autumninclevelandohio
Originally uploaded by Brian in Cleveland
No poem, but I need to get this going again - with a photo smashup of Cleveland/Autumn.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
autumninclevelandohio
autumninclevelandohio
Originally uploaded by Brian in Cleveland
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Rent
Posted at PFFA (to High Critique, no less).
Rent
Advert tacked to kiosk:
"2bdrm. big ktch.
parking" and a per mo.
to make a lessor man weep.
I moved for the scrap,
but the wind ripped
it off and took my
apt. up the nice
street, beautiful area,
close to freeways and shopping.
-----
I thought I revised this at some point, but I can't find another version, older or newer. It's neat. "Lessor" is punnily intentional. The title, too (see L6) although as someone commented, it's oblique.
Rent
Advert tacked to kiosk:
"2bdrm. big ktch.
parking" and a per mo.
to make a lessor man weep.
I moved for the scrap,
but the wind ripped
it off and took my
apt. up the nice
street, beautiful area,
close to freeways and shopping.
-----
I thought I revised this at some point, but I can't find another version, older or newer. It's neat. "Lessor" is punnily intentional. The title, too (see L6) although as someone commented, it's oblique.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Prayer on I-90
Posted at PFFA.
Prayer on I-90
Erie etches counterfeits of white
onto the town, a scarious gravure
of ice, deceptive in its pleasantness.
The scene admits some beauty, I am sure,
from high above the city. I confess
I've never seen it blanketed at night
as heaven must, a globe of shaken flurries
dazzling the ground. I only know
the bobsled run of traffic, dodging trucks,
and staying out of ditches. Lovely show,
God. Take it on the road. I hear Canucks
have money, leisure time and fewer worries.
-----
Originally "Prayer on Interstate 90", the new title is snappier.
No one liked "scarious gravure." How am I supposed to revise that?
Prayer on I-90
Erie etches counterfeits of white
onto the town, a scarious gravure
of ice, deceptive in its pleasantness.
The scene admits some beauty, I am sure,
from high above the city. I confess
I've never seen it blanketed at night
as heaven must, a globe of shaken flurries
dazzling the ground. I only know
the bobsled run of traffic, dodging trucks,
and staying out of ditches. Lovely show,
God. Take it on the road. I hear Canucks
have money, leisure time and fewer worries.
-----
Originally "Prayer on Interstate 90", the new title is snappier.
No one liked "scarious gravure." How am I supposed to revise that?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Introductions (A Cento)
Posted 07-31-2005 at PFFA.
Introductions (A Cento)
Listen great things: Brutus and Cassius
You Also, Gaius Valerius Catullus
Jacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo, and Mosca,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
For to-day we have naming of parts.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the
heart.
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Naming your pounding name again in the dark heart-root.
Who gave you the name of Old Glory? - say, who -
Seaver, Garvey, Schmidt, and Vida Blue
And Peter Mangiador, and Peter of Spain,
maggie and millie and molly and may
The ghost of Pancho Villa, Sittin' Bull and Jesse James
All of them sensible everyday names.
So I said I am Ezra
Louie Louie Louie Lou I
The man who married Magdalene
Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Shirley, Shirley Bo Birley Bonana Fanna Fo Firley
My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad?
---
Um, not great, but slightly amusing.
All poetic credit due:
1. Julius Caesar (William Shakespeare)
2. (Archibald Macleish)
3. Inferno, Canto VI (Dante)
4. Henry V (William Shakespeare)
5. Naming of Parts (Henry Reed)
6. The Names (Billy
Collins)
7. (Emily Dickinson)
8. A Letter (Anthony Hecht)
9. The Name of Old Glory (James Whitcomb Riley)
10. Talkin' Baseball (Terry Cashman)
11. Paradiso, Canto XII (Dante)
12. (E.E. Cummings)
13. Legacy of the Rodeo Man (Baxter Black)
14. The Naming of Cats (T.S. Eliot)
15. (A.R. Ammons)
16. Brother Louie (Stories)
17. (Louis Simpson)
18. (Shel Silverstein)
19. The Name Game (Shirley Ellis)
20. Richard III (William Shakespeare)
Introductions (A Cento)
Listen great things: Brutus and Cassius
You Also, Gaius Valerius Catullus
Jacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo, and Mosca,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
For to-day we have naming of parts.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the
heart.
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Naming your pounding name again in the dark heart-root.
Who gave you the name of Old Glory? - say, who -
Seaver, Garvey, Schmidt, and Vida Blue
And Peter Mangiador, and Peter of Spain,
maggie and millie and molly and may
The ghost of Pancho Villa, Sittin' Bull and Jesse James
All of them sensible everyday names.
So I said I am Ezra
Louie Louie Louie Lou I
The man who married Magdalene
Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Shirley, Shirley Bo Birley Bonana Fanna Fo Firley
My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad?
---
Um, not great, but slightly amusing.
All poetic credit due:
1. Julius Caesar (William Shakespeare)
2. (Archibald Macleish)
3. Inferno, Canto VI (Dante)
4. Henry V (William Shakespeare)
5. Naming of Parts (Henry Reed)
6. The Names (Billy
Collins)
7. (Emily Dickinson)
8. A Letter (Anthony Hecht)
9. The Name of Old Glory (James Whitcomb Riley)
10. Talkin' Baseball (Terry Cashman)
11. Paradiso, Canto XII (Dante)
12. (E.E. Cummings)
13. Legacy of the Rodeo Man (Baxter Black)
14. The Naming of Cats (T.S. Eliot)
15. (A.R. Ammons)
16. Brother Louie (Stories)
17. (Louis Simpson)
18. (Shel Silverstein)
19. The Name Game (Shirley Ellis)
20. Richard III (William Shakespeare)
Monday, April 27, 2009
Fab Four Clerihews
Originally posted at PFFA.
Fab Four Clerihews
George Harrison
should garrison
his house against attacks
from Beatlemaniacs.
---
Ringo
could sing. Oh,
but Starkey?
Malarkey!
---
Paul
was in thrall,
not dead,
as some said.
---
And of course John, who is very stubborn about having a clerihew written about him:
John
looks down upon
mere mortals to see
if a working class angel is something to be.
John
looks upon
mere mortals, and mingles
with angels while penning hit singles.
Sir John
looked down upon
his reward. It ain't good:
He turned down sainthood.
Fab Four Clerihews
George Harrison
should garrison
his house against attacks
from Beatlemaniacs.
---
Ringo
could sing. Oh,
but Starkey?
Malarkey!
---
Paul
was in thrall,
not dead,
as some said.
---
And of course John, who is very stubborn about having a clerihew written about him:
John
looks down upon
mere mortals to see
if a working class angel is something to be.
John
looks out upon
his everlasting reward to see
if a working class angel is something to be.
John
looks upon
mere mortals, and mingles
with angels while penning hit singles.
Sir John
looked out upon
his reward. It ain't good:
He turned down sainthood.
Sir John
looked down upon
his reward. It ain't good:
He turned down sainthood.
Décima: Scansion Challenge
Décima: Scansion Practice/Challenge
Posted 04-16-2002 to PFFA.
Our Uncle Clive said only “piss”
in working out unpublished lines,
in drafts so rough the only signs
of humor came from using this
vulgarity. We sorely miss
the British sheen of style and wit
he once displayed. The thought of it!
His brow, a mix of high and low,
transfixed us. It was pure (although
our Uncle Clive once used a “shit.”)
---
Posted 04-19-2002 to PFFA.
All lackeys in this thread should hail
my poem's presence. Don't you see?
The crap was introduced by me,
by Weathering, the son of Dale!
No toilet, outhouse, sturdy pail
or bedpan would be full without
my contribution. Damn the lout
who dares decree another post
the winner! I propose a toast:
to me! Now, throw your praise about.
-----
This is taken out of context, so click the link in the title to see the challenge.
Not for the -- poetically or metrically -- squeamish.
Scarab in a Barrel
Posted 06-08-2004 at PFFA.
Scarab in a Barrel
"Break the crown, Tiger. And point
the trident up. Remember, up
then down into me," Scarab says.
"Smoke me, wax me; if not
I will go berserk."
Anyone like Scarab -- gutted will, hunched,
weathered, sour of bladder -- bends, but snaps.
Blend the antidote: lime in his whiskey.
Slowly, he slurs inside and pales.
"Oh, Tiger, balance
the crowbar, carefully needle the hutch's hinge,
drive your trident through."
You and I will crawl forever.
-----
Not just a fill-in-the-blank poem, oh no no no. See here.
Scarab in a Barrel
"Break the crown, Tiger. And point
the trident up. Remember, up
then down into me," Scarab says.
"Smoke me, wax me; if not
I will go berserk."
Anyone like Scarab -- gutted will, hunched,
weathered, sour of bladder -- bends, but snaps.
Blend the antidote: lime in his whiskey.
Slowly, he slurs inside and pales.
"Oh, Tiger, balance
the crowbar, carefully needle the hutch's hinge,
drive your trident through."
You and I will crawl forever.
-----
Not just a fill-in-the-blank poem, oh no no no. See here.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
i.e.
Posted at PFFA (verrrry early on).
i.e.
I said it once and I'll say it again,
that is, I will repeat my previous statement:
redundancy, that is, reiteration,
is the beating of a dead horse, that is,
the pounding of some concept into one's skull.
To sum up, repetition, that is,
the aforementioned redundancy,
is the reiteration of a dead horse's
skull. Maybe I should clarify.
I will qualify my statement,
crystallize my thoughts, that is.
I repeat: redundancy, repetition, reiteration,
that is the topic (the theme, that is,
or actually the themes, since they are plural).
Now the topics, yes. What goes over
and over and over and over
and over is redundant or repetitive,
often said of a droning orator,
that is, a monotonous speaker.
Clear? No? What? Oh.
-----
An ancient one from my notebooks. Old immature poems are either burnable or frameable. This leans toward framing since I find it cohesive and focused. I still get a chuckle out of it.
i.e.
