Prosopogostichs or Notables Not Unpleasant to Know: Letter A

In his nonsense verse “How pleasant to know Mr. Lear” the popularizer of the limerick makes amusing observations about himself. In the octaves below readers are urged to discover equally intriguing characters who, it’s hoped, will prove just as amusing and, in the end, just as “not unpleasant to know.”

Lives dead Edward* alone in the class
of read letter'd heads pleasant to know...?
Exist eggheads who muster just pass...?
Occur others who "for the gold" go...?
Let's find out! Grab my doggerel glass!
Through it, quirks are eyed amp'd up -- although
it is not my intent to harass:
just to folks' pleasantosity show.

     * Edward Lear (1812-1888) composed
the poem "How Pleasant to Know Mr. Lear."

Not unpleasant to know...? Mr. Abbott.*

Abbott dabbles in** habitats flat.
Beg, steal, borrow Ed's book -- i.e., grab it!
It enjoys elephantine eclat.***
Two dimensions...? Too hard to inhabit:
often, Flatland proves not "where it's at."
(Even pleasant-to-know Abbott Abbott
wonders how Flat’s inhabitants shat.)

     * Edwin Abbott Abbott (1838-1926)

authored the novella Flatland 

     ** Mss showing "babbles of" here elect
to ignore Abbott's quite clear explications
of difficult mathematical concepts.
     *** An eye rhyme.

Also pleasant to know: Mr. Ammons,*

read by Kansans and arch Alabamans.
Ammons’ stanzas, like mantras from shamans,
rescue readers from cultural famines.
Long cold shouldered by lit'rature's Brahmins,
Ammons free-styles upstream. Like spawn'd salmons
is the pleasant-to-know A. R. Ammons.
Lays he wrote play up both: gods and mammons.   

     * A. R. Ammons (1926-2001)

Not unpleasant to know...? Mr. Adams.*

Which is his niche?** 'Tis hitchhiker's guides.
(Though compiled by personums non gratums,
galaxeers,*** when good reads, give good rides.)
Messrs. peripatetic (and madams)
in one five-volume "thrillogy" meet
a most pleasant-to-know Douglas Adams,
coy doyen of the drolly offbeat.

      * Douglas Adams (1952-2001)

      ** By many pronounced 'nitch,'

      ***This portmanteau word refers to

gazetteers of galaxies

Also pleasant to know: Attic Aesop.

Like our Bard, to his fellow Greeks he's scop.
Ev'ry anthropomorph’d beast he sees hop
rates a tale. (Of the fable tree, he's top.)
Still, enough's enough: we to our knees drop
and, with all due respect, these, our pleas, cop
to the pleasant-to-know Poppa Aesop:
"If it’s all same to you, Poppa...ple-e-e-ease stop!"

Not unpleasant to know? Messrs. Amis.*

Junior jots of what's "new," what's "unpleasant,"**
while his dad, christened Kingsley, was famous,
(though in Golders Green Crema** at present).
If we get 'em confus'd, who can blame us?
D’you suppose rhyming’s simple? Well...'tisn't!
Just ask pleasant-to-know Junior Amis
whether 'prescient's a slant rhyme for 'pissant.'

     * Kinglsey Amis (1922-1995) Martin Amis (1949-  )    

     **Martin's subject matter has been characterized

as being of "the new unpleasantness." 

     *** The Golders Green Crematorium, where

elder Amis's ashes currently reside.

Also pleasant to know: Mr. Auster.*

Sits Paul's name atop lots of lit rosters?
Yep, pronounced less like 'Gloucester' than 'Forster,'**
and it’s 'Forster' Paul favors and fosters. 
As to style, he'll, like I'll (but of course), stir
up the pots.*** (He who jots "He's like Frost!" errs,
as does pleasant-to-know Mr. Auster,
when he frowns, "My lit counterfeits Foster's."****)

     * Paul Auster (1947-    ), pronounced by Paul

to rhyme with 'Forster.' (Source: Book Browse /
How to pronounce Paul Auster / "Or ster") 

     ** Among possibilities left unmentioned are

'toaster' and 'oyster.' 

