A Truckle full of Chuckle: The Poetic Buffoonery of Ogden Nash

‘In chaos sublunary

What remains constant but buffoonery?’

asked Ogden Nash in one of his last poems. I agree.

For when things around us turn dark, we can either sit and mope

or light up our lives with some humor and hope…

Whoa! That was an impromptu and rather unexpected rhyme by yours truly! But then, that’s the effect Ogden Nash has on you once you start reading his poetry. In some ways, his poems have the same effect on me as Bill Waterson’s comic strip -Calvin and Hobbes.ch080329

I discovered Ogden Nash way back when I was still in school… and believe me, I was hooked to his poetry. However, back then, there was no Internet to search out more of his poems and the British Library seldom stocked anything that did not originate from Britain… even if it was good literature/poetry. So I had to wait a long, frustrating wait before I found a copy of ‘Candy is Dandy’, his poetry omnibus, in a bookstore. Since then though, the book is always by my side and every time I’m feeling down or angry or frustrated or perhaps even feel the onset of Armageddon, all I have to do to put me back in an upbeat mood is flip open the book to any page. I repeat… any page. Want a demo?

Well, that’s what I’m going to do today. I’m going to type out for you the poem that appears on any random page that I flip open in the book.* But before that, I must also share what Ogden Nash did to the poet/writer in me… well, to put is as succinctly as possible so as not to bore you an keep you from reading his poems – he taught me to not take myself too seriously.

With that, here you go…

Flip 1:

The Ant

The ant has made himself illustrious

Through constant industry industrious.

So what?

Would you be calm and placid

If you were full of formic acid?

Flip 2:

First Child… Second Child (I can so relate to this as a parent of two children!)


Be it a girl, or one of the boys,
It is scarlet all over its avoirdupois,
It is red, it is boiled; could the obstetrician
Have possibly been a lobstertrician?
His degrees and credentials were hunky-dory,
But how’s for an infantile inventory?
Here’s the prodigy, here’s the miracle!
Whether its head is oval or spherical,
You rejoice to find it has only one,
Having dreaded a two-headed daughter or son;
Here’s the phenomenon all complete,
It’s got two hands, it’s got two feet,
Only natural, but pleasing, because
For months you have dreamed of flippers or claws.
Furthermore, it is fully equipped:
Fingers and toes with nails are tipped;
It’s even got eyes, and a mouth clear cut;
When the mouth comes open the eyes go shut,
When the eyes go shut, the breath is loosed
And the presence of lungs can be deduced.
Let the rockets flash and the cannon thunder,
This child is a marvel, a matchless wonder.
A staggering child, a child astounding,
Dazzling, diaperless, dumbfounding,
Stupendous, miraculous, unsurpassed,
A child to stagger and flabbergast,
Bright as a button, sharp as a thorn,
And the only perfect one ever born.

Arrived this evening at half-past nine.
Everybody is doing fine.
Is it a boy, or quite the reverse?
You can call in the morning and ask the nurse.

Flip 3:

The Fly

God in His wisdom made the fly

And then forgot to tell us why.

Flip 4:

Away From It All

I wish I were a Tibetan monk

Living in a monastery.

I would unpack my trunk

And store in a tronastery.

I would collect all my junk

And send it to a jonastery;

I would try to reform a drunk

And pay his expenses in a dronastery.

And if my income shrunk

I would send it to a shronastery.

Flip 5:

To A Small Boy Standing On My Shoes While I’m Wearing Them

Let’s straighten this out, my little man,
And reach an agreement if we can.
I entered your door as an honored guest.
My shoes are shined and my trousers are pressed,
And I won’t stretch out and read you the funnies
And I won’t pretend that we’re Easter bunnies.
If you must get somebody down on the floor,
What in the hell are your parents for?
I do not like the things that you say
And I hate the games that you want to play.
No matter how frightfully hard you try,
We’ve little in common, you and I.
The interest I take in my neighbor’s nursery
Would have to grow, to be even cursory,
And I would that performing sons and nephews
Were carted away with the daily refuse,
And I hold that frolicsome daughters and nieces
Are ample excuse for breaking leases.
You may take a sock at your daddy’s tummy
Or climb all over your doting mummy,
But keep your attentions to me in check,
Or, sonny boy, I will wring your neck.
A happier man today I’d be
Had someone wrung it ahead of me.

Flip 6:

Ok, there are too many long ones and it’ll take me for ever to type them out, so I’m just going to share some really funny short ones now.

The Parent

Children aren’t happy with nothing to ignore.

And that’s what parents were created for.

Reflection on Babies

A bit of talcum
Is always walcum.

The Lama

The one-l lama,

He’s a priest;

The two-l llama,

He’s a beast.

