Ogden Nash

Ogden Nash

1902–1971 · lived 68 years US US

Ogden Nash was an American poet, best known for his unconventional, humorous verse. His poems often played with language, featuring irregular rhyme schemes and invented words. Nash's work provided lighthearted social commentary, tackling everyday life and common human foibles with wit and originality. His unique style made him a beloved figure in American literature, accessible to a wide audience.

n. 1902-08-19, Rye (Nova Iorque) · m. 1971-05-19, Baltimore

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Winter Complaint

Winter Complaint
Now when I have a cold
I am careful with my cold,
I consult a physician
And I do as I am told.
I muffle up my torso
In woolly woolly garb,
And I quaff great flagons
Of sodium bicarb.
I munch on aspirin,
I lunch on water,
And I wouldn’t dream of osculating
Anybody’s daughter,
And to anybody’s son
I wouldn’t say howdy,
For I am a sufferer
Magna cum laude.
I don’t like germs,
But I’ll keep the germs I’ve got.
Will I take a chance of spreading them?
Definitely not.
I sneeze out the window
And I cough up the flue,
And I live like a hermit
Till the germs get through.
And because I’m considerate,
Because I’m wary,
I am treated by my friends
Like Typhoid Mary.
Now when you have a cold
You are careless with your cold,
You are cocky as a gangster
Who has just been paroled.
You ignore your physician,
You eat steaks and oxtails,
You stuff yourself with starches,
You drink lots of cocktails,
And you claim that gargling
Is a time of waste,
And you won’t take soda
For you don’t like the taste,
And you prowl around parties
Full of selfish bliss,
And greet your hostess
With a genial kiss.
You convert yourself
Into a deadly missle,
You exhale Hello’s
Like a steamboat wistle.
You sneeze in the subway
And you cough at dances,
And let everybody else


Take their own good chances.
You’re a bronchial boor,
A bacterial blighter,
And you get more invitations
Than a gossip writer.
Yes, your throat is froggy,
And your eyes are swimmy,
And you hand is clammy,
And you nose is brimmy,
But you woo my girls
And their hearts you jimmy
While I sit here
With the cold you gimmy.
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Bio

Identification and basic context

Ogden Nash was an American poet, known for his distinctive, humorous verse. He was born Frederic Ogden Nash and often used his given name in his work. He was an American citizen and wrote exclusively in English. His life and work spanned much of the 20th century, a period of significant social and technological change in the United States.

Childhood and education

Nash was born into a well-established family in Rye, New York. His father was a successful businessman. He attended public schools and later went to St. George's School in Newport, Rhode Island. He briefly attended Harvard University but dropped out before graduating. Despite not completing a traditional degree, Nash was well-read and possessed a sharp intellect, which he applied to his literary endeavors.

Literary trajectory

Nash began his writing career in advertising and journalism. He worked for several publications, including *The New Yorker*, where his unique poetic style found a receptive audience. His first book of poetry, *Primrose Path*, was published in 1935, and was followed by numerous other collections throughout his career. His work was widely published in magazines and anthologized frequently, solidifying his reputation as a major humorist.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Nash's major works include *The Primrose Path* (1935), *The Face Is Familiar* (1940), *I'm a Stranger Here Myself* (1938), and *Versus* (1949). His poems often dealt with themes of everyday life, social customs, animals, and the quirks of human behavior. Nash's style is characterized by its highly original, often deliberately awkward, rhyme schemes and meter. He frequently employed neologisms (invented words) and portmanteaus to achieve humorous effects and unexpected rhymes. His poetic voice is witty, observational, and gently satirical, often adopting a conversational tone. He was a master of wordplay, puns, and humorous juxtapositions. His innovations lay in his radical departure from traditional poetic forms for humorous effect, creating a unique niche in American poetry.

Cultural and historical context

Nash's work reflected the social and cultural landscape of mid-20th century America. His poems commented on the burgeoning consumer culture, changing social mores, and the anxieties and absurdities of modern life. He was associated with the generation of American humorists that included figures like Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker, though his style was distinctly his own. His popularity soared during a time when mass media, particularly magazines, played a significant role in shaping public taste and humor.

Personal life

Nash was married to Frances Ridgeway Lane, and they had two daughters. He was known for his genial personality and his deep love for his family. His personal life, while not overtly documented in his poetry, provided the backdrop for his observations on domesticity and everyday relationships. He enjoyed gardening and had a fondness for animals, which often featured in his poems.

Recognition and reception

Ogden Nash was immensely popular during his lifetime and continues to be widely read. His work was celebrated for its originality and humor, earning him a significant following. While not typically considered in the same academic light as more 'serious' poets, his contributions to American humor and light verse are undeniable. He received honorary degrees from several universities, recognizing his literary achievements.

Influences and legacy

While Nash's style was highly individual, he drew inspiration from the tradition of English light verse and rhyme. His legacy lies in his unique contribution to American humor and poetry. He demonstrated that poetry could be accessible, entertaining, and insightful without sacrificing linguistic playfulness. He influenced subsequent generations of humor writers and poets who appreciated his linguistic inventiveness and his ability to find humor in the mundane.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Critics often analyze Nash's work for its cleverness, linguistic dexterity, and social commentary. His poems can be seen as lighthearted explorations of human nature, offering a humorous perspective on societal norms and individual behaviors. The apparent simplicity of his verse often masks a sophisticated understanding of language and a keen observational eye.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Nash was known to be a meticulous craftsman of his poems, spending considerable time perfecting his rhymes and rhythms. Despite his humorous public persona, he was also a thoughtful individual. His distinctive handwriting, with its unique letter formations, was almost as recognizable as his poetry.

