sothatsagoodthing:

starstuffandalotofcoffee:

This is reposted directly from the poetry listserv I mentioned in my last post. It’s called arspoetica and if you’re interested in more you may sign up here. Note that I am a mere subscriber and have no part in running this list, and also this is a lovely example of internet ourobouros-like actions: the author of the email gathered these poems from Tumblr, sent them to me via email, and now I’m posting them back on Tumblr and giving you a way to access future emails. It’s the circle of life, or something.

Me, fifteen minutes ago: “my name is Cow…”
M: Are you going to share the cow poem tonight?
Me: Nah. I mean, I’m really tempted to, but, you know, it seems a little silly.

Me, five minutes ago: Screw it, I’m gonna send the cow poem.

This is unlike other Ars Poetica, and I realise not everyone is as endlessly fascinated by the language arts of the Internet as I am, so maybe this is not for you.  You’ll be returned to your usual diet on Sunday.

A couple of months ago there was a Reddit thread about health inspection violations, and a user by the name of Chamale told the following story: “My stepdad used to be a baker in an authentic recreation of an 18th century New French fortress. Because they sell bread to the public, the health inspector came by, and she was ripping into my stepdad for violations like the stonework walls, the doorless entranceways, or the lack of a mosquito zapper. He pointed out that they were following the highest standards except for things that would destroy the authenticity of this 18th-century bakery. The health inspector relented and agreed to give him a pass after verifying the food storage area was secure. They went to the shed, which was a doorless building attached to the bakery. As thehealth inspector went in, there happened to be an escaped cow licking all of the loaves. My stepdad could only say, ‘Honestly, this never happens.’ They passed the health inspection.”

In response to this, another Reddit user named Poem_for_your_sprog (whose work is generally worth a look, btw) wrote him a little poem, with vaguely ye olde spellings:

my name is Cow,
and wen its nite,
or wen the moon
is shiyning brite,
and all the men
haf gon to bed –
i stay up late.

i lik the bred.

And the internet did what the internet does, and latched onto this ditty and wrote sequels and variations, often in a call-and-response fashion with a conversation between some other creature & the Cow (and yes, I’m about to share several of them with you).  Someone even recorded the poems to the tune of ‘Greensleeves’.  And I got really excited because as far as I’m concerned, this is what poetry is all about.  When I tell people Irun a poetry newsletter, I often get these strange responses about how they don’t really like poetry and aren’t “a poetry person”, implying that enjoyment of poetry is an exclusive club practised only in the rarified atmosphere of literary circles and the academy.  To which I say: fuck that noise.  Poetry can and should be accessible and funny and touching and easy to enjoy, making its readers want to respond in kind.  It should allow us to celebrate together and share our sorrows and develop our ideas, be they ferocious political critiques or philosophical meditations.  You should not let preconceived notions about what who is and is not “a poetry person” dictate whether you can enjoy poetry.

Go out and enjoy reading and writing!  Share your verse!  Seize the day!  Lik the bred!

—–

my name is Dog
and wen its tea,
i hope they giv
sum foode to me –
i hope they shair
befor its gon –
they never do.

i don’t get non.

my name is Cow,
and this is tru –
my caynine friend,
its up to yu.
so just be brayve
and smart insted –
and be like me.

i lik the bred.

—–

my name is Cat,
no cares have i
be it sun or moone
that lytes the sky
by night i prowl
by day i stretch
i salute yu, Cow

yu bold old wretch.

o clevr Cat
who roams the barn
i promys yu
i mean no harm –
as yor a friend
with stelthy tred
i invite yu

to lik sum bred.

—–

i am the Bred
with yeast i ryse
mine amber crust
doth pleas thyn eys

the Cow and Cat
whos tongues delite
upon my crust
both noon and nite

are easy stop’d
by dor and slat.
perhaps the baker
noes not that?

—–

my name is Cow
and in the spring
when other Beastes
are frollicking,
upon yor legs
i rest my hed
and in my dreams

i lik the bred.

end note from me, starstuffandalotofcoffee. Ars Poetica’s author was unable to credit the other verses. I believe the last verse is from the talented and hilarious @sashayed.. I don’t know who wrote the rest and they may be from the original reddit thread, but if you do and you can send me a source, I’ll edit this with credits.

I thought I might add a small contribution to the ongoing saga of “I lik the bred”. Here goes…
Mein Name ist Kuh
Und wenn es Nacht ist
Oder wenn der Mond
Hell leuchtet
Und all die Männer
Zu Bett gegangen sind-
Bleibe ich spät auf.

Ich lecke das Brot.