And I will bet

A silk pajama

There isn’t any

Three-l lllama.

The Abominable Snowman

I’ve never seen an abominable snowman,

I’m hoping not to see one,

I’m also hoping, if I do,

That it will be a wee one.

The Python

The python has, and I fib no fibs

318 pairs of ribs.

In stating this I place reliance

On a seance with one who died for science.

This figure is sworn to and attested;

He counted them while being digested. 

With that, it’s time to say goodbye.

I hope you’ve all been chuckling through this post

and if you did, you know why I love Ogden’s poems most 🙂


And hey, here’s one of my favorites… for the road.

The cow is of the bovine ilk;

One end is moo, the other, milk.


 *I’ve made sure all these poems are already in the public domain before sharing them here. You can find these and many more at https://www.poemhunter.com/ogden-nash/poems/

**If you’re wondering what the ‘truckle’ in the title is, then here’s where I put you out of your misery. A truckle is a low bed to be slid under a higher bed!




Less is More: The Poetry of William Carlos Williams

When I discovered the poetry of William Carlos Williams, I did a waltz in secret. His poems are an expression of a concept I strongly believe in – talk less, say more. Only, I still struggle to execute it while he had, in his lifetime, no doubt mastered the art.

Ludwig Mies Van der Rohe, an architect whose work I admire, coined the phrase ‘Less is More’, way back in 1947. In my opinion, William Carlos Williams’ work could well be the poetic manifestation of the phrase. This is not to say he did not write long form poetry; just that the short ones were what taught me some valuable lessons as a writer.

What I love about William Carlos Williams’ poetry is that it talks to both the designer and writer/poet in me. Minimalism is about the only ‘ism’ in design that has resonated with me through my years as a student, practitioner and teacher of design. For me, design has been about breaking down a problem to the bare essentials and seeking out that core that would simultaneously be both ‘enough’ and ‘monumental’. I have had varying levels of success with the ideal, given that you need a client with a similar, if not same, mind-set; but the process of discovery has almost always been gratifying.

Similarly, when writing picture books for children, I need to limit myself to a word count of 500-600 words. I also need to remember that, difficult as it is, I have to leave certain things unsaid so they can be conveyed through the illustrations… or perhaps the imagination of my young reader. I struggled with this when I was working on Srinivasa Ramanujan: Friend of Numbers, my picture book biography of the mathematical genius. My challenge was certainly about distilling the content of all the books and papers I’d read on Ramanujan and produce a 1000-word story that was as compelling a read as say, an 80,000 word book. But more importantly, it was about finding the heart/essence of my story. This meant, I had to re-read everything I had read and written thus far to re-evaluate what to keep and what to let go of. During this rather frustrating journey, poetry was something that I kept going back to, specially William Carlos Williams’.

Why? Well, you can read some of the poems below and see for yourself!IMG_0903I clicked this pic a long time ago in a tiny hamlet near Alibaug… it so reminded me of The Red Wheelbarrow!

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends


a red wheel


glazed with rain


beside the white


This Is Just To Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably


for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

Complete Destruction

It was an icy day.

We buried the cat,

then took her box

and set fire to it

in the back yard.

Those fleas that escaped

earth and fire

died by the cold.

To a Poor Old Woman

munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand 

They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her

You can see it by
the way she gives herself
to the one half
sucked out in her hand 

a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her.

Winter Trees

All the complicated details

of the attiring and

the disattiring are completed!

A liquid moon

moves gently among

the long branches.

Thus having prepared their buds

against a sure winter

the wise trees

stand sleeping in the cold.

To Waken an Old Lady

Old age is

a flight of small

cheeping birds


bare trees

above a snow glaze.

Gaining and failing

they are buffetted

by a dark wind—

But what?

On harsh weedstalks

the flock has rested,

the snow is

covered with broken


and the wind tempered

by a shrill

piping of plenty.

The Great Figure 

Among the rain

and lights  

I saw the figure 5  

in gold  

on a red  





to gong clangs  

siren howls  

and wheels rumbling  

through the dark city. 

The Gentleman

I feel the caress of my own fingers

on my own neck as I place my collar

and think pityingly

of the kind women I have known.


Well, that’s it for today. Whom will I be discussing next? Come back tomorrow to find out!


*all poems have been sourced from the public domain via http://www.gutenberg.org


Of Songs & Stories: The Poetry of Walt Whitman

Today is World Poetry Day. What’s more, I’m at home and relatively free to indulge in some poetry thanks to the social distancing we need to practice in these tough times of the COVID-19 scare. Being a poet myself and having read a lot of poetry, I believe that poetry, unlike any other form of writing, can help you discover yourself, can help clear your brain when you’re uncertain or confused and can help bring closure and heal when your heart hurts. Of course, poetry can also bring a smile to your face and perhaps make you laugh too if you’re in the mood for it.

