 Kindly refer to Notes
A Letter to AP
Dear AP a contest has started
to ask how and what we should change
from far and near writers are charted
to test the extent of their range.
One thought I would add, tender hearted,
the category limits are strange
here's my voice for more choice that more parts id
and ego should run to arrange.
Dear AP I'm asked about blocking
those who comments oft copy and paste,
and those who insults in their stocking
include, who good-feeling would waste.
Should one justly ignore with door locking
those who trophies exchange in the haste
to hold contests too quickie, taste mocking -
what would you advise, culprit traced ?
Should one tolerate those, the boat rocking,
with pseudo anonymous based,
or respond - not react - to their shocking
behaviour online both debased
and short term as they squirm, blow half-cocking
credibility - consequence faced
too seldom while points they are clocking
at others' expense, trust misplaced ?
Dear AP, I leave you this letter
after writing from ten until nine
for a site I’d delight to know better,
for a smile that my heart can’t decline.
But I found after lengthily pacing,
for points in the cold for some sign,
that my heart which with hope had been racing
to darkest despair did repine.
Dear AP from twelve to eleven
last night did I knock at your door
in hope that an angel from heaven
would show me the light, - but no more
will I screed in my need if no answer
can echo, where no joy’s in store -
I can’t act as a puppet-stringed dancer,
not even for one I adore !
When I came through a link all seemed dandy
but when one digs deeper one finds
some exchange trophy's gold, sold like candy
to boost up friends' ignorant minds.
While some bore with gore and knives cutting,
some 'WOW', 'ain't it AWESOME' exclaim,
my mind is on archives abutting
the flame of my name for life's fame !
So though contests appear open wide, Dear,
there is so little logic, the game
soon must tire as the outflowing tide, Dear,
should erase every unworthy frame.
And how I detest comments wise may
be wiped out because some can't stand
home truths but prefer good surprise pay,
in AH, OOH and ERR 'mistyped' hand !
Dear AP twenty hours have I waited
day in and day out by grief torn,
all attempts that I made were ill-fated
as my consonants vowed my vowels scorn.
The wonder my dunderhead brought you
tonight may steal thunder at morn,
but the blossoms whose beauty besought you
fade so fast when few look, - I’m foresworn.
As on Thursday applauseless, defeated,
so on Friday all clauseless I’m spurned,
is the cycle of love thus completed,
is this all the thanks that I’ve earned ?
It is hard for a fool to be taken -
its a sign that one’s soft in the head,-
but the reason that slept must awaken,
and the spirit, restored, won’t be lead !
I’d have offered you all in my power,
to cherish, to share, to be kind,
I’d have nurtured emotions to flower
and found wings for sing soul unresigned.
It is not just the whim of an hour
but a life spent with no chains to bind,
in a warm, in a warm, tender bower
with blank verse, even worse, left behind !
How can I be present tomorrow,
bear false witness with stanzas prewrit ?
once again less « in anger than sorrow »
I will try to bar love from my wit.
I will try to contain my emotion -
or go through the motions to ease
the emptiness born from devotion
to one who my heart pleased to tease.
Good luck with your plans to continue
support for the wor(l)d caught in art !
Good luck for the talent that sings you !
Good luck for applause all do chart !
I’ll return into cold hibernation
all alone til your smile shines bright through
the slough of despondent elation,
these Elysean fields cropped by few.
Dear AP, don’t answer this letter
if my feelings one-sided appear,
still shall I remain your deep debtor -
who taught me to share and feel near.
Intuitions are fine for romantic,
inner feelings that blossom in dreams,
but a chasm as deep as Atlantic
drowns my talent, it seems, AP, Dear !
Kindly, sometimes, remember I follow
your footsteps as forward they flow,
and the shadow which seems to be hollow
is an echo which helps me to know
how the sun shines for YOU as Apollo
his steeds urges onwards, - and though
daily night day's insight seems to swallow
tomorrow dawn’s brightness will glow !
Oh Dear AP ! the contest suggested
I restrict all my thinklings to four,
and although I am 'AWE'fully congested
my mind keeps outreaching for more !
So perhaps if no "honorable mention"
I am granted though trophy's awry,
at least I can hope for attention
before ink runs dry, - so Good bye !
______________________
AP Pointed Appraisal
One stores verse story’s glory in the mind,
retinal rainbow stimulating each
synaptic link both in and out of reach, -
display whose ray may play before, behind.