     *** Referenced are various pervasive

postmodern pots (and/or plots).
       **** That's Stephen Foster. Of course, Auster
resembles neither Frost nor Foster, nor is there
a record of Mr. Auster making any such claim. 

Not unpleasant to know? Mr. Allen,*

who shoots one film per year and's called Woody.
Woody must every film cast a pal in,
nor is Hollywood pondering, "Should he?"
when his flicks earn more grinning per gallon
than do E. and J. Coen's**: why would he –
i.e., pleasant-to-know Woody Allen –
cast some hoodlum disguised in a hoodie?

     * Woody Allen (1935-  )  

     ** Fellow filmmakers Ethan and Joel Coen.
Some mss show "even Frank Oz's" here. Others
show "Martin Scorcese's" but they're clearly 
nonsense.

Also pleasant to know: A. Artaud.*

Although some suggest Tony was cruel,**
to that charge I retaliate: "No!
Just a Dadaist's Lord of Misrule."
To his Vitres de son should you go,
you'll discover a lyrical jewel --
and the pleasant to know A. Artaud.
(Then you'll know: Tony's nobody's fool.) 

      * Antonin Artaud (1896-1948)

      ** Artaud famously advocated for

a so-called 'Theatre of Cruelty.'

Not unpleasant...? Louisa May Alcott.

Lou (like Anne, Charl and Emily Bronte)
penn'd no tomes treating Jersey Joe Walcott,
Joe's obsessions (Joe loved three-card Monte)
or Joe's sleep habits -- Joe used a small cot,
not a Hollywood King as did Ponti, 
who's been heard to cry, "Let's to bed, Alcott!
Abudanza, Louisa! Avanti!"

     * Italian film producer Carlo Ponti 

Hercule Whatsisface Investigates: A Nonsense Alphabet

“Cet homme’s succumb’d to chocolat du mal,”
states Christie sleuth Hercule PoiRoaldDahl.
“That poor sod’s lost far more than just his hair,”
notes private eye Hercule PoiRobespierre.

“A Tory ball lopped off his left big toe,”
declares Ur-snoop Hercule PoiRochambeau.
“This lad’s been stabbed – by Bloom, the Irish mohel,”
claims CDI Hercule PoiRoddyDoyle.

“Both Mom and fetus: wasted…with a spade,”
states Christie sleuth Hercule PoiRoevWade.
“The misfired pistol turned his features black,”
notes private eye Hercule PoiRoffignac.

“It’s ‘animation craze turned deadly habit,’”
declares Ur-snoop Hercule PoiRogerRabbit.
“The windmill snagged his locks. They proved too snarly,”
claims CDI Hercule PoiRohanMarley.

“The murder weapon? This: His Grace’s lance,”
states Christie sleuth Hercule PoiRoideFrance.
“Murio d’un exceso d’inactivo,”
notes private eye Hercule PoiRojoVivo.

“She drown’d, caught in a freak torrential soaker,”
declares the famous snoop Hercule PoiRoker.
“Just like TV: he’s killed by blowgunn’d drones,”
claims CDI Hercule PoiRolinJones.

“’Twas by a kiss he died; that much we know,”
states Christie sleuth Hercule PoiRomeo.
“Can politics prove deadly? Ask Gahagan,”
Notes private eye Hercule PoiRonaldReagan.

“Look: bite marks from a rabid kangaroo,”
Declares Ur-snoop Hercule PoiRooandPooh.
“A full ten rounds? The poor mug couldn’t cope,”
Claims CDI Hercule PoiRopeaDope.

“They shot butyric acid in his knees,”
states Christie sleuth Hercule PoiRoquefortCheese.
“She died from being quizzed (she tried her best),”
notes private eye Hercule PoiRorschachTest.

“This bloodied cross secured her execution,”
declares Ur-snoop Hercule PoiRosicrucian.
“Flesh? Torn to shreds! His corpse bears not a stitch,”
claims CDI Hercule PoiRottweilBitch.

“Some Chinese dim sum dealt the final blow,”
states Christie sleuth Hercule PoiRoujiamo.
“These books build character. That book destroys,”
notes private eye Hercule PoiRoverBoys.

“Alas! She never made it ‘cross the moat,”
declares the snoop Hercule PoiRowYerBoat.
“She perished while auditioning the part,”
caims CDI Hercule PoiRoxieHart. 