I said it once and I'll say it again,
that is, I will repeat my previous statement:
redundancy, that is, reiteration,
is the beating of a dead horse, that is,
the pounding of some concept into one's skull.
To sum up, repetition, that is,
the aforementioned redundancy,
is the reiteration of a dead horse's
skull. Maybe I should clarify.
I will qualify my statement,
crystallize my thoughts, that is.
I repeat: redundancy, repetition, reiteration,
that is the topic (the theme, that is,
or actually the themes, since they are plural).
Now the topics, yes. What goes over
and over and over and over
and over is redundant or repetitive,
often said of a droning orator,
that is, a monotonous speaker.
Clear? No? What? Oh.
-----
An ancient one from my notebooks. Old immature poems are either burnable or frameable. This leans toward framing since I find it cohesive and focused. I still get a chuckle out of it.
Friday, April 24, 2009
What Price Neologist Cinquain?
Posted 04-19-2009 at PFFA.
What Price Neologist Cinquain?
Two, four,
six, eight, two and
macaronstrosities
will dysphragmate my next double
dactyl.
What Price Neologist Cinquain?
Two, four,
six, eight, two and
macaronstrosities
will dysphragmate my next double
dactyl.
Seasonal Cinquain
Posted 12-16-2004 at PFFA.
Seasonal Cinquain
The light
in the candle
holder bathes my face. Christ
has thirty years and three before
the weep.
Seasonal Cinquain
The light
in the candle
holder bathes my face. Christ
has thirty years and three before
the weep.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
As E'er My Conversation Coped Withal (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 30, 2006
As E'er My Conversation Coped Withal
"The candied tongue is licking pomp,
absurdly crooking pregnant knees."
That Ham's a scamp. He's on a romp!
The candied tongue is licking pomp?
Indeed? Horatio says, "Well, trompe
le monde. But now in English, please:
The candied tongue is licking pomp?
Absurdly crooking pregnant knees?"
As E'er My Conversation Coped Withal
"The candied tongue is licking pomp,
absurdly crooking pregnant knees."
That Ham's a scamp. He's on a romp!
The candied tongue is licking pomp?
Indeed? Horatio says, "Well, trompe
le monde. But now in English, please:
The candied tongue is licking pomp?
Absurdly crooking pregnant knees?"
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Lakeside View
Posted 04-28-2002 at PFFA.
Lakeside View
In building up the lakeside view,
the city planners seek consensus:
widening the avenue
to rid the shore of chain link fences.
The city planners seek consensus:
golden beach with ferris wheel
to rid the shore of chain link fences?
How would all the tourists feel?
Golden beach with ferris wheel,
a boardwalk like Atlantic City --
how would all the tourists feel
when spending money? It's a pity
a boardwalk like Atlantic City
costs too much. No one agrees
when spending money. It's a pity
lining up celebrities
costs too much; no one agrees,
even if it's worked before.
Lining up celebrities
won't work. We'll find another shore.
Even if it's worked before,
widening the avenue
won't work. We'll find another shore
when building up the lakeside view.
-----
A pantoum. I spelled "consensus" wrong in the original posting. Please proofread your work.
Lakeside View
In building up the lakeside view,
the city planners seek consensus:
widening the avenue
to rid the shore of chain link fences.
The city planners seek consensus:
golden beach with ferris wheel
to rid the shore of chain link fences?
How would all the tourists feel?
Golden beach with ferris wheel,
a boardwalk like Atlantic City --
how would all the tourists feel
when spending money? It's a pity
a boardwalk like Atlantic City
costs too much. No one agrees
when spending money. It's a pity
lining up celebrities
costs too much; no one agrees,
even if it's worked before.
Lining up celebrities
won't work. We'll find another shore.
Even if it's worked before,
widening the avenue
won't work. We'll find another shore
when building up the lakeside view.
-----
A pantoum. I spelled "consensus" wrong in the original posting. Please proofread your work.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Terse Verse (Times Four)
Posted March 2004 at PFFA.
r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
(D)
\q|h|/u|/
(am)i(nb)
(ug)
s
(s)
s
:boot.
---
anyone lived in a pretty how town
noone and anyone wed
the witness was someone named Why:
'what was it that Somebody said?
you're born and you live and you die'
---
Song of Myself
I am all.
(Curtain call.)
---
Goblin Market
Maids eat fruit, become unsteady
in Glengarry Glen Rossetti.
-----
Four from a "terse verse" challenge. I'm darn proud of my version of Goblin Market.
r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
(D)
\q|h|/u|/
(am)i(nb)
(ug)
s
(s)
s
:boot.
---
anyone lived in a pretty how town
noone and anyone wed
the witness was someone named Why:
'what was it that Somebody said?
you're born and you live and you die'
---
Song of Myself
I am all.
(Curtain call.)
---
Goblin Market
Maids eat fruit, become unsteady
in Glengarry Glen Rossetti.
-----
Four from a "terse verse" challenge. I'm darn proud of my version of Goblin Market.
Ire and Rice
Posted at PFFA.
Ire and Rice
Most times my woman's meals are dire,
Too few they're nice.
From what I've tasted of her cooking
In recent days, I favor booking
A table in some paradise --
No, I don't want the special plate.
I say that for my dinner rice
Would compensate
At cheaper price.
(with apologies to Robert Frost)
-----
A Frost parody, and a largely unsuccessful one. The joke isn't really funny or well-thought-out. I'll probably try a completely different approach -- meaning, a parody with a funnier punch. (I still like this version, though. Frost's original is one of my all-time favorite poems.)
Ire and Rice
Most times my woman's meals are dire,
Too few they're nice.
From what I've tasted of her cooking
In recent days, I favor booking
A table in some paradise --
No, I don't want the special plate.
I say that for my dinner rice
Would compensate
At cheaper price.
(with apologies to Robert Frost)
-----
A Frost parody, and a largely unsuccessful one. The joke isn't really funny or well-thought-out. I'll probably try a completely different approach -- meaning, a parody with a funnier punch. (I still like this version, though. Frost's original is one of my all-time favorite poems.)
Two "J" Double Dactyls (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 28, 2006
Jamie Lee
Higgledy piggledy,
Jamie Lee Curtis is
aging as gracefully
as is allowed.
Hollywood standards and
rhinoplasticity
mean next to nothing when
you're well-endowed.
---
April 29, 2006
Jennifer
Trilling tranquility,
Jennifer Juniper,
Donovan's flaxen-haired
lady of song,
only exists in the
mind of a songwriter
psychosomatically
smoking his bong.
Jamie Lee
Higgledy piggledy,
Jamie Lee Curtis is
aging as gracefully
as is allowed.
Hollywood standards and
rhinoplasticity
mean next to nothing when
you're well-endowed.
---
April 29, 2006
Jennifer
Trilling tranquility,
Jennifer Juniper,
Donovan's flaxen-haired
lady of song,
only exists in the
mind of a songwriter
psychosomatically
smoking his bong.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Up 'n' At Them (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 27, 2006
Up 'n' At Them
Oh coffee! Realm of bold bean, cream and hot
mugs with a handle! Sing of Folger's gift,
and Maxwell House and Starbucks! Make a pot
of morning-making, artificial lift,
the jolting joy of new-take-on-the-day!
We horrid early risers work a shift
that bustles, sir, with caffeine interplay,
with sugar seiges, having half-and-half
as mediators till we get our pay!
You don't agree. You sleep till noon and laugh.
Espresso jokes. "Thanks a latte!" Man,
you sure can put a damper on the staff
that cranks the engine of the world. Or can
you buy adrenaline? I'm not a fan.
Up 'n' At Them
Oh coffee! Realm of bold bean, cream and hot
mugs with a handle! Sing of Folger's gift,
and Maxwell House and Starbucks! Make a pot
of morning-making, artificial lift,
the jolting joy of new-take-on-the-day!
We horrid early risers work a shift
that bustles, sir, with caffeine interplay,
with sugar seiges, having half-and-half
as mediators till we get our pay!
You don't agree. You sleep till noon and laugh.
Espresso jokes. "Thanks a latte!" Man,
you sure can put a damper on the staff
that cranks the engine of the world. Or can
you buy adrenaline? I'm not a fan.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Riddle
Posted at PFFA.
Riddle
With three of them, the least on top
(One two three, plop plop plop),
They make a man, but in the sun
Drop drip drop they come undone.
If you can't guess my riddle, well,
You don't stand a chance in hell.
-----
On the Grauheim/Tate Riddle Difficulty Scale, this is a 2.
Riddle
With three of them, the least on top
(One two three, plop plop plop),
They make a man, but in the sun
Drop drip drop they come undone.
If you can't guess my riddle, well,
You don't stand a chance in hell.
-----
On the Grauheim/Tate Riddle Difficulty Scale, this is a 2.
After Pear-Picking / Geometry (First Sonnet)
Second version posted at PFFA.
version #1
After Pear-Picking
Geometry: You learn it in the wrecked,
entangled trees where garbage, broken glass,
and rats are tangents. Circled in the center,
equidistant from the killing points
encompassed on detectives' maps, the line
of alleys, streets, and parking lots is cubed
and divvied up. A problem to be solved
is how the sine wave vines have choked the growth.
You twist an arc of stem; the tapered sphere
of pyrus communis, as stubborn hard
as trig and calculus, as wonderful
as numbered shapes inside of shapes, resists.
Ballistics shows the bullet miss the mark
at only minus two degrees of arc.
-----
version #2
Geometry
You find geometry among the wrecked,
entangled trees: the curve of hemisphere
and taper, shape on top of shape. A pear
that sine-wave vines have failed to protect
hangs perpendicular to broken glass,
a rusted green above the city mulch.
The fruit is stubborn-hard, like trig. You clutch,
but nothing here resembles calculus.
The area of Collinwood is known
from Five Point Square to up on Nottingham
as Shooting Row, a parallelogram
of ammunition, gun, and bullet drone,
a gauntlet, ghetto, seedy neighborhood.
