Anon and Poem

John Bun                                       by anon

Here lies John Bun,

He was killed by a gun,

His name was not Bun, but Wood,

But Wood would not rhyme with gun, but Bun would.

( date unknown)

This pops up in assorted anthologies and pleases me no end.  I haven’t found a rough date for it yet but the author is not alone as over the years such gently silly rhymes have been produced by many greater and lesser poets and writers and found their way into print.  Just wonder a moment at how many others have must have been written and discarded.  From school days  to old age there is always time to write a rhyme that amuses and even better, to read them, out loud if you dare,  and catch a few smiles and groans.

Okay, real epitaph or not, I don’t care, I just like to think that it is.  It just jabs a smile onto my face and gives me a humphy laugh out loud every time I check it out.  True my sense of humour is often suspect but I am not alone, thankfully.

Dig out humorous verse if you will or those doubtful epitaphs but it is quite fun just to read around assorted poets and wait for the sly little poems that raise a smile to throw themselves at you.  I do have to point out Lear and Milligan but (surprisingly?) lean towards Pam Ayres a poet (I think she considers herself as a performer but many poems have a depth to surprise you)  who  is around and about writing and performing as well as ever.  From a media point of view she is on another little crest at the moment but actually she has always been working, surprising with a smile and a rhyme of the moment for all of us to consider.

Well, that surprised me.

I throw in another odd few lines you will probably not have seen before and are from a different style altogether:

Extract:       Seagulls                                 by  J Johnson Smith

The sun let itself down by its slanting skeins

and floated, gently drowning, with glistening images

into the sea that was lit by the ghostly pearl of solar powers.

Seagulls screamed, shrieked, as they flew and voiced their pains

over the two-thirds wasted world.  They flocked in scrimmages

above the silent swell of yellow-blistered waters

and circled in sightless towers.

Their tears dowsed the sun, made it blush at the shade

as it radiated woe to poor and peerages,

made it sink with speeding cowers.

Sun, sinking down below the weight of ceaseless waves

could only hide its head in a wonderful, gloried shame.

Night is come to the ever-dreaming, ever-streaming sea.

                                                                                            1966

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