon I offered money,
With which to pay for love.
"Go, find a girl yo' age, young man,
Who's noble, an' good an' fair."
"Brown Penny, Brown Penny, Brown Penny!" said I,
"I love you and that long, braided hair!"

"Ah, love, ma boy, is a special t'ing;
No, Brown Penny's not for you;
Life has broken this lone, lone heart,
And stolen the Heaven too.
I'm twenty-nine but older than that
In body and in mind;
So, when true love you happen to find...
Tell me what it's like."

902

[A poem to poem anagram with a hidden constraint]

OCTOBER
Poem by Oskar Hansen

The tenth month
October has psychological problems as it doesn't
belong anywhere, nor summer or winter? That
is why it gets hot at noon and cold in the evening
having read bad reviews all day long,
October has an inferiority complex doesn't accept
critics, sees it as a personal attack and then it gets
resentful send bucket full of rains on foe and friends
alike. But October has a soft inner heart, sentimental
too, so speak softly to it and it will be your friend.

CAN'T REAP WITH DEBTS YOU OWE

If nothing's in the tomb, there are no stillborn fragments one can possess—don't you see?
A recovering alcoholic can't drink rum, gin or crap cocktails in that intended Land of Tea.
Damn the bills and convert the scraps; do let it flow, bottles of eau.

If it's dissonant and strange, it's impossible to be what one is cracked to be.
Don't play the saxophone or bang the timbales if you ain't Kenny G nor Sheila E.
Control the banks, settle a loss; you're very far from where they are.


[The last word of each line (including that of the title) when read aloud spell out the word "October"]
CAN'T REAP WITH DEBTS YOU OWE

If nothing's in the tomb, there are no stillborn fragments one can possess—don't you see?
A recovering alcoholic can't drink rum, gin or crap cocktails in that intended Land of Tea.
Damn the bills and convert the scraps; do let it flow, bottles of eau.

If it's dissonant and strange, it's impossible to be what one is cracked to be.
Don't play the saxophone or bang the timbales if you ain't Kenny G nor Sheila E.
Control the banks, settle a loss; you're very far from where they are.

903

THE DASH
A Poem by Linda Ellis

I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke of the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not how much we own,
The cars, the house, the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard;
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left
That can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect
And more often wear a smile,
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.

So when your eulogy is being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?

THE LAST WORD
Half-Profound Headstone Epitaphs!

Here rest the bones of Martha May Charlotte
Born a virgin, died a harlot
She was aye a virgin at seventeen
A remarkable thing In Aberdeen.
*
Here lies my wife
Here let her lie
Now she's at rest
And so am I.
*
Who lies here?
Me, Matthew McDow.
Och! Matthew, is that you?
Ay, man, but a'm dead now.
*
THE DENTIST
Stranger, approach this spot with gravity!
Hugh McDuff's filling his last cavity.
*
THE HUSBAND
As I am now so thou shalt be
Therefore get set to follow me.

THE WIFE
To follow thee I'm not content
How do I know which way you went?
*
Here rests Thomas Wood
Enclosed in Wood
One Wood within another
The outer Wood
Is very good:
We cannot praise the other.
*
Raised four beautiful daughters
With only the one bathroom
And still there was love.
*
The little lad that slumbers here
Was taken by the diarrhoea.
*
Now I know something you don't.
*
VERN PENFOLD
RUTH ETHEL PENFOLD
We finally found a place to park in Dartford.
*
Here rests Cuthbert Lake
Stepped on the gas
Instead of the brake.
*
Told you I was ill!
*
The shell's here but the nut's gone.
*
Here rests an atheist.
All dressed up and no place to go.
*
JUDD QUENTON
He looked up the elevator shaft
To see if the car was on the way down.
'Twas.
*
Here lies ANTHONY DAVID CRAFTER
Who?
*

904

[Dickinson's spooky poem is anagrammed into a bleaker Halloween poem - which also contains a relevant constraint:]

The only Ghost I ever saw
Was dressed in Mechlin - so -
He wore no sandal on his foot -
And stepped like flakes of snow -

His Gait - was soundless, like the Bird -
But rapid - like the Roe -
His fashions, quaint, Mosaic -
Or haply, Mistletoe -

His conversation - seldom -
His laughter, like the Breeze -
That dies away in Dimples
Among the pensive Trees -

Our interview - was transient -
Of me, himself was shy -
And God forbid I look behind -
Since that appalling Day!

[By Emily Dickinson]

This Date of Evil Sin

A kid walks by my door
In his deranged apparel:
A poncho drenched in gore;
Big gun with double barrels.
His smiles do make me think
Of evil real-life villains -
Those fiendish sins that link
Kids-stuff with gloom and killin'.
One squad of white-sheet sprites
Zooms past me on a mission;
How can this precious sight
Be one sad apparition?
It's Halloween, I'd say -
Yet this can't be the reason;
The way we roll these days,
We're demons every season.

[The constraint: The poem also contains a relevant phrase in an acrostic, 'becoming horrible'. But it's only revealed when the lines move - and then reveal themselves the silhouette of a demon head:]


              This Date of Evil Sin

             A kid walks by my door
            In his deranged apparel:
            A poncho drenched in gore;
           Big gun with double barrels.
           His smiles do make me think
      Of evil real-life villains -
        Those fiendish sins that link
         Kids-stuff with gloom and killin'.
           One squad of white-sheet sprites
           Zooms past me on a mission;
           How can this precious sight
          Be one sad apparition?
         It's Halloween, I'd say -
          Yet this can't be the reason;
           The way we roll these days,
            We're demons every season.