Harry Graham (31)

Das Sonntagsgedicht aus »Canned Classics«:

Harry Graham: Sounding the Toxin

(Milk from excited or irritated cows is, according to the latest scientific opinion, more harmful than that which contains disease germs. The blood of an excited animal throws out poisonous toxins that are most insalubrious.)

O Milkman, be candid and tell me, I pray,
   If your wares are with toxins infected;
If Clara the cow, when you milked her to-day,
   Was unruffled, sedate and collected.
Did she wake in a temper and scornfully laugh
   At the short-horn who came from Strathpeffer?
Did she spurn the advances of Clarence the calf?
   Did she quarrel with Hannah the heifer?
If so, to her produce no time I'll devote,
But rely for my tea upon Gilbert the goat.

O my Butcher, please that if Susannah the sow,
   Whom you recently turned into bacon,
Wore a look of ineffable peace on her brow,
   If her nerves were unstrung or were shaken.
Oh, had Oswald the ox, when you severed his tail,
   Been a martyr to mental disquiet?
Was there anything known about Constance the quail
   Which would make her unfit for my diet?
Pray explain, ere his ham on my platter I pile,
Whether Patrick the pig met his death with a smile.

O, my Dairyman, tell me, I earnestly beg,
   Lest my prospects of breakfast be blighted,
Whether Hetty the hen, on evolving her egg,
   Was upset, overwrought or excited.
O my Grocer, bring news about Sam the sardine,
   When he swam as a child in the ocean,
Was his character tranquil, his outlook serene?
   Was he swayed by blind gusts of emotion?
For, if so, with a grief that is deep and acute,
I must really confine my attentions to fruit!

While the heart of Louisa the lettuce is dead,
   And can harbour no poisonous acid,
Clementina the cabbage, though losing her head,
   Is by nature proverbially placid,
And though Bill the banana (whose coat one must strip)
   Provides suitable food for the glutton,
And Orlando the orange, though prone to »the pip,«
   Is more wholesome than Mildred the mutton,
Without fear of bacilli my tastes I may glut
Upon Percy the pumpkin and Norah the nut!

Harry Graham (30)

Hundefreundliche Zeilen aus »The Motley Muse«:

Harry Graham: Egregious Eastbourne

[A recent by-law of the Eastbourne Town Council renders the owner of any dog who barks upon the beach liable to a fine of forty shillings.]

Never more shall I and Ponto
Traverse the Marine Parade,
Pass the Pier and wander onto
Eastbourne's Esplanade;
Never more, with lungs like leather,
And a heart as light as feather,
Shall we stray and play together
Where we strayed and played!
On the cruel Council's shingle
Man and beast no more may mingle!

With what never-ending rapture
Ponto would retrieve a stone,
Leap into the sea and capture
Sticks, wherever thrown;
Issue dripping from the ocean,
With his tail in constant motion,
And express his true devotion
In a strident tone,
Till the Judge, his license marking,
Fined him forty bob for barking!

Still, upon the sands, sopranos
Topmost notes in anguish reach,
Masked musicians thump pianos,
Negro minstrels screech;
German bandsmen blare and bellow,
But my Ponto, poor old fellow,
May not raise his loud but mellow
Bark upon the beach!
»Dumb,« indeed, is every beast born
In the neighbourhood of Eastbourne!

Harry Graham (29)

Sonntag ist Harry-Graham-Tag! Heute gibt es Tischtennisverse aus »Verse and Worse«:

Harry Graham: The Ballad of Ping-Pong

(After Swinburne)

The murmurous moments of May-time,
   What bountiful blessings they bring!
As dew to the dawn of the day-time,
   Suspicions of Summer to Spring!

Let others imagine the time light,
   With maidens or books on their knee,
Or live in the languorous limelight
   That tinges the trunk of the tree.

Let the timorous turn to their tennis,
   Or the bowls to which bumpkins belong,
But the thing for grown women and men is
   The pastime of ping and of pong.

The game of the glorious glamour!
   The feeling to fight till you fall!
The hurricane hail and the hammer!
   The batter and bruise of the ball!

The glory of getting behind it!
   The brief but bewildering bliss!
The fear of the failure to find it!
   The madness at making a miss!

The sound of the sphere as you smack it,
   Derisive, decisive, divine!
The riotous rush of your racket,
   To mix and to mingle with mine!

The diadem dear to the King is,
   How sweet to the singer his song;
To me so the plea of the ping is,
   And the passionate plaint of the pong.

I live for it, love for it, like it;
   Delight of my dearest of dreams!
To stand and to strive and to strike it, –
   So certain, so simple it seems!

Then give me the game of the gay time,
   The ball on its wandering wing,
The pastime for night or for day-time,
   The Pong, not to mention the Ping!