Over the next few days (starting today), I will be sharing the work (all from the public domain) of some of the poets I adore and that I feel should reach more people. I shall also throw in a bit about how I connect with a particular piece or with the poet and hopefully, you too will find your own personal connect.

I’m going to start with a few verses from Walt Whitman’s ‘Leaves of Grass’.

Image result for leaves of grass walt whitman
pic source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/boston_public_library/4404530246

This collection is close to my heart for many reasons, the most important being that it made me realize there is poetry beyond rhyme. I have been writing poetry since I was in school; but all the poetry I was exposed to back then were strictly rhyming and the few people I discussed my poems with encouraged only rhyming poems. I didn’t and still don’t have a problem with rhyme, but it does get frustrating when you can’t write what you want to because it doesn’t rhyme! Perhaps I should blame my vocabulary for it? It was a restriction that almost made me give up writing poems.

Then, I discovered Whitman. And I discovered that more important than rhyme is rhythm… a discovery that changed the way I consumed and wrote poetry. I also realized that poems can get over in just two to three lines or run into several pages, that poems can ask questions and not answer them, that a poem can be a story and it can be a song, that you don’t need to follow rules to write poems… you need to follow your heart.

With that, let me leave you with a few verses from the book that I often go back to for inspiration:

Image result for leaves of grass walt whitman
pic source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/iip-photo-archive/27102624032


STRANGER, if you passing meet me and desire to speak

to me, why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?


WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns

before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add,

divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured

with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.


O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are

that I may be with you,
As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same
room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake
is playing within me.

A SONG FOR OCCUPATIONS. (excerpts from Part 3 & 4)
Have you reckon’d the landscape took substance and
form that it might be painted in a picture?
Or men and women that they might be written of,
and songs sung?
Or the attraction of gravity, and the great laws and
harmonious combinations, and the fluids of the
air, as subjects for the savans?
Or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and
Or the stars to be put in constellations and named
fancy names?
Or that the growth of seeds is for agricultural tables,
or agriculture itself?

Old institutions—these arts, libraries, legends,

collections, and the practice handed along in
manufactures—will we rate them so high?
Will we rate our cash and business high ?—I have no
I rate them as high as the highest—then a child born
of a woman and man I rate beyond all rate.
We consider bibles and religions divine—I do not
say they are not divine;
I say they have all grown out of you, and may grow
out of you still;
It is not they who give the life—it is you who give
the life;
Leaves are not more shed from the trees, or trees
from the earth, than they are shed out of you.
All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it,
(Did you think it was in the white or gray stone? or the lines of
the arches and cornices?)
All music is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the
It is not the violins and the cornets, it is not the oboe nor the
beating drums, nor the score of the baritone singer singing
his sweet romanza, nor that of the men’s chorus, nor that
of the women’s chorus,
It is nearer and farther than they.

TO THE SAYERS OF WORDS. (excerpts from Part 4 & 6)

The song is to the singer, and comes back most to
The teaching is to the teacher, and comes back most
to him;
The murder is to the murderer, and comes back most
to him;
The theft is to the thief, and comes back most to him;
The love is to the lover, and comes back most to him;
The gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him
—it cannot fail;
The oration is to the orator, the acting is to the actor
and actress, not to the audience;
And no man understands any greatness or goodness
but his own, or the indication of his own.
This is a poem for the sayers of words—these are
hints of meanings,
These are they that echo the tones of Souls, and
the phrases of Souls;
If they did not echo the phrases of Souls, what were
they then ?
If they had not reference to you in especial, what were
they then?
31I swear I will never henceforth have to do with the
faith that tells the best!
I will have to do only with that faith that leaves the
best untold.

I hope you enjoyed these verses as much as I have, perhaps even more. Do come back tomorrow for more!

Psst:  The poet I’ll discuss tomorrow is someone whose work made me realize how  how, to quote one of my favorite designers, Mies Van der Rohe, Less is More …and perhaps even profound in poetry.



An Interpretation of War

War, in its several manifestations, surrounds our life today. And although the systems in place prevent an actual war from taking place, there is always that tension . . .we’re always on the brink of all hell breaking loose. Here is my interpretation of War, written for ‘the same’, a blog that encourages women writing for women.


Imaginary Debt (1)

Do you remember the day

we entered our new home?

The stark, empty spaces

weren’t really empty, were they?

They were filled—every corner and crevice,

with an air of hope, anticipation

and yes, with love.

The bare walls

picked up those naughty giggles,

multiplied them manifold

and threw them back at us.