You figure, if it grows, it must be good.
-----
The first sonnet I ever attempted. I ignored rhyme - except for the final couplet - so I could get through the darn thing with something resembling pentameter. Then I attempted revision with rhyme with so-so results. I now leave them be.
version #1
After Pear-Picking
Geometry: You learn it in the wrecked,
entangled trees where garbage, broken glass,
and rats are tangents. Circled in the center,
equidistant from the killing points
encompassed on detectives' maps, the line
of alleys, streets, and parking lots is cubed
and divvied up. A problem to be solved
is how the sine wave vines have choked the growth.
You twist an arc of stem; the tapered sphere
of pyrus communis, as stubborn hard
as trig and calculus, as wonderful
as numbered shapes inside of shapes, resists.
Ballistics shows the bullet miss the mark
at only minus two degrees of arc.
-----
version #2
Geometry
You find geometry among the wrecked,
entangled trees: the curve of hemisphere
and taper, shape on top of shape. A pear
that sine-wave vines have failed to protect
hangs perpendicular to broken glass,
a rusted green above the city mulch.
The fruit is stubborn-hard, like trig. You clutch,
but nothing here resembles calculus.
The area of Collinwood is known
from Five Point Square to up on Nottingham
as Shooting Row, a parallelogram
of ammunition, gun, and bullet drone,
a gauntlet, ghetto, seedy neighborhood.
You figure, if it grows, it must be good.
-----
The first sonnet I ever attempted. I ignored rhyme - except for the final couplet - so I could get through the darn thing with something resembling pentameter. Then I attempted revision with rhyme with so-so results. I now leave them be.
Mr. Picture-Taker (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 25, 2006
Mr. Picture-Taker
His pictures told a thousand wordless stories:
the crags that no man put a booted foot on,
the broken bulbs in lightless rooms, the glories
of a sundown cloudburst. The man who put on
a fake nose and ruffled dresses to get the shot
of nervous children, calm now, sniffle free
and grinning, also has his proper lot
of upper-crusters, those who pay the fee
and then ignore the art. He framed them all
at sad distances, not the focal point.
He lets them stare at him now, covered wall
of gray, and blocks the voices that anoint
the space between observed and maker shut,
cropping the story out, the needed cut.
Mr. Picture-Taker
His pictures told a thousand wordless stories:
the crags that no man put a booted foot on,
the broken bulbs in lightless rooms, the glories
of a sundown cloudburst. The man who put on
a fake nose and ruffled dresses to get the shot
of nervous children, calm now, sniffle free
and grinning, also has his proper lot
of upper-crusters, those who pay the fee
and then ignore the art. He framed them all
at sad distances, not the focal point.
He lets them stare at him now, covered wall
of gray, and blocks the voices that anoint
the space between observed and maker shut,
cropping the story out, the needed cut.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Eructo Et, Ergo, Cogito Sum (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 23, 2006
Eructo Et, Ergo, Cogito Sum
I often talk before I think.
I talk and, therefore, think I am.
My lips will flap and ships will sink.
I often talk before I think.
My mind's a blank, it's on the blink.
My mouth? It doesn't give a damn.
I often talk before I think.
I talk and, therefore, think I am.
Eructo Et, Ergo, Cogito Sum
I often talk before I think.
I talk and, therefore, think I am.
My lips will flap and ships will sink.
I often talk before I think.
My mind's a blank, it's on the blink.
My mouth? It doesn't give a damn.
I often talk before I think.
I talk and, therefore, think I am.
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Fifteen Second Glengarry Glen Ross
Reconstructed from PFFA (couldn't find the original).
The Fifteen Second Glengarry Glen Ross
John. John, the leads, John.
What is this, your farewell speech?
God, I hate this job.
The Fifteen Second Glengarry Glen Ross
John. John, the leads, John.
What is this, your farewell speech?
God, I hate this job.
Bolingbroke Says Ay (The Fifteen Second Richard II)
Reconstructed from PFFA.
Bolingbroke Says Ay (The Fifteen Second Richard II)
Greet I thee, my earth,
little, little grave obscure.
Cousin, sieze the crown.
Bolingbroke Says Ay (The Fifteen Second Richard II)
Greet I thee, my earth,
little, little grave obscure.
Cousin, sieze the crown.
Upon Receiving Harsh Criticism, The Poet Gets Drunk And Reflects (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 17, 2006
Upon Receiving Harsh Criticism, The Poet Gets Drunk And Reflects
You think I'm not able to? Well, I can
take a few simple iambs and stack 'em,
like Christopher Walken says pelican,
like James Gandolfini says whack 'em.
The pedigree? Daniel Day-Lewis.
The swiftness? Suzuki Ichiro.
I'm a poetry heavyweight who is
a cross between Hulk and DeNiro.
You are spiteful and vengeful, a meanie
who is waiting for old age to set in,
so take your Federico Fellini
and stick it like Mary Lou Retton!
-----
Yes, Mary Lou Retton. The poem didn't quite go where I wanted it to. The title is accurate and true to life, if I remember correctly.
Upon Receiving Harsh Criticism, The Poet Gets Drunk And Reflects
You think I'm not able to? Well, I can
take a few simple iambs and stack 'em,
like Christopher Walken says pelican,
like James Gandolfini says whack 'em.
The pedigree? Daniel Day-Lewis.
The swiftness? Suzuki Ichiro.
I'm a poetry heavyweight who is
a cross between Hulk and DeNiro.
You are spiteful and vengeful, a meanie
who is waiting for old age to set in,
so take your Federico Fellini
and stick it like Mary Lou Retton!
-----
Yes, Mary Lou Retton. The poem didn't quite go where I wanted it to. The title is accurate and true to life, if I remember correctly.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Two Julains (NaPoWriMo 2006)
Hokku (A Julain)
He sets his brush aside and, having said
the final line of his hokku, commands
his son to hold his words with younger hands.
-----
Death Poem (A Julain)
The dropping petals leave the scent of plum
upon his robes. The wind can hear the sigh
the shogun breathes, his gesture to the sky.
-----
The julain is a poetic form invented by Julie Carter.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
All Hallows Evening (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 14, 2006
All Hallows Evening
The Sugar Daddy wrapper's tamper-torn.
The death of Halloween has made me older;
they hide the razor blades in caramel corn.
Don't stop for bloody fools who honk a horn.
You'll feel a ghoulish hand upon your shoulder.
The Sugar Daddy wrapper's tamper-torn.
Beware, you hobbits, Gandalf, Aragorn,
the city orcs are feeling ever bolder.
They hide the razor blades in caramel corn.
They curse the day and hour that you were born
and seek you through their sheets with eyes that smolder
and offer Sugar Daddys, tamper-torn.
This eve is theirs, and when their welcome's worn
they'll slip below to home, more earthy, colder.
They hide the razor blades in caramel corn.
The Night of Ghouls precedes the Saintly Morn
(my mom was just repeating what was told her).
The Sugar Daddy wrapper's tamper-torn.
They hide the razor blades in caramel corn.
All Hallows Evening
The Sugar Daddy wrapper's tamper-torn.
The death of Halloween has made me older;
they hide the razor blades in caramel corn.
Don't stop for bloody fools who honk a horn.
You'll feel a ghoulish hand upon your shoulder.
The Sugar Daddy wrapper's tamper-torn.
Beware, you hobbits, Gandalf, Aragorn,
the city orcs are feeling ever bolder.
They hide the razor blades in caramel corn.
They curse the day and hour that you were born
and seek you through their sheets with eyes that smolder
and offer Sugar Daddys, tamper-torn.
This eve is theirs, and when their welcome's worn
they'll slip below to home, more earthy, colder.
They hide the razor blades in caramel corn.
The Night of Ghouls precedes the Saintly Morn
(my mom was just repeating what was told her).
The Sugar Daddy wrapper's tamper-torn.
They hide the razor blades in caramel corn.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
New Pantoum (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 13, 2006
New Pantoum
New pantoum?
Damn the luck,
now we're doomed.
Motherfuck!
Damn the luck,
damn your eyes!
Motherfuck.
Falling skies
damn your eyes
in your face.
Falling skies,
comet race.
In your face
awe appears.
Comet-race
doomsday nears:
Pa appears,
snaps his belt;
doomsday nears,
welts are felt.
Snaps his belt --
not at us.
What we felt:
Gravitas
knotted us,
throttled us.
Gravitas
bottled us.
Throttle us
now. We're doomed.
Bottle this
new pantoum.
New Pantoum
New pantoum?
Damn the luck,
now we're doomed.
Motherfuck!
Damn the luck,
damn your eyes!
Motherfuck.
Falling skies
damn your eyes
in your face.
Falling skies,
comet race.
In your face
awe appears.
Comet-race
doomsday nears:
Pa appears,
snaps his belt;
doomsday nears,
welts are felt.
Snaps his belt --
not at us.
What we felt:
Gravitas
knotted us,
throttled us.
Gravitas
bottled us.
Throttle us
now. We're doomed.
Bottle this
new pantoum.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Feed (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 11, 2006
Feed
The graygreen slick the tunnel runoff hocked
like housepaint glopped on crabgrass sucked down boots,
bicycles, trees. My plastered ankles locked
in lunchmeat squish, I grabbed at handle roots
while cussing out my need for such pursuits.
A day's reconnaissance at Squalid Creek
turned up the muck spat from the gothic chutes,
that olive drab, synthetic as its reek,
and fed it sock and shoe, the food its spirits seek.
-----
Ugh. I forced almost every aspect of this Spenserian stanza.
Feed
The graygreen slick the tunnel runoff hocked
like housepaint glopped on crabgrass sucked down boots,
bicycles, trees. My plastered ankles locked
in lunchmeat squish, I grabbed at handle roots
while cussing out my need for such pursuits.
A day's reconnaissance at Squalid Creek
turned up the muck spat from the gothic chutes,
that olive drab, synthetic as its reek,
and fed it sock and shoe, the food its spirits seek.