Harry Graham (28)

Aus »Baby's Baedeker«:

Harry Graham: France

The natives here remark »Mon Dieu!« 

   »Que voulez-vous?« »Comment ça va?« 

»Sapristi! Par exemple! Un peu!«

   »Tiens donc! Mais qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?«

They shave one portion of their dogs,  

And live exclusively on frogs.

 

They get excited very quick,  

   And crowds will gather before long  

If you should stand and wave your stick  

   And shout, »À bas le Presidong!« 

Still more amusing would it be  

To say, »Conspuez la Patrie!«

The French are so polite, you know, 

   They take their hats off very well,  

And, should they tread upon your toe, 

   Remark, »Pardon, Mademoiselle!« 

And you would gladly bear the pain  

To see them make that bow again.

 

Their ladies too have got a way 

    Which even curates can't resist;  

'Twould make an Alderman feel gay  

   Or soothe a yellow journalist;  

And then the things they say are so  

Extremely—well, in fact,—you know!

 

MORAL

The closest scrutiny can find  
No morals here of any kind.

Harry Graham (27)

Aus »Misrepresentative Women« (1906):

Harry Graham: Mrs. Christopher Columbus

The bride grows pale beneath her veil,

   The matron, for the nonce, is dumb,

Who listens to the tragic tale

   Of Mrs. Christopher Columb:

Who lived and died (so says report)

A widow of the herbal sort.

Her husband upon canvas wings

   Would brave the Ocean, tempest-tost;

He had a cult for finding things

   Which nobody had ever lost,

And Mrs. C. grew almost frantic

When he discovered the Atlantic.

But nothing she could do or say

   Would keep her Christopher at home;

Without delay he sailed away

   Across what poets call »the foam,«

While neighbors murmured, »What a shame!«

And wished their husbands did the same.

He ventured on the highest C’s

   That reared their heads above the bar,

Knowing the compass and the quays

   Like any operatic star;

And funny friends who watched him do so

Would call him »Robinson Caruso.«

But Mrs. C. remained indoors,

   And poked the fire and wound the clocks,

Amused the children, scrubbed the floors,

   Or darned her absent husband’s socks.

(For she was far too sweet and wise

To darn the great explorer’s eyes.)

And when she chanced to look around

   At all the couples she had known,

And realized how few had found

   A home as peaceful as her own,

She saw how pleasant it may be

To wed a chronic absentee.

Her husband’s absence she enjoyed,

   Nor ever asked him where he went,

Thinking him harmlessly employed

   Discovering some Continent.

Had he been always in, no doubt,

Some day she would have found him out.

And so he daily left her side

   To travel o’er the ocean far,

And she who, like the bard, had tried

   To »hitch her wagon to a star,«

Though she was harnessed to a comet,

Got lots of satisfaction from it.

To him returning from the West

   She proved a perfect anti-dote,

Who loosed his Armour (beef compress’d)

   And sprayed his »automobile throat«;

His health she kept a jealous eye on,

And played PerUna to his lion!

And when she got him home again,

   And so could wear the jewels rare

Which Isabella, Queen of Spain,

   Entrusted to her husband’s care,

Her monetary wealth was »far

Beyond the dreams of caviar!«

 ·  ·  ·  ·  · 

A melancholy thing it is

   How few have known or understood

The manifold advantages

   Of such herbaceous widowhood!

(What is it ruins married lives

But husbands... not to mention wives?)

O wedded couples of to-day,

   Pray take these principles to heart,

And copy the Columbian way

   Of living happily apart.

And so, to you, at any rate,

Shall marriage be a »blessèd state.«

Harry Graham (26)

Aus »Canned Classics« (aus dem Jahre 1911, als der Begriff holocaust bekanntlich noch anders besetzt war):

Harry Graham: The Battue of Berlin

During the Tsar's visit to Berlin last year the German Emperor entertained his Royal suite at a battue, at which, »in favourable weather,« says the Daily Mail, »492 stags were killed during an hour's shooting.«

It was a winter's morning,
   The Kaiser's sport was done;
From far and near the driven deer
   Had faced the Royal »gun,«*
And all around, in grim array,
Five hundred rotting corpses lay.

*: »Rifle« does not rhyme. 

From near and far, to King and Tsar
   The startled herds had fled;
And many a stag had swelled the bag,
   And many a hind lay dead.
Suchs things must be and will in short,
After a famous hour of sport!

It was the German Emperor
   Who slew five hundred deer;
But what he killed so many for
   Is not completely clear.
But all the journalists report
That 'twas a famous morning's sport.

From left and right, in furious flight,
   The stags to slaughter came;
Each beast, deceased, by death increased
   This holocaust of game.
And, after all (you may retort),
It was a famous morning's sport.

Let sportsmen raise their hymns of praise
   To those who made suchs bags,
Who in an hour evinced the pow'r
   To slay five hundred stags,
While I repeat (how dare you snort?)
That 'twas a famous morning's sport!