Death and memory

Ogden Nash passed away in 1971. His poems remain popular in children's literature and in collections of American humor. He is remembered as one of America's most original and beloved comic poets.

Poems

59

The Cuckoo

The Cuckoo
Cuckoos lead Bohemian lives,
They fail as husbands and as wives,
Therefore they cynically disparage
Everybody else's marriage.
218

The Duck

The Duck
Behold the duck.
It does not cluck.
A cluck it lacks.
It quacks.
It is specially fond
Of a puddle or pond.
When it dines or sups,
It bottoms ups.
214

The Centipede

The Centipede
I objurgate the centipede,
A bug we do not really need.
At sleepy-time he beats a path
Straight to the bedroom or the bath.
You always wallop where he's not,
Or, if he is, he makes a spot.
259

The Clean Plater

The Clean Plater
Some singers sing of ladies' eyes,
And some of ladies lips,
Refined ones praise their ladylike ways,
And course ones hymn their hips.
The Oxford Book of English Verse
Is lush with lyrics tender;
A poet, I guess, is more or less
Preoccupied with gender.
Yet I, though custom call me crude,
Prefer to sing in praise of food.
Food,
Yes, food,
Just any old kind of food.
Pheasant is pleasant, of course,
And terrapin, too, is tasty,
Lobster I freely endorse,
In pate or patty or pasty.
But there's nothing the matter with butter,
And nothing the matter with jam,
And the warmest greetings I utter
To the ham and the yam and the clam.
For they're food,
All food,
And I think very fondly of food.
Through I'm broody at times
When bothered by rhymes,
I brood
On food.
Some painters paint the sapphire sea,
And some the gathering storm.
Others portray young lambs at play,
But most, the female form.
“Twas trite in that primeval dawn
When painting got its start,
That a lady with her garments on
Is Life, but is she Art?
By undraped nymphs
I am not wooed;
I'd rather painters painted food.
Food,
Just food,
Just any old kind of food.
Go purloin a sirloin, my pet,
If you'd win a devotion incredible;
And asparagus tips vinaigrette,
Or anything else that is edible.
Bring salad or sausage or scrapple,
A berry or even a beet.
Bring an oyster, an egg, or an apple,
As long as it's something to eat.
If it's food,
It's food;


Never mind what kind of food.
When I ponder my mind
I consistently find
It is glued
On food.
224

The Cantaloupe

The Cantaloupe
One cantaloupe is ripe and lush,
Another's green, another's mush.
I'd buy a lot more cantaloupe
If I possessed a fluoroscope.
200

The Boy Who Laughed At Santa Claus

The Boy Who Laughed At Santa Claus
In Baltimore there lived a boy.
He wasn't anybody's joy.
Although his name was Jabez Dawes,
His character was full of flaws. In school he never led his classes,
He hid old ladies' reading glasses,
His mouth was open when he chewed,
And elbows to the table glued.
He stole the milk of hungry kittens,
And walked through doors marked NO ADMITTANCE.
He said he acted thus because
There wasn't any Santa Claus.
266

The Ant

The Ant
The ant has made herself illustrious
By constant industry industrious.
So what? Would you be calm and placid
If you were full of formic acid?
317

Tableau at Twilight

Tableau at Twilight
I sit in the dusk. I am all alone.
Enter a child and an ice-cream cone.
A parent is easily beguiled
By sight of this coniferous child.
The friendly embers warmer gleam,
The cone begins to drip ice cream.
Cones are composed of many a vitamin.
My lap is not the place to bitamin.
Although my raiment is not chinchilla,
I flinch to see it become vanilla.
Coniferous child, when vanilla melts
I’d rather it melted somewhere else.
Exit child with remains of cone.
I sit in the dusk. I am all alone,
Muttering spells like an angry Druid,
Alone, in the dusk, with the cleaning fluid.
223

Soliloquy in Circles

Soliloquy in Circles
Being a father
Is quite a bother.
You are as free as air
With time to spare,
You're a fiscal rocket
With change in your pocket,
And then one morn
A child is born.
Your life has been runcible,
Irresponsible,
Like an arrow or javelin
You've been constantly travelin'.
But mostly, I daresay,
Without a chaise percée,
To which by comparison
Nothing's embarison.
But all children matures,
Maybe even yours.
You improve them mentally
And straighten them dentally,
They grow tall as a lancer
And ask questions you can't answer,
And supply you with data
About how everybody else wears lipstick sooner and stays up later,
And if they are popular,
The phone they monopular.
They scorn the dominion
Of their parent's opinion,
They're no longer corralable
Once they find that you're fallible
But after you've raised them and educated them and gowned them,
They just take their little fingers and wrap you around them.
Being a father Is quite a bother,
But I like it, rather.
272

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.
Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.
I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.
Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.
Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!


My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he'll struggle though fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.
210

Quotes

40

Videos

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