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AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 200
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, May 08, 2003 - 2:25 pm: | 
|
The Walk
As he walked the narrow and darkened street,
And the drums in his chest began their beat.
He noted how his slight shadow was suddenly tall
And how the sides of his coat
Struck sparks from the sides of the wall.
Like giant locomotive alive in the black night.
Like gigantic machine glistening with might.
Ah, what fearful plot or ploy,
From such young boy?
Who set out with forgiveness in his heart,
When that heart was finally ripped apart,
No finish but just fresh start.
No old pie but fresh young tart.
Where with the boil
Blood and sweat were the oil.
And with what sharp sword or foil,
He would himself have to toil.
Where nothing could be bigger,
Than slight matchstick figure.
Bent over at his dark and poisonous deed,
Carried forth by some dark seed.
Rut and cut,
sow and grow…
Choking and coughing on scum,
Another whore is yet undone.
Four pence is not costly sum.
For whores he had aplenty,
When five times four is twenty.
He doesn’t know why,
The sparks do fly.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Detective Sergeant
Username: Robert
Post Number: 95
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, May 08, 2003 - 5:44 pm: |
|
Well, AP, I have to say thanks, and not thanks, for sending in that!
Thanks, because it's a marvellous poem!
Not thanks, because you've already topped my Cutbush one - and I haven't got half way with it yet!
And finally, thanks for your comments on the Buck's Row poem.
Robert |
Marie Finlay
Inspector
Username: Marie
Post Number: 212
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, May 09, 2003 - 7:07 am: |
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I should have gotten my silly poem in earlier.
No way I'm submitting it after all these excellent contributions.
Great job, all! |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 201
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Friday, May 09, 2003 - 4:11 pm: |
|
Sorry Robert
didn't mean to step on your prose.
Mine wasn't really about Cutbush anyway, just a walk.
I thank you for your postive comments.
Get to it... |
Robert Charles Linford
Detective Sergeant
Username: Robert
Post Number: 98
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, May 09, 2003 - 5:33 pm: |
|
Hi AP, Marie
AP, I read it as Cutbush, but I have Cutbush on the brain at the moment.It's a wonderful poem, anyway!
I have one on John Kelly getting near finished, and I'm working on Cutbush. John Kelly's being a comparatively docile, well-behaved fellow, but Young Tom is proving a bit of a handful, and is trying to elbow John aside.
I know you don't like Sickert's paintings, but I do, so
I LIKE SICKERT'S PAINTINGS
If Cornwell wants an artist, Wolf,
Why can't she pick on Harris, Rolf?
Marie, I don't want you to muck up your studies, but when you've got the time why not do one with your favourite suspect Barnett as Jack? Poor old Joe's been accused of all sorts of things on these Boards, but as far as I know he's never been accused in verse!
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Detective Sergeant
Username: Robert
Post Number: 101
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, May 10, 2003 - 6:23 am: |
|
Hallo all
JOHN KELLY
"You want to know, how do I feel?
This bloody business don't seem real.
(No thanks, I couldn't face a meal).
"Some say that there's a God to care -
There weren't no God in Mitre Square,
Only the sneaking Devil there.
"Don't talk to me of bearing fate,
It isn't you that's lost his mate.
I wanted to tell her I lo- .... too late.
"I never quite managed that word somehow.
I was ready enough with a "drunken old cow".
Wish I could take it all back now.
"She kept my spirits up, she did.
She shared a joke, shed've shared a quid,
But she never had one, poor old kid.
"He done her in, he's done me too.
Who does he think he is then? Who? -
Left in the open, legs askew...
"That b*****d never had the right
To do what he did yesternight
And carve her face up just for spite.
"She weren't no undeserving poor,
She weren't no ratbag fourpenny whore.
Oh Kate, come lurching through that door!"
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 202
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, May 10, 2003 - 11:34 am: |
|
The Turn of the Worm
It was a mighty blow
That did that mighty seed sow.
A mighty blow that rained down from above
An anvil forged in hate and devoid of love.