Word flow sensations sows and by degree,
can catalyze a metamorphic fire
as empathy extends its energy
incandescent, lends dimensions higher
to time and space and place which, falling free,
rise to surprise and stimulate the lyre.
Time loses its accustomed hierarchy
thus finite frontiers, limits soon expire.
In context crystalline we find outlined
prismatic tones some play, which more may teach
than meets the eye, contact points combined,
with ease - these inner inhibitions breach.
Words flow where none could know they’d go, - no key
is needed where there’s no directive spire,
no cue restrictive, new priority
in depth is found, ground falls away, desire
spins toplike, whose magnetic gravity
attractive adds new levels which aspire
to spread, to wed when seedbed cavity
spores explode, explore, more growth inspire.
Words flow, emotions echo, each assigned
its place to interaction trace where speech
is often too restrictive, predefined, -
thought modes aligned, too taut one must impeach.
So verse to verse responds spontaneous
to take up arms against a troubled seed,
to laugh with, never at unless some cuss,
to read behind the lines for more to read.
These featured points outline one Poet's view
though points, when featured, comments draw too few
Author notes
After William Mackworth Praed - A Letter of Advice
Written April 10th, 2005 revised 20 July 2007
A Letter of Advice
From Miss Medora Trevilian at Padua
to Miss Araminta Vavasour, in London
‘Enfin, monsieur, un homme aimable;
Voilà: pourquoi je ne saurais l'aimer.’ Scribe
You tell me you're promised a lover,
My own Araminta, next week;
Why cannot my fancy discover
The hue of his coat and his cheek ?
Alas! if he look like another,
A vicar, a banker, a beau,
Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say 'No !'
Miss Lane at her Temple of Fashion,
Taught us both how to sing and to speak,
And we loved one another with passion,
Before we had been there a week:
You gave me a ring for a token;
I wear it wherever I go;
I gave you a chain - is it broken ?
My own Araminta, say 'No !'
O think of our favourite cottage,
And think of our dear Lallah Rookh !
How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage,
And drank of the stream from the brook:
How fondly our loving lips faltered
'What further can grandeur bestow ?
My heart is the same; - is yours altered ?
My own Araminta, say 'No !'
Remember the thrilling romances
We read on the bank in the glen;
Remember the suitors our fancies
Would picture for both of us then.
They wore the red cross on their shoulder
They had vanquished and pardoned their foe -
Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder ?
My own Araminta, say 'No !'
You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage
Drove off with your sister Justine,
You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,
And whispered 'How base she has been !'
You said you were sure it would kill you,
If ever your husband looked so;
And you will apostatize, - will you ?
My own Araminta, say 'No !'
When I heard I was going abroad, love,
I thought I was going to die;
We walked arm in arm to the road, love,
We looked arm in arm to the sky;
And I said 'When a foreign postillion
Has hurried me off to the Po,
Forget not Medora Trevilian:
My own Araminta, say 'No !'
We parted ! but sympathy's fetters
Reach far over valley and hill;
I muse o'er your exquisite letters,
And feel that your heart is mine still;
And he who would share it with me, love -
The richest of treasure below -
If he's not what Orlando should be, love,
My own Araminta,say 'No !'
If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,
If he puts up his feet on the hob,
If he ever drinks port after dinner,
If his brow, or his breeding is low,
If he calls himself 'Thompson' or 'Skinner',
My own, Araminta, say 'No !'
If he ever sets foot in the City,
Amongst the stockbrokers and Jews,
If he has not a heart full of pity,
If he don't stand six feet in his shoes,
If his lips are not redder than roses,
If his hands are not whiter than snow,
If he has not the model of noses, -
My own Araminta, say 'No !'
If he speaks of a tax or a duty,
If he does not look grand on his knees,
If he's blind to a landscape of beauty,
Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees,
If he dotes not on desolate towers,
If he likes not to hear the blast blow,
If he knows not the language of flowers, -
My own Araminta, say 'No !'
He must walk - like a god of old story
Come down from the home of his rest;
He must smile - like the sun in his glory
On the buds he loves ever the best;
And oh! from its ivory portal
Like music his soft speech must flow ! -
If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal,
My own Araminta, say 'No !'
Don't listen to tales of his bounty,
Don't hear what they say of his birth,
Don't look at his seat in the county,
Don't calculate what he is worth;
But give him a theme to write verse on,
And see if he turns out his toe;
If he's only an excellent person, -
My own Araminta, say 'No !'
