Poetry

A Limerick Lament

A Tragic Tetrad of Limericks for This Month’s Pier 21 Prompt

Beware the ol’ sailor named Davy The meanest ship’s cook in the navy He will spit and he’ll cuss And fire his blunderbuss If you snub his hardtack and gravy

In Portsmouth lived a barmaid named Maeve Grown to be pretty, witty and brave Too young, she died alone Her lover was unknown Some said a sailor wept by her grave

Once a kind boy, no coin to his name, Apprenticed to learn the cooking game In Portsmouth, on ship’s leave Grim news did he receive Nevermore, would Davy be the same

Beware that ol’ rummy named Davy The grimmest ship’s cook in the navy He never leaves the boat When in Portsmouth we float Soaking hardtack in tears, not gravy

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By Doodleslice 2024–02–21

Limericks are so often associated with either farcical satire or ribald humor that I thought it might be interesting to try to subvert that expectation. I didn’t feel that just one limerick would be able to hold enough dramatic tension to pull off a truly tragic narrative on its own, thus the birth of this limerick sequence. Whether each stanza could stand alone is debatable, but I hope they work together well enough to carry the tale and evoke a sense of timeless sadness.

Perhaps I am underestimating the potential for pathos in a single 5-line poem, so I reserve the right to take another swab at it another day.

The funny thing is, my dad used to occasionally write limericks — very much of the satirical variety. A few were even printed in the opinion section of the local paper. He would poke fun at some of the hometown politics and curmudgeonly complain about misplaced stoplights, the stopped clock on the outside of the bank, and the overzealous machinations of the local historical society.

He never thought of himself as a poet, any more than he thought of himself as a painter, though he made more paintings than many artists I know. Yet he pursued these creative outlets despite having very much been shaped by maturing in “The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit” era. He clearly had an artist’s appetite to create that could not be fully suppressed by the conformity of the Eisenhower years.

I confess, I personally took a lot of permission from observing his ‘hobbies’ over the years. I believe that is why, when the day came that I told him (as a senior in college) that I no longer wished to pursue mathematics and was declaring myself the prodigal artist, he was able to so quickly shed his surprise and embrace his new lifelong role as my most ardent fan.

There once was an ensign named Harry Who would eventually marry One day he had a son And taught him how to pun Not waiting the know words would carry