Hammered down upon his small heart
To tear his small world right apart.
And the blows came like rain,
Again and again.
The hand turned to fist
That rarely missed.
And as no child should,
He felt the wood
Of stick and cane
And awful pain
That suffocated the raw
And open sutures of sin,
To seal them solid within.
Hence in the twisted landscapes of his mind
Every creature was creature unkind
And would do him harm.
But boy learnt a charm,
And boy learnt to live in a vast silence,
Where within there was vast violence.
Born on the wings of his anger and pain,
Washed with his tears that fell like rain.
There deep inside entire rain forests burned
In anticipation of when the worm would turn.
For then it would be his great hand
That would descend from the sky.
And under that black shadow
Many would painfully die.
That never ending loss or gain,
A continuum of hurt and pain.
At the turning of the worm.
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 203
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, May 10, 2003 - 12:20 pm: |
|
Robert
again another insight I hadn't thought of, that of a bereft partner, and a damn good telling too.
I'm awaiting to see how you deal with young Thomas... he is not an easy boy to work with. |
Robert Charles Linford
Detective Sergeant
Username: Robert
Post Number: 102
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, May 10, 2003 - 4:37 pm: |
|
Very enjoyable and very thought-provoking, AP. I admired the "smiting" rhythm you got in the second stanza, and I liked the seed/rain/forest/fire concept. Also the pessimistic ending. The whole poem has a horrible ring of truth to it.
At first I thought of Cutbush, but it could be Jack in general, or even Hitler. If I read you right, it doesn't awfully matter who it was - there are all too many candidates.
The Cutbush poem's coming along. I don't really know how to vary the metre (if I ever do manage a metre!) and I'm worried it might end up a bit monotonous. I've written more poems in the last few days than I have in the last few years, and it's quite a strange experience for me!
Glad you liked the John and Kate effort. I felt sorry for that couple.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 204
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, May 11, 2003 - 3:07 am: |
|
Thank you for the positive comments Robert.
Yes, I have written more poetry in the last few days than I have in years... heavens, we'll be turning into 'luvvies' next.
Ah well, I'm enjoying it, and am glad that you are too. It is, I believe, quite a unique experiment and the more the merrier in this alternative quest for the soul and spirit of our man and the sad people his life and bad habits touched. I will await your Cutbush contribution before firing my next salvo. |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 205
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, May 11, 2003 - 8:18 am: |
|
Bad Rabbit
Caught in snare of approaching glare
Startled rabbit or fleeing hare?
Approaching light equals flight
Bad rabbit prefers the night.
Hops over high fence and wall
No obstacle too small or tall.
Burrows deep within the mud
And deep within our own blood.
Approached he stands quite still
Perverse like fox before the kill.
Rabbit eyes and rabbit breath
Rabbit lies and rabbit death.
The heart that beats fast
Will beat the last.
Strange rabbit be the beast
They do fear the least.
Lucky rabbit bring good luck
Face down in filthy muck.
Skinned and flayed
To early grave.
Skinning fowl and game
Till but good meat remain.
Little paws that flay the meat
Until rabbit dish is complete.
This bit here and this bit there
This bit rabbit this bit hare.
Delving deep within the fold
This bit hot and this bit cold.
Little paws takes to his feet
All done now, all so neat.
To lock himself in burrow away
Till the passing of ‘nother day.
Come the night little paws is back
But now they do call him Jack,
For from bad habit
Comes bad rabbit.
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 208
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, May 11, 2003 - 3:15 pm: |
|
Vigilance
We call on the slaughter men
To put away their knives,
And stay home with their wives.
We call on the many whores
To stay behind closed doors.
We ask the kind gentlemen to stay away
And come for their four pence another day.
We ask the most holy church,
To not leave us in humble lurch.
We beg the police at least
To keep the peace.
We implore Her Majesty that reward
Be granted,
And ask the press to be fair
And not slanted.
We order the killer to make himself known,
We beseech his family to keep him at home.
We’ll close the pubs and seize the gin,
For that is where this sickness begin.