Winthrop Mackworth PRAED 1802_1839
Song of a Plebutante
Oh Mumsy, it’s the starters of the Season
And here I am with not a thing to wear;
If I’m lucky I may stumble
On a T-shirt in a jumble
That won’t look too outrageous in Sloane Square.
I know we really can’t afford a party,
With unions pushing Britain down the drain,
And I’m sorry poor old Daddy
Has to borrow from his caddie
And cycle to the City in the rain.
I’ve had a teeny tête-à-tête with Tanya;
She couldn’t fit me in at her boutique,
So I’ve joined the ranks of labour
With an office job at Faber,
And they’re starting me at forty pounds a week.
Oh, getting up at eight won’t be too ghastly,
[Fiona says that filing can be fun],
But the times they are a-changing
And the marriage you’re arranging
Will have to wait until I’m twenty-one.
Oh, Mumsy, please stop crying, there’s a darling,
Oh, Daddy, I can’t bear it if you shout;
But if Quentin Crisp can do it
There can’t be that much to it,
And nothing’s going to stop me coming out !
Roger WODDIS 1917_1993
Parody Winthrop Mackworth PRAED – A Letter of Advice
A Letter
Dear Kitty,
At length the term's ending;
I 'm in for my Schools in a week;
And the time that at present I'm spending
On you should be spent upon Greek:
But I'm fairly well read in my Plato,
I'm thoroughly red in the eyes,
And I've almost forgotten the way to
Be healthy and wealthy and wise.
So 'the best of all ways' - why repeat you
The verse at 2.30 a.m.,
When I 'm stealing an hour to entreat you
Dear Kitty, to come to Commem. ?
Oh, come ! You shall rustle in satin
Through halls where Examiners trod:
Your laughter shall triumph o'er Latin
In lecture-room, garden, and quad.
They stand in the silent Sheldonian -
Our orators, waiting - for you,
Their style guaranteed Ciceronian,
Their subject - 'the Ladies in Blue.'
The Vice sits arrayed in his scarlet;
He's pale, but they say he dissem-
-bles by calling his Beadle a 'varlet'
Whenever he thinks of Commem.
There are dances, flirtations at Nuneham,
Flower-shows, the procession of Eights:
There's a list stretching ‘usque ad Lunam’
Of concerts, and lunches, and fetes:
There's the Newdigate all about 'Gordon, '
- So sweet, and they say it will scan.
You shall flirt with a Proctor, a Warden
Shall run for your shawl and your fan.
They are sportive as gods broken loose from
Olympus, and yet very em-
-inent men. There are plenty to choose from,
You'll find, if you come to Commem.
I know your excuses: Red Sorrel
Has stumbled and broken her knees;
Aunt Phoebe thinks waltzing immoral;
And 'Algy, you are such a tease;
It's nonsense, of course, but she is strict';
And little Dick Hodge has the croup;
And there's no one to visit your 'district'
Or make Mother Tettleby's soup.
Let them cease for a se'nnight to plague you;
Oh, leave them to manage _pro tem_.
With their croups and their soups and their ague]
Dear Kitty, and come to Commem.
Don't tell me Papa has lumbago,
That you haven't a frock fit to wear,
That the curate 'has notions, and may go
To lengths if there's nobody there, '
That the Squire has 'said things' to the Vicar,
And the Vicar 'had words' with the Squire,
That the Organist's taken to liquor,
And leaves you to manage the choir:
For Papa must be cured, and the curate
Coerced, and your gown is a gem;
And the moral is - Don't be obdurate,
Dear Kitty, but come to Commem.
'My gown ? Though, no doubt, sir, you're clever,
You 'd better leave fashions alone.
Do you think that a frock lasts for ever ? '
Dear Kitty, I'll grant you have grown;
But I thought of my 'scene' with McVittie
That night when he trod on your train
At the Bachelor's Ball. ''Twas a pity, '
You said, but I knew 'twas Champagne.
And your gown was enough to compel me
To fall down and worship its hem -
[Are 'hems' wearing ? If not, you shall tell me
What is, when you come to Commem.]
Have you thought, since that night, of the Grotto ?
Of the words whispered under the palms,
While the minutes flew by and forgot to
Remind us of Aunt and her qualms ?
Of the stains of the old Journalisten ?
Of the rose that I begged from your hair ?
When you turned, and I saw something glisten -
Dear Kitty, don't frown; it was there !