Harry Graham (25)

Ein historisches Gedicht aus »Baby's Baedeker« (1902):

Harry Graham: Russia

The Russian Empire, as you see, 

    Is governed by an Autocrat,  

A sort of human target he  

   For anarchists to practise at;  

And much relieved most people are  

Not to be lodging with the Czar.

 

The Russian lets his whiskers grow,  

   Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, and  

Imbibes more ›vodki‹ than ›il faut‹; 

   A habit which (I understand)  

Enables him with ease to tell  

His name, which nobody could spell.

The climate here is cold, with snow,  

   And you go driving in a sleigh,  

With bells and all the rest, you know,  

   Just like a Henry Irving play;  

While, all around you, glare the eyes 

Of secret officers and spies!

 

The Russian prisons have no drains,  

   No windows or such things as that;  

You have no playthings there but chains, 

   And no companion but a rat;  

When once behind the dungeon door,  

Your friends don't see you any more.

 

I further could enlarge, 'tis true,  

   But fear my trembling pen confines; 

I have no wish to travel to  

   Siberia and work the mines. 

(In Russia you must write with care, 

Or the police will take you there.)

 

Moral:

If you hold morbid views about
   A monarch's premature decease,  
You only need a — Hi! Look out!  
   Here comes an agent of police!
      *        *       *       *                      
(In future my address will be
›Siberia, Cell 63.‹)

Zwischenbilanz

Zwischenbilanz

Ich habe Nietzsche leider nie verstanden,
und jeder Satz von Kant klingt mir zu klug.
Von Platon hatte ich schon früh genug,
und Spengler kann erst recht nicht bei mir landen.

Bloch schrieb ein Deutsch, das ich nie ganz ertrug.
Marcuses Schriften kamen mir abhanden.
An Marx und Engels trau ich mich nicht ran, denn
ich läs ihr Werk wohl kaum in einem Zug.

Von Weber will ich weiter nichts berichten.
Die Bücher Butlers sind zu voll und leer.
Adorno harmoniert nicht mit Gedichten.

Mein Kopf wird mir bei Schopenhauer schwer.
Auf Heidegger kann ich sehr gut verzichten.
Jetzt weiß ich keine Philosophen mehr.

Harry Graham (24)

 Aus »Adam's Apples«:

Harry Graham: Wine

The Connoisseur may laud liqueur
   (As made by monks in cloisters)
Or rave about the velvet stout
   That's used to wash down oysters;
Such drinks are not for me or mine,
The only drink I need is WINE!

The haggis-ridden Scot may bid
  For whiskey (with a kilt on);
The men of Wales baptize with ales
   Each mute but glorious Stilton;
But when off cheese or tripe I dine
My single beverage is WINE!
 
Though 'twould appear that Lager beer
   Possesses far more finesse
(And much more gas) than, say, a Bass,
   A Worthington or Guinness,
The only product of the Rhine
That I am keen about is WINE.

Though brandy may, so people say,
   Be termed the drink for heroes,
And for one's aunt a Crême de Menthe
   Seems popular at Ciro's,
At peppermint I draw the line,
The nectar of the gods was WINE!

The old sea-dog must have his grog,
   When on the briny ocean,
And dukes on yachts use rum in tots
   As a laryngean lotion;
But when I sail across the brine
I never touch a thing but WINE.

In cocktail bars the sons of Mars
   Call loudly for a Cointreau,
To stand their pals (or Chorus Gals
   Selected from the frointreau!).
I hate the taste of turpentine,
And so I call instead for WINE.

Yes, give me port (the vintage sort),
   Champagne and hock and claret
And e'en Moselle, and I shall dwell
   Contented in a garret.
In exile I would never pine
If I were well supplied with WINE.

I would not grudge a ten-mile trudge
   From Palma to Tampico
If at the end I found a blend
   Brewed by the widowed Clicquot.
(But Mexico, so I opine,
Has never been renowned for WINE.)

I'd walk from Dan to Askalan,
   From Beershaba to Shechem,
Could I be sure I'd thus procure
   A flask of Château-Yquem.
(But I'm afraid that Palestine
Is not the home of vintage WINE.)

Then bring me wine, blest anodyne
   That makes men care-forgetful
Till human swine grow quite benign,
    Than porcupines less fretful.
No pow'r divine can so refine
The Phillistine as that of WINE.

So let's combine before its shrine
   To sing with vinous unction,
Ere we recline upon the spine,
   And wits decline to function,
While still, in fine, we can design
Some eight or nine new rhymes to WINE!

Harry Graham (23)

Noch ein Wintersportgedicht aus »More Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes«:

Harry Graham: Patience

When skiing in the Engadine
My hat blew off down a ravine.
My son, who went to fetch it back,
Slipped through an icy glacier's crack
And then got permanently stuck.
It really was infernal luck:
My hat was practically new –
I loved my little Henry too –
And I may have to wait for years
Till either of them reappears.