The Stratford Man, a pome
Richard Kennedy
its numbers and a joy to scholars everywhere.
THE STRATFORD MAN
by Richard Kennedy
In Stratford town, a thoroughfare
Of garbage heaps and little care,
Where sewers ran into the near-
By swanny Avon river there,
Was born a child all claim to be
The poet of all centuries.
His father kept the grassy ground
To raise a sheep-fold, and ‘tis found
He treated skins and fashioned gloves.
Then alderman he finally proved,
And signed some papers with his “X”,
Until he lost his town’s respect.
Young Will the while was stealing deer,
A truant to the school house there,
A rustic wit, so go the rumors,
Who stole into Anne Hath’way’s bloomers.
Then sped away to parts unknown
For seven years when twins were born.
The next we hear of Shakespeare’s name
Is when in London town his fame
Was made forever when he writ
A poem never out of print
These many years – of special note,
For ‘twas the first he ever wrote.
With this success, he turned to plays,
Wrote many, and enjoyed the bays
Of fame, but yet this poet god
Was never seen, which some find odd.
The hyphen dressed into his name
Is notice of a guessing game.
He passed invisible, a wraith,
A humbug ghost, a hoax, i’faith.
The greater myst’ry is his books.
He never owned one, and we’re fucked
To find the body of this farce,
Which “honest Ben” shoved up our arse.
O, miracle of rare delight,
The poet could not read or write.
Retired to Stratford, William set
His mind on real estate and debt
Collecting, tithing, and might lend
At rate, a shilling to a friend.
At home he dwelt with daughters two,
Unschooled as the cockatoos.
The man was rich, which makes it mooter,
He did not get his girls a tutor.
Their A.B.Cs they never had,
A family trait, like mom, like dad.
What brilliant conversations must
Have passed: how iron turns to rust,
And market news, and will it rain?
And will the sheep come home again?
His merc’ry mind at rest within
The company of bookless kin.
He closed the commons, hoarded grain,
His neighbors said he should be hanged,
Which may be scandal, spite, or erring,
Some say he died from pickled herring.
His life is mythic, full of doubt,
There’s not much more to be found out.
But that’s all one, at last he passed
To Helicon, and no one cast
A pome to say so, and it’s droll,
He’s sculpted with a sack of wool.
The Stratford man is glass and smoke,
A riddle for the age, a joke.
http://www.sarahsmith.com/chasingshakespeares/shakesweirds/shamsterdance.htm
lackpurity
> This from several years ago, as true and bright as ever, perfect in
> its numbers and a joy to scholars everywhere.
>
> THE STRATFORD MAN
> by Richard Kennedy
>
> In Stratford town, a thoroughfare
> Of garbage heaps and little care,
> Where sewers ran into the near-
> By swanny Avon river there,
> Was born a child all claim to be
> The poet of all centuries.
MM:
He was that, for sure, even for all ages.
> His father kept the grassy ground
> To raise a sheep-fold, and ‘tis found
> He treated skins and fashioned gloves.
> Then alderman he finally proved,
> And signed some papers with his “X”,
> Until he lost his town’s respect.
MM:
Hmmmm. Is this hypocritical? Didn't you claim the monument was to
John Shakespeare? You can't have it both ways.
> Young Will the while was stealing deer,
> A truant to the school house there,
> A rustic wit, so go the rumors,
> Who stole into Anne Hath’way’s bloomers.
> Then sped away to parts unknown
> For seven years when twins were born.
MM:
London. Parts unknown? LOL Your story is absurd and is incongurent
with historical accounts. I realize that Anti-Strats have a reason to
deny history. They do not want the Strat Man to appear as a student
of Greville, Marlowe, or the Wilton Cult. Everybody knew where Wilton
was. Anti-Strats need to try hard to face reality.
> The next we hear of Shakespeare’s name
> Is when in London town his fame
> Was made forever when he writ
> A poem never out of print
> These many years – of special note,
> For ‘twas the first he ever wrote.
