Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE SEAMY SIDE OF MOTLEY, by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Lady, when we sat together Last Line: Funny every day. Alternate Author Name(s): F. P. A. Subject(s): Books; Editors; Humor; Writing & Writers; Reading | ||||||||
LADY, when we sat together, And your flow of talk that turned On the Park, the Play, the Weather, Left me frankly unconcerned, I could see how hard you labour'd Till your brain was stiff and sore, Never having yet been neighbour'd By so dull a bore. Later on, from information Gathered elsewhere after lunch, You had got at my vocation, Learned that I belonged to Punch. And in tones of milk and honey You invited me to speak On the art of being funny, Funny once a week. 'Tis a task that haunts me waking, Like a vampire on the chest, Spoils my peace, prevents my taking Joyance in another's jest; Makes me move abroad distracted, Trailing speculative feet; Makes me wear at home a racked head In a dripping sheet. Women hint that I am blinded To their chaste, but obvious, charms; Sportsmen deem me absent-minded When addressed to feats of arms; If the sudden partridge rises I but rend the neighbouring air, And the rabbit's rude surprises Take me unaware. Life for me's no game of skittles As at first you might opine; I have lost my love of victuals And a pretty taste in wine; When at lunch your talk was wasted, Did you notice what occurred How I left the hock untasted, How I passed the bird? So, if you would grant a favour, In your orisons recall One whose smile could scarce be graver If his mouth were full of gall; Let your lips (that shame the ruby) Pray for mine all wan and bleak With the strain of trying to be Funny every week. Owen Seaman, in "Salvage." Lady, you have heard Sir Owen Seaman, editor of Punch. You have read how he has no en- Thusiastic love of lunch; Gone his disposition sunny, Vanishing his fair physique, With the strain of being funny, Funny once a week. Lady, if Sir Owen's ditty, Done in Seaman's able style, Earns the bard your gracious pity, Gains your sympathetic smile; If the load he labours under Urges you to tears; if he Calls your cardiac nerve, I wonder How you'd feel for me. "Once a week!" With what emotion, How jejunely I should jig To my jobmine utter notion Of an otium cum dig! Half a dozen days to wake up Unafraid of coming night! Heedless of the woes of makeup, And the need to write! Lady, I was once as other, I was once the Party's Life; Mingled freely with my brothers, Went to places with my wife; Life was radiant, life was rosy; Now the world is dull and drab. Gentle persons say: "He's prosy," Others: "He's a crab." Woes too terrible to mention Are an omnipresent curse; Some one speaksand my attention Wanders to to-morrow's verse; When I play at mixéd doubles It has happened countless times All my thoughts are on the troubles Of to-morrow's rhymes. So, my lady, wheresoever, Whosoever you may be, Don't you think you might endeavour To devote a prayer to me? Let your eyes (that brown or blue be) Dim for me, already gray With the strain of trying to be Funny every day. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO SONNETS: 1 by DAVID LEHMAN THE ILLUSTRATION?ÇÖA FOOTNOTE by DENISE LEVERTOV FALLING ASLEEP OVER THE AENEID by ROBERT LOWELL POETRY MACHINES by CATE MARVIN LENDING LIBRARY by PHYLLIS MCGINLEY LINES FROM A PLUTOCRATIC POETASTER TO A DITCH-DIGGER by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |
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