Dear Poetry lover,
Jules Henri
After last Sundays brilliantly poignant piece we decided after vigorous discussion to include this masterpiece from the other worst poet of all time. Thoophile Jules-Henri Marzials. Allegedly, Marzials was a British composer, singer, and poet. He was also the author of a poetry collection, the wonderfully named The Gallery of Pigeons and Other Poems (1873). It is in The Gallery of Pigeons that we find Marzials’ masterpiece, if that is quite the word: the poem ‘A Tragedy’, which is more of a farce than a tragedy, although undoubtedly its claim to being a tragedy is rather tragic. Bit like Coronavirus and the leadership demonstrated to Australia at large by Twiggy Forrest, who entirely and altruistically saved Australia’s relationship wth China. We dedicate this poem to Twiggy.
Here is the poem, reproduced in full:
A Tragedy
Death!
Plop.
The barges down in the river flop.
Flop, plop.
Above, beneath.
From the slimy branches the grey drips drop,
As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky,
Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and fly
To the oozy waters, that lounge and flop
On the black scrag piles, where the loose cords plop,
As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top.
Plop, plop.
And scudding by
The boatmen call out hoy! and hey!
All is running water and sky,
And my head shrieks – ‘Stop,’
And my heart shrieks – ‘Die.’
My thought is running out of my head;
My love is running out of my heart,
My soul runs after, and leaves me as dead,
For my life runs after to catch them – and fled
They all are every one! – and I stand, and start,
At the water that oozes up, plop and plop,
On the barges that flop
And dizzy me dead.
I might reel and drop.
Plop.
Dead.
And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree-top
Flop, plop.
John Betjeman gives Jules Henri the nod
A curse on him.
Ugh! yet I knew – I knew –
If a woman is false can a friend be true?
It was only a lie from beginning to end –
My Devil – My ‘Friend’
I had trusted the whole of my living to!
Ugh; and I knew!
Ugh!
So what do I care,
And my head is empty as air –
I can do,
I can dare,
(Plop, plop
The barges flop
Drip drop.)
I can dare! I can dare!
And let myself all run away with my head
And stop.
Drop.
Dead.
Plop, flop.
We dedicate this poem to Twiggy, who selflessly saved Australia, saved us from the mining tax, ensured that the nations riches were diverted to a few for safe keeping, bought an airline, and knows what’s good for aboriginal Australians, cos he’s an ordinary billionaire bloke who knows what ordinary Australians want. God bless him.
Plop.