-----
Ugh. I forced almost every aspect of this Spenserian stanza.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Love Bobs (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 10, 2006
Love Bobs
Love bobs and weaves. It dodges, ducks
from view and wears its camouflage.
In summer, love's oasis shucks
illusion off, a heat mirage.
Its presence fills a room like smoke,
the same for shed or house or hangar,
but try to trap love in a poke
and (Boo!) you've got its doppelganger.
Love can't be held, arrested, caught,
subpoenaed for a court appearance,
bartered, traded, sold or bought
or haggled for at year-end clearance.
Your wily E. Coyote schemes
have failed to snare or even find it.
And down the Acme anvil screams
with (Help!) a boulder right behind it.
For love, it's game and set and match,
Olympic gold, the Stanley Cup,
the ring of brass. You've got no patch
on love. But you're the runner-up.
Love Bobs
Love bobs and weaves. It dodges, ducks
from view and wears its camouflage.
In summer, love's oasis shucks
illusion off, a heat mirage.
Its presence fills a room like smoke,
the same for shed or house or hangar,
but try to trap love in a poke
and (Boo!) you've got its doppelganger.
Love can't be held, arrested, caught,
subpoenaed for a court appearance,
bartered, traded, sold or bought
or haggled for at year-end clearance.
Your wily E. Coyote schemes
have failed to snare or even find it.
And down the Acme anvil screams
with (Help!) a boulder right behind it.
For love, it's game and set and match,
Olympic gold, the Stanley Cup,
the ring of brass. You've got no patch
on love. But you're the runner-up.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Joke Poem (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 9, 2006
Joke Poem
You want to hear a joke I heard today?
Okay, a rabbi walks into a bar --
stop me if you've heard it. Anyway,
"According to the Jewish calendar,"
the rabbi says, "I'll have a beer--" Oh, wait,
it's wine. Or something. Jewish wine, I think.
I screwed it up. I know some people hate
that, screwing up a joke like that. A drink,
he gets a drink, okay? And no offense
to you or anyone. I mean, I know
some people get uptight. It makes no sense
to me, but hey. I got it: Two Jews go --
it's funny, trust me. At the very least
you'll get a chuckle. Hmm. Okay, a priest...
Joke Poem
You want to hear a joke I heard today?
Okay, a rabbi walks into a bar --
stop me if you've heard it. Anyway,
"According to the Jewish calendar,"
the rabbi says, "I'll have a beer--" Oh, wait,
it's wine. Or something. Jewish wine, I think.
I screwed it up. I know some people hate
that, screwing up a joke like that. A drink,
he gets a drink, okay? And no offense
to you or anyone. I mean, I know
some people get uptight. It makes no sense
to me, but hey. I got it: Two Jews go --
it's funny, trust me. At the very least
you'll get a chuckle. Hmm. Okay, a priest...
Found Poem: Dictionary of Americanisms
Posted 07-27-2001 at PFFA.
Found Poem: Dictionary of Americanisms
• BETTERMOST. The best. Used in New England.
• BIBLE CHRISTIANS. The Philadelphia Mercury:
• BIG-BUGS. People of consequence.
• BIG-WIGS. People of consequence.
From Dictionary of Americanisms,
by John Russell Bartlett (1848),
p. 31.
-----
A kind of found poem. The challenge: pick a book, open to random page. Use the words on that page, in the order they appear without adding anything, to construct a poem. So, basically, a challenge in selective editing.
Here is the book and page I selected.
Found Poem: Dictionary of Americanisms
• BETTERMOST. The best. Used in New England.
The bettermost cow, an expression• B'HOYS. The New York Commercial Advertiser:
we do not find in Shakspeare or Milton.
--Mrs. Kirkland.
All the b'hoys will vote, aye, more than all.
Let every Whig do his duty.
Another year with a Democratic Mayor--
and such a Mayor as the b'hoys would force upon the city!
Who can tell what the taxes will be?
• BIBLE CHRISTIANS. The Philadelphia Mercury:
"This denomination abstain from all animal food
and spirituous liquors, and live on vegetables and fruits.
They maintain the unity of God, the divinity of Jesus,
and the salvation of man, attainable only by a life of obedience
to the light manifested to his mind and a grateful acknowledgment
of his indebtedness to the great Giver of all.
The congregation numbers about seventy members."
• BIG-BUGS. People of consequence.
These preachers dress like big-bugs,
and go ridin' about on hundred-dollar horses,
a-spungin' poor priest-ridden folks,
and a-eaten chicken-fixens so powerful fast
that chickens has got scarce in these diggins.
--Carlton's New Purchase
• BIG-WIGS. People of consequence.
Demagogues and place-hunters make the people stare-----
by telling them how big they talked and what great things
they did to the big-wigs to home.
--Sam Slick.
From Dictionary of Americanisms,
by John Russell Bartlett (1848),
p. 31.
-----
A kind of found poem. The challenge: pick a book, open to random page. Use the words on that page, in the order they appear without adding anything, to construct a poem. So, basically, a challenge in selective editing.
Here is the book and page I selected.
North Coast (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 8, 2006
North Coast
I see your waves that curl like leaves
in student bluebooks, endless sheaves
of longing, wherein each believes
the truth resides.
But, shallow lake, your din achieves
no ocean tides.
When June, unselfish-seeming, warms
this strip of zebra mussel dorms
then turns with pent-up thunderstorms
to strafe the beach,
the luscious sand Hawaii forms
is out of reach.
But still I dig my toes in hard
and write until my soles are scarred;
I script myself a new canard:
The Erie Sentry.
And find that I am standing guard
at Eden's entry.
-----
This needs some work (esp. S3), but I love the Burns stanza.
North Coast
I see your waves that curl like leaves
in student bluebooks, endless sheaves
of longing, wherein each believes
the truth resides.
But, shallow lake, your din achieves
no ocean tides.
When June, unselfish-seeming, warms
this strip of zebra mussel dorms
then turns with pent-up thunderstorms
to strafe the beach,
the luscious sand Hawaii forms
is out of reach.
But still I dig my toes in hard
and write until my soles are scarred;
I script myself a new canard:
The Erie Sentry.
And find that I am standing guard
at Eden's entry.
-----
This needs some work (esp. S3), but I love the Burns stanza.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Chess with the Monsignor (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 7, 2006
Chess with the Monsignor
The king's as good as dead without a queen.
The pawns and crooked bishops all are caught,
an opening the like I've never seen.
Your grab at easy targets comes to naught.
The pawns and crooked bishops all are caught.
You can't ignore the knights at center board.
Your grab at easy targets comes to naught.
Let us pray in silence to the Lord.
You can't ignore the knights at center board.
The rook is best employed when ranks are thinned.
Let us pray in silence to the Lord:
"Forgive me, Host of Heaven, I have sinned."
The rook is best employed when ranks are thinned
and endgame is the only game in town.
"Forgive me, Host of Heaven, I have sinned;
I sought the enemy and put him down."
Endgame is the only game in town.
Remember this before you move a pawn
and seek the enemy to put him down.
Heed the call from angels of the dawn.
Remember this before you move a pawn,
an opening the like I've never seen.
Heed the call from angels of the dawn:
The king's as good as dead without a queen.
Chess with the Monsignor
The king's as good as dead without a queen.
The pawns and crooked bishops all are caught,
an opening the like I've never seen.
Your grab at easy targets comes to naught.
The pawns and crooked bishops all are caught.
You can't ignore the knights at center board.
Your grab at easy targets comes to naught.
Let us pray in silence to the Lord.
You can't ignore the knights at center board.
The rook is best employed when ranks are thinned.
Let us pray in silence to the Lord:
"Forgive me, Host of Heaven, I have sinned."
The rook is best employed when ranks are thinned
and endgame is the only game in town.
"Forgive me, Host of Heaven, I have sinned;
I sought the enemy and put him down."
Endgame is the only game in town.
Remember this before you move a pawn
and seek the enemy to put him down.
Heed the call from angels of the dawn.
Remember this before you move a pawn,
an opening the like I've never seen.
Heed the call from angels of the dawn:
The king's as good as dead without a queen.
"I'm Just Saying"
Original posted 06-10-2002 at PFFA.
"I'm Just Saying"
by David Mamet
I'm just saying.
I ate the plums
the freezer.
For breakfast,
saving for, listen,
no, list-- oh fuck
me.... I'm... I...
forgive me, for breakfast.
Sorry. Forgi-- Cold.
Yeah, cold.
And delicious.
-----
Obviously a riff on William Carlos Williams. I think this is okay-funny, but I don't think it's well-crafted. Too choppy. I have tried to revise this to be a) truer to the original's format, b) truer to Mamet, and c) truer to teh funny. None of these revisions really worked. So here's another one:
"I'm Just Saying"
by David Mamet
I'm just saying.
I ate the plums
the freezer.
What can one man
say to that?
I am thawing plums.
Plums Thawed --
Since Nineteen Senny-Nine.
For breakfast, probably.
I'm sorry.
Forgive me.
Fuck me they were cold.
or
"I'm Just Saying"
by David Mamet,
as read by Joe Montegna
I'm just saying.
I ate the plums
the freezer.
I figure, for breakfast.
Since nineteen senny-nine
you were saving them
or what, I don't know.
I'm sorry.
Forgive me.
Guess I can't
come to your
birthday party.
Fuck me they were cold.
-----
There's still something wrong, though. I really want this one to be great, but maybe it's just not going to happen.
EDITED TO ADD: I am now enamored of the Montegna one.
Also, see this one.
"I'm Just Saying"
by David Mamet
I'm just saying.
I ate the plums
the freezer.
For breakfast,
saving for, listen,
no, list-- oh fuck
me.... I'm... I...
forgive me, for breakfast.
Sorry. Forgi-- Cold.
Yeah, cold.
And delicious.
