"bellman" poems
The Banker's Fate
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new
It was matter for general remark,
Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view
In his zeal to discover the Snark.
But while he was seeking with thimbles and care,
A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh
And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair,
For he knew it was useless to fly.
He offered large discount--he offered a cheque
(Drawn "to bearer") for seven-pounds-ten:
But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck
And grabbed at the Banker again.
Without rest or pause--while those frumious jaws
Went savagely snapping around--
He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped,
Till fainting he fell to the ground.
The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared
Led on by that fear-stricken yell:
And the Bellman remarked "It is just as I feared!"
And solemnly tolled on his bell.
He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace
The least likeness to what he had been:
While so great was the fright that his waistcoat turned white--
A wonderful thing to be seen!
To the horror of all who were present that day,
He uprose in full evening dress,
And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say
What his tongue could no longer express.
Down he sank in a chair--ran his hands through his hair--
And chanted in mimsiest tones
Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity,
While he rattled a couple of bones.
"Leave him here to his fate--it is getting so late!"
The Bellman exclaimed in a fright.
"We have lost half a day. Any further delay,
And we sha'n't catch a Snark before night!"
2.1k
By: David W. Clare
I sorta knew better but became intrigued at the notion...
It all began with one lonely emotion!
Like a poisoned love potion...
Out of the blue she sent money to the front desk of my flop house hotel deep in the city!
More came later along with promises and lies...
The bellman was asking way too many questions...
I told him it was from an old debt. I bet he saw right through that alibi. He acted shy then the word got out I was a creep, I'm no little Bo Peep!
She and I made plans to meet I was convinced by her intense sense of essence...
She sent **** pictures in the mail, the front desk had opened to inspect!
I suspect an indirect suspicion, the coat-check girl even ran through my pockets stole my coins and matches.
Tough little ***** likes to rant, wants to flaunt her wants my way, asked me to pay for a roll in the hay after she got off work one day...
Then the diabolical debutante went away...
(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 5:48 AM UTC
The Vanishing
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
They shuddered to think that the chase might fail,
And the ****** excited at last,
Went bounding along on the tip of its tail,
For the daylight was nearly past.
"There is Thingumbob shouting!" the Bellman said.
"He is shouting like mad, only hark!
He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head,
He has certainly found a Snark!"
They gazed in delight, while the Butcher exclaimed
"He was always a desperate wag!"
They beheld him--their Baker--their hero unnamed--
On the top of a neighbouring crag,
***** and sublime, for one moment of time,
In the next, that wild figure they saw
(As if stung by a spasm) plunge into a chasm,
While they waited and listened in awe.
"It's a Snark!" was the sound that first came to their ears,
And seemed almost too good to be true.
Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers:
Then the ominous words "It's a Boo--"
Then, silence. Some fancied they heard in the air
A weary and wandering sigh
That sounded like "--jum!" but the others declare
It was only a breeze that went by.
They hunted till darkness came on, but they found
Not a button, or feather, or mark,
By which they could tell that they stood on the ground
Where the Baker had met with the Snark.
In the midst of the word he was trying to say
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away--
For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.
1.5k
The Baker's Tale
They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice--
They roused him with mustard and cress--
They roused him with jam and judicious advice--
They set him conundrums to guess.
When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
His sad story he offered to tell;
And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!"
And excitedly tingled his bell.
There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
As the man they called ** told his story of woe
In an antediluvian tone.
"My father and mother were honest, though poor--"
"Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste.
"If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark--
We have hardly a minute to waste!"
"I skip forty years," said the Baker in tears,
"And proceed without further remark
To the day when you took me aboard of your ship
To help you in hunting the Snark.
"A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)
Remarked, when I bade him farewell--"
"Oh, skip your dear uncle!" the Bellman exclaimed,
As he angrily tingled his bell.
"He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men,
"'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right:
Fetch it home by all means--you may serve it with greens
And it's handy for striking a light.
"'You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care--
You may hunt it with forks and hope;
You may threaten its life with a railway-share;
You may charm it with smiles and soap--'"
("That's exactly the method," the Bellman bold
In a hasty parenthesis cried,
"That's exactly the way I have always been told
That the capture of Snarks should be tried!")
"'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,
If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away,
And never be met with again!"
"It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul,
When I think of my uncle's last words:
And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl
Brimming over with quivering curds!
"It is this, it is this--" "We have had that before!"
The Bellman indignantly said.
And the Baker replied "Let me say it once more.
It is this, it is this that I dread!
"I engage with the Snark--every night after dark--
In a dreamy delirious fight:
I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,
And I use it for striking a light:
"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,
In a moment (of this I am sure),
I shall softly and suddenly vanish away--
And the notion I cannot endure!"
