Come, gloom that limps and misery that hobbles!
Come also, most exquisite meloncholiage,
As dank and decadent as November foliage!
I crave to shudder in your moist embrace,
To feel your oystery fingers on my face.
This is my hour of sadness and soulfulness,
and cursed be he who dissipates my dolefulness.
I do not desire to be cheered,
I desire to retire, I am thinking of growing a beard.
A sorrowful beard with a mournful, dolorous hue in it,
with ashes and glue in it.
I want to be drunk with despair,
I want to caress my care.
I do not wish to be blithe,
I wish to recoil and writhe.
I will revel in cosmic woe,
and I want my woe to show.
This is the morbid moment,
this is the ebony hour.
Aroint thee, sweetness and light!
I want to be dark and sour!
Away with the bird that twitters!
All that glitters is jitters!
Roses, roses are gray,
Violets cry Boo! and frighten me.
Sugar is stimulating,
and people conspire to brighten me.
Go hence, people, go hence!
Go sit on a picket fence!
Go gargle with mineral oil,
Go out and develop a boil!
Melancholy is what I brag and boast of,
Melancholy I plan to make the most of.
You beaming optimists shall not destroy it,
But while I am at it, I intend to enjoy it.
Go, people, stuff your mouths with soap,
and remember, please, that when I mope, I mope!
~Ogden Nash
5 comments:
Very fun peom! Who is it by? . I love how your blog is developing!! Looks great!!
That is a good poem! i can so relate to it!it brings back memories of my child hood,I was the poor s.o.b that had to sit on picket fences while the sun was beating down on me and after a few hours i started to get boils.Oh..and at the age of ten i could tell you what every soap on the market tasted like!! your blog is GREAT!!!
If you're going to post a poem, you should check it for typos (it's "Anoint", not "Aroint"), should not change words and expressions, and should not omit eight lines. The correct poem is:
Come, megrims, mollygrubs and collywobbles!
Come, gloom that limps, and misery that hobbles!
Come also, most exquisite melancholiage,
As dark and decadent as November foliage!
I crave to shudder in your moist embrace,
To feel your oystery fingers on my face.
This is my hour of sadness and of soulfulness,
And cursed be he who dissipates my dolefulness.
The world is wide, isn’t it?
The world is roomy.
Isn’t there room, isn’t it,
For a man to be gloomy?
Bring me a bathysphere, kindly,
Maybe like Beebe’s,
Leave me alone in it, kindly,
With my old heebie-jeebies.
I do not desire to be cheered,
I desire to retire, I am thinking of growing a beard,
A sorrowful beard, with a mournful, a dolorous hue in it,
With ashes and glue in it.
I want to be drunk with despair,
I want to caress my care,
I do not wish to be blithe,
I wish to recoil and writhe,
I will revel in cosmic woe,
And I want my woe to show,
This is the morbid moment,
This is the ebony hour.
Anoint thee, sweetness and light!
I want to be dark and sour!
Away with the bird that twitters!
All that glitters is jitters!
Roses, roses are gray,
Violets cry Boo! and frighten me.
Sugar is a diabetic,
And people conspire to brighten me.
Go hence, people, go hence!
Go sit on a picket fence!
Go gargle with mineral oil,
Go out and develop a boil!
Melancholy is what I brag and boast of,
Melancholy I mean to make the most of,
You beaming optimists shall not destroy it.
But while I am at it, I intend to enjoy it.
Go, people, feed on kewpies and soap,
And remember, please, that when I mope, I mope!
PBB
A little dignation in response to PBB's indignation:
I am, at this very moment, reading the volume "Verses From 1929 On" by Ogden Nash, which contains this splendid poem. It is in exactly the same format as that posted here, without the 8 extra lines, and with the word "aroint." Not a typo! According to Webster . . .
AROINT (archaic) : begone
ANOINT (1): to smear or rub with oil or an oily substance
(2a): to apply oil to as a sacred rite especially for consecration
(2b): to choose by or as if by divine election; also: to designate as if by a ritual anointment
Gotta say, aroint makes a lot more sense here. But where did those eight extra lines come from . . . ?
Thanks for this! "So Penseroso" is dearer to me with every passing year.
I have a recording of Nash reading this poem, and it's "aroint", all right. The version he reads is closer to the version PBB posted, but I think Nash must have revised it later; all my print copies read as you presented it -- minus eight lines and the kewpies. Frankly, I think he was right to trim it.
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