But that idiot Delane in the middle
Bounced in with 'Our dance, I - ahem ! '
And - the rose you may find in my Liddell
And Scott when you come to Commem.
Then, Kitty, let 'yes' be the answer.
We'll dance at the 'Varsity Ball,
And the morning shall find you a dancer
In Christ Church or Trinity hall.
And perhaps, when the elders are yawning
And rafters grow pale overhead
With the day, there shall come with its dawning
Some thought of that sentence unsaid.
Be it this, be it that - 'I forget, ' or
'Was joking' - whatever the fem-
-inine fib, you'll have made me your debtor
And come, - you ‘will’ come ? to Commem.
Arthur QUILLER-COUCH 1863_1944 Green Bays Parody 1893
Parody Winthrop Mackworth PRAED – A Letter of Advice
A Nice Correspondent
'There are plenty of roses' (the patriarch speaks)
'Alas not for me, on your lips and your cheeks;
Fair maiden rose-laden enough and to spare,
Spare, spare me that rose that you wear in your hair.'
The glow and the glory are plighted
To darkness, for evening is come;
The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted,
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I'm alone, for the others have flitted
To dine with a neighbor at Kew:
Alone, but I'm not to be pitied -
I'm thinking of you !
I wish you were here ! Were I duller
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I am dressed in your favorite color -
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here !
I am wearing my lazuli necklace,
The necklace you fastened askew !
Was there ever so rude or so reckless
A Darling as you !
I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know 'Janet's Repentance' !
I am reading Sir Waverley Scott.
That story of Edgar and Lucy,
How thrilling, romantic, and true !
The Master (his bride was a goosey !)
Reminds me of you.
They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning
A Poet whose garland endures; -
It was you that first told me of Browning, -
That stupid old Browning of yours !
His vogue and his verve are alarming,
I'm anxious to give him his due;
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming
A Poet as you !
I heard how you shot at The Beeches,
I saw how you rode Chanticleer,
I have read the report of your speeches,
And echoed the echoing cheer.
There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,
Dear Fred, I believe it, I do !
Small marvel that Folly is making
Her Idol of you !
Alas for the World, and its dearly
Bought triumph, - its fugitive bliss;
Sometimes I half wish I were merely
A plain or a penniless Miss;
But, perhaps, one is blest with 'a measure
Of pelf, ' and I'm not sorry, too,
That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure,
My Darling, to you !
Your whim is for frolic and fashion,
Your taste is for letters and art; -
This rhyme is the commonplace passion
That glows in a fond woman's heart:
Lay it by in some sacred deposit
For relics - we all have a few !
Love, some day they'll print it, because it
Was written to You.
Frederick Locker-Lampson 1821_1895
Parody Winthrop Mackworth Praed 1802_1839 – A Letter of Advice
Her Letter - Poverty Flat
I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire, -
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir, 'the belle of the season'
Is wasting an hour upon you.
A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
That waits - on the stairs - for me yet.
They say he'll be rich, - when he grows up, -
And then he adores me indeed;
And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.
'And how do I like my position ? '
'And what do I think of New York ? '
'And now, in my higher ambition,
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ? '
'And isn't it nice to have riches,
And diamonds and silks, and all that ? '
'And aren't they a change to the ditches
And tunnels of Poverty Flat ? '
Well, yes, - if you saw us out driving
Each day in the Park, four-in-hand,
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand, -
If you saw papa's picture, as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that, -
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.
And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier, -
In the bustle and glitter befitting
The 'finest soiree of the year, ' -
In the mists of a gaze de Chambery,
And the hum of the smallest of talk, -
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the 'Ferry, '
And the dance that we had on 'The Fork; '
Of Harrison's bar, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle,
Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee.
Of the moon that was quietly sleeping
On the hill, when the time came to go;
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bedclothes of snow;
Of that ride, - that to me was the rarest,
Of - the something you said at the gate.
Ah ! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress
To 'the best-paying lead in the State.'
Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,
Of some one who breasted high water,
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.
But goodness ! what nonsense I'm writing !
(Mamma says my taste still is low) ,
Instead of my triumphs reciting, -
I'm spooning on Joseph, - heigh-ho !
And I'm to be 'finished' by travel, -
Whatever's the meaning of that.
Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat ?
