SIFAR...nothingness

⋆ Letter 'poem' ⋆

"Write a poem using words from a famous letter or a letter from your own collection. "

I choose the cover letterby Robert Pirosh , a noted copywriter/ screen writer. My poem turned out to be 64 lines of nonsense, but I had a blast writing it out for I kept only two criteria, each sentence had to start with the word in the letter, in the order mentioned and there had to be a rhyming pattern. I like what it turned out to be and yes, I too, like words 

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Fat dumplings, sizzling hot and stuffed with meat,
Buttery hot scones; crisp, flaky and tempting sweet

Ooze with syrup, the cakes and pudding with treacle,
Turpitude, of the flies, as the treats they encircle!

Glutinous rice, heaped in bowls of porcelain,
Toady uncle, the guests he surveys, with disdain.

Solemn grandfather, silent in his chair, watches the kids race,
Angular aunt, observes, with a curvaceous smile on her face.

Creaky are the winding wooden stairs to the roof above,
Strait-laced elders happy, chances for trysts it does remove.

Cantankerous twin cousins, with teary tantrums enjoin,
Pecunious godfather, however, refuses to part with coin,

Valedictory party, it is, for the college going son,
Spurious excuse, but to enjoy, it is a reason.

Black-is-white? Few would agree, difference is a breath,
Mortician would know, dead is white and black is death.

Liquidate the wine, was the order of the day,
Tonsorial disarray, as in languid stupor they sway.

Demi-monde were the servants, standing to a side,
Suave, however, was not the state of the guests outside.

Svengali, she was, he was enthralled and numb,
Svelte and sophistication, to her charms, did succumb.

Bravura! Unsteady, as he stepped and danced around,
Verve he had, for, though drunk, he held his ground.

Crunchy the loose gravel under the hundred feet,
Brittle the glistening pine leaves, with last night's sleet.

Crackly the cold air, filled with broken speeches,
Splinter of conversations, to the ears it reaches.

Grapple with plates of food, struggle with words,
Jostle the guests, dealing with growing crowds.

Crusty elders and whiny teens, the lawns roam,
Sullen young kids; mostly tired and a few, irksome.

Crabbed, a guest, searching for yet another drink,
Scowling at the waiter, who refused to cower and shrink;

Skulk and slink, an escaping young girl's gait,
Glower on her beau's face, as for her, he does wait.

Scabby, the little boy's skin, and blotchy red,
Churl was the gardener, who found him in the ivy bed.

"Oh-Heavens," screamed the mother, at that sight,
"My-gracious," she screeched, "are you all right?"

"Land's-sake," cried the father, "it is just an ivy burn,
Tricksy, my son, to take such a clingy sojourn."

Tucker, the lacy band, from the mother she unwinds,
Genteel, the maid, as his hands, with care she binds,

"Horrid is the recitation," was one gentleman's proclaim,
Elegant and soft was his companion's retort to the same.

"Flowery and fluffy the poem was, what else should he try?",
"Estivate in a rabbit's burrow," was the tart reply

"Peregrinate the country side for a season or clime,
Elysium he might find, or learn to reason and rhyme,

Halcyon charmed the seas and sang in days of yore,
Wormy kids of this day can write only to bore."

Squirmy and restless, as the evening drew close,
Mealy-mouthed and many, were the excuses that arose.

Crawl away silently, attempted by visitors some,
Blubber and wail, of child wanting to go home.

Squeal of delight, by the children, to receive the trinkets,
Drip of sarcastic thanks, of the adults, at the small baskets.

Sniggly were they, the colourful gifts given as party favours,
Chuckling, not the guests, despite their best endeavours.

Cowlick dropping on the forehead, cheeks in a dimple,
Gurgle and coo, the happy baby had needs simple.

Bubble of the balloons held him in rapturous delight,
Burp! A gleeful release of air into the velvety night.

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In 1934, a New York copywriter by the name of Robert Pirosh quit his well-paid job and headed for Hollywood, determined to begin the career of his dreams as a screenwriter. When he arrived, he gathered the names and addresses of as many directors, producers and studio executives as he could find, and sent them what is surely one of the greatest, most effective cover letters ever to be written; a letter which secured him three interviews, one of which led to his job as a junior writer at MGM.

Fifteen years later, screenwriter Robert Pirosh won an Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay for his work on the war film, Battleground. A few months after that, he also won a Golden Globe.

(This letter, along with 124 other fascinating pieces of correspondence, can be found in the bestselling book, Letters of Note. For more info, visit Books of Note.) (http://www.lettersofnote.com/2012/03/i-like-words)

Dear Sir:

I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady. I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial, demi-monde. I like suave "V" words, such as Svengali, svelte, bravura, verve. I like crunchy, brittle, crackly words, such as splinter, grapple, jostle, crusty. I like sullen, crabbed, scowling words, such as skulk, glower, scabby, churl. I like Oh-Heavens, my-gracious, land's-sake words, such as tricksy, tucker, genteel, horrid. I like elegant, flowery words, such as estivate, peregrinate, elysium, halcyon. I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blubber, squeal, drip. I like sniggly, chuckling words, such as cowlick, gurgle, bubble and burp.

I like the word screenwriter better than copywriter, so I decided to quit my job in a New York advertising agency and try my luck in Hollywood, but before taking the plunge I went to Europe for a year of study, contemplation and horsing around.

I have just returned and I still like words.

May I have a few with you?

Robert Pirosh

385 Madison Avenue

Room 610

New York

Eldorado 5-6024

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