To something else entirely–Books, Inq. has a link to an article on the history, function, and sheer bliss of the limerick and limerick contest. One of my favorites from the article:
A man in the island of Skye
Had a notion he knew how to fly
Some wings he contrived
From a steeple he dived
“Tempus fugit” he said. “Why not I?”
The last line in this was supplied by a contest run by a newspaper. The newspaper gave the first four lines and asked for the best final line–for a cash prize. I’m reminded of the caption contests in the New Yorker. The article suggests that such limerick contests were ubiquitous in early 20th century Britain, such that the Royal Post was overburdened by submissions.
Doesn’t this seem like a heck of a lot more fun than buying lottery tickets? Imagine a switch from our passive, boring system of state lotteries–there could be a panel of expert judges, luck and chance would still play a major role, and a big payoff could all be a part. But something–at the least entertaining, at the most, lasting–would be created.
What is most striking about the article is the suggestion that inherent in the form is some of the emotional clout (or lack thereof) that a limerick is capable of:
“It is, Ian McMillan asserts, impossible to write a serious limerick. You can try. It is an exercise I set to students sometimes. Can you rewrite Hamlet in limericks? It would certainly make you think more deeply about what Shakespeare is saying. But would it work?” On Amazon you can buy the Bible rewritten in limericks, I tell him….”
Wait a second. The Bible in limericks?
The suggestion is worth stewing over–could you write a serious limerick? Or does a limerick’s rhyme and rhythm always doom that possibility? If it is impossible–what does this suggest about other forms? What are their inherencies?
Make it to the end of the limerick article, and you’ll see that The Independent is running a limerick contest in conjunction with it. Sept. 16th is the deadline–best of luck.