The Song of Orwell

The Song of Orwell
a true tale told in verse

In books of Lore the scholars write:
Stories were e’er the Shire’s delight
So on this eve, a summer night
With hearts aloft and faces bright

Gathered together many friends
From musty bogs and woody ends
A festival of playwrights’ pens
Where acid tongues paid dividends

With stories old retold anew
And newer tales by artists who
Were careful not to misconstrue
Orwell’s past deeds (he knew kung fu)

Ah yes, Orwell, that was his name
He relished in the greatest fame
To be the best, that was his claim
(Pomposity was oft his shame)

When his full gifts were brought to bear
Lesser poets could but despair
From dark corners perhaps they’d glare
And mourn that they could not compare

But in their hearts they always hoped
Between the many times they moped
Someone would beat Orwell, provoked
By others’ plight; that’s how they coped

This night again Orwell was praised
As he always was for his plays
Nothing could lift the sad malaise
His rivals felt in those dog days

But if they knew how Orwell felt
His secret fear at which he’d melt
They’d have run for joy o’er the veldt
Their moods would have been greatly helped

A challenger was what he feared
Another who'd be more revered
This thought of his ne’er disappeared
Dreading the day this one appeared

Would on this night he meet his match?
He knew many plots had been hatched
By those among the coffee klatsch
Which left him that much more stressed, natch

Try as he might, he did not know
Which young artist would be his foe
Destined to change the status quo
But I can say it was Eldo

Of this battle songs would be sung
But the trap was yet to be sprung
So up upon the highest rung
Venerable Orwell still clung



To be continued?

Neddie: And in this land of liberty, I’ll make my living at poetry!
Grytpype: You’ll starve...
The Moon Show

Ooh.... I love a challenge... Not that I would be competitive at all, as that is not what poets of the Muse (or channel) ever do!

Excellent work, Eldo!

I'll hasten, add, "Appreciate the yoke!"
(My talents are all terribly bespoke.)
I will submit that true verse shouldn't rhyme.
For shame, I say. For shame, for shame.. err.. shyme..

True verse shouldn't rhyme⁉️ Not confusing prose with verse are we⁉️

Next thing you'll be saying is true poetry should have no rhythm⁉️

And next⁉️ No words⁉️

The above was Free Form Poetry - but of course‼️ - but Free Form is not the only True Poetry‼️

Eegad‼️⁉️‼️⁉️

Oooooh, tighten your belt & change your pants Orwell Do We have a Verse war looming


Love the poem Eldo

Thanks azriel.

Glad you enjoyed it Orwell. I was inspired by all your recent versifying.

I want a fair fight. So no plagiarism, Eldo. I've already cornered that market!

Err.. When you mention all my versifying, you really meant all the versifying I'm Press Agent for... Of course you did.

It seems this poet will not be celebrated
He'll ply his work, by just his own wit sated
While others fight and battle for acclaim
He'll ply his wit for just the greater gain

Now that's a bit of pure (rhyming) poetry if I've ever seen one. Not sure if I understood a word of it.

THE PANGS OF (Competitive) IMAGINATION

Poor little Blue-boy,
There sitting on his tuffet,
If he is to stand a chance,
He'll surely have to rough it.

Mix it with the big boys,
(At least, Eldo brags he's big!)
In the realm of poetry,
There are branches
And there's twigs.

Now of whom the lovely Orwell
Is Press Agent, I will say,
The big boys are Wisey,
And Ol' Anon (The Gay).

These mighty poets walk our streets,
Resplendent in their flannel,
So softly footed in their sharpened suits -
And one of them can Channel.

Yes, young hobbits are popping up,
Like gophers from a hole,
But can they wrestle greatness?
Can they climb the slippery pole?

The slippery pole of genius,
Can they grab and never slip,
While sliding up an inch or two,
Like up a cosmic zip?

Yes, can they throw in at chance,
The odd inane refrain,
When nothing sharp or witty
Comes trickling through their brain?

Can they pick an oddment here and there,
From a life lived long and hard,
With many pains and many books,
And no useless thing discard(ed)?

Yes, in the brain of the truly great,
Every useless detail remains,
To be dredged as from a sewer,
With hardly any pain.

Can young boys-to-men ever surmount,
The old Forumshiran Elite,
Who have stars twinkling in their eyes,
And cow poo on their feet?

Cow poo on their feet, I say,
And oozing through their toes,
As they dance about the dairy pen,
With (or without) their clothes.

Making love to lovely cows,
Kissing astonished sheep,
Climbing through a lofty window,
To bonk Bo Peep as she sleeps?

Loving all the ladies,
Azriel and Figgy-boo,
(Or at least peaking through their keyholes
While they're reading on the loo).

With so much rich history,
So much light and dark inside,
How can they ever compete,
With such Poets bold and snide?

They can't, say I, and I should know,
For Am I not Wisey Banks?
Channeller  Extroadinaire -
Applause! Fie!
I need no thanks...

For I am humble, though greatly,
I don't write for your applause,
I'm deaf to clapping laughter,
And to your boisterous roars!

I do it because in my soul,
I am a Channeller full blown,
But I am also surely humble
As I sit upon the Princely Poet's Throne.



Channeled (quite personally)
By Wisey Banks.

As previosuly stated, in airs, I dare say
These words will never blight the light of day
With anger girth the dirth of competition
With spited clouded dreams without volition
No, perhaps they do here speak in haste
But my words will not shorten these bright days

Orwell wrote:Not sure if I understood a word of it.

That's the hallmark of great poetry, I sayeth

Hey! Is this a Battle of Very Very Short Poems?

My Poet Crew will beat you young bucks with one arm tied behind their backs (providing it's their left arms as they type right handed), but Short Poems will take less time in said 'defeating'.

I sayeth more, though it has been repeated
That I will have no time for this defeated
For put downs, cut downs, or cause you to heave to
To founder, sounder in the swell unsound, untrue
To lay you on the lee, to change your tack
To travel twice as far just to get back
I'll simply ply my craft for my own mirth
And leave you all the competitions dirth



And in this land of liberty, I'll make my living at poetry.
I'll starve.

Helioscope,
Evaporated waters deep hydra,
Desiccated souls - oh!
dried out!

Efflorescence of brickwork,
fence of steel,
Blue-boy,
Pink-boy,
Eldo-boy....
And....
Doubt....


Leonard Nimoy from the grave grabbing at words semi-randomly with some cohesion and coherence yet esoteric though still with a tasty rhyme.... err... Perfectly channeled poetry from a unknown Muse (possibly a sky God).

Well, I modeled my stance on Chaucer and my walk on John Cleese.

Yes, the Chauce and I used to discuss the future while having a pint. You know, we predicted poets like you and Eldo...

I have to say, of all of this, Eldo is the only one with perfect meter. Takes a good ear to know when to go for "ne'er" because your rhythm is too pristine to mess with.

I can't find ne'er, only e'er! But I am tired. It is 11.41pm you know!

Oh! Found it!

halfwise wrote:I have to say, of all of this, Eldo is the only one with perfect meter.  Takes a good ear to know when to go for "ne'er" because your rhythm is too pristine to mess with.

I'm glad somebody appreciated my efforts.

The Battle (part 1)

The night was old, the stage was clear
The crowd had drank many a beer
Yet Orwell felt not so much cheer
In fact he thought things rather queer

It should have been the awards show
By this time but it was not so
A youth stepped up from the front row
To rob him of that happy glow

Young Eldo climbed onto the stage
And faced Orwell of vaunted age
Then to the crowd: "I turn the page
and end the reign of this old sage"

Orwell’s response: a mighty scowl
And quiver from chin to his jowl
Barely suprressed a mighty howl
At this outrageous grievous foul

"I don’t know who you think I am
Or why I reign in this program
But I’ll return you to your pram
If you’re so smart you’d better scram"

Eldo just laughed: "oh sacre-bleu!
Your sell-by date is overdue
That’s why I’m here to launch a coup
I’ve got more rhymes than your whole crew"

Orwell reached back into his mind
"You’ll be surprised what I can find
in here and I might be unkind
But you’ll soon learn I’ve not declined"

Eldo replied "Your style’s dated
Rhyming structures antiquated
All my lines are metricated
Hearing you makes me frustrated"

Eldorion wrote:The Battle (part 1)

The night was old, the stage was clear
The crowd had drank many a beer
Yet Orwell felt not so much cheer
In fact he thought things rather queer

It should have been the awards show
By this time but it was not so
A youth stepped up from the front row
To rob him of that happy glow

Young Eldo climbed onto the stage
And faced Orwell of vaunted age
Then to the crowd: "I turn the page
and end the reign of this old sage"

Orwell’s response: a mighty scowl
And quiver from chin to his jowl
Barely suprressed a mighty howl
At this outrageous grievous foul

"I don’t know who you think I am
Or why I reign in this program
But I’ll return you to your pram
If you’re so smart you’d better scram"

Eldo just laughed: "oh sacre-bleu!
Your sell-by date is overdue
That’s why I’m here to launch a coup
I’ve got more rhymes than your whole crew"

Orwell reached back into his mind
"You’ll be surprised what I can find
in here and I might be unkind
But you’ll soon learn I’ve not declined"

Eldo replied "Your style’s dated
Rhyming structures antiquated
All my lines are metricated
Hearing you makes me frustrated"

This is great! You've obviously got some lyrics in you, in addition to everything else Orwell, let's hear a response!