I remember riding the waves

in that sea of giggles,

with your hands in mine.

Our excited banter

crashed and banged against each other.

You teased me. I tripped

and fell over you as I tried to stop you.

Me- punching your chest

with a chuckle, you—flailing

your arms in mock anguish;

one would have thought we were at war.

But we weren’t at war then.

It is now—surrounded by

our favourite brands of gadgets,

tables, chairs, beds, cabinets,

pots, pans, art and what not-

it is now, that we are at war.

These lifeless hoards

that fill…

View original post 138 more words

A Poem on Writing a Poem

Today is World Poetry Day. Writing poetry, for me (as I’m sure it is for many others), is cathartic. At times, however, it has just the opposite effect. I want to express an idea, but the idea refuses to get expressed! I break into a sweat, I palpitate, I gasp for breath as though I were being drowned in my own words   . . . . . I hope you get the drift. This is precisely what  Ink  is all about.


©Priya Narayanan 2017, All rights reserved

I sit down to write a poem; the poem eludes me.

I grope in the shadows of my bag

to pull her out- a la a magician’s rabbit;

in vain. She has gnawed her way

through that fantastic realm, into reality.


I look for her in the nooks of a dilapidated house-

a house that engulfed its residents

to douse its own hunger.

I smell her in the clichés that pervade

before she slinks out the back door, a thief.


I seek her in the foliage of the pregnant trees-

trees in the throes of exploding

into a thousand more. A master at stealth,

I hear, but do not see her-

just as I hear, but do not see the koel.


The koel- his call, a disyllabic monotone

[you wouldn’t know when he sings a ballad

and when a dirge] -does he hide my poem

in his precious voice-box? Will he spit her out

when I strangle him? Or will he merely spit out his life?


The poem is sly. Leaving me

to engage with the koel, she glides

to the mountains. She would be safe there,

she deems, behind the mist that veils

a valley of flowers

a sparkling stream

a herd of antelopes

a silent prayer. She is wrong.


I gear up for the chase,

marking my way

with the unsung songs of the koel.


Trampling the flowers

muddying the stream

scattering the herd

shattering the prayer

I find her huddled behind a rock. I ensnare her,

drop her into a bottle of India Ink

and return home triumphant.


When I sit down to write the poem now,

all I can write is ink.

Have you ever had a similar feeling? What do you when you’re going down that abyss? How do you pull yourself back?



Secret Secrets


What image does that six letter word conjure in your mind?

A whisper?

A conspiracy . . . Secret Society?

Rumour mongering? Gossiping?

I remember the nursery rhyme that went ‘Seven for a Secret never to be told’. It does have a sinister, hush-hush aura about it, doesn’t it? On the other hand, it’s also funny how much stress a single word can thrust upon you, sending you into an emotional whirlwind if you are the melodramatic kind. If you’ve not been made privy to a secret, you feel betrayed, your very faithfulness is under the scanner. If someone has indeed deemed you worthy of sharing a secret, you feel elated, proud and trusted although that’s no guarantee that you’ll not, in turn, share the secret with someone else, making the whole thing redundant.

Which begs the question -How many people need to be involved in this verbal transaction for it to qualify as a secret? A quote by Benjamin Franklin goes:

‘Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.’

Does that mean a secret is a one-person thing? Is it possible for a person to successfully hide it from the world without choking? And do secrets really die with a person or do they assume a life of their own even after the person bearing it is dead? Well, I truly don’t know. But I do know what you can do to try and wriggle out that secret from me! Here’s  a poem by yours truly enunciating just that:


©Priya Narayanan 2016, All rights reserved

Pour me a drink.

My stories are in the bubbles
that rush past. Fleeting, floating,
rapturous, rumbustious –
my stories are the ones
that kiss your lips
and tingle your senses
before common sense prevails
and strangles each story
lest you gulp them down
and become one with them.

Pour me a drink.

My stories are in the ice cubes
that float like fish
in the koi pond
where you come to feast your eyes
on the streaks of golden orange,
your passionate gaze
causing them to sink to the bottom
from where only a coin diver
can collect them again –
if he has faith that they do indeed exist.

Pour me a drink.

My stories are in the numbness
of my tongue –
my otherwise wagging tongue
that is now paralyzed into silence.
Can you hear the stories
in my silence? Can you see
the stories in my eyes,
where the pupils
have been replaced
by the moon and his darker twin?

How long does it take for a story
to travel from the eyes and the ears
to the tongue?

Pour me a drink
and I might let you into my little secret.

Winner of the OWAQ poetry contest held by anoshoflife.com

Do you have a secret? Have you shared it with anybody? If so, what has your experience been? Do drop in a note in the comments below.