“In this, our gray-scale world, she could not live,”
states Christie sleuth Hercule PoiRoyGBiv.
“He died of cancer. Death you just can’t cheat,”
sums up Hercule PoiRozzelle (call him ‘Pete’).

"Ali rebuffs, then snuffs, thick thieves, then stuffs their thievings up his sleeves..." Gazillionaires and How They Stay that Way: A Nonsense Alphabet in Rhyme

Ali rebuffs then snuffs thick thieves, then stuffs their thievings up his sleeves.
Born-to-wealth Montgomery Burns “forgets” to file his tax returns.
Cry Cross and Clampett (Noah, Jed), “Don’t broadcast ‘bout our ‘bundant bread.”
Dantes, Dives, Drumpf, De Vil: but four who love the Treas’ry Bill.
Everyone knows J. R. Ewing. Name the stock swaps J. R.’s doing!
Foolish Osgood Fielding’s loot impels him towards forbidden fruit.
Gatsby, Grand, Goldfinger, Gekko: not a one picks up the checko.
Henderson and Thurston How’ll: each man’s thrown in the temp’rance tow’l.
It’s Iron Man (read ‘Tony Stark’). What funds his fights? The German mark.
“Jingling of the guinea” bolsters Janoth’s job. (Then guns leave holsters.)
Keeping Rosebud’s not enough for Kane: “Can’t I keep all my stuff?”
Lex Luthor, Linus Larrabee: to live de luxe, their lucre's key.
Montpelliers, Miduses, McDucks: their gelt’s on Google (search ).
Nickels, dimes and quarters be the life’s blood of Ralph Nickleby.
Only Chatsworth Osborn fils some fils* keeps in his fund de Suisse.
     * A denomination of the UAE.
Potter, Pontifex and Pike (like Pennybags) all lucre like.
Quatermain and Q both know: it’s always all about the dough.
Richie’s one beaucoup baksheesher. (Nouveau riche grow nouveau “reesher.”)
Sternwood (general), Sinbad (tar): how unlike us the tres riche are!
Trimalchio and Beresford Tipton: Lads! Such scads of scrip you drip in!
Undershaft casts ingots -- tons! His modus o.? “I first cast guns.”
Van Gleasons I and II were tight. And Reggie III? He’s tight alright.
Wonka, Wayne and Warbucks draw, for gobs of groats, on Gresham’s Law.
Xerxes and Professor X make tons of funds by forging checks.
Yue’s counterfeiting shuck: a brand new take on “make a buck.”
Zaleski hoards his princely stash, yet won’t stake me from petty cash.

"There's no longer the up- or the downside. No more Giv'at Shmuel or Riyadh..." Just People: They're Good or They're Bad

There's no longer the up- or the downside.
No more Giv'at Shmuel or Riyadh. 
No more A; no more Z. No sir, take it from me:
there's just people; they're good or they're bad.

There's no more Amy Goodman or Fox.
No more whole enchilada or tad.
No more epic sublime or lascivious rhyme.
There's just people: they're good or they're bad.

What of Worlds...? No more First; no more Second.
(And the Third World's been thoroughly had.)
As regards yin or yang, there just "ain't no such thang."
There's just people: they're good or they're bad.

No more earth, water, fire or air.
Red or blue? Nope! (And, truly, no plaid.)
No more senior or teen. (Nor there's nothing between.)
There's just people: they're good or they're bad.

There's no longer the male or the female. 
No more unseasoned frosh or post-grad.
There's no more right to life, and the choices aren't rife.
There's just people: they're good or they're bad.

There's no longer the black or the white,
and this state of affairs...? Ironclad.
No more famine or wealth. No more illness or health.
There's just people: they're good or they're bad.

There's no longer the I or the Thou.
There's no more avant-garde, no more trad.
Nope, the way things are now (few know why, fewer how),
there's just people: they're good or they're bad.

"'Alms?' asks the Abba, an anchorite, making amends..." Hac Ego Feci (I Made This): A Nonsense Alphabet in Rhyme

“Alms?” asks the Abba, an anchorite, making amends,
The Brooklyn-bred bookie makes book for his flutter-prone friends.
The caffeine-addicted make coffee in quantums absurd.
The divorced single mother of two must make do, dreams deferred.
The ex-employees make ends meet though they op at a loss.
Make fists, freedom fighter, to let the whole world know who’s boss.
The feminist’s first to make fun when her female friends marry.

