Ode to All Elegant Englishwomen

The elegant Englishwoman is a species
Said to exist in certain parts of England
Though I have never seen her there--
Of course, I have never been to England
Which may perhaps explain why she,
This creature so noble, cultured, fair,
Would seem, outside the BBC
And a few productions of Jane Austen,
So exceeding rare.

There exist no doubt tropic birds
Their plumage of strange and brilliant colors
But I have never observed one
In England or any other place
So I may not give them a proper scientific name.

Those who only believe what their eyes can see
Strike me as a rather odd and feeble sort
For logic clearly indicates
They must not believe their own thoughts.

*

But what might I relate of this creature
Known as the elegant Englishwoman?
I have never yet met one,
So I have never met one I did not like.
From what I hear they take tea at four
With two lumps--though the number varies
Depending on each one’s fine, exquisite taste.

They make lovely conversation
Though I’m afraid I must confess
I have not the slightest idea what about--
I only know it is pure enchantment.

Their fashions may not always resemble
All those ladies on the BBC
After all, those are only actors
And I am worldly enough to know
That real life, even in England, is not TV.

I think some of them, at least,
May pass for sparkling Fairy Queens--
Though that is mere conjecture
Based not so much on observation
As on unaided reason.

*

All elegant Englishwomen, it is said,
Dwell somewhere between Venus and the Moon
In their own private, glittering constellation
Of unreachable celestial beauty.

Of course one may never touch them
Though they may sometimes be glimpsed,
If only for a moment, in bright and ardent dreams--
That is where they are viewed most clearly.

All elegant Englishwomen have rather lovely bums
At least that’s what I’ve been told
The only problem with elegant Englishwomen’s bums is
You never get to see them.

Do not ask me how we learned this
I think it’s some sort of intuitive Platonic knowledge
Or perhaps it is, to be more accurate, Neoplatonic--
Either way, it is certainly a contemplation
Of ideal and heavenly forms.

Some of our less refined gentlemen--
If we may even call them that--
Say they can feel it in their bones.

All elegant Englishwomen are unattainable--
We wouldn’t have them any other way--
Which perhaps explains why they are so beloved
By hopeless romantic sorts.

They are especially admired by lonely punk rock boys
Who long for their soft sweet elegance
And who secretly yearn to be ruled by Mother England
Despite their anarchistic protestations.

Why else would they sing so lustily
"God Save the Queen"?

*

Of course, I know none of this from experience
I only know what I have heard--
I admit it is mostly speculation.
We possess insufficient evidence
And must rely on an examination of desires
Which do not always correspond to reality.

As for me, though I know I shall never meet one,
I yet believe in the existence of elegant Englishwomen
And tonight, after a nice cup of tea,
I will gaze somewhere between Venus and the Moon
Where I might, if I squint just right,
Catch sight of their lovely stars.


Steven Holland
August 20, 2013