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Contests : Wergle Flomp Free Poetry Contest : Past Winners : 2008 : Sooja Jones
DAFT IDYLLS
with apologies to Wordsworth
I wandered loony as a clod,
My belly taut with air that spills,
When all at once I heard a broad
Report, as if from avian bills;
I turned to see what broke the peace:
Did wind, my body's, break its leash?
As I stood sniffing for some time,
I saw a man come up my way;
He smiled..., then quoted line by line,
A verse I'd writ the other day,
And online sent to win, perchance,
A contest prize and raving fans.
His voice was like a donkey's bray.
He paused. I asked, 'Who might you be?'
'Guess who!' he winked. I couldn't say.
'I run a site for poetry.'
'But how'd you find me?' 'Ha! I caught
The secret scent! Your fragrant fart!!
'Your fragrance, such perspective has!
Such sophic vision, charm and grace!
It's more than mere digestive gas
That exits from your worthy base:
You pitch a wind that does bewitch—
A humble fart can make one rich!'
'Oh, hush! You shame me! Please! For I
Have never used a word so crude:
Say "borborygmi"! If it's nigh,
One's haunches tend to sputter rude'!
When flatulence my bottom fills,
I overflow with daft idylls!
'My wind gusts break like "do-re-mi",
Whene'er there's tummy turbulence.
It whispers words of prophesy,
Encoded in the future tense,
Which every insect knows, and trills,
And all the world with music fills.
'The "vapours" help me levitate,
And journey forward jet-propelled.
I'm never for a function late.
I've never of bad odours smelled.
But when you use that vulgar word,
It does imply a stench absurd!'
'You seem ashamed of talent this,
To air your feelings well-perfumed.'
'I'm proud of it, but not if 'tis
Expressed in verbiage ungroomed.
Ashamed?! You're kidding! Mine's the bang
That emblems how the world began!'
'You mean the big bang?' 'Yes, I mean
The borboryg' primordial:
The mother of all things heard and seen—
The harbinger celestial!
Ashamed?! My foot! The anal mime
Is poetry's true "bottom" line.'
'The anal mime?!' 'Yes, nature's code
In onomatopoeic script:
In sounds that hidden meaning bode,
Through oracles so toothless' lipped!
Hence, every sound that nature makes,
My nether region imitates—
'The bark and whine, the chirp and quack,
The hiss, the growl, the gurgling stream,
The hoot and roar, the whirr and whack,
The blip and snore of drunken dream...
My rectal "airs" (to artist ears!)
Convey the music of the spheres.'
'The music of the spheres?!' 'Oh yes!
It's double-entendre "spheres" implies:
It means "celestial bodies", plus
The "spheric butt" with split that cries!'
The man was thrilled to hear me preach
About a genre none could teach.
'Oh, blessed bard! Thou art profound!
I sensed it from the verse you sent.
I caught the whiff it spread around,
But couldn't figure what it meant.
I came to tell you've won the prize
That follows paid mementos nice.'
'I know! I know! It's such a bore!
The plaque, the bowl, the usual crap
I see in people's private store,
And too, those pulps in leather wrap!
You don't have ego off'rings new,
Inspired, for instance, by the loo...'
'The loo?!' 'Yes, such as, printed quotes,
Commodes upon, and chamber pots,
On all the things the body dotes,
From dildos down to condom lots.
Your trinkets always are the same,
Evoking deja vu and blame.'
'But...!' 'Wait!! Those conf'rences you hold,
To make them scratch each other's backs
Till sore! Instead, they could have bold'
Researched each other's butts and cracks,
To find aromas well concealed,
And mine the secret wealth revealed.'
'The secret wealth?!' 'Indeed! Those rare
And noble gases!! They're the hope
Of mankind's future, bright and fair.
When th'end is reached, of petrol's rope,
The earth will be entirely
Impelled by gaseous poetry!
'It's rich in sulfur and methane,
In CO2 and nitrogen.
It fuel can a car or plane:
It has a lot of hydrogen.
And O2 too—for soon will earth
Polluted be, and dire' in dearth.
'Depending on the food one's dined,
Impinged by thoughts and deeds and hope,
Its smell reveals the heart and mind,
Divines precise one's horoscope.
You smell of hydrogen sulfide!
It means you've many sins to hide.'
The man began to belch and burp,
And blabber words of flattery.
He tried my kingdom to usurp—
My intellectual property:
'I'll buy it lock, stock, barrel! Tell
Me what your price is! Will you sell?'