MM:
Every Great Poet has a beginning.
> With this success, he turned to plays,
> Wrote many, and enjoyed the bays
> Of fame, but yet this poet god
> Was never seen, which some find odd.
> The hyphen dressed into his name
> Is notice of a guessing game.
MM:
His predecessor was murdered. This meant that he tried to keep a low
profile as leader of the Wilton Cult. It could not be kept a total
secret, as Groatsworth of Wit, written by his enemies bore witness.
Again, Anti-Strats need to be brave and face the historical accounts,
rather than sweeping them under the rug.
> He passed invisible, a wraith,
> A humbug ghost, a hoax, i’faith.
> The greater myst’ry is his books.
> He never owned one, and we’re fucked
> To find the body of this farce,
> Which “honest Ben” shoved up our arse.
MM:
Anti-Strat lies now try to fill in the blanks, ladies and gentlemen.
That's how the Anti-Strats are. Why waste time with a non-issue,
whether the Strat Man owned books, or not? How ridiculous! He could
have given his books away. He made arrangements, at least, seven
years prior to his death, for contingency. Honest Ben wrote one of
the best enconiums ever written. I've never seen a better one, in
fact. Anti-Strats can whine over that STRONG Stratfordian evidence.
The more they whine, the sillier Anti-Strats look, IMO.
> O, miracle of rare delight,
> The poet could not read or write.
> Retired to Stratford, William set
> His mind on real estate and debt
> Collecting, tithing, and might lend
> At rate, a shilling to a friend.
MM:
Lies, conjectures, and allegations.
> At home he dwelt with daughters two,
> Unschooled as the cockatoos.
> The man was rich, which makes it mooter,
> He did not get his girls a tutor.
> Their A.B.Cs they never had,
> A family trait, like mom, like dad.
MM:
There is no proof of these allegations.
> What brilliant conversations must
> Have passed: how iron turns to rust,
> And market news, and will it rain?
> And will the sheep come home again?
> His merc’ry mind at rest within
> The company of bookless kin.
MM:
Love needs no books. This just indicates the desperation of Anti-
Strats.
> He closed the commons, hoarded grain,
> His neighbors said he should be hanged,
> Which may be scandal, spite, or erring,
> Some say he died from pickled herring.
> His life is mythic, full of doubt,
> There’s not much more to be found out.
MM:
What a pity? He laid foundations for eternity, but the ignorant Anti-
Strats think he couldn't even read and write. He had access to Jove,
Apollo, Venus, but Anti-Strats doubt this. Sad. Saints have often
had neighbors for enemies. Nothing new, at all. It indicates that
Anti-Strats can't seem to discern the truth about the evidence.
Michael Martin
> But that’s all one, at last he passed
> To Helicon, and no one cast
> A pome to say so, and it’s droll,
> He’s sculpted with a sack of wool.
> The Stratford man is glass and smoke,
> A riddle for the age, a joke.
>
> http://www.sarahsmith.com/chasingshakespeares/shakesweirds/shamsterda...
art
------------------------------------------------------
Greg Reynolds
Richard Kennedy wrote
'The poet of all centuries'
On Nov 24
Michael Martin wrote
'He was that, for sure, even for all ages'
Retract, please, both of you...
There was no Shakespeare until the 16th century.
Richard Kennedy and Michael Martin are
two distortionists made for each other! Enjoy.
Algernon H. Nuttsakk
Richard Kennedy <kenned...@charter.net> wrote:
>
> This from several years ago, as true and bright as ever, perfect in
> its numbers and a joy to scholars everywhere.
>
> THE STRATFORD MAN
> by Richard Kennedy
>
> In Stratford town, a thoroughfare
> Of garbage heaps and little care,
> Where sewers ran into the near-
> By swanny Avon river there,
> Was born a child all claim to be
> The poet of all centuries.
A SHIT-SMEARED POSEUR!
> His father kept the grassy ground
> To raise a sheep-fold, and tis found
> He treated skins and fashioned gloves.