We ask the bobby to stick to his beat
But our own men will patrol the street.
We’ll leave the pubs and carry clubs.
We will gather in tight knit groups
And good people will supply hot soups.
We call on all and sundry to resign
So we may follow our own design.
We will not hesitate, nay
We will dictate.
And follow our course
Of violent force.
To rid and purge, this vengeful urge
That infects us
Like running pus.
Time to get tough
For enough is enough.
Come citizens and let’s fight back
And bury this fiend some call Jack.
We call on every single man and boy
On the streets of Whitechapel to deploy.
Arm yourself tooth and nail
And let’s send this Jack to hell.
Signed: catch me when you can Mishter Lusk.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Detective Sergeant
Username: Robert
Post Number: 104
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, May 11, 2003 - 4:34 pm: |
|
Two in one day, AP? Double event this time!
I loved both of those. "Bad Rabbit" nicely highlighted the duality of the fellow we're trying to ferret out, while "Vigilance" was hugely entertaining, with its self-important "Luskites" abolishing sin and ordering the killer to make himself known!
Yes, it's a strange experiment. I find it at once serious and fun. It's a pity PC Tennyson was having a cup of tea back in 1888.
I hope to be able to hand Thomas over to the authorities tomorrow.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 209
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, May 11, 2003 - 5:24 pm: |
|
Sorry Robert,
just like Jack I couldn't help meself and when two of 'em came along together I just had to have 'em.
Though I do deny one of them being me handiwork.
That one was a domestic dispute.
Chap by the name of Kidney.
Strange but rewarding.
I will apprehend your Thomas when I see him. |
Robert Charles Linford
Detective Sergeant
Username: Robert
Post Number: 107
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, May 12, 2003 - 5:31 am: |
|
Well, AP, I hope he's just a little bit as you picture him.
I have used a few quotes or near-quotes from Browning, but I haven't put these in quotes as it would have made the thing look rather jumbled - like this sentence! When I tried to post it, they said I wasn't allowed to say "crow of the c**k" !
So I've typed "c**k" as "c**k". Blimey, rhyming is hard!
TOM
Tom, you were a piper's son,
And your piper never returned.
Left alone against your will,
A crazy piping you learned.
For you grew up limping and lame,
And ridding the town of rats was your game.
Your pipe did play the sharpest notes,
Bereft of human cheer.
For those who chanced upon your charm,
It was certain death to hear.
Old plodders and friskers ripe
Patterned your coat of crimson stripe.
You cried all day in your drab little crib
Between its four grey walls.
The bird in the rusty cage heard that,
And mockingly echoed your calls.
Infant woe and grief,
The knife was cutting its teeth.
What did they twist inside you, Tom,
Through all those innocent years?
Was it a knife they twisted, Tom,
The knife of a grown-up's fears?
But 'twas your knife they honed,
Growing keener each night you moaned.
They never once turned their heads when you cried
"Oh come, just look what I've FOUND!"
Or answered the glee in your sparkling eyes
With the merest loving sound.
Those suns they started to fade,
And moonlight began to glint on the blade.
Youth too young condemned to life lived in the past.
Man-boy without a friend, the mountain's door was shut fast.
So now it was time to play with new toys,
And scattered and strewn were yours.
You broke and smashed them on the ground,
Got bored and scampered indoors.
With a souvenir perchance,
As you led the town on your bloody dance.
Bad blood will out, for it is said
The old tunes are the best.
You played the oldest tune in the world,
Laid the oldest profession to rest -
Purged of life and sin,
Deaf to the piping's frantic din.
The Mayor and Corporation quaked,
Hurled guilders to the crowd.
Tripping and ripping you hopped over walls,
Your father would have been proud.
And though they sought you well,
None ever guessed to find you in hell.
You turned their chats to hymns of hate,
You made their steeples rock.
But you came in the dead of night like a ghost,
And were gone with the crow of the c**k.
Childhood nightmare dream,
Just another unheeded murder scream.
And when they took your pipe from you,
What was there left to play?
A sad lament to a joyous land
Far beyond four walls of grey.