'You flatter much! Now tell me how
You learnt it.' 'From my great forebear,
Sir Martin Tupper, who could "wow"
With verse a queen, did I acquire
This gift: but what he did in verse,
I only can in florid prose.'
'Inferior verse you celebrate,
And earn a gain you don't deserve.
So I've decided to create
A site for balladeers with nerve:
With guts to use the hidden mouth
And bowel breath that pushes south!
'From beggar poor to potentate,
This leveler reigns as sure as death.
A man might never masturbate;
But break he must his lower breath!
My smells are lavender and rose:
You stink of rotten eggs and worse!'
'I eat excreta once'n a while,
To bear the rot I daily read,
And praises mail on form and style.
My service panders to their need.
Appoint me, please, as slave and chum!
I'll serve you well and wash your bum!!'
'No vacancies! None off the shelf!
I ne'er outsource a private job
That I can easily do myself.
It's best you con them still, and rob
For as long as the going's good,
And till the swindle's understood.
'My "borborygmi website" true,
Will propagate tomorrow's wave,
And usher in an era new,
Empowered by a concept brave:
The "borbo" rhythm, "rygmi" rhyme,
Which loud the destined future mime!'
'The "borbo" rhythm?!' 'Yes, the beat
That whips volcanic lava's core,
Whose pulses must all flesh repeat,
And speak in tongues unheard before:
To sing the songs of love and hate—
For naked butts shall mikes berate!!!'
He loud guffawed. His breath was foul.
His face was puffed and rubicund.
I couldn't stand his vulgar howl,
Nor manner unrefined and blunt.
'Oh give me more! I beg for more!!'
He hollered like a manic whore.
'Well, I'm afraid it's getting time.
Another day I'll tell you all.'
'No, please!' he rasped. 'Your storyline
Is bawdier than nature's call!!'
His face turned livid, eyeballs rolled,
'My gas is worth its weight in gold!'
And then he did a horrid thing.
He unzipped, dropped his pants and fired:
'Ba-roomm!!!! Ra-taatt!!! Ta-zaakk!! Ka-pingg!...'
Till finally, all drained and tired,
He buckled, crumpled in a heap,
And open-mouthed, began to sleep.
My eyes beheld the ruin he'd caused.
The sight my heart with sorrow filled.
For miles around with his exhaust,
The dancing yellow flowers he'd killed.
They seemed to me a metaphor:
The death of art by "gassacre"!
A myriad hearts will never dance
An art once known as poetry;
Will never learn its true nuance,
For drugged are they by flattery.
May "borborygmi" save their souls
With fragrant verse from flagrant holes!
To stop his snore I blocked his mouth
With big a stone that wedged his jaws:
It failed!—For then the snore, to spout
Began down under, louder, cross!
I slowly turned and walked away,
To air my fragrances, and pray.
And oft when sad my haunches sigh,
(For thought simpatico is food!),
The tears that in my bladder lie,
Pour down in soulful rectitude
And grief for all those daffodils,
Bemoaned in these my daft idylls.
Sent as a joke to The Famous Poets Society, this poem won third prize in the 2008 Wergle Flomp humor poetry contest sponsored by Winning Writers. Author Sooja Jones received a cash prize of $338.
About Sooja Jones
I live alone in Kerala's little capital city of Trivandrum (now Thiruvananthapuram), where I was born and brought up, before I moved out for my formal education. After completing my studies (English Literature, etc), I got off to a wrong start, and by a treacherous quirk, ended up as a failed businessman, literally losing everything I had (which was considerable)—except the will to overcome the past; the resolve to move on and take the future. For my daily bread, I work as a professional copywriter on a freelance, selective basis, in order to get, everyday, some private time to pester my Muse.
I turned to poetry for solace in the second half of 2007, and found myself becoming a fevered amateur. This is the first-ever contest I have participated in. To be awarded a prize in a prestigious, impartial and unique humour poetry contest such as the Wergle Flomp, is to be done an honour no clichéd expression of thankfulness can sufficiently acknowledge.
All I can say is that I am exceedingly grateful to my Muse, Jesus Christ, sole fountainhead of all creative inspiration, for looking down with mercy upon a shattered man; for sustaining him, lifting him up and granting him an opportunity to stand for a few shy minutes before so vibrant, informed, august and truly international an audience—as WinningWriters.com's certainly is.
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