> Then alderman he finally proved,
> And signed some papers with his X,
> Until he lost his town's respect.
Because his ink was MADE OF FECES!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!
> Young Will the while was stealing deer,
AND BESTIALLY ABUSING THEM!!!
> A truant to the school house there,
> A rustic wit, so go the rumors,
> Who stole into Anne Hath'way's bloomers.
AND THOSE OF THE LOCAL SHEEP!!
> Then sped away to parts unknown
> For seven years when twins were born.
>
> The next we hear of Shakespeare's name
> Is when in London town his fame
> Was made forever when he writ
> A poem never out of print
> These many years of special note,
> For 'twas the first he ever wrote.
SO IT IS CLAIMED!!!
> With this success, he turned to plays,
> Wrote many, and enjoyed the bays
> Of fame, but yet this poet god
> Was never seen, which some find odd.
BECAUSE HE SPENT HIS TIME HAULING GUANO
AND PICKING HIS NOSE!!!
> The hyphen dressed into his name
> Is notice of a guessing game.
>
> He passed invisible, a wraith,
> A humbug ghost, a hoax, i'faith.
> The greater myst'ry is his books.
> He never owned one,
BUT HE CERTAINLY OWNED AN OUTHOUSE!!!!
AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!
>and we're fucked
> To find the body of this farce,
> Which 'honest Ben' shoved up our arse.
THE FOOLS WHO BELIEVE IT!!!
> O, miracle of rare delight,
> The poet could not read or write.
JUST SCRATCH HIS ASS AND FART!!!!
> Retired to Stratford, William set
> His mind on real estate and debt
> Collecting, tithing, and might lend
> At rate, a shilling to a friend.
A SHILLING-SHYSTER, A FRANC-FIEND, A
PENNY-PINCHING, SHIT-SMEARED SACK OF
COW-DUNG!!!
>
> At home he dwelt with daughters two,
> Unschooled as the cockatoos.
AND NO DOUBT SOLD ON A DAILY BASIS TO EARN
MORE CASH!!!
> The man was rich, which makes it mooter,
> He did not get his girls a tutor.
JUST A PIMP!!
> Their A.B.Cs they never had,
> A family trait, like mom, like dad.
>
> What brilliant conversations must
> Have passed: how iron turns to rust,
> And market news, and will it rain?
"AND WHERE WILL WE PISS? AND WHERE IS THE
MIDDEN HEAP, I NEED TO SHIT"!!!
> And will the sheep come home again?
HIS SEXUAL NEEDS HAD TO BE SERVED!!
> His merc'ry mind at rest within
> The company of bookless kin.
HOPELESS HILLBILLY FUCKSTICKS!!!
> He closed the commons, hoarded grain,
> His neighbors said he should be hanged,
BUT WHO WOULD CLEAN THEIR OUTHOUSES??
> Which may be scandal, spite, or erring,
> Some say he died from pickled herring.
> His life is mythic, full of doubt,
> There's not much more to be found out.
BUT HE WAS CERTAINLY A WHORE-MONGERING
SHILLING-HOARDER, A SHIT-SCHOONER, A FECAL
FRIGATE, A BE-PIMPLED DOOFUS, AND A HICCUPING
SYPHILITIC SHIT-STICK!!!!
>
> But that's all one, at last he passed
> To Helicon, and no one cast
> A pome to say so, and it's droll,
> He's sculpted with a sack of wool.
> The Stratford man is glass and smoke,
> A riddle for the age, a joke.
AND A CRUDE, THICK-NECKED NUTTER, AND A
RECTAL SCRAMJET, A BARNYARD PIG-POKER, AN
ACME OF ASS-REEK, AN ILLITERATE, INDIGENT
ILL-BRED BOW-WOW, AND A CRANIAL KADIDDLEHOPPER!!!
Congratulations Dr. Kennedy on your most perceptive
poem! Please send a copy to Dr. Stritmatter so that
he may circulate it amongst his learned colleagues!
