francis heaney has made his book, anthology

holy tango of literature available online. the book’s central conceit is a simple but novel one, i’ll let the author explain: the question of what would happen if poets and playwrights wrote works whose titles were anagrams of their names is one that has been insufficiently studied in the past. This may simply be because most poets and playwrights have not written any works whose titles are anagrams of their names. the goal of any literary anthology is to provide a thorough picture of literature through the ages. Accordingly, we have attempted to include works by every major author whose name anagrammed into something vaguely humorous. In most anthologies the hardest decisions involve deciding who to leave out. In our case, it was easy. No decent anagrams? To hell with them. to whet your appetite see below.

first a history of anagrams as offered by francis heaney in the preface to the second edition:

Since the dawn of time, man has anagrammed things. Before there was written language, primitive man would anagram sticks. Some have postulated that a particularly enthusiastic anagram session led to the discovery of fire, and when I say some, it is entirely possible that I am referring to people whom I have made up, because ‘some’ is such a delightfully ambiguous word. We may never know.

Certainly, though, the development of language was a turning point in the evolution of the anagram. The earliest practitioners of language-based anagrams would take the letters of a word and rearrange them, but would rearrange them to form the same word, switching the two A’s in salad, for example. Fortunately, as language increased in complexity, so did anagrams.

now a few entries (with cover art by yours truly, couldn’t help myself)

IS A SPERM LIKE A WHALE?
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Shall I compare thee to a sperm whale, sperm?
Thou art more tiny and more resolute:
Rough tides may sway a sea-bound endotherm,
But naught diverts thy uterine commute.
Sometime too fierce the eye of squid may glint
And make a stout cetacean hunter quail;
Methinks ‘twould take much more than bilious squint
To shake thee off the cunning ovumís trail.
Yet still thou art not so unlike, thou two,
Both coursing through a dark uncharted brine
While fore and aft there swims thy fellow crew;
And note this echo, little gamete mine:
As whales spray salty water from their spout,
So with a salty spray dost thou come out.

HALT, DYNAMOS
DYLAN THOMAS

Do not work harder than required to work,
Young men should sit around and drink all day;
Laze, laze, ignore the pressure not to shirk.

Though poor men may apply to be a clerk,
Because their jobs are not exciting they
Do not work harder than required to work.

Rich men, who sell and buy, eat at Le Cirque,
And take their ‘business trips’ to Saint-Tropez,
Laze, laze, ignore the pressure not to shirk.

Old men around retirement age who lurk
At desks and hope no tasks will come their way
Do not work harder than required to work.

Smart men, in school, who learn with blinding smirk
That coasting through a class still earns an ‘A’,
Laze, laze, ignore the pressure not to shirk.

Donít visit every world like Captain Kirk;
Picard knows that the bridge is where to stay.
Do not work harder than required to work.
Laze, laze, ignore the pressure not to shirk.

BRR, FOOTREST
ROBERT FROST

This ottoman is in my way.
I tripped on it again today;
It chills me with a nameless fear
To think it sees me as its prey.

My loving wife must think it queer
That I am always falling here
As I am walking past the chair.
How comical I must appear.

When I remember to beware
The wicked footrest lurking there,
I do not stumble in a sprawl,
And yet such instances are rare.

My house is cozy, warm, and small,
With just one thing that wrecks it all:
The ottoman that makes me fall,
The ottoman that makes me fall.

nice smug me
e. e. cummings

this here verse’s
disjunct
  i used to
  stick to regular metered
      poetry
now i write onetwothreefourfive poemsjustlikethat
      Jesus

but this is simple work
    and what i want to know is
how much am i going to get paid for this
mister editor

well, there you have it.

it strikes me that this particular genre, litterary satire, must be sharing the same sad fortune as litterature itself. with everyone reading “chick-lit,” self-help, thrillers, rags about da vinci, and childrens books about be-scarved and be-spectacled magicians i have to wonder what the market for intelligent literary satire might be? who would even get the joke? if you’ve liked what you’ve read why not go to amazon and reward mr. heaney for being such an exceptionally silly fellow.