-----
Obviously a riff on William Carlos Williams. I think this is okay-funny, but I don't think it's well-crafted. Too choppy. I have tried to revise this to be a) truer to the original's format, b) truer to Mamet, and c) truer to teh funny. None of these revisions really worked. So here's another one:
"I'm Just Saying"
by David Mamet
I'm just saying.
I ate the plums
the freezer.
What can one man
say to that?
I am thawing plums.
Plums Thawed --
Since Nineteen Senny-Nine.
For breakfast, probably.
I'm sorry.
Forgive me.
Fuck me they were cold.
or
"I'm Just Saying"
by David Mamet,
as read by Joe Montegna
I'm just saying.
I ate the plums
the freezer.
I figure, for breakfast.
Since nineteen senny-nine
you were saving them
or what, I don't know.
I'm sorry.
Forgive me.
Guess I can't
come to your
birthday party.
Fuck me they were cold.
-----
There's still something wrong, though. I really want this one to be great, but maybe it's just not going to happen.
EDITED TO ADD: I am now enamored of the Montegna one.
Also, see this one.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Strategy (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 6, 2006
Strategy
Fill balloon at faucet,
tie it with a squeak.
Throw at girls and hide inside
the treehouse for a week.
Strategy
Fill balloon at faucet,
tie it with a squeak.
Throw at girls and hide inside
the treehouse for a week.
Sci-Fi Marathon (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 5, 2006
Sci-Fi Marathon
after a (much better) poem by R. S. Gwynn
A cybercop patrols Detroit with zeal.
A woman wants a mother-monster dead.
A hacker finds reality ain't real.
Wafers made of people aren't red.
Frenchmen shoot a bullet at the moon.
A rebel crosses sabers with his dad.
Some aliens are greeted with a tune.
A ship's computer goes a little mad.
Some monkeys keep a human in a cage.
An android wants to live a little longer.
A planet made of sand is all the rage.
The Martians meet the germs (the germs are stronger).
A spaceman comes to Earth to spread good will.
A cyborg travels back in time to kill.
Sci-Fi Marathon
after a (much better) poem by R. S. Gwynn
A cybercop patrols Detroit with zeal.
A woman wants a mother-monster dead.
A hacker finds reality ain't real.
Wafers made of people aren't red.
Frenchmen shoot a bullet at the moon.
A rebel crosses sabers with his dad.
Some aliens are greeted with a tune.
A ship's computer goes a little mad.
Some monkeys keep a human in a cage.
An android wants to live a little longer.
A planet made of sand is all the rage.
The Martians meet the germs (the germs are stronger).
A spaceman comes to Earth to spread good will.
A cyborg travels back in time to kill.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
30 Poems in 30 Minutes
It's Rob's fault.
30 Poems in 30 Minutes
1.
I caught that cat looking
at me with eyes like an unshoveled driveway.
Goodbye Sly.
2.
Tetrahedron. I fondle its lanes and corners,
rough corduroy angles and sharp
pockets. I calculate: not beyond my sphere, it won't.
3.
What waits for me there, in trees and in the brook?
I run, but not to run. I run to rake in what makes its bed.
4.
From eighteen green fields comes my wager:
twelve or six husks for the family?
5.
Harry, you're a nonsensical construction.
You know that, right. I am talking about
what made you think of the fish, Harry.
It is not seemly to linger at the spout.
6.
By gum and gummy, I sense the shimmy
in the jellied car. It can't take the brake,
so I apply pressure elsewhere, at my heel.
7.
Yes, yes, and yes, are the answers.
I try to stay positive and respond with
inaccuracies. You, sir, question with a text
known to you. I am this close to peeking
in the back.
8.
Tonight, it rains. I know the feeling of heat when it rains.
Going to waste, all that radiation.
9.
Hello morning crew! Yes, I want to rock all morning
with you. I will do that. I will be the tenth caller at...
10.
Along the row, I notch the wood with makeshift
knife-edge marks, not quite notches.
Nothing prepares me for the loom.
11.
Ostinato. Twelve tones for some pleasure other than listening.
Were I to order the sounds this way, and take attendance,
all would pass.
12.
Beaning cool, the boy hums his song
of being frightened. Strikes two and three.
He can sing now.
13.
Just allow a breath,
a huff for the king.
At coronation,
it's regal to do so.
14.
Blame game with matches. Have you flicked one?
Is it lit, smoking in a fanned octagon in the dirt?
Good. Your fault.
15.
Asking for a retreat is not winning the war, son.
Make it your honor to face that which will take you
over and back, to victory and the loss column.
16.
Mean timing in the water: clocks blub
and click their stasis. Finished.
17.
Up the snoot, harpy. Take that with a grain
based alcopop. After twelve, bets are off.
18.
Work at finding a finger length of reach.
Then, flick that bluebook over and write the back.
19.
Belittled, I crawl back to my door. My mom
is shopping. I've seen my dad cook. There is
no one to talk to.
20.
Horses don't pull the car, son. Do you see any horses?
It's just what they call an engine's power.
Well, they have to call it something.
They used to ride on donkeys, too.
21.
Whip palms on Sunday. It's not done,
but my friends would laugh if I didn't try.
22.
Where exactly did he go, though?
Up, up there, to heaven. Weren't you listening?
So, he got a ride? From God?
Cool.
23.
Going to teach, I don't have any memory.
It is gone, like my old poems. Gone,
and sitting there in the dusty yellow notebook.
24.
Vile and pernicious, I've been reading Zappa
and about Zappa, and ze continuity.
I can't make it through this paragraph, though,
on Adorno.
25.
Look there's a helluva good unicorn next door.
Let's throw rings on it, three chances for a dollar.
26.
Vodka has deserted me. 100 proof desertion.
The blue bottle aches to sneer. I got this chip,
and I am not giving in to liqueur, either.
27.
Run paint, the captain says, run, run.
You used me like a heart. I still smoke,
so that your attention will waver.
28.
Petty. Pretty, too, but small-time
change-a-dollar antes ain't my style.
You can hold that hold 'em, too.
Ponies, no, not me.
29.
I gotta go now. That last oolong
has waited till now. Intestinal requirement
ahoy.
30.
Black like demons, I applaud you.
It takes so little to grin at a cat.
30 Poems in 30 Minutes
1.
I caught that cat looking
at me with eyes like an unshoveled driveway.
Goodbye Sly.
2.
Tetrahedron. I fondle its lanes and corners,
rough corduroy angles and sharp
pockets. I calculate: not beyond my sphere, it won't.
3.
What waits for me there, in trees and in the brook?
I run, but not to run. I run to rake in what makes its bed.
4.
From eighteen green fields comes my wager:
twelve or six husks for the family?
5.
Harry, you're a nonsensical construction.
You know that, right. I am talking about
what made you think of the fish, Harry.
It is not seemly to linger at the spout.
6.
By gum and gummy, I sense the shimmy
in the jellied car. It can't take the brake,
so I apply pressure elsewhere, at my heel.
7.
Yes, yes, and yes, are the answers.
I try to stay positive and respond with
inaccuracies. You, sir, question with a text
known to you. I am this close to peeking
in the back.
8.
Tonight, it rains. I know the feeling of heat when it rains.
Going to waste, all that radiation.
9.
Hello morning crew! Yes, I want to rock all morning
with you. I will do that. I will be the tenth caller at...
10.
Along the row, I notch the wood with makeshift
knife-edge marks, not quite notches.
Nothing prepares me for the loom.
11.
Ostinato. Twelve tones for some pleasure other than listening.
Were I to order the sounds this way, and take attendance,
all would pass.
12.
Beaning cool, the boy hums his song
of being frightened. Strikes two and three.
He can sing now.
13.
Just allow a breath,
a huff for the king.
At coronation,
it's regal to do so.
14.
Blame game with matches. Have you flicked one?
Is it lit, smoking in a fanned octagon in the dirt?
Good. Your fault.
15.
Asking for a retreat is not winning the war, son.
Make it your honor to face that which will take you
over and back, to victory and the loss column.
16.
Mean timing in the water: clocks blub
and click their stasis. Finished.
17.
Up the snoot, harpy. Take that with a grain
based alcopop. After twelve, bets are off.
18.
Work at finding a finger length of reach.
Then, flick that bluebook over and write the back.
19.
Belittled, I crawl back to my door. My mom
is shopping. I've seen my dad cook. There is
no one to talk to.
20.
Horses don't pull the car, son. Do you see any horses?
It's just what they call an engine's power.
Well, they have to call it something.
They used to ride on donkeys, too.
21.
Whip palms on Sunday. It's not done,
but my friends would laugh if I didn't try.
22.
Where exactly did he go, though?
Up, up there, to heaven. Weren't you listening?
So, he got a ride? From God?
Cool.
23.
Going to teach, I don't have any memory.
It is gone, like my old poems. Gone,
and sitting there in the dusty yellow notebook.
24.
Vile and pernicious, I've been reading Zappa
and about Zappa, and ze continuity.
I can't make it through this paragraph, though,
on Adorno.
25.
Look there's a helluva good unicorn next door.
Let's throw rings on it, three chances for a dollar.
26.
Vodka has deserted me. 100 proof desertion.
The blue bottle aches to sneer. I got this chip,
and I am not giving in to liqueur, either.
27.
Run paint, the captain says, run, run.
You used me like a heart. I still smoke,
so that your attention will waver.
28.
Petty. Pretty, too, but small-time
change-a-dollar antes ain't my style.
You can hold that hold 'em, too.
Ponies, no, not me.
29.
I gotta go now. That last oolong
has waited till now. Intestinal requirement
ahoy.
30.
Black like demons, I applaud you.
It takes so little to grin at a cat.
Pantoum: My Spring Song
Originally posted 05-04-2006 at ILXOR.
Pantoum: My Spring Song
The banjos are not seeking after me,
and piccolos ignore my sprightly stride.
I cannot tell the brass band from the sea,
its volume can be so undignified.
The piccolos ignore my sprightly stride.
The sunlight fuzzes down from heaven's Marshall;
its volume can be so undignifed.