AHN
nordicskiv2
<a10497fb-82fb-4d58...@h14g2000pri.googlegroups.com>,
Richard Kennedy <kenn...@charter.net> wrote:
I see that Richard Kennedy is once again putting the "ass" in
"Parnassus" with his poetic ovipositing. His designation of the
following as a "pome" is interesting: pomes typically possess a
mesocarp, but this one is a mess-o'-crap in its entirety. He seems,
however, to be unaware of the eventual fate of pomes whose sell-by
date has elapsed.
> This from several years ago, as true and bright as ever, perfect in
> its numbers and a joy to scholars everywhere.
Deuteronomy 22:10
by Aleksandr Sergeyevich Nekrasnoglav
SpinBozo rashly flung the gauntlet --
His Groves-dealt reckoning came due.
If newsgroup bards their verse would vaunt, let
Them show their wares. And yet, in lieu
Of eclogue, pastoral, or threnody,
One finds limp crap by Richard Kennedy,
Who fumbles, rhyming "print" with "writ"
(The latter rhymes with...scratch that bit)
That tiresome, senile dead-horse-flogger'll
Indite some puerile, scanless rhyme
(And post it for the fifteenth time!):
Oxfordian, demented doggerel.
He breaks an old taboo, alas! --
His Oxford's yoked up by an ass.
> THE STRATFORD MAN
> by Richard Kennedy
>
> In Stratford town, a thoroughfare
> Of garbage heaps and little care,
> Where sewers ran into the near-
> By swanny Avon river there,
> Was born a child all claim to be
> The poet of all centuries.
>
> His father kept the grassy ground
> To raise a sheep-fold, and ‘tis found
> He treated skins and fashioned gloves.
> Then alderman he finally proved,
> And signed some papers with his “X”,
> Until he lost his town’s respect.
>
> Young Will the while was stealing deer,
> A truant to the school house there,
> A rustic wit, so go the rumors,
> Who stole into Anne Hath’way’s bloomers.
Oxfordians should get their stories straight -- Art claims that
Anne Hathaway was Shakespeare's mother. But doubtless that's the
source of Hamlet's supposed Oedipal obsession with his mother.
> Then sped away to parts unknown
> For seven years when twins were born.
>
> The next we hear of Shakespeare’s name
> Is when in London town his fame
> Was made forever when he writ
> A poem never out of print
> These many years – of special note,
> For ‘twas the first he ever wrote.
>
> With this success, he turned to plays,
> Wrote many, and enjoyed the bays
> Of fame, but yet this poet god
> Was never seen, which some find odd.
> The hyphen dressed into his name
> Is notice of a guessing game.
>
> He passed invisible, a wraith,
> A humbug ghost, a hoax, i’faith.
> The greater myst’ry is his books.
> He never owned one, and we’re fucked
> To find the body of this farce,
> Which “honest Ben” shoved up our arse.
>
> O, miracle of rare delight,
> The poet could not read or write.
Kennedy proves his own point _ipso facto_.
lackpurity
MM:
Satyug, Tretayug, Dwaparyug, and Kaliyug – infinite of these four
yugas have passed in front of me. Kabir Sahib states that following
the words of Satguru, I have attained the eternal-immortal abode
(Satlok). Therefore I have explained the Tattav (the true spiritual
knowledge) to all the living beings that, by taking updesh from a
Purna Guru following his words throughout life and concentrating anf
remembering Purna Parmatma then by going to that eternal-immortal
Satlok you can be saved from the distressing crisis of birth and
death.
http://www.kabirsahib.jagatgururampalji.org/gorakh.html
MM:
I could write a lot about this. "Infinite of these four yugas," means
since the creation began. Ben Jonson knew the truth, when he wrote
"Poet of the Age." Ben Jonson even prophesied that Shakespeare would
be born in the "Hemisphere Advanc'd." Shakespeare must have told this
advanced disciples, not only about his PAST, but about his FUTURE.
