If All Poems Were Limericks: “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg (continued)

Read Part 1 here.

The hipsters, like tygers, burn bright
for a link to the gears of the night.
They contemplate jazz,
and their poverty has
raised them over the rooftops in flight.

They’ve opened their skulls to the sky
beneath where the El trundles by,
while angels on junk
or just staggering drunk
cross campus with radiant cool eyes.

 

Happy birthday to Allen Ginsberg, who would have been 95 today.

Read the rest of “Howl” here. (These limericks cover roughly lines 3-6.)

If all poems were limericks: The Battle Hymn of the Republic, by Julia Ward Howe

We live in a troubling time,
But everything’s going to be fine:
We’ll see a new dawn
And keep marching on.
I know–I saw God stomping wine.*

Happy 202nd birthday to Julia Ward Howe, author of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

*Some theologians suggest that “trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored” may be the real reason there was only one set of footprints in the sand.

If all poems were limericks: “Cat’s Canticle” by David Sklar

If all poems were limericks: “Cat’s Canticle” by David Sklar

If you speak I won’t answer at all;
don’t expect me to come when you call.
It’s a sort of a game—
see, I’ve hidden my name
someplace secret, and silent, and small.

 

I may eventually post something relevant to yesterday’s events. But today is my birthday, so I am featuring myself.

Read the original here.

If all poems were limericks: “The Pope’s Penis” by Sharon Olds

If all poems were limericks:
“The Pope’s Penis” by Sharon Olds

It hangs in his vestments so well
like a clapper inside of a bell.
It goes where he guides,
and at night, like the tides,
it stands up in praise, which is swell.

Read the original here.

Happy 78th birthday to Sharon Olds!

[Note that the choice of material for today’s post has nothing to do with this recent news story.]

If All Poems Were Limericks: The Charge of the Light Brigade

Happy 211th birthday to Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

If All Poems Were Limericks:
The Charge of the Light Brigade
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It isn’t our job to ask why
or make any other reply.
We do as we’re told
and it never gets old
if, after we do it, we die.