Born and lived and died
With the mad by the mountainside.
Robert |
Bob Hinton
Detective Sergeant
Username: Bobhinton
Post Number: 61
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, May 12, 2003 - 8:56 am: |
|
Why did he stop Killing?
I watch the whore, her smile is nice;
Soon her throat my knife will slice,
I watch the toff sip his drink;
the poison works -
He's dead I think!
Bob |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 211
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, May 12, 2003 - 1:12 pm: |
|
Robert
Absolutely absolute.
A veritable feast of words that truly excell.
I read it fast and then I read it slow, both methods reward.
I bow my head to you sir.
You really have the Blake in you.
The 8th to 10th verse are superb, you had obviously warmed up by then and were firing on rocket fuel... or Spanish brandy.
You summed up many aspects of young Thomas in a truly brilliant fashion, I will read again and again and then fire off a suitable salvo in reply.
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 212
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, May 12, 2003 - 1:15 pm: |
|
Bob
From blood to poison?
I think not but a nice try to employ the device. |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 214
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, May 12, 2003 - 1:55 pm: |
|
Vigilance bah!
Mishter Lusk
I seen that note you did wrote
And I ain’t about an idiot to quote,
So as vague gesture of last desperate goodwill
I’ll be sure to let you know afore I next kill,
Another one of your nice little mice
And rid you of the scurvy headlice.
So I’m glad you asked them whores
To keep themselves indoors.
Saves me old coat from all them stains
And keeps old Jack out of the rains.
For if to roam the streets at night will be my doom
The next little mouse I’ll do in nice warm room.
Close the shops and pubs?
You useless grubs.
For no amount of caution
Will keep me from me portion.
That fleshed dress
And that dressed flesh
Still taste the best.
I don’t know why you scream and shout
And what the fuss is all about.
I’m just adding to me little collection
Some little charms for me protection.
I like pretty things of pattern and colour
Little things that remind me of mother.
You see, I take these bits for medical reason
And salt and pepper ‘em to season,
Use ‘em to scratch at itch
After I done kill the bitch.
But them just little mice
Who taste quite nice.
I hope this suits you well
Mishter Lusk with love from Hell.
P.S. Oh Mishter Lusk,
Just for your pleasure
I enclose small part of me treasure.
It’s only half I’m afraid
For other portion I have mislaid.
Not to worry me dear old mate
I’ll send you more if you can but wait.
|
Richard Brian Nunweek
Inspector
Username: Richardn
Post Number: 162
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, May 12, 2003 - 2:50 pm: |
|
Hi.
The poems on these boards are excellent,I understand now how easy it would have been for the average [ not implying the word average to intelligence] person to have sent hoax letters to the police.
It is amazing how people can become bloodthirsty , just by imagination, we use the keyboard or pen for our thoughts.
Jack used the Knife.
Richard. |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 215
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, May 12, 2003 - 3:43 pm: |
|
Richard
very good point I feel.
If we now - over one hundred years later - feel the urge to pick up pen and paper and contribute to the fracas, then how strong must have been the urge then?
Poetry has the useful element of allowing the writer to drop their guard and expose their underbelly... it is usually then that someone steps in with a knife.
It may seem simplistic to say so but I fear the difference between knife and prose is but the difference between daisy and rose.
Both flowers, but one a weed, the other very cultured indeed. |
Robert Charles Linford
Detective Sergeant
Username: Robert
Post Number: 108
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, May 12, 2003 - 5:01 pm: |
|
Hi AP, Bob, Richard
AP, I enjoyed that very nice follow-up to "Vigilance", with the killer promising Lusk that he'll keep him informed, and even telling him to keep calm! Lovely!
Glad you liked "Tom". That, most of all, was the one I had to get right!
I liked your one, Bob. Was the drink a bloody Mary?
Richard, yes it is a bit strange that we're writing all this. I for one never imagined when I joined the Casebook Boards a couple of months ago, that I'd end up on a poetry thread! It's quite a new experience for me, and a fascinating one.
