My new favourite Nonsense Poet
I couldn’t find out much about Ms Taylor except the following Biography excerpt from AustLit:
“Roslyn Taylor (nee Downes) has lived her life in New South Wales country towns, including Tamworth. She began writing after moving to Wagga Wagga in 1966. Her short stories, poems and articles have been published widely and her poetry was the subject of an ABC Radio National arts program. Taylor has conducted writing classes for various organisations and she has been awarded an honorary Bachelor of Arts degree by Charles Sturt University.”
Here follows some of her nonsense poems:
If you ask me (which of course you won’t) I would say
the two great boons that science has bestowed on
mankind’s female issue
Are her washing apparatus and the handy paper tissue.
I now qualify that statement
Without fear of a debatement
By adding you should keep the two quite separate
Disasters that follow their coming together being well
and truly known.
Picture our diligent housewife on Monday’s chilly morn
Ratting through the cupboards for the clothes that have
Giving pocket linings and knicker legs the works
And other hiding places where the fiendish tissue lurks.
Despite this careful scrutiny
There’s surely grounds for mutiny
When all the clothes get measled with a snow of
mangled paper –
How can she view this kindly, as a jolly little caper?
Having spent a day or more picking off the fragments
We really cannot blame her if she tears the clothes to ragments.
Is it any wonder, friends, her temper rages hot?
How many fuming mums out there would help her burn the lot?
— Roslyn Taylor
The gentleman who designed my previous kitchen
is unknown to me and nameless
Which does not mean that I hold him blameless,
For he decreed that there should be a gap just
one inch wide
Between the stove and the bench it stood beside.
The gruesome things that can drip, drop, dribble
and drain down such a region
Who knows what horrid creatures wallow
In this dank disgusting hollow?
If there is justice in the Afterlife
This guy has sure earned lots of strife
Such as row upon row of tiny abysses
Between the benches and cooking dishes
Which he’s forced to scrub with a tiny brush
While his probing fingers twist and crush
In ungetattable nooks and crannies
Around the greasy pots and pannies
In which the bacon fat can fall
And little beasties creep and crawl …
I am never benign
About kitchen design,
Tending to ask, before I have seen it,
‘Who’s going to clean it?’
Hie you to the market, Mother.
Buy some food that’s fit to eat.
All we have is eggs and butter,
Fruit and vegies, milk and meat.
What we need is you-beaut tucker:
Kentucky Fried and sausage rolls,
Chickenburgers, chips and chocolate,
Dim sims, doughnuts, icy poles …
Hie you to the market, Mother.
Buy the food that brings such joy
To the pit that has no bottom –
Your ever-starving teenage boy.
Despair to my mother was I in my youth,
For I was considered inept and uncouth;
Unkempt and unruly
Was infant Yours Truly.
Throughout tempestuous puberty
She battled my uncoutherty,
And with a stern unfoolishness
Coped with my unrulishness.
My mother (flushed with her success)
Then tackled my unkemptliness
And with relentless recitude
Conquered my ineptitude.
How well my mother schooled me,
How well my mother fooled me,
At last I’ve discovered the terrible truth –
It’s no fun being ept, kempt, ruly or couth.
My mom could familiarize herself with these poems.