COMMUNICATION

[Part of a rhyming correspondence with Sylvia Farley and Michael Mallows]*

(1)

It’s time methinks to set my hand to verse

Before my friends start getting any worse

At penning more than two entendres each line

To demonstrate the variants of divine,

Since divination never was my forte

(Or even sixty not out) since I am so sporty.

 

So once more let us to the old computer,

Engaging in iambic pentameter,

Or even lines of drivel, dross or doggerel:

(If I don’t then I’m sure some other bugger will!)

In self defence . . . my honour is at stake.

(My God!  I find it hard to stay awake!)

 

Alas poor Joe . . . no, that is just too bad –

A lass he’s not, he’s nothing but a lad,

Despite the passing years, the hearing loss,

And other failing faculties (who gives a toss?).

The spirit burns as brightly as of yore.

(Your what?)  That’s just one more pun to ignore.

 

Soon parted from his honey is a fool,

And I am no exception to this rule.

So honey, please stay close at hand;

And stay as quick, I beg, to reprimand

Those indiscretions which I am aware

Add constantly to all my friends’ despair.

 

And now what inspiration may have come

Is vanishing with the approaching dawn.

And I am being rapidly struck dumb

As monstrous yawn succeeds each monstrous yawn,

To demonstrate that I’ve run out of time:

The change of form in this last stanza’s rhyme.     

 

 

                    (2)

 

I’ve finally considered every option

(And as not one has proved to be ideal,

Including all you’ve said on post-adoption)

I thought I’d tell you, Michael, how I feel.

 

Let’s spread them as a hand of cards before us,

Awarding each a plus or minus score –

And let’s ignore the negative dawn chorus:

“You can’t do that – it’s such a bloody bore!”

 

For, after all, what is communication?

(An obvious rhetorical request

Which really puts both sides of the equation,

While failing to suggest what is the best.)

 

So let's suppose we're on some lonely plateau,

Conversing by a campfire in the night.

And, since we're, more or less, in the same bateau,

We'll sink or swim with metaphoric might.

 

But that, of course, does not apply to Michael -

Or does it?  It depends what he prefers.

As well to totter on a uni-cycle,

As try for contact in the form of verse.

 

Communication is a messy muddle.

No one can really know what we're about.

We might as well just smile and touch and cuddle

Rather than talk, or kick and scream, or shout!

 

The phone and tom-tom are so unaesthetic;

The internet and e-mail are a bore.

Mind-reading is simply tele-pathetic

It’s something that we safely can ignore.

 

Communication, then, is an illusion,

A dream, a joke, the sustenance of fools.

But true to form, we can effect a fusion

By application of NLP tools.

 

So body language goes as does mind reading

It’s obvious I must adopt the post!

And turn my back on entry cues and leading

And let the Royal Mail become the host.

Dorset 1998