The tulip tambourines remain impartial.
The sunlight fuzzes down from heaven's Marshall,
a bongo circle forms among the weeds,
the tulip tambourines remain impartial
while queen bee gospel singers spread their seeds.
A bongo circle forms among the weeds,
a music stand of trees displays their scores
while queen bee gospel singers spread their seeds.
A soaking rain of notes will clean my pores.
A music stand of trees displays their scores.
I fix my pitch that wavers, slightly wrong.
A soaking rain of notes will clean my pores.
To tuneful winds, I calmly add my song.
I fix my pitch that wavers, slightly wrong
(I cannot tell the brass band from the sea).
To tuneful winds, I calmly add my song:
"The banjos are not seeking after me."
-----
My contribution to a linked poem. Joyous!
Pantoum: My Spring Song
The banjos are not seeking after me,
and piccolos ignore my sprightly stride.
I cannot tell the brass band from the sea,
its volume can be so undignified.
The piccolos ignore my sprightly stride.
The sunlight fuzzes down from heaven's Marshall;
its volume can be so undignifed.
The tulip tambourines remain impartial.
The sunlight fuzzes down from heaven's Marshall,
a bongo circle forms among the weeds,
the tulip tambourines remain impartial
while queen bee gospel singers spread their seeds.
A bongo circle forms among the weeds,
a music stand of trees displays their scores
while queen bee gospel singers spread their seeds.
A soaking rain of notes will clean my pores.
A music stand of trees displays their scores.
I fix my pitch that wavers, slightly wrong.
A soaking rain of notes will clean my pores.
To tuneful winds, I calmly add my song.
I fix my pitch that wavers, slightly wrong
(I cannot tell the brass band from the sea).
To tuneful winds, I calmly add my song:
"The banjos are not seeking after me."
-----
My contribution to a linked poem. Joyous!
Dactyl von Frankenstein
Posted 02-03-2009 at ILXOR.
Dactyl von Frankenstein
Zippity-zappity
Baron von Frankenstein
said, "I'm a character,
here, in this book.
Says I'm a blasphemous,
pro-resurrectionist,
God-playing maniac.
Me! Take a look."
Igor the servant said,
"'Modern Prometheus,'"
quoting directly the
words on the front,
"'Shelley's incredulous
übermonstrosity'?
Didn't she WRITE me yet?
God, what a cunt."
----
Sorry, the rhyme was just there, ya know?
Dactyl von Frankenstein
Zippity-zappity
Baron von Frankenstein
said, "I'm a character,
here, in this book.
Says I'm a blasphemous,
pro-resurrectionist,
God-playing maniac.
Me! Take a look."
Igor the servant said,
"'Modern Prometheus,'"
quoting directly the
words on the front,
"'Shelley's incredulous
übermonstrosity'?
Didn't she WRITE me yet?
God, what a cunt."
----
Sorry, the rhyme was just there, ya know?
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Lohan Hits Another Stationary Object
From a headline at IMDb
Lohan Hits Another Stationary Object
Lohan Hits Another Stationary Object
Driver keeps a calm repose before the onslaught
Second episode this week for harried starlet
Lawyers, family and friends, and paparazzi
spin the story: Major kudos to her moxie!
Lohan Hits Another Stationary Object
Lohan Hits Another Stationary Object
Driver keeps a calm repose before the onslaught
Second episode this week for harried starlet
Lawyers, family and friends, and paparazzi
spin the story: Major kudos to her moxie!
Livmerick Tyler
New!
Livmerick Tyler
There once was a Tyler named Liv
who swore she would never forgive
her dad for the time
he dressed like a mime
and renamed the group Arrow Shiv.
Livmerick Tyler
There once was a Tyler named Liv
who swore she would never forgive
her dad for the time
he dressed like a mime
and renamed the group Arrow Shiv.
Limerick After William Carlos Williams
New!
Limerick After William Carlos Williams
I ate all the plums in the freezer
I said in a note just to tease her.
But now they're recalling
the fruit! And she's bawling
I never do nothing to please her!
-----
See this also.
Limerick After William Carlos Williams
I ate all the plums in the freezer
I said in a note just to tease her.
But now they're recalling
the fruit! And she's bawling
I never do nothing to please her!
-----
See this also.
Friday, April 3, 2009
A Lullaby for Presidents (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 4, 2006
A Lullaby for Presidents
A lullaby for presidents
should not be all magnificence
and pompous blaring. God forbid
a head of state, a little kid,
should snap out of his somnolence.
No, let it foster tolerance
by being simple, common sense.
A seed of hope can grow amid
a lullaby.
And there it is, ladies and gents,
the cure for this bald arrogance,
for in his little brain is hid
contrition for the things he did.
Inducing sleep can help this. Hence,
a lullaby.
A Lullaby for Presidents
A lullaby for presidents
should not be all magnificence
and pompous blaring. God forbid
a head of state, a little kid,
should snap out of his somnolence.
No, let it foster tolerance
by being simple, common sense.
A seed of hope can grow amid
a lullaby.
And there it is, ladies and gents,
the cure for this bald arrogance,
for in his little brain is hid
contrition for the things he did.
Inducing sleep can help this. Hence,
a lullaby.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Gertrude's Philosophy (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 3, 2006
Gertrude's Philosophy
after a (much better) poem by R. S. Gwynn
The life seems nice enough until you find
your husband gone, your only son a loon,
the lonely nights grown longer. Winter's grind
means insulation must be put in soon.
That stuff ain't cheap.
O, summer! Why do you deny your season?
I've half a mind to fall for Claud and quell
the itch within me. "Parties need no reason,"
he always says. So cute! Oh, what the hell,
I'll take the leap.
Gertrude's Philosophy
after a (much better) poem by R. S. Gwynn
The life seems nice enough until you find
your husband gone, your only son a loon,
the lonely nights grown longer. Winter's grind
means insulation must be put in soon.
That stuff ain't cheap.
O, summer! Why do you deny your season?
I've half a mind to fall for Claud and quell
the itch within me. "Parties need no reason,"
he always says. So cute! Oh, what the hell,
I'll take the leap.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Junkyard (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 2, 2006
Junkyard
They called me fat, not white. They called me Bro
when, grunting up the desiccated dead
machines, I found the Cadillac. My head
got big when Juice and Agee gasped: below,
the ride, a too-unlikely indigo
as peaceful as a baby put to bed,
a former playa's rolling stash of cred
without a wheel, engine or radio.
The junkman must have gently laid it down
between these stacks of husks for cracker-boy,
the roly-poly honky haystack, me.
I sometimes wished my skin was just as brown
as all my friends. And, heavy with that joy,
we cruised, then pushed it up to seventy.
Junkyard
They called me fat, not white. They called me Bro
when, grunting up the desiccated dead
machines, I found the Cadillac. My head
got big when Juice and Agee gasped: below,
the ride, a too-unlikely indigo
as peaceful as a baby put to bed,
a former playa's rolling stash of cred
without a wheel, engine or radio.
The junkman must have gently laid it down
between these stacks of husks for cracker-boy,
the roly-poly honky haystack, me.
I sometimes wished my skin was just as brown
as all my friends. And, heavy with that joy,
we cruised, then pushed it up to seventy.
Cornerstone (NaPoWriMo 2006)
April 1, 2006
Cornerstone
The dedication: 1932.
My mom and dad would just have met, in time
to see the floors ascend and end in blue.
They built until they stopped, back then. A dime
would get a copy of the evening news,
an ice cream cone, a tram ride down the Row
to downtown. Maybe they would pick and choose
their mansions -- certainly, the wealthy know
the value of a buck and where to put it.
And every home on Euclid makes dad wonder,
"That thing's so tall. Couldn't be taller, could it?"
But mom is thinking, "No man put asunder".
They'd dig, and get their own foundations set,
and build the skyline's tallest buildings yet.
Cornerstone
The dedication: 1932.
My mom and dad would just have met, in time
to see the floors ascend and end in blue.
They built until they stopped, back then. A dime
would get a copy of the evening news,
an ice cream cone, a tram ride down the Row
to downtown. Maybe they would pick and choose
their mansions -- certainly, the wealthy know
the value of a buck and where to put it.
And every home on Euclid makes dad wonder,
"That thing's so tall. Couldn't be taller, could it?"
But mom is thinking, "No man put asunder".
They'd dig, and get their own foundations set,
and build the skyline's tallest buildings yet.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
"Can we hear it as the poet heard it?"
Reading the blog of poet George Szirtes, some of his comments struck home because I was messing around with the Xtranormal website, where you can make a "text-to-movie". This in particular:
Can we hear it as the poet heard it? Is there an authentic, true way of hearing a poem?I will now put all of my poems into Text and hit Speak Text. And probably cringe for a good long while.
These are pretty much philosophical questions. Can we know how the poet heard it? If it is by the poet's performance of the poem that we judge, does that mean everyone else has to imitate the poet's performance to get maximum value from the poem? What if the poet reads it differently at different times (I experiment with my own in performance, not wildly, but a little, depending on the audience)? Does the poet actually know what there is to be heard? Can the poet control hearing? Is the poet the best interpreter of the poem? Is there a best interpreter? Is there a meaning that we are edging towards, like a homing device?
I suspect the answer to all of these is: no. I suspect that if there were a single point, a single hearing, a single voice, a fully articulated intention, there would be no poem. Sometimes when I am not sure if a poem is working aurally, or syntatically, usually because I have got too tangled up with it, I paste it into Text and get the impersonal computer voice to read it for me. That voice has no capacity for sly persuasion. It cannot emote, amplify or give me dramatic pauses. It has no sensibility, no intimacy. The language is naked, out there, shivering in the cold. And somehow it can look a little clearer there.
This is not some precious piece of Poesy mystification, it is, I believe, the very nature of language: a compound of music, distance, breath, loss, the absurd, the attempt to build something out of such codes as we have.