The greengrocer’s grapes make the grade: “Our garnachas don’t vary.”
The governor-general makes good – as his pockets he’s lining.
The husbandman makes him some hay while the sun keeps on shining.
“Make haste, Hound of Heaven,: the bard Francis Thompson insists.
The headsman can’t make heads nor tails. (“Chop I necks? Lop I wrists?”)
The interpreter makes it his business to make it look simple.
The Jesuit jester makes jokes in a tunic and wimple.

The killer could make each Kardashian disappear fast.
Making landfall, the landlubber loves to make light of storms past.
The laddie makes love to his lassie, Loch Lomond in view.
The mom’s making mountains of molehills; she’s not unlike you.
The midget manqué makes the most of his height (he’s an elf).
The Norwegian who's made nothing of makes a name for himself.
Making out like a bandit, the outlaw makes off with your chest.

The octogenarian’s make-over’s make-shift – at best.
The optimist always makes out; make of that what you will.
The plump politician makes policy up on the Hill.
The Pope’s making peace, though he makes it post partisan slaughter.
The pederast priest makes a play for the President’s daughter.
The quarryman makes quite a splash, cannonballing from heights.
The Royalist raves: “Pairs of wrongs (when they’re mine) can make rights!”

The symposium student makes small talk. Such sucking up sucks.
The shark makes short work of the slow-swimming sailor. Aw-w-w, shucks!
The senator/statesman makes sure that his state remains free.
The traitor makes trouble by making things up – on TV.
The terrorist tries making tracks but gets taken in tow.
The urchin wears make-up in hopes of uploading a beau.
The vegan’s dilemma? That veal makes a very good stew.

The waiter makes water. (We all do: I do; you do, too.)
Is the wigmaker’s wife making waves when she wades without Wellies?
Women watching make way while these widowers writhe on their bellies.
The X-Acto knife expert makes ‘x’s by way of example
The yogi (named Yul) makes you wonder: are five yamas ample?
The zodiac makes zero sense: it’s no good in the day.
(Having first made my marks, I must now make a clean getaway.)

"One ponders twin strands as one wanders through lands..." Geschlechtes or Of Kinds: A Nonsense in Rhyme

One ponders twin strands
as one wanders through lands
where no circumspect man’s ever been.
And none more than the one
where the men are all women
and all of the women are men.
Guys are gals. Moms are Dads.
Sisters? Bros! Lasses? Lads!
Boys are girls. L’hommes are femmes. So it goes.
Hes are shes. Hims are hers.
But a question occurs:
How’s one know how one knows how one knows?

"Foreign Wendy, black op, hurts: so soul-sick, she..." Faux Words March: Nonsense Abecedarial Pictures at an Exhibition in Rhyme

The art exhibition's portable audio 
guide said: "...A is Four And Twenty 
Blanc Birds..." but the near-sighted, 
hard-of-hearing art critic Ms. Orgski 
heard and saw: "...A's Foreign Wendy, 
Black Op, Hurts..." Thus Ms. Orgski’s 
verse review ran as follows:

Foreign Wendy, black op, hurts: 

so soul-sick, she! 

Her divorce from The Force...? 
Fully fait accompli.
Wendy's sublet a bed-sit 
near Southend-on-Sea.
Wend sees well-wishers Wend's Days  
from "t'wendy" past three.

The audio guide said: "...B is Forbidden 
Fruit..." but Ms Orgski heard and saw: 
"...B is for Bitten Fruit..." Thus, her 
review:

Inch-thick skin of once-bitten fruit 

(rough to the touch...?

Tough!), when tapp'd for its sap, 
lacks all savor as such.
Four'll score mileage as silage 
for shoats -- in a clutch.
(As a rule, though, shoats drool...
but don't fancy it much.)

The guide said: "...C is Forceps 
Anterior..." but Ms. Orgski heard: 
"...C is for Cepp's Sand Terrier..." 
Thus, her review:

Prince Çepp's Sand Terrier, 
like his Skye,

(unless vets 
oversimplify)
stands long of calf 
(though short of thigh)
and, folks say, 
favors Zhou En-lai.

