“I’m so happyThe Poet Who Would Be Orange
I could try
rhyming orange,”
said the dancy one,
young and bodacious.

Going west from Porridge,
he tried sponge.
He cut out his tongue,
showed rare courage,
ranged “far and wee.”

Eventually (it was 1953),
he moved to Orange County,
where he arranged his cottage
with books near the sea
and a view of an orange tree

to inspire and reveal
poems of orange, and once a year,
he would renew his vowels
and give his countenance
a rest.

Sure he was mocked
and called deranged,
but the truth of his trial,
the pip of its opulence –
he’s still happily appealing.

14 Comments

    1. Hey, Geannie! Yes, orange and silver both apparently impossible to true rhyme. Off-rhyme, maybe. I thought sponge was close, and courage. Oh, well. Just for the fun of it. Love oranges though. Used to subsist on oranges, peanuts, and tea. And maybe pasta once or twice a week. Those were the days. Not a cheese grilled in sight. Nowadays I’m a fruit face, I guess. Thanks for stopping by again. Hope all’s well!

    1. I thought a bit of happiness from a poem after some prior discussion, a dessert piece, might be appreciated. Always associate oranges with sunshine. Orange County a real place, in Southern California. Used to be all orange groves, now subdivisions with backyard swimming pools, though not a lot of water in them these days, given the drought, and where few poets could afford a cottage near the sea anymore. Though this one probably could, but he takes his sea with him wherever he goes:
      And she feeds you tea and oranges
      That come all the way from China

      1. I love the taste of oranges. The peel releases a lovely scent when squeezed, and even more so when placed on a stove around Xmas time.
        That Cohen tune is my favourite melancholic song :)

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