PS Richard, I am still trying to comprehend the almost Einsteinian complexities of the door and key mystery. I hope I manage it before the case is solved.
Robert
|
Robert Charles Linford
Detective Sergeant
Username: Robert
Post Number: 109
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, May 13, 2003 - 6:24 am: |
|
Hi AP
I was prompted to this one by the discussion on the "New York Times" thread.
TWO GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS
"Only one uterus? Is that all?
Why didn't he take the pair, the fool!
Don't mind if this chap's crazy,
But I can't abide the lazy.
Now, what about the liver?"
"Fred, he didn't slice a sliver."
"Well if he didn't take it out,
WE'LL jolly well put it IN!
Since August the "Stir's" got four hearts and five lungs -
We don't want them to win!"
Read all about it!
Get your murder here!
Don't be without it.
But is it true? - Well, near.
"What about the suspicious man
Seen in a coat bright red?
He was probably the fiend!"
"That was Father Christmas, Fred."
"There you go with your facts again,
Do you want this killer caught?"
"Oh Fred, of course I do."
"That would cut the story short!
Now take my tip, young Bill:
The pub's the place for thinking.
Bet Newton thought of gravity
While drunken floorwards sinking!
See, I was in the pub last night,
To get my usual tot.
First drink, Jack took one organ,
By the sixth, he'd had the lot.
The seventh saw him as an Earl,
The eighth, a noble Duke.
The ninth, he had to be the Queen,
The tenth - I had to p*ke."
Read all about it!
Tons of blood and gore!
Don't be without it.
But is it true? Not sure!
"Let's not worry if we're right,
Or fret on factual slips.
The time all that's been brought to light,
We're under fish and chips.
Soon this will pass, and he'll be through
With all his crooked capers.
Till then, one thing I know is true :
We've got to sell our papers."
Read all about it!
You can trust your Press.
Don't be without it.
But is it true? Well guess!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 218
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, May 13, 2003 - 1:48 pm: |
|
Robert
again a fine picture you have painted for us.
You thought of that angle before me, and you caught a good fish to boot.
Excellent piece of prose, and highly relevant.
I must prepare a salvo in reply. |
Maura
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Friday, May 09, 2003 - 2:40 pm: |
|
Hi Marie,
I so agree with you..these poems are all magnificent!
So I can only offer this "Ripped" off pastiche of Poe, from my pitiful quill pen, entitled:
A Saucy Ravenic Travesty
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and bleary,
Over many a poetic and eldritch volume of AP lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one faintly rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some John," I merely muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak September,
When each former John's dying member wrought its ghost upon my floor.
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some John entreating entrance at my Miller's Court door —
Some late male entreating entrance at my Miller's Court door; —
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Highness, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened wide the door; —
Jacky there..............and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no chippie ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was Jacky's whispered word, "Whore!"
This he whispered, and his echo murmured back the word, "Whore!" —
Merely this, and nothing more.
Open here I flung the door latch, and the lock gave out yet did catch,
In there stepped a sordid depraven of my sinful days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched upon my quilt so crazy—
Ginger beered upon the dingy, dirty quilt so crazy —
Perched, and sat, and seemed so hazy.
Then this ebony doffed spectre doth became my vilest vexer,
By the grave and vile decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy beard be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no haven,
Ghastly grim and deathly maven wandering from the Juwes shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is if on Queen's Head Public floor!"
Quoth this devil "Ripper, whore!"
Much I marvelled this ungainly foul one's breath to hear so plainly,
Though I offered some cachous mainly — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing Jack about their slumly door —
John or Jack about the door cryptic faced and sallow he bore,
Calling me "slatternly Ripper's whore"
"Be that word our sign in parting, Prince or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting —
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Whitechapel shore!
Leave no tea or soap as token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit deviltry about my door!
Take thy knife from out my heart, and take thy form from off my floor!"
Quoth the killer "Keep quiet, whore."
And the foulness, never leaving, still is heaving, still is heaving
On his putrid bust of porcelain just below his chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore! |
|
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