1.5k
The Church Belfry at Catherine Cross
Was known for its ancient bells,
They’d peal on out before Sunday Mass
And wake the monks in their cells,
The bellringers were a hardy crew
And their timing was superb,
But Joe and John, they didn’t get on,
And nor did the Bellman, Herb.
For Herb worked up in the belfry, with
The bells that he thought were his,
He’d tend the stock and the clapper stays
So the clapper wouldn’t miss,
He’d set each rope to the ringer’s height
To a fraction of an inch,
And woe betide if a ringer died,
Or another called in sick.
He’d call on down to the bellringers,
‘Go easy on those ropes,
You wouldn’t want to be stretching them,
They’re after all, the Pope’s!’
But John would glare at his form up there
And call up, between spells,
‘Don’t interfere with our work down here,
It’s we who ring the bells!’
He’d do his best to unsettle Herb
Would leave him in the lurch,
Then try, by ringing the tenor bell
To knock him off his perch,
The bell weighed upwards of three long tons
Would leave John out of breath,
But over time with its endless chime
Herb was going deaf.
Then Herb would leap from the belfry stair
And knock John to the ground,
The bells would ring out of sequence then
And make a terrible sound,
And while they struggled and punched and swore
The villagers would smirk,
‘That’s Herb and John got a punch-up on,
That Herb is a piece of work!’
So John had gone to the Synod, asked
That the Bellman should be sacked,
‘There’s nothing he needs to do up there,
I’m sick of being attacked.’
And so the word was carried to Herb
That their need of him was done,
Gave him a week to collect his things
And then, he must be gone.
His final Mass at Catherine Cross
Herb clambered up in the tower,
He’d show them all in his hour of loss
He’d have John in his power,
He loosened the nut that held the bell
To the headstock, up above,
And as it rang with a mighty clang
He gave it a final shove.
Then John strode into the centre, cursing
Looking up at the bell,
But what he saw would forever haunt him
Like some scene from Hell,
The bell was hurtling down towards him
Herb astride the crown,
His eyes a-gleam with revenge, it seemed
As the mighty bell came down.
Herb is buried at Catherine Cross
Not far from the place he fell,
While John was trapped for three long days
Under the dome of the bell,
It took the arm of a crane to lift
And set John free from his pain,
But from then on it was ‘Crazy John’
For he clambered out insane!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
She's tired of living day after day in a skin that isn't hers
She feigns a smile for a little while but her eyes, they start to burn
Maybe she’ll stop trying, maybe she’ll stop crying
When will she stop lying?
She turns to the only thing that she knows will save her night
She checks into the Music Hotel, breathing in the neon lights
The bellman greets her and grabs her bags, says what’s the deal tonight?
Her eyebrows furrow as she whispers
-The days haven’t been so bright-
She goes into a room and injects notes into her arm
Music starts dancing through her veins
She closes her eyes and surrenders
-Mr. DJ I’m lost
Please play my favourite song-
He rocks her boat and sends her tumbling
Down down down down down
-Mr. DJ please don’t hurt me
I’m trying not to drown-
She’s falling asleep to Mr. DJ’s secrets
She finally feels free
Nothing hurts her anymore
-Music did this to me-
The sunrise scorches the tired earth
She wipes the sleep from her eyes
It’s time to check out of the Music Hotel
Mr. DJ, say your goodbyes
She’s weary but she’s stronger
She now knows where to go
The Music Hotel will welcome her
Any time she needs a home
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Why is it that the problems of the night,
seem to melt away in the rays of the light?
All the thoughts seem to dissolve,
still in a way that we can't solve.
You remember where you've been,
the thoughts you've traveled in that little inn
in your head where you're greeted,
and check out in the morning before you can be seated.
The bellman at the door just gives you a look
that tells you he knows you'll be back in that nook.
"Goodbye, chap" he says with a smile and a nod,
but you can't get yourself to smile at the sod,
because the truth is that you don't want to return,
in a dungeon where you can't learn
what it takes to be happy.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
Strutting stuttering town crier
Crying, howling and barking
But dews of cry spilling
Over blighted ears of a messed
mildews.
Obduracy of hearts prevented
Waves of warning.
Binding the wings of wisdom
Behind the altar of recriminations.
Let your crying pierced
Through grommet of grimy
grubby spivs,
And exhume foetus of righteousness.
Strutting stammering bellman
Howling for attention of inattentive
sullen audience.
Poles of attention standing
Away from the lobes of ideas
Murmuring with inattentive agenda
Like the babbling of a rustling
dry leaves.
Say your saying
Out of the babel of noises
Cry your crying
To the congested muddled
market of voices.
Tricorne hat's bellman
Howl your howling to the strangers
from the strange land.
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 3:19 PM UTC