Monday, March 30, 2009
NaPoBlogMo
April is National Poetry Month. I was considering participating in NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month), a poem a day for the thirty days of April. But I came to my senses. I will, however, be posting (for me, not you, because I'm not sure that you actually exist) stuff that I wrote for NaPoWriMo a few years ago, minus the Cleveland Indians limericks. The Tribe'll just have to get on without them. Interspersed -- I hope -- will be some new stuff. This is the plan.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Audition: Hamlet
That's it. I'm gonna do "Hamlet: The Xtranormal Textual Eternity Version." Why? Because that's what you do with Hamlet.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Three Double Dactyls
All originally posted to PFFA at various times.
Grudge Match
Lovity-dovity
Cupid and Valentine
met in a grudge match on
Febr'y 14.
Proving himself rather
un-Lupercalian,
Val swiped an arrow and
skewered Cup's spleen.
-----
Punic
Humboty-jumboty
Hannibal, Hasdrubal,
brothers defending dear
Carthage's shore,
split when the former led
elephantastical
forces through Alpen snow.
"Roma, amor'!"
-----
Adventures in Space!
Higgledy-piggledy
Armstrong the astronaut
rode in a rocket ship
up to the moon.
"Not made of cheese," said the
Wapakonetian.
"Sounds kind of crazy, but
it’s a balloon."
Grudge Match
Lovity-dovity
Cupid and Valentine
met in a grudge match on
Febr'y 14.
Proving himself rather
un-Lupercalian,
Val swiped an arrow and
skewered Cup's spleen.
-----
Punic
Humboty-jumboty
Hannibal, Hasdrubal,
brothers defending dear
Carthage's shore,
split when the former led
elephantastical
forces through Alpen snow.
"Roma, amor'!"
-----
Adventures in Space!
Higgledy-piggledy
Armstrong the astronaut
rode in a rocket ship
up to the moon.
"Not made of cheese," said the
Wapakonetian.
"Sounds kind of crazy, but
it’s a balloon."
Drinks With Something In Them
Posted 01-31-2008 at PFFA.
Drinks With Something In Them
with apologies to Ogden Nash
There is something about a Long Island,
A concoction of love from back east.
Its wonders can render one silent
When the flurry of mixing has ceased.
There is something about a Long Island,
This potion, this tonical healer,
So don't get it wrong
(It won't take oolong):
It's the gin, vodka, rum and tequila.
Here's to the worldly Manhattan,
A prize they award once a decade,
An invite from Countess Mountbatten,
Reprieves from the Order of Hecate.
There is something they put in Manhattans
That makes one feel learned and urban.
But the stem of a cherry
Is quite ordinary,
So I'm stymied. Unless it's the bourbon.
There is something they put in a mai tai,
And beachcombers know scuttlebutt,
So I always inquire when I tie
One on at the bar in the hut.
There is something Vic puts in a mai tai,
An ingredient destined to please ya:
An ocean of rum!
And ya know where it's from?
It's from Cali, dude, not Polynesia.
And here's to the frat party kegger!
I'm so drunk I can't see anymore.
She asked if I wanted to peg her,
And I ended up tapping the floor.
Three cheers for the frat party kegger--
Keep pumping until it runs clear!
And it might just be suds
That I puked on your duds,
But I (hic) think perhaps it's the beer.
-----
See comments for Mr. Nash's original poem.
Drinks With Something In Them
with apologies to Ogden Nash
There is something about a Long Island,
A concoction of love from back east.
Its wonders can render one silent
When the flurry of mixing has ceased.
There is something about a Long Island,
This potion, this tonical healer,
So don't get it wrong
(It won't take oolong):
It's the gin, vodka, rum and tequila.
Here's to the worldly Manhattan,
A prize they award once a decade,
An invite from Countess Mountbatten,
Reprieves from the Order of Hecate.
There is something they put in Manhattans
That makes one feel learned and urban.
But the stem of a cherry
Is quite ordinary,
So I'm stymied. Unless it's the bourbon.
There is something they put in a mai tai,
And beachcombers know scuttlebutt,
So I always inquire when I tie
One on at the bar in the hut.
There is something Vic puts in a mai tai,
An ingredient destined to please ya:
An ocean of rum!
And ya know where it's from?
It's from Cali, dude, not Polynesia.
And here's to the frat party kegger!
I'm so drunk I can't see anymore.
She asked if I wanted to peg her,
And I ended up tapping the floor.
Three cheers for the frat party kegger--
Keep pumping until it runs clear!
And it might just be suds
That I puked on your duds,
But I (hic) think perhaps it's the beer.
-----
See comments for Mr. Nash's original poem.
End of an Orgy (A Cento)
Posted 07-18-2005 at PFFA.
End of an Orgy
Look on the tragic loading of this bed
Such welcome and unwelcome things at once
Tut! I am in their bosoms, and I know
As one who sits and gazes from above
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
You may as well go stand upon the beach
But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth?
Rife in her wrongs, more lawless, and more lewd
Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats
Eliminate the ninnies and the twits
There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear
Cap and knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks!
-----
An example of a cento or patchwork poem. Each line is taken from a different poem (or verse -- this one is mostly Shakespeare). Here's the thing: the only way to revise a cento is to read more poetry. Here's the other thing: I really like the Devo lyric.
All poetic credit due:
L1: Othello, Act V. Scene II. (William Shakespeare)
L2: Macbeth, Act IV.Scene III. (W.S.)
L3: Julius Caesar, Act V. Scene I. (W.S.)
L4: Sonnets from the Portuguese - XV (Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
L5: The Waste Land, (T.S. Eliot)
L6: The Merchant of Venice, Act IV. Scene I. (W.S.)
L7: Titus Andronicus, Act V. Scene I. (W.S.)
L8: Andromeda (Gerard Manley Hopkins)
L9: Hamlet, Act V. Scene I. (W.S.)
L10: Much Ado About Nothing, Act IV. Scene I. (W.S.)
L11: Wild With All Regrets (Wilfred Owen)
L12: Through Being Cool (Devo)
L13: "There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear" (William Wordsworth)
L14: Timon of Athens, Act III. Scene VI. (W.S.)
End of an Orgy
Look on the tragic loading of this bed
Such welcome and unwelcome things at once
Tut! I am in their bosoms, and I know
As one who sits and gazes from above
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
You may as well go stand upon the beach
But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth?
Rife in her wrongs, more lawless, and more lewd
Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats
Eliminate the ninnies and the twits
There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear
Cap and knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks!
-----
An example of a cento or patchwork poem. Each line is taken from a different poem (or verse -- this one is mostly Shakespeare). Here's the thing: the only way to revise a cento is to read more poetry. Here's the other thing: I really like the Devo lyric.
All poetic credit due:
L1: Othello, Act V. Scene II. (William Shakespeare)
L2: Macbeth, Act IV.Scene III. (W.S.)
L3: Julius Caesar, Act V. Scene I. (W.S.)
L4: Sonnets from the Portuguese - XV (Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
L5: The Waste Land, (T.S. Eliot)
L6: The Merchant of Venice, Act IV. Scene I. (W.S.)
L7: Titus Andronicus, Act V. Scene I. (W.S.)
L8: Andromeda (Gerard Manley Hopkins)
L9: Hamlet, Act V. Scene I. (W.S.)
L10: Much Ado About Nothing, Act IV. Scene I. (W.S.)
L11: Wild With All Regrets (Wilfred Owen)
L12: Through Being Cool (Devo)
L13: "There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear" (William Wordsworth)
L14: Timon of Athens, Act III. Scene VI. (W.S.)
The Next Naughty Limerick
Posted 08-16-2002 at PFFA. Revised version.
An orchestra leader named Don
one day had misplaced his baton.
He conducted the band
with cojones in hand,
and his cock became sine qua non.
Standard dirty limerick, bordering on nonsense, I guess. It took me two weeks to come up with a joke for the first draft. This, this is the fruit of my labor.
An orchestra leader named Don
one day had misplaced his baton.
He conducted the band
with cojones in hand,
and his cock became sine qua non.
Standard dirty limerick, bordering on nonsense, I guess. It took me two weeks to come up with a joke for the first draft. This, this is the fruit of my labor.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Tragelogue
New! Another ShaxPearLite Limrik!
Tragelogue
"The Elsinore's rooms are palatial,
but in Denmark the service is glacial.
Skip it, you should,
but the liquor is good,
and the swordfights are great," wrote Horatio.
Tragelogue
"The Elsinore's rooms are palatial,
but in Denmark the service is glacial.
Skip it, you should,
but the liquor is good,
and the swordfights are great," wrote Horatio.
The Shaxpear Limericks
Posted 03-29-2002 at PFFA.
Hamlimerick
Prince Hamlet had many a notion
about honor, revenge and devotion.
He spent five solid hours
using all of his powers
to soliloquize. Still. Without motion.
-----
Posted 03-30-2002 at PFFA.
Othellimerick
Sufficient, the warlike Othello
had passed over Iago, a fellow
who plotted alone. A
distraught Desdemona
then cried 'til her kerchief turned yellow.
-----
The Scottish Limerick
Macbeth was the king of the Scots,
that is, 'til his woman saw spots.
"Macduff, I've been gypped:
you were untimely ripped,
and here comes a forest that trots."
-----
The Present Death of Hamlimericks
Said Claudius, "I'm king. My prerogative."
So Hamlet thought, "Something has gotta give.
I'll feign indigestion
and -- what was the question?"
In Denmark, they're quite interrogative.
-----
Just a collection...
Hamlimerick
Prince Hamlet had many a notion
about honor, revenge and devotion.
He spent five solid hours
using all of his powers
to soliloquize. Still. Without motion.
-----
Posted 03-30-2002 at PFFA.
Othellimerick
Sufficient, the warlike Othello
had passed over Iago, a fellow
who plotted alone. A
distraught Desdemona
then cried 'til her kerchief turned yellow.
-----
The Scottish Limerick
Macbeth was the king of the Scots,
that is, 'til his woman saw spots.
