Harry Graham (33)

Aus aktuellem Anlass ein zugegebenermaßen nicht allzu aktuelles Gedicht: Einige erläuternde Strophen zu Großbritannien aus »Baby's Baedeker« (1902):

Harry Graham: Great Britain

The British are a chilly race. 

   The Englishman is thin and tall;  

He screws an eyeglass in his face,  

   And talks with a reluctant drawl. 

›Good Gwacious! This is doosid slow!  

By Jove! Haw demmy! Don't-cher-know!‹

 

The Englishwoman ev'rywhere  

   A meed of admiration wins; 

She has a crown of silken hair,  

   And quite the loveliest of skins. 

(Go forth and seek an English maid,  

Your trouble will be well repaid.)

 

Where Britain's banner is unfurled  

   There's room for nothing else beside,  

She owns one-quarter of the world,  

   And still she is not satisfied.  

The Briton thinks himself, by birth,  

To be the lord of all the earth.

 

Some call his manners wanting, or  

   His sense of humour poor, and yet  

Whatever he is striving for 

   He as a rule contrives to get;  

His methods may be much to blame,  

But he arrives there just the same.

 

MORAL

If you can get your wish, you bet it  
Doesn't much matter how you get it!

Notizen zur Poetik (1)

Notizen zu (meist absichtlich komischen) Gedichten, Fragmente, aufgegebene Aufsätze, Listen, poetologische Gedichte. Los geht's!

//

In F. W. Bernsteins neuem Band »Frische Gedichte« sind auf Seite 98 folgende Verse zu lesen: »Er wacht auf, und was ist er? / Professor. Doch Goethe: Minister!« Wie bemerkenswert ist das? Ein bisschen schon. Wer nämlich gespaltenen Reimen in der komischen deutschsprachigen Lyrik nachspüren möchte, wird insgesamt nicht vielen Reimpaaren begegnen, dafür einem immer wieder, und zwar eben: »ist er / Minister«. Allein in Bernsteins Sammlung »Die Gedichte« von 2003 ist es gleich zweifach anzutreffen: »Der Vierte – Obacht, Herr Minister! / Direkt vor Ihnen! Ganz vorn! Da ist er!« sowie etwas versteckter: »Senator Radunski, der Doppelminister, / ein zwiefaches Verhängnis ist er.«

Erich Mühsam benutzte das Reimpaar doppelt, und zwar in den Varianten »ist er / Wehrminister« und »Minister / ist er«; Ringelnatz einmal (»Sehr ernste Vize, seht: da ist er! / Das ist der Unterrichtsminister«), Eugen Roth (»Jetzt endlich, an der Reihe ist er – / Da heißts: ›Der Herr muss zum Minister!‹«) und Ror Wolf dito (»Etwa beispielsweise der Minister, / der Justizminister, na, wo ist er?«); und bei Kurt Tucholsky finden sich gar drei Beispiele (die der geneigte Leser sich selbst zusammensuchen darf).
Warum? Wozu? Was finden die Dichter an diesem Reimpaar? Ist das alles nur ein Ausweichmanöver angesichts der Tatsache, dass auf Kanzler nichts reimt, dass sich auf die auf der letzten Silbe betonte Kanzlerin wenig mehr als Gewinn oder ist in reimt und dass sich Präsidenten nur unrein beschimpfen bzw. dann aber auch immerhin schänden lassen? Oder reizt sie das vorsichtige Infragestellen von Autorität, das bei »Ist er / Minister« am Zeilenende ohnehin mitschwingt und manchmal, wie von Walter Mehring, auch explizit formuliert wird: »Und kann er nichts, dann ist er / Zum mindesten Minister«?

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Gutes Zitat von Peter Rühmkorf (aus »Einfallskunde«): »Die gähnende Leere in manchen modernen Gedichten – zumal der neuen Zimperlichkeit. Lyriker, die einfach nicht kapieren wollen, dass auf so eng begrenztem Raum an jeder Stelle was los sein muss.«

//

Der schönste, nein: der einzige schöne rührende Reim gelang gewiss der amerikanischen Band The Magnetic Fields in ihrem Song »The Death of Ferdinand de Saussure«:

»I met Ferdinand de Saussure
On a night like this.
On love he said, »I'm not so sure
I even know what it is.«

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Literaturkritik

Manchmal weiß der Mensch noch nicht von
Dummheit, Elend, Not und Leid.
Doch dann liest er ein Gedicht von
Erich Fried. Und weiß Bescheid.

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Ein trochäischer Satz findet sich im Wikipedia-Artikel zum Europäischen Aal: »Aale schlüpfen im Atlantik, in der Saragossasee (in der Nähe der Bahamas).« Bzw.:

»Aale schlüpfen im Atlantik,
in der Saragossasee
(in der Nähe der Bahamas).«

//

Poetry-Slam-Reime:

Schau mal: / Blauwal!
wohlfeil / Lo-fi
Leitstern / streit gern
versehentlich / auf Zehen schlich
Schlachtgewimmel / lacht der Himmel
Fafnir / Schaffner
Eiklar / Fighter
Allahu Akbar / Nachbar
Weiberheld / Cyberwelt
Hinterkaifeck / Scheißdreck

//

Ich erstand auf einem Bücherflohmarkt vor mehreren Jahren aus Versehen für einen Euro das Buch »Nachts unter Sternen« (1962), das nachgelassene Texte von Ernst Emanuel Krauss versammelt (über den Wikipedia weiß, dass seine Sprüche »1935 u. a. in den Arbeitszimmern von Adolf Hitler und seinem Stellvertreter« hingen). Die Gedichte und Aphorismen sind erwartbar öde (»O goldnes Dämmerblinken / hier unter meinem Baum!«), und so haben mich nur zwei Namen bei der Lektüre wachhalten können: Krauss schrieb unter dem passenden Pseudonym Georg Stammler, das Buch wurde herausgegeben von der Wilhelm Kotzde-Kottenrodt Gemeinde (nur echt mit einem Bindestrich). Na ja, für eine Kaufempfehlung reicht das nicht.

//

3 Fremdwortreime von Kurt Tucholsky:

kosten / Boston
Hotels / health
Herrentoiletten / Manhattan

Harry Graham (32)

Aus »More Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes«:

Harry Graham: Grandpapa

Grandpapa fell down a drain;
Couldn't scramble out again.
Now he's floating down the sewer
There's one grandpapa the fewer.

Juni-Sonett

Juni-Sonett

Mir fällt nicht furchtbar viel zum Juni ein:

Ich weiß, dass er durchaus nicht wie der Mai ist,

und dass, sobald er nicht mehr an der Reih ist,

der Juli folgt. War das erschöpfend? Nein?

Na gut, dann diese Fakten hinterdrein:

Es stimmt, dass man im Juni schwitzt und high ist,

und grillend warmes Bier erbricht, das frei ist

von Alkohol. Dann greift man kühn zum Wein,

und bald zum Wodka, den man rasch bereut.

Man ist sich schließlich selbst so wenig wert,

dass man den fetten Wurstsalat mit Ei isst.

Man kotzt vor Scham und Salmonelln erneut,

kurz: Klasse, wenn der Juni uns beehrt,

doch umso schöner, wenn der Scheiß vorbei ist.

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!