Greg doesn't have a clue. I rest my case. The Four Yugas last for
4.3 million years, but then is started over again. 1000 such Yugas is
called a MAHAYUGA. Shakespeare has appeared in an infinite number of
them. Get it, Greg?
Michael Martin
Richard Kennedy
wrote:
> In article <a10497fb-82fb-4d58-93a1-301932220...@h14g2000pri.googlegroups.com>
David Kathman evidently wants to introduce himself as a critic, and
gives his qualifications below. This is all heartfelt stuff, I’m sure,
but I think he should stick to defending the Funeral Elegy, there’s
less chance of getting infected. Still, the forum is open, and toilet
paper is cheap at the price.
A SHIT-SMEARED POSEUR! Because his ink was MADE OF FECES!!!
AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA AND BESTIAAND THOSE OF THE LOCAL SHEEP!! LLY ABUSING
THEM!!! SO IT IS CLAIMED!!! BECAUSE HE SPENT HIS TIME HAULING GUANO
AND PICKING HIS NOSE!!! BUT HE CERTAINLY OWNED AN OUTHOUSE!!!!
AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!! THE FOOLS WHO BELIEVE IT!!! JUST SCRATCH HIS ASS
AND FART!!!! A SHILLING-SHYSTER, A FRANC-FIEND, A PENNY-PINCHING,
SHIT-SMEARED SACK OF COW-DUNG!!! AND NO DOUBT SOLD ON A DAILY BASIS TO
EARN MORE CASH!!! JUST A PIMP!! "AND WHERE WILL WE PISS? AND WHERE IS
THE MIDDEN HEAP, I NEED TO SHIT"!!!HIS SEXUAL NEEDS HAD TO BE SERVED!!
HOPELESS HILLBUT HE WAS CERTAINLY A WHORE-MONGERING SHILLING-HOARDER,
A SHIT-SCHOONER, A FECAL FRIGATE, A BE-PIMPLED DOOFUS, AND A HICCUPING
SYPHILITIC SHIT-STICK!!!! BILLY FUCKSTICKS!!! AND A CRUDE, THICK-
NECKED NUTTER, AND A RECTAL CRAMJET, A BARNYARD PIG-POKER, AN ACME OF
Melanie Sands
I was about to say, well hello Mr. Richard Kennedy, long time no see,
thou knowest me
oh say not no, twas truly long ago, Thous know'st not who, thou
know'st not what?
Thy ken'st me then as Lancelot.
But then I read all the replies to your posts, and thought that people
whio are relatively new to HLAS might find all this feces
talk about the Onlie True Beloved Author rather off-putting.
And bewildering.
The whole Authorship Controversy stuff tends to crop up with tedious
regularity
with EVERY author, n'est-ce pas.
Daphne du Maurier was actually taken to court because some obscure
American
woman claimed du Maurier had stolen "Rebecca" from her, when we all
know
that Rebecca was based loosely upon Jane Eyre, which was the story of
Charlotte Brontë's unrequited love for her Belgian married Professor
in
Brussels, Monsieur Hegere, and du Maurier's story of jealousy was,
in her own very private words, all about her jealousy for her
husband's
affection of a male friend of his.
Which of course she could not reveal in front of judge and jury.
Watching Helena Bonham-Carter's rather unsympathetic portrayal
of Enid Blyton, one thing did come through - Enid's absolute
dismay and despair that people might think that she did not
actually write all her works - since she WAS her work.
As H. B-C said, Life was something that interrupted
Enid in her writing.
So I imagine poor Will would be insulated, hurt, angry and
deeply offended at what is going on in this newsgroup -
and he WOULD get his revenge on you-all, because he
was defintiely NOT someone who let such insults pass by
unanswered and un-revenged.
You're lucky he's not around, aren't ya!
Melanie
Paul Crowley
> So I imagine poor Will would be insulated, hurt,
> angry and deeply offended at what is going on in
> this newsgroup -and he WOULD get his revenge on you-
> all, because he was defintiely NOT someone who let
> such insults pass by unanswered and un-revenged.