The guide said: "...D is Ford Madox 
Ford..." but Orgski heard: "...D is 
for D'Mååd Dücs Fjørd..." Thus, 
her review:

Fåmed Viking Ørn shøüts, 
"All's åbøård!"

then chårts a cøürse 
thrøügh D'Mååd Dücs Fjørd.
"We're wårr'n'," wårns Ørn, 
"før Dånegeld høård.
Meåntime, thøügh, 
try dås smörgåsbørd!"

The guide said: "...E is Forensic 
Chemistry..." but Orgski heard: 
"...E is for 'End Sikkim' Mystery..." 
Thus, her review:

Asks the 'End Sikkim' Mystery: 
"Who might there be

who'd turn cartwheels 
if Sikkim slipp'd into the sea...?
Is't the Nepalese Nuisance, 
the Bad Bhutanee
or the Sour Pakistani...?" 
(Could be it's all three.)

The guide: "...F is Forfeits Your 
Deposit..." Orgski heard: "...F is for 
Fitz/Geordie Bus Hit...” Her review:

Twee Geordie and Fitz, Scots -- 
last seen

aboard a bus 
from Aberdeen --
are dead. (One contract 
on the 'tween'
slew two: three Grendels 
through each spleen.)

The guide: "...G is Forget-Me-Not..." 
Orgski heard: "...G is for 'Get Mean!' 
Knot..." Her review:

The Rooskie 'knout' 
(pronounc'd like 'k'noot')…? 

S'for floggin' folk 
of foul repute.
Abus'd 
in 19th-cent'ry Butte,
'twas term'd 
"The 'Get Mean!' Knot," to boot!

Guide: "...H is Four-H Club..." 
Orgski: "...H is for Haitch/Cull Hub..." 
Review:

The road from Cull, 
near Achnasheen,

skirts Haitch Heights 
(olim Gretna Green).
The Haitch/Cull Hub, 
lies nigh its mean,
and links all life forms 
in between.

Guide: "...I is Foreign Legionnaire..." 
Orgski: "...I is for 'In-Lesion' Hair..." 
Review:

I'm supine as Herr Zorro 
"zip-zip-zip"s my chest,

so Z's 'Z' proves more 'N'-like, 
I'd proffer (if press'd).
Where it scabs, a coarse thatch thrives, 
a narrowish nest.
How's my "in-lesion" hair...? 
Very -- ouch! -- barb'd, at best!

"...J is Forging Ahead..." 
"...J is for Jinga Head..."

Enjoyin' one's Jinga Ale 
starts with the pour.
As to heads, here's one rule 
no beer geek dare ignore:
always think, "Just one pinky of foam...
but no more!"
(Proper Jinga heads bode
"mucho gusto," Señor.)

"...K is Fork In The Road..." 
"...K is for King Thor Ode..."

In Paris, B.N. Lat. 2121 
(a palimpsest)

was found, preserved upon a flyleaf, 
in a minuscule, from Brest,
four lines of verse -- a runic charm 
by Saxon choir monks finess'd:
The King Thor Ode is sung once more, 
tho' through twelve centuries repress'd.

"...L is Forlorn Hope..." 
"...L is for "Lorne...?" "Nope!"..."

Bonanza's cast 
casts votes today. 

With Pa's cheek hair 
they'd do away.
Pernell 'n' Dan, with Mike, 
vote, "Yea!" 
But Lorne's "Nope!" trumps: 
those sideburns stay!

"...M is Formaldehydes..." 
"...M is for Mal De Ides..."

Rome's Senate's 
plottin' Caesarcides: 

the lord who'd live 
be'd he who hides --
unless he's bonkers...
or abides
a deadly dose 
of Mal De Ides!

"...N is Fornicator..." 
"...N is for Nick/Kate Tour..."

No lie, Katy Hepburn: 
you're fronting a band...?

Playin' rhythm guitar, 
though unable to stand...?
Upright bassist Nick Cage 
needs to lend you a hand...? 
Nineteen Nick/Kate Tour tees 
can be mine for a grand...?

