A Gibraltar Poem by an Enigmatic Funnyman...
words | Reg Reynolds
While researching the evolution of the word ‘gibberish’ for a story that appeared in the February edition of the Gibraltar Magazine I happened across a poem that I found both brilliant and hilarious.
The Rock of Gibberish Altar I burnished my armour til my fingers were sore, And girding it on the Gods I did implore. Confident that I could neither fail nor falter, Much like the Moors in the Rock of Gibraltar. I sallied forth from my keep, a maiden to woo, And with each plodding hoof-beat, my love only grew. I thought of her virtues which so oft were extolled, And occasionally my heart I had to scold, For thinking what’s unbecoming of chivalry. Through forests I ventured and down by the sea Scarcely I did notice – my mind was a whirl. Oh, the things one will do just to get a girl! I never considered the peasants that I knew, After all they are hackneyed like the town where I grew. Now after riding for a weary week, Quite certain that my strength had sprung a leak – For scarcely I stopped to eat or sleep, And even my horse had started to weep Like a useless vow = the chateau came into view; And with reckless abandoned toward it I flew. But no heralds or trumpets sounded my approach; Vaguely I saw that darkness the land did encroach. But rather than use prudence and turn away, I pursued my course to that chateau cold and gray. How is it the moat and drawbridge did greet Me alone? No sentry stood at guard on his feet. If I had listened to reason, instead of pride, I never would have planted a cursed foot inside. But my ambition for my fair lady proved strong, And I found that my feet carried me right along. Lying on the altar at the foot of the stair, I saw that my maiden didn’t have any hair. I rationalised myself to this thinking that If she went out in public she could wear a hat. I bent down to give her a passionate kissing, And that’s when I realised all her teeth were missing.
The poem appears in the book Rorschachs: Dramatic Verse and Somber, Twisted Tales written by Iyan Igma. If you have read the poem to the end you will find that Mr. Igma is quite a talent with a twisted sense of humour, which he freely admits to on his website (www.iyanigma.com). Iyan Igma (pronounced E.N. Igma) is an obvious pseudonym and the man keeps his real name a secret on the website which adds that he is a “recluse”. The opening paragraphs of his website give an idea of his quirky sense of humour. “Some say Iyan Igma wasn’t hugged enough as a child. Others think that he’s a prophet or visionary. Still others think he only has eight toes. Of course, those are just the people that live inside his head. “The real Iyan Igma is a mischievous, meddling, mediocre megalomaniac who hails from South Georgia but is a transplant to beautiful, desolate Montana. Most people wouldn’t think that he’s as strange as his writings would make him appear. He likes peace and quiet, although he never gets any. He has been aptly described as one who apparently goes around breaking mirrors (purely in self-defense, though,) and one who has no life.” Iyan Igma has eclectic tastes and lists his favourite poets as Robert Browning, Edgar Allen Poe, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Alexander Pope and Dr. Seuss. He loves Shakespeare, Bernard
Some say Iyan Igma wasn’t hugged enough as a child. Others think that he’s a prophet or visionary. Still others think he only has eight toes
Shaw, Voltaire and Oscar Wilde. He has written more than 1,000 poems and short stories which can be found in collections: The Dementia of Iyan Igma; The Repressed Memories of Iyan Igma; More Heresies from Iyan Igma and Senticous Tears on the Thysiastery. His omnibus is titled Blather. I am looking forward to reading his cookbook It Probably Won’t Kill You...Twisted Humour For Your Kitchen which he describes in his own review: “A blend of flavours from the South and Southwest, which will appeal to the non-health conscious, twisted, and slightly cannibalistic. Remember, I only said they probably won't kill you, but I offer no guarantee...” Recipe titles include Hobo Dinners, First Date Fried Chicken, Irish Enchiladas and my favourite, Pee Can Pie. n
GIBRALTAR MAGAZINE • MARCH 2014
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