Okay I’m pretty sure there’s some sort of rule according to which I have to warn you beforehand. Beyond this point is sheer nonsense. Nothing but twitspeak. It’s all a giant lollapalooza! (See? I told you there’s no sense today!) If there was a limerick written about this poem it would read something like this-
Balderdash, Baloney and Bull
Gibberish, Poppycock, they pulled
Lunacy and Twaddle,
They all went a-waddle,
And came back with armfuls of wool!
But Mister Wool happened to mind
This zany gobbledygookie find!
He clapped them in leashes
And called the Polices
When they hit him, he payed in kind!!
Today’s prompt is a genius spark of madness. Sheer lunacy abounds in an empty head when presented with such freedom. Therefore, I blame NaPoWriMo for all the nuttiness, and I am not accountable for it. To be on the safer side, if you have even a drop of Icelandic blood in you, I suggest you steer clear. Don’t want anyone screaming bloody murder and stabbing with an icicle. 😮
The plan is something like this. The first column is the original poem SKAGAFJÖRÐUR by Gerður Kristný, untranslated, and dare I say, untarnished.
The next column is my ‘translation’ of the poem, what it looks and sounds like ‘translated’ into english. It makes very little sense but it was so much fun. The sheer insanity was fun!!
alúðleg við börnin
svo þau hirði um leiðið mitt
þegar þar að kemur
mylji köku ofan í grasið
á afmælinu mínu
og fari með ljóðið um
þá sjálf orðin gömul og grá
Samt á ég eftir að
þekkja þau aftur
á himneskri húsalyktinni
alltaf skulu þau ilma eins og Jesúbarnið
Scarf of Yellow
Eggs runny, and aloe vera
Elude a leg via Borneo
So, for hire, I’m leaving Mitts,
Beggars par lemur,
My liege Cuckoo! Often in grass
Of my lane, you and me know,
Oh, far I’m jaded from
Fins growing in corners,
Pah! Shelves are one gormless order.
Saint o’ Eggs, after you
Peck your dough; After
a hymnesque ‘scree’ (Who’s I-like-tins??) ,
All taffy schools will pour eggs on Jaegerbombs.
Aaaaand to round off the number to an even three, here’s a rhyme of no consequence at all! ‘Cause, you know, it’s a rhyme of no consequence.
A Rhyme of No Consequence
There was a wood, oh where they stood
The lanes were full of rain
Their stammering like hammering
A caning of the brain
A fist of sand running from hand
Slow stream of sifted dreams,
That was the brand of all the land
The scheming in the theme
Wasn’t to say, to run away
With what the lots forgot
Mumbled and mimed, so over time
The Bots could show some thought
And in the loud clamoring crowd
There’d be a fence of sense
Thus there would birth, though not much worth
No rhymes of consequence.
Do let me know of what you think, of any or all of the above!! The next post will be approximately ten minutes after this one! That’s right folks, a double dose of cookies today!! 😀