Tag Archives: emily brontae

The Bad Poet (Humour)

He tried to make his verse rhyme

But it became worser and worser.

‘Twas perverse

To see

Dog rhyme with tree.

He cudgelled his brains to produce poetry fine

And was convinced beer rhymes with wine.

Inspiration from the great poets he took

And was certain Emily Dickinson

Was Brontae’s sister

And Heathcliff could not resist her.

Finally from the top of Wuthering Heights

He jumped

Hitting the moors with a plop

But his bad poems

Just would not halt.

It was his very great fault

He did not decease

And leave his readers in tranquillity!

 

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Strange Conversations Hav I had

“Hello?”

I halted my walk through All Saints Churchyard and turned enquiringly in the direction of the voice. The speaker, having caught my attention continued thus,

“Why are these leaning? The stones I mean”, he said.

“I don’t know” I replied, continuing on my way home.

 

Perhaps my response to the above question was a little terse. However I was unsure as to why a total stranger should accost me with such a peculiar question and I had no wish to stand around debating matters about which I knew little, in a churchyard as evening fell. Afterwards however I began to ponder on this strange question. My pondering did not revolve around why gravestones lean (I assume that over time they tend to tilt). Rather my thoughts centred around the people residing under said stones. When one is dead surely one has no interest in whether the stone above your head is dead straight or leaning like a man who has just consumed 10 pints of strong beer? The sleepers in that quiet earth will, I assume rest with the same repose irrespective of whether the stone above their head tilts or stands straight as a die?

The incident brought to mind the closing lines of Brontae’s Wuthering Heights,

 

“I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next the moor: on middle one grey, and half buried in the heath; Edgar Linton’s only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot; Heathcliff’s still bare.

I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth”.

Windy Nights

This morning I awoke at around 4 to hear the wild wind rattling my casements. The sound reminded me of Lockwood, in Wuthering Heights and the terrible evening he spent in the haunted chamber. There was no Kathy moaning that she had been walking the earth these twenty years but the sound of the wind as it shook my windows was as though some unearthly presence was seeking admittance to my dwelling. The gusts blocked out all other sounds, only an untamed beast clawing at my casements could I hear.

When I left my flat at a little after 7:30 the wind had dropped significantly. My guide dog, Trigger paused uncertain as to how he ought to navigate around the odd fallen branch and pile of leaves, however there was no sign in or around Crystal Palace of the devastation which certain casandras predicted.

I reached my local station only to find that there where no trains until at least 10. I called my boss who advised that I return home and take a days leave so here I sit at my desk blogging! I have no idea why the trains where not running. I guess that leaves on the line or, more likely fallen trees where to blame. The walk to the station was a pleasant one so I don’t feel that I wasted the morning.