Supposedly Will suffered similar insults
during his working career. His work
was stolen and suffered unauthorised
publication. His name was used on work
in which he had no part. No doubt (in
the Strat scenario) he would often have
been slighted for his low social status.
He might have doubted that he would
get the credit for all his great work -- in
fact, he tells us so fairly explicitly in his
Sonnets.
So what was he to do?
He could have made the attribution of
his work absolutely clear and undeniable
-- by putting clear statements in the
introductions (or the dedications) to his
works. He could have written plays about
the folk at home in Stratford-upon-Avon.
He could have made members of his
family characters in his plots. He could
have told us who the Fair Youf really was,
and the Dark Lady. He could have set
out his entitlement to his literary works
in his will -- and so on and on.
But he did none of those things.
Why not?
You know and I know and we all know.
Paul.
lackpurity
> Melanie Sands wrote:
> > So I imagine poor Will would be insulated, hurt,
> > angry and deeply offended at what is going on in
> > this newsgroup -and he WOULD get his revenge on you-
> > all, because he was defintiely NOT someone who let
> > such insults pass by unanswered and un-revenged.
MM:
The higher powers have definitely noticed what has been written in
this group. I'd say NOT to call it revenge, but just balancing
karma. If we pigeonhole Saints or disparage them, then it's sowing
bad seeds which will result in the reaping of a bad crop. Timon of
Athens was similarly disrespected, and we know what Shakespeare wrote
about the Athenians.
> Supposedly Will suffered similar insults
> during his working career. �His work
> was stolen and suffered unauthorised
> publication. �His name was used on work
> in which he had no part. �No doubt (in
> the Strat scenario) he would often have
> been slighted for his low social status.
MM:
Every Strat has his own opinion. He started off low, but ended up
high. He became the leader of the Wilton Cult at the tender age of
29. Your argument is incomplete and/or wrong.
> He might have doubted that he would
> get the credit for all his great work -- in
> fact, he tells us so fairly explicitly in his
> Sonnets.
MM:
His interest was to collect the marked sheep, not get credit for
anything. You express a faulty interest in Shakespeare's motives.
> So what was he to do?
MM:
Like all Saints, he proceeded to collect his sheep.
> He could have made the attribution of
> his work absolutely clear and undeniable
> -- by putting clear statements in the
> introductions (or the dedications) to his
> works. �
MM:
His works were sufficiently clear and undeniable. His statements had
to be somewhat cryptic, but he cleverly calculated and they did serve
the purpose, both for the sonnets and the FF. It is only Anti-Strats
who fail to see this. He made all the necessary arrangements several
years in advance of his passing. There was no doubt, at all, about
anything at that time. It was only some 150 years later that Anti-
Strats started with their fantasies. They had to wait until all
witnesses, children of witnesses, grand-children of withnesses, etc.,
had died.
He could have written plays about
> the folk at home in Stratford-upon-Avon.
MM:
What is the purpose of this? You're going to tell us what he coulda
done? LOL His works were mystical, with emphasis on mysticism, Gods,
and Goddesses. He knew best what to write.
> He could have made members of his
> family characters in his plots. �
MM:
His fantasizing nature seems to be getting the best of him.
He could
> have told us who the Fair Youf really was,
> and the Dark Lady. �
MM:
Well, eventually he did for Mr. W. M. The fair youth was Mr. William
Herbert. His references to Aemelia Lanyer were clear enough. Those
who knew both of them must have known. This implication that you know
better what he should have done is ridiculous.
He could have set
> out his entitlement to his literary works
> in his will -- and so on and on.
MM:
He made all necessary arrangements for the sonnets and the FF. You're
just blowing a lot of hot air with no consideration for historical
facts.
> But he did none of those things.
>
> Why not?
>
> You know and I know and we all know.
>
> Paul.
MM:
I know you don't have a clue. That's what I know.
Michael Martin