"Macduff, I've been gypped:
you were untimely ripped,
and here comes a forest that trots."
-----
The Present Death of Hamlimericks
Said Claudius, "I'm king. My prerogative."
So Hamlet thought, "Something has gotta give.
I'll feign indigestion
and -- what was the question?"
In Denmark, they're quite interrogative.
-----
Just a collection...
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Cleo (non-metrical)
Posted at PFFA quite some time ago, perhaps even for critique.
Cleo
Queen Cleo forsakes the domicile
to lie white and burnished orange
in her court. She gives audience today:
one Maxwell the Boxer is scheduled
to woof and defer and bow low
to the Duchess of Paw and Puffed Tail.
Patra is patient with mincing maids,
bright ribbons and bells and silky fresh
whiskers. Entreaties of play are swiftly
dismissed by her aura, her taut coil
of tension. Alarum! The gate has been
breached by Max and his sniffers!
"Barbarians," mewls Cleo. The louts
chase her minions to hiding. She hisses
departure and leaps to the window.
Her grooming is subtle; then nobly
she signals command to the courtiers
to hasten Her Grand and Right Royal Entrance.
-----
It's about an old family cat. Sue me.
Cleo
Queen Cleo forsakes the domicile
to lie white and burnished orange
in her court. She gives audience today:
one Maxwell the Boxer is scheduled
to woof and defer and bow low
to the Duchess of Paw and Puffed Tail.
Patra is patient with mincing maids,
bright ribbons and bells and silky fresh
whiskers. Entreaties of play are swiftly
dismissed by her aura, her taut coil
of tension. Alarum! The gate has been
breached by Max and his sniffers!
"Barbarians," mewls Cleo. The louts
chase her minions to hiding. She hisses
departure and leaps to the window.
Her grooming is subtle; then nobly
she signals command to the courtiers
to hasten Her Grand and Right Royal Entrance.
-----
It's about an old family cat. Sue me.
The Card Sharp (non-metrical)
Posted early on at PFFA.
(revised version)
The Card Sharp
Chips lie archipelago
on felt of river-green;
they scatter from my shore's
low mounds to the mountains
of his take, a range
that I would climb
to meet this sage.
I gaze, attentive acolyte:
the dextrous cut, the shark-
clean slip of cards. Narrow
fingers, studded emerald,
navigate my calls and calling.
He talks the deal, declaims
the probability of things,
No help, a king, no help,
them deuces never loses,
a bullet for the dealer.
He pulls on incense of Havana,
idly rubs his ring and fixes me.
Low, elegiac, the smoke
rolls from his mouth as slow
as fog. The euphony of sermons
on Nevada and percentages
lulls me just enough to see.
He snaps a jack. A trance
like morning mist or sixes
in the hole is lifted, blown
away and clear by hands
that rake the river clean
of islets. Mountains change
to cash, and I awake
to think this:
hypnotist.
-----
(original version)
The Card Sharp
Chips lie archipelago
on felt of river-green;
they scatter from my shore's
low mounds to the mountains
of his take, a range
that I would climb to meet
this sage. I dub him shark,
but dolphin suits the slip
of cards, the dextrous cut.
He talks the deal, declaims
the probability of things:
No help, a king, no help.
And now I call him Father,
priest and preacher-man.
Low, elegiac, the smoke
rolls from his mouth as slow
as fog. The euphony of sermons
on Nevada and percentages
lulls me just enough to see.
He snaps a jack. A trance
like morning mist or sixes
in the hole is lifted, blown
away and clear by hands
that rake the river clean
of islets. Mountains change
to cash, and then I name him
hypnotist.
-----
At the time, I was still learning what it takes to revise; I barely did anything to fix the problems here. Fun!
(revised version)
The Card Sharp
Chips lie archipelago
on felt of river-green;
they scatter from my shore's
low mounds to the mountains
of his take, a range
that I would climb
to meet this sage.
I gaze, attentive acolyte:
the dextrous cut, the shark-
clean slip of cards. Narrow
fingers, studded emerald,
navigate my calls and calling.
He talks the deal, declaims
the probability of things,
No help, a king, no help,
them deuces never loses,
a bullet for the dealer.
He pulls on incense of Havana,
idly rubs his ring and fixes me.
Low, elegiac, the smoke
rolls from his mouth as slow
as fog. The euphony of sermons
on Nevada and percentages
lulls me just enough to see.
He snaps a jack. A trance
like morning mist or sixes
in the hole is lifted, blown
away and clear by hands
that rake the river clean
of islets. Mountains change
to cash, and I awake
to think this:
hypnotist.
-----
(original version)
The Card Sharp
Chips lie archipelago
on felt of river-green;
they scatter from my shore's
low mounds to the mountains
of his take, a range
that I would climb to meet
this sage. I dub him shark,
but dolphin suits the slip
of cards, the dextrous cut.
He talks the deal, declaims
the probability of things:
No help, a king, no help.
And now I call him Father,
priest and preacher-man.
Low, elegiac, the smoke
rolls from his mouth as slow
as fog. The euphony of sermons
on Nevada and percentages
lulls me just enough to see.
He snaps a jack. A trance
like morning mist or sixes
in the hole is lifted, blown
away and clear by hands
that rake the river clean
of islets. Mountains change
to cash, and then I name him
hypnotist.
-----
At the time, I was still learning what it takes to revise; I barely did anything to fix the problems here. Fun!
Communion (non-metrical)
Posted 03-19-2001 at PFFA.
(revised version)
Communion
Adrenalized with fondness,
my relatives arrive.
Uncle Jack ruffles my hair,
gives me the ten-dollar handshake,
and lets Aunt Cap tie
the worst Windsor in Christendom.
The never-again shoes pinch,
black socks new-thin and cold.
Mom fusses with cuffs and my shirt tuck.
There are eight of us, football buddies
dressed identically. We pace aisle and nave,
rookies learning routes, a few boys
set in a garden line of gliding girls,
each in a dress unique to its awkward flower.
The hymn, gravity of Domus Dei, slows
the procession to lock-step. The Stations
pass, grim scenes in woodcut: Romans,
stumbles, stoning, shroud. Above them,
Joseph's halo reflects my father's
camera flash. Colored-glass patterns blur.
In the line to receive, I roll up
my sleeves. "This is the play.
You, run the post." Past limp ties
and giggling dresses, I fake
at the convent door, cut to
mid-parking lot, turn. The ball,
amazingly spiral, thuds into my
graceless clutch. I bobble it, then trip,
but lock it in for the reception,
the completion. My feet ache, but a chorus
of whoops greets my chicken-walk strut.
I spike the ball before the head thumping
and hand slaps start.
----------
(original version)
Communion
Adrenalized with fondness, my relatives arrive. Compulsory
hugs for the priest complete the greeting, and the preparatory
prayer huddle breaks. Uncle Jack ruffles my hair, gives me
the ten-dollar handshake, and lets Aunt Cap tie the worst
Windsor in Christendom. Mom fusses with my uneasy
attire. The never-again shoes pinch, black socks new-thin
and cold. My stiff white shirt is force tucked unevenly
into the beltbuckle shackled pants. There are eight of us,
football buddies, rookies learning routes. Dressed identically,
we pace through the nave-spliced architecture, a few boys scattered
alphabetically in a garden line of gliding girls, each one in a dress
unique to its awkward flower. The hymn, the gravity of Domus Dei,
slows the procession to lock-step. The Stations pass, grim scenes
in woodcut: Romans, stumbles, stoning, shroud. The congregation,
oddly somber, mumbles psalms. The flash of Dad’s camera reflects
off circular halos, saints in cut colored glass, and the patterns blur
as I step up to the line to receive. I roll up my sleeves. "This is
the play. You, run the post." Past the pile of limp ties, past the slender
giggling dresses, with an improvised fake at the convent door, I cut
to mid-parking lot. I turn and the ball, amazingly perfectly spiral,
thuds into my graceless clutch. I bobble it, then trip, but lock it in
as I step across the flagpole goal line. A chorus of whoops greets
my aching feet chicken walk strut dance, and I spike the ball
before the helmetless head thumping and hand slaps start.
-----
Early workshop stuff. What can I say? The revise is much better, anyway.
(revised version)
Communion
Adrenalized with fondness,
my relatives arrive.
Uncle Jack ruffles my hair,
gives me the ten-dollar handshake,
and lets Aunt Cap tie
the worst Windsor in Christendom.
The never-again shoes pinch,
black socks new-thin and cold.
Mom fusses with cuffs and my shirt tuck.
There are eight of us, football buddies
dressed identically. We pace aisle and nave,
rookies learning routes, a few boys
set in a garden line of gliding girls,
each in a dress unique to its awkward flower.
The hymn, gravity of Domus Dei, slows
the procession to lock-step. The Stations
pass, grim scenes in woodcut: Romans,
stumbles, stoning, shroud. Above them,
Joseph's halo reflects my father's
camera flash. Colored-glass patterns blur.
In the line to receive, I roll up
my sleeves. "This is the play.
You, run the post." Past limp ties
and giggling dresses, I fake
at the convent door, cut to
mid-parking lot, turn. The ball,
amazingly spiral, thuds into my
graceless clutch. I bobble it, then trip,
but lock it in for the reception,
the completion. My feet ache, but a chorus
of whoops greets my chicken-walk strut.
I spike the ball before the head thumping
and hand slaps start.
----------
(original version)
Communion
Adrenalized with fondness, my relatives arrive. Compulsory
hugs for the priest complete the greeting, and the preparatory
prayer huddle breaks. Uncle Jack ruffles my hair, gives me
the ten-dollar handshake, and lets Aunt Cap tie the worst
Windsor in Christendom. Mom fusses with my uneasy
attire. The never-again shoes pinch, black socks new-thin
and cold. My stiff white shirt is force tucked unevenly
into the beltbuckle shackled pants. There are eight of us,
football buddies, rookies learning routes. Dressed identically,
we pace through