Good-night ! - here's the end of my paper;
Good-night ! - if the longitude please, -
For maybe, while wasting my taper,
Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know, if you haven't got riches,
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
And you've struck it, - on Poverty Flat
Francis Bret HARTE 1836_1902
Parody Winthrop Mackworth Praed 1802_1839 – A Letter of Advice
The Talented Man
Letter From A Lady In London To A Lady At Lausanne
Dear Alice ! you'll laugh when you know it, -
Last week, at the Duchess's ball,
I danced with the clever new poet, -
You've heard of him, - Tully St. Paul.
Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;
I wish you had seen Lady Anne !
It really was very romantic,
He is such a talented man !
He came up from Brazen Nose College,
Just caught, as they call it, this spring;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge
Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,
As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,
I'm sure he's a talented man.
His stories and jests are delightful; -
Not stories or jests, dear, for you;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,
The stories not always quite true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious
May do pretty well at Lausanne;
But it never would answer, - good gracious !
Chez nous - in a talented man.
He sneers, - how my Alice would scold him ! -
At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed - only think ! - when I told him
How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year;
I vow I was quite in a passion;
I broke all the sticks of my fan;
But sentiment's quite out of fashion,
It seems, in a talented man.
Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
Has told me that Tully is vain,
And apt - which is silly - to quarrel,
And fond - which is sad - of champagne.
I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,
For I saw, when my Lady began,
It was only the Dowager's malice; -
She does hate a talented man !
He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
Is all that these eyes can adore;
He's lame, - but Lord Byron was lame, love,
And dumpy, - but so is Tom Moore.
Then his voice, - such a voice ! my sweet creature,
It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan:
But oh ! what's a tone or a feature,
When once one's a talented man ?
My mother, you know, all the season,
Has talked of Sir Geoffrey's estate;
And truly, to do the fool reason,
He has been less horrid of late.
But to-day, when we drive in the carriage,
I'll tell her to lay down her plan; -
If ever I venture on marriage,
It must be a talented man !
P.S. - I have found, on reflection,
One fault in my friend, - entre nous;
Without it, he'd just be perfection; -
Poor fellow, he has not a sou !
And so, when he comes in September
To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,
I've promised mamma to remember
He's only a talented man !
Winthrop Mackworth Praed 1802_1839
A Letter of Advice, to My Godson
To my Godson
(Aged six weeks)
Small bundle, enveloped in laces,
For whom I stood sponsor last week,
When you slept, with the pinkest of faces,
And never emitted a squeak;
Though vain is the task of illuming
The Future's inscrutable scroll,
I cannot refrain from assuming
A semi-prophetical rôle,
I predict that in paths Montessorian
Your infantile steps will be led,
And with modes which are Phrygian and Dorian
Your musical appetite fed;
You'll be taught how to dance by a Russian,
'Eurhythmics' you'll learn from a Swiss,
How not to behave like a Prussian—
No teaching is needed for this !
Will you learn Esperanto at Eton ?
Or, if Eton by then is suppressed,
Be sent to grow apples or wheat on
A ranche in the ultimate West ?
Will you aim at a modern diploma
In civics or commerce or stinks ?
Inhale the Wisconsin aroma
Or think as the Humanist thinks ?
Will you learn to play tennis from COVEY
Or model your stroke on JAY GOULD ?
Will you play the piano like TOVEY
Or by gramophone records be schooled ?
Will you golf, or will golfing be banished
To answer the needs of the plough,
And links from the landscape have vanished
To pasture the sheep and the cow ?
Your taste in the region of letters
I only can dimly foresee,
But guess that from metrical fetters
The verse you'll affect must be free;
And I shan't be surprised or astounded
If your generation rebels
Against adulation unbounded
Of MASEFIELD and BENNETT and WELLS.
Upholding ancestral tradition
Your uncle has booked you at Lord's,
But I doubt if you'll sate your ambition
Athletic on well-levelled swards;
No, I rather opine that you'll follow
The lead that we owe to the WRIGHTS,
And soar like the eagle or swallow
On far and adventurous flights.
But no matter—in joy and affliction,
In seasons of failure or fame,
I cherish the certain conviction
You'll never dishonour your name;
For the love of the mother that bore you,
The life and the death of your sire
Will shine as a lantern before you,
To guide and exalt and inspire.
Parody Winthrop Mackworth Praed 1802_1839
Author Unknown Parody probably turn of the century published in Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol.152, March 28,1917
PART IV Parodies à la manière de PRAED J.R.
Parody Winthrop Mackworth PRAED – A Letter of Advice
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Adding your comment:
yes, very hysterical, glad you mentioned this 
