"snarks" poems
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
but she'll crack a joke and it'll fry in the pan
yoke running suntans like we're not burnt
plan like we weren't drowning in tick marks
learnt that those sparks don't set us alight
snarks sizzle and kite our cheap cameras up
fight or flight, cock-ups stroll us over to both
makeup's made of oaths and expired lippies
and
growth was just memories we'd left behind
cities were left unsigned and roosters hum
spellbinds bit off crumbs of our holidays
sums done sideways with scrambled minds
haze of upturned blinds flip us sunny-side
rinds of orange chide us but our hats are gone
stride down, we egg on, sandals beg mercy
but
crayons colour sprees in glasses-off views
degrees weren't those corkscrew rollercoasters
drive-thru karaoke, poster bed fairy lights dim
toasters retorted, skim reading as shoes kick dust
limbs stiff, favour a cuss but don't do big talk
buses see less than walks, distance is a job
toolbox couldn't fix this throb.
so
maybe if we hadn't lit the fuse twice
it might not have fireworked so quick
but i'm glad we rolled that dice
getting summered was a cement
to those heat-blown bricks.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC
when i ask my father to spend time
away from his quibbling
and political diatribe
to read poetry
it pains him
as he reads he seems to sigh
why why why
is she wasting my time?
he reads, he skims, he stands up fast
a grimace marks his face at last
its depressing
he snarks
with a disappointed air
i don't like
depressing poems,.
a poem about death
is it really depressing?
ok, well, that's
obvious in its truth
but there are plenty that speak of
the other side of life
reading one two three
down
down
my feed
there's love
life
hearts
dreams
all splayed out
on the operating table
we 'literates'
call poetry
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
She keeps me up at night,
And I lie awake
as Peace drenches into fright,
she takes and takes and takes
and screams at me for my mistakes.
She tells me "No, you can't".
But even when I try to fight
My ear she takes and starts to rant
"You CAN'T, you CAN'T, you CAN'T."
And please don't think too less of me,
'Cause there's been times where I fight back
And I tell her who I want to be,
But it's no use when she attacks.
The color inside me fades to black.
If people tell me "Yes, you can",
I start to think maybe that's true.
I begin to smile but there she stands
behind my back a deathly hue
And snarks and laughs, "who, YOU?".
I know what you think,
why keep this friend?
Whose cold-stoned words send me to the brink.
Why wouldn't you want it to end?
I'll tell you I try to break and bend.
But her hands choke me with guilt
Her eyes paint me with sick disdain
She tears down the places I rebuilt
And carves out the happy in my brain.
I put up a fight I can't back down
Because in glass and mirrors all around
what I see when I see her,
is that I am my own saboteur.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
Lively,long love-loving life,
Turns a dreaded dull daydream.
Strenght of the strong string of love life
Vanishes and vignette vile vipers.
The snippy stud snaps and snarks
After his smooching snare you slipped
Lurve life turns longeurs.
Bleak ,black and blinding strife
Leaps in and heaps havoc,
You hassock and hassle
But bed-burning coal you heaped.
And the time has come
For payment to be made.
A nugatory,now you are,
You will die the the death of the naughty.
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 4:40 PM UTC
I was more than this
More than the sieved shelled
husk in a hallway
Waiting for relatives to
scavenge fragmented
memories
More than the salted sinner
deserving of slaughter
Further than the fear in
my shivers as I stared down
a bullet; and lost.
More than just a media martyr
A way to sell papers
A symbol of massacre
Emotional wankery; societies comfort
That isn't me
I am more than just bravery
I am not merely someone's
More than a parent
More than a child
More than a hero
More than a minute of silence
I was my own.
A scribble;
Hobbies, Quirks, Tics,
Snarks, Anger, Laughter, Tragedy,
Sexuality, Inside Jokes,
Embarassment
I was secrets, that no-one else will
ever know.
I am secrets locked inside a rotting mass
I am forgotten; because I can no longer remember.
A stockpile of emotion,
reduced to a photo,
and the title of 'victim'
'hero'
'martyr'
'missed'
Today I am 2D
Today I 'RIP' Remembered
Tomorrow, I hope to be real
and forgotten
Tomorrow, I hope to have
lived
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC