BBC News reports that British Poet Laureate Andrew
Motion stimulates his creativity with a daily dose of
the cold remedy Lemsip. The report quotes Motion
saying that the medicine gives him a feeling of
“mild illness” which brings on a “sort of slightly
introverted self-pitying mood” that he finds
“absolutely conducive to poems.”
Sing, laurelled bard, biographer of Larkin,
Blazon the draught that makes you mildly ill.
Proclaim, and let all lesser scribblers hearken,
How queasiness invigorates your quill.
Sing of a decongestant compound’s buzz,
Of caffeine mixed with paracetamol,
The dram that is to you as laudanum was
To Coleridge, or to Thomas alcohol.
Lemsip, albeit touted heretofore
As something less than sacred Hippocrene,
A formula sold merely to restore
Cold sufferers to health, may now be seen
In its true glory -- a Muse-blended potion,
A nectar that puts poetry in Motion.
POETS WRITE TO PENTHOUSE
( for J.Z.)
Basho Writes to Penthouse
She had a fine pond.
My frog, my big frog, jumped in.
Oh, she made some noise!
This Is My Penthouse Letter to the World
Because I could not nail the twins,
I nailed the triplets three.
The backseat held but just ourselves
The Penthouse Letter of J. Alfred Prufrock
In the room the women come and come. I go
From each to each, a restless gigolo.
You ask me do I dare. I dare
To strip the evening bare,
To reach beneath their frilly underwear,
To slurp the juicy peaches I find there.
I lick my tongue into the corners of the spread out
I linger in the windblown chambers, singing.
With juices trickling down my chin,
I mount them firmly, swell, progress, thrust in.
There is so much more
To tell of skirts discarded on the floor.
I have known them all already, known them all.
My easy tool wears their unwrapped bodies like a shawl.
I overwhelm them with my universal balls.