"...O is Four O'Clock Rock!..." 
"...O is for Oake Loch Roc..."

Great Scotland's lochs 

boast beasts galore:

Loch Ness...? 
Its bashful brontosaur.
Loch Lomond 
masks a manticore.
(Green Scots call Oake Loch's Roc 
'Al Gore.')

"...P is For Purple Mountains' Majesty..." 
"...P is Porp! Pull him out an' match 
his tee..."

Our porpoise 
wears this tee shirt, see...? 

Shall all our fish 
dress sim'larly...? 
They shall 
if we supply shirts free:
Porp! Pull him out 
an' match his tee!*

     * Clearly there appears to be no
correspondence between the image 
Ms. Orgski imagined and her verse 
review, nor can this lack be readily 
explained. 

"...Q is Fork It Over!..." 
"...Q is for Quito Fur..."

Chic Ecuadoran 
doñas wear

sombreros -- hats! -- 
to hide their hair,
hats lined with Quito fur. 
They're (like) 
ubique-...ubick-... 
They're everywhere!

"...R is Forest Of Arden..." 
"...R is for Rasta, Fartin!..."

Haute Rastafarian 
cookin' art

blen' goat kabob 
wit' mango tart.
So, when meal done 
'n' Rast' depart,
dat Rasta man 
fart fragrant fart!

"...S is Forsyte Saga..." 
"...S is for '...Sites Aga!'..."

The Trib, 
with trenchant lexicon,

reads, "Neo-Cons 
Sight Aga Khan!"
"That turkey's toast!" 
notes Paula Zahn.
"'T'will surely prove
'ArMÁgeddon'!"

"...T is Fortissimo!..." 
"...T is for Tease 'Em, Mo!..."

Three Shanghai Stooges 
steal the show --

not Larry, Shemp 
'n' Curly Joe,
but Quanzhou, Chou 
'n' Zangjikou.
Still, who steps up to "tease" 'em...? 
Mo!

"...U is Forum Romanum..." 
"...U is for 'Ummer! Oim Ah' Numb!'..."

Our unarmor'd Humvee 
draws fire: "Rat-tat-tat!"s. 

"Cor! Oim 'it!" cries our Irish embedee, 
Colm Katz.
"Frickin' 'Ummer! Oim ah' numb...
plus, look: we've four flats:
unless sprung afore sundown, 
we're News Hour stats!"

"...V is Four Virtuous Maidens..." 
"...V is for Veered: Jewish Mavens..."

In Isaac Israeli 
'n' Jeshua Ben Judah,

in Saadia Ben Joseph 
'n' Ibn Pakuda
you've three sapient sharks 
'n' one bright baracuda,
yet -- Vey! -- all four've veer'd 
from "vi' trita, vi' tuta." * 

     * Translation: The beaten path 
is the safe way. 

"...W is 'Forward...March!'..." 
"...W is for 'We're Dim, Arch!'..."

"We scarf,” says Arch, 
Miss V’s hors-d'oeuvres,

pork out on Betty's 
plum preserves,
yet 'Dank!' 'em not 
for 'stuffs each serves.
Why...?” "We're dim, Arch!" 
Jughead observes.

"...X is Forks And Knives..." 
"...X is for Xan Knives..."

To mallets 
swiped from gamelan,
shrewd smiths affix'd, 
in ancient Xan,
keen blades 
for fighting man-to-man:
what Uzzis can't do, 
Xan knives can!

"...Y is Fourteen Years In Solitary..." 
"...Y is for Ten Years Since Sol Ate Harry..."

Dawns the fourth 
of February!

Ten long years 
since Sol ate Harry.
Still, those clean 
kohanim query,
"What of Hal was meat, 
what dairy...?"

The exhibition's portable audio track 
said: "...Z is Forza Del Destino..." What 
Ms Orgski heard and saw: "... Z is for 
Zed-Delta's Teen 'Ho'..."Thus, her 
verse review:

Zealous Zeta-Delt lads 
launch'd their Latin casino,

installing roulette, craps 
and video Keno.
One hooker they book'd 
turn'd their metier El-Mean. Yo!
My cousin Carmina, 
said Zed-Delta's teen 'ho'.

Ladies and gentlemen; the exhibition is closed.