Welcome to part 3 of my contemporary makeover of three metaphysical poems.
To recap, the metaphysical poets were a group of 17th century poets who, although not a part of a movement in itself, shared particular characteristics.
In short, their style was philosophical, intelligent, logical, hyperbolic, critical, sometimes caustic and often funny, and they were not afraid to clearly express their opinions.
So, on to part 3, and be warned, if you are of a delicate disposition you may blush at some of the language.
I have based part 3’s poem, To his Coy Grindr Chat, on Andrew Marvell’s, To his Coy Mistress.
The original poem is ostensibly a man’s love poem to his mistress, but it also displays an almost sweet manipulation through the metaphysical poets’ characteristic clever reasoning.
Aside from espousing his love for the woman, he is also, by means of a dodgy logic, trying to talk her into having sex with him.
His simple argument is that we don’t live forever, so let’s do it before it’s too late.
Marvell uses a keen awareness of mortality as a persuasive logic to win the favours of the lady.
He is to the point, lewd at times and humorous with his use of hyperbole.
Structurally the poem rhymes as couplets and is iambic tetrameter, giving it an easy rhythmic pace.
And so, onto To his Coy Grindr Chat.
Enjoy, and remember, if you are easily offended, then leave now.
To His Coy Grindr Chat
Your fear to choose, will leave you scrap,
To dither your choice, on this unholy app.
Tremulous to meet, anywhere,
Yet chat forever, with words to snare.
As a honeybee, who chooses no flower,
In spring’s abundant and ripest hour.
For as no nectar, the bee collects,
So, as you, no hook-up connects.
Your profile says, well-hung versatile,
Should also read, let’s chat for a while.
And talk you do, of a welcoming end,
Yet never a dick-pic, you offer to send.
And I hunger, as say you,
For you to blow, and me to screw.
But here we stay, no meeting close,
With you insouciant, and verbose.
Your shaven balls, none I’ve seen at all,
When all is talk, and talk is small.
Happy to host, on ePrep, HMU,
Looking for daddy, but daddy’s tiring of you.
So, mark my words, young baiting boy,
No-one stays forever another man’s toy.
As a child loses interest and seeks anew,
Be wary, the tossed top, be not you.
Time is cruel, and patience withers,
When waiting on one that never delivers.
Profiles flourish in the Grindr garden,
There are many men, for my cock to harden.
Make your choice, sure you’ll make mistakes,
But a life being coy, is life on the brakes.
Step into the garden, pick your flowers with greed,
Lest you be left, an un-plucked weed.
Andrew James Macleod 