Or a Character from Dutch Fiction

You appear to be overcome with some emotion, said Arthur.

It's not my sort of poetry, said Dr Yates.

It's mine, said Arthur. I thought it was pretty good considering.

It's in considering it that I have a problem, said Dr Yates. The word 'fingerling' for example. A fingerling does not become a claw.

What is your point? asked Arthur.

A fingerling is a young or small fish, such as a salmon or a trout, said Dr Yates. Or else a small stubby finger-shaped potato. Or a character from Dutch fiction. Or a ring made out of fabric, vinyl or leather rather than metal.

How enchanting, said Arthur.

And he did think it was enchanting, but nevertheless he wished to defend himself.

The thing is, said Arthur, to understand my poetry requires a disorganisation of the senses. And a fingerling may grow into a claw, in that sense.

Anything may grow into anything, in that sense, said Dr Yates.

Exactly, said Arthur.

The sort of poetry I like, said Dr Yates, is rather different.

What sort ? said Arthur. Let me guess. Longfellow? By the shores of Gitchee Goomee.....

No, said Dr Yates. Something that rhymes.

Two of my lines rhymed, said Arthur, but I ditched them.

What were they? asked Dr Yates

The olive crocodile soaking in the replica lake/ Losing his knobby buttons in a spasmic quake, said Arthur.

That's terrible, said Dr Yates.

It wouldn't rhyme in French, said Arthur.

What's that got to do with it? said Dr Yates.

I'm French, said Arthur. My name is Arthur Rimbaud.

Well, well! said Dr Yates. I'm very pleased to meet you. But are you sure it wouldn't rhyme in French?
Replique lac and .......spasmique quack?

Arthur wondered if he hadn't met his match.


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