Eliot Didn't Know the Half . . .

"April" he said, "is the cruellest month," a statement so contentious that Poets and Storytellers United asks us to comment.

I know more about April's cruelty, its total disregard of the "still, sad music of humanity" than T.S.Eliot ever did. Why?  Because (see my Blog Profile) my field of study is things going wrong (e.g. spilt milk), all the way up to unprecedented disasters (e.g. writing poetry under a name that is an anagram of "Toilets.") 

I prefer the Eeyore take on life to the Pangloss every time.  One is less likely to be disappointed . . .

So -  a few haiku in support of April's cruelty:-

Lamentations Forty to Forty-Four 

April 1865

Lincoln was shot dead

watching a satire on the

Second Amendment.

April 1906

The folk of 'Cisco

woke to events that left them

shaking in their shoes.

April 1912.

The 'Titanic' sank

because her cargo holds were

crammed with excess ice.

April 1986

Staff cooking breakfast

in Cherbonyl's reactor

turned the gas too high.

April 2019

Notre Dame de Paris

knew God's wrath called for "A fire,

not a flood, next time!"

April - every year

sends all four seasons (*) 

in one day. Snow, sun, wind, rain -

Now that IS cruel . . .

(*) Well, it does where I live.

Stopping By Stuff . . .

Fly-tipping is a blight, a blot on the landscape and what's worse - in think you'd agree - fly-blogging is a blot on the blogscape.  So when I came across this fly-tipped couch/settee/sofa and easychair/armchair, depending on your country of origin and clahss -

 

 - I was (naturally) reminded (*) of a poem by Robert Frost, which I respond to here, prompted by this week's prompt on POEMS AND STORYTELLERS UNITED.

Whose couch is this?  I think it's lost.

Who chucked it out?  What did it cost?

It has not seen me stopping here.

It's arm-rest are all stiff with frost.

My little horse thinks I am queer

to stop because a couch is near.

He often does a double-take

when fly-tipped furnishings appear.

He gives his frosted rump a shake

to ask if I've made some mistake.

But frozen sofas make me weep.

I'd thaw them with a long, slow bake.

Its pattern's loverly!  Cushions deep.

A couch I'd really love to keep.

But - with miles to go before I sleep

I'll leave it for the rubbish heap.

(*) Not true!  In fact I stole if from another blog authored by a certain Dr.FTSE, who will - I know - forgive me because if he doesn't, he knows I'll tell all bogland WHO HE REALLY IS, WHERE HE LIVES etc etc!

Breaking News . . .

 Friends and Fans -

I have been unable to lament this last eighteen months or so.  The reason?  I have been in hospital (or, as our German allies say "Das Krankenhaus."  With your leave I will digress for a moment to point out that IMHO, 'Krankenhaus" conveys the nature of the building, and it's purpose, more accurately than "hospital." I mean, who would voluntarily go to a "hospital" unless they were krankened, afflicted with krankenitis, or temporary playing host to the socially embarrassing krankenohno virus?)

Where was I?  Yes, in das krankenhaus, struck down by a debilitating attack of  non-melancholic merrimentosis, (common name cheerfulness.)  But be sure, be very sure, I am now convalescing and, as one more famous than I said . . .

"I'LL BE BACK!"

and every bit as gloomy as usual. 

Lamentation Number Thirty Nine

Something puzzled me as a very small boy, and my confusion has deepened ever since.  I will try to explain the problem and at the same time respond (as I usually do, in Haiku form) to the the Poets and Storytellers' Friday prompt . . . 

WHY?

Why did the chicken?

It's said "Because the higher

the fewer." ??? Search me!

Reminds me of a verse from the Rubyaiyat of Omar Khayyham:

'Myself when young did oft frequent

doctor and saint, and heard much argument

about it and about. But evermore

went out by the selfsame door I came in.'

 . . . and I hope that makes everything clear.

Lamentation Number Thirty Eight

No Use Crying . . . 

Wrote love-letters. Spilt

black ink all over them. Stormed

out. (Fate always wins . . . )

This despondent haiku (5-7-5 syllables) is my response to Magaly's prompt on Poets&Storytellers United, where me were asked to reflect on Love, Ink and Storm.  What a recipe for heartache!

 

Lamentation Number Thirty Seven

Haiku In Memory

Girls in my youth wore

Blue Grass, Lenthérique. All gone!

(like my sense of smell  . . .)

This week, Rosemary invites us to write about fragrance, perfume, all that delights (or dismays) the olfactory sense. Alas . . . age has reduced mine to almost zero.  As noted here.

Lamentation Number Thirty Six

A Sundered Haiku 

Marriage to divorce,

from triumph to disaster -

win-win for lawyers.

Always good to see Divorce triumphing over the disaster of Love gone wonky, so here is an illustration of the idea in response to the Poets and Storytellers weekly prompt.