Anthem for a Doomed Tooth
Jack Monroe #344 344%
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“I pretend that I don’t know ‘em…
…but I would love to steal a poem”
Do you know what I love the best about our cabal? The fact that whatever random turn the thread takes we all throw ourselves wholeheartedly into it without question. 
and 
at the poetry pals.
Chapeau Dear Hearts, chapeau.
and at the poetry pals. Chapeau Dear Hearts, chapeau.
Rudyard Kipling? Bit gauche darling
Jack's been grunking but doesn't want to be too obvious about it, so she went looking for a war poet that we hadn't mentioned.
I'm surprised we haven't had If I should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is forever Southend.
1. Jack, your IQ of 154 means nothing. It means you are ~quite~ good at taking intelligence tests. Intelligence tests do not measure intelligence. Go and educate yourself about the god awful history of intelligence tests and what they were used for before you spout your IQ at people again.
2. Just because you can recall poems doesn’t mean you understand them. Recall is the simplest form of learning.
3. I know some comments on here may have hurt your fragile ego, but you have a puppy, a son and a lovely big house and garden. Go and enjoy them. Get off Twitter and stop being a performative twit.
4. Finally, if you think you copying and pasting poems and then saying certain genres of books are “trashy” makes you sound intelligent, you are sorely mistaken.
2. Just because you can recall poems doesn’t mean you understand them. Recall is the simplest form of learning.
3. I know some comments on here may have hurt your fragile ego, but you have a puppy, a son and a lovely big house and garden. Go and enjoy them. Get off Twitter and stop being a performative twit.
4. Finally, if you think you copying and pasting poems and then saying certain genres of books are “trashy” makes you sound intelligent, you are sorely mistaken.
Shall I compare thee to a slummer’s day?
Thou art more crappy and cold temperature.
Jack’s winds do shake the darling mice of bramble,
And evil landlady’s lease hath too long a date.
Sometimes too hot the oven lights of the bungalow shine,
And pumble’s golden complexion dimmed.
Thou art more crappy and cold temperature.
Jack’s winds do shake the darling mice of bramble,
And evil landlady’s lease hath too long a date.
Sometimes too hot the oven lights of the bungalow shine,
And pumble’s golden complexion dimmed.
That's nice dear. Any plans for tomorrow?
I would love it if she started quoting passages from books.
Let’s start with Haruki Murakami and Pat Barker.
WHAN that twatte with hir shoures aromatyk
The swiving droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every visage in swich faceteune,
Of which vertu engendred is the lye; Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath for every chaos and mankyed teeth
The tendre croppes (too late to sowe), and the yonge sonne Hath in the Jam his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale fowles name-d Terrye maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open paytned ye,
(So priketh hir nature in hir corages):
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to seken straunge stoores,
To ferne Asda's, couthe in sootee Londres; And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Soothund they wende.
I could go on to introduce the Dramatis Personae. After all, we're watching the latest Jurassic Park and my main criticisms are a) not enough dinosaurs, b) too many humans and c) not enough humans getting eaten by dinosaurs. Can I be arsed? When I don't have a £600 hammock upon which to lounge under the pretext of doing work? Nah.
The swiving droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every visage in swich faceteune,
Of which vertu engendred is the lye; Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath for every chaos and mankyed teeth
The tendre croppes (too late to sowe), and the yonge sonne Hath in the Jam his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale fowles name-d Terrye maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open paytned ye,
(So priketh hir nature in hir corages):
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to seken straunge stoores,
To ferne Asda's, couthe in sootee Londres; And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Soothund they wende.
I could go on to introduce the Dramatis Personae. After all, we're watching the latest Jurassic Park and my main criticisms are a) not enough dinosaurs, b) too many humans and c) not enough humans getting eaten by dinosaurs. Can I be arsed? When I don't have a £600 hammock upon which to lounge under the pretext of doing work? Nah.
I’ve also just remembered that I quoted some Sassoon in a GCSE Drama piece that I wrote and died a little inside 
Baby got Bacchae
Spouted poetry all afternoon,
Fuelled by iced milk, oats, cocoa and prune;
With a vat of sardine,
Plus an ego supreme,
And I'm Greek so Stifado real soon.
ETA
What is for dinner? Been no performative shopping for a while.
Fuelled by iced milk, oats, cocoa and prune;
With a vat of sardine,
Plus an ego supreme,
And I'm Greek so Stifado real soon.
ETA
What is for dinner? Been no performative shopping for a while.
Jack Monroe attempts Sylvia Plath.
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, crappy bungalow
Which I have rented like a pov
three years, poor and white
Barely daring to breath or paint the front door blue
And I see Jack has quoted the they duck you up poem, but cunningly, only the last verse. I knew she wanted to.
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Ah no. She's already ruined Thursdays by declaring it (chaff) Cookie Day
.Whenever I see one of Jack's dishes, I am reminded of her occasional countryman (depending on which day of the week it is), James Joyce:
Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
ETA: ...whereas Joyce's love letters remind me of Jack-adjacent RussInCheshire. If you ever want to be horrified, google "james joyce" fart. You have been warned, this is the literary equivalent of Lorraine's growler.
Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
ETA: ...whereas Joyce's love letters remind me of Jack-adjacent RussInCheshire. If you ever want to be horrified, google "james joyce" fart. You have been warned, this is the literary equivalent of Lorraine's growler.
I'm so thankful right now that I'm getting old and have memories to replace all the school learning shite. It's ~literally~ all fallen out of my head! I just remember the best bits!I’ve also just remembered that I quoted some Sassoon in a GCSE Drama piece that I wrote and died a little inside
She sounds like a real laugh down the pub, I used to work in an old man's bar and I have heard many a ballad and tune on the spoons and I'd rather that any day that her terrible terrible poetry reading.
Well now. I can play the spoons
. I can! My Grampy taught me!
AMAZING!! The mention of the smale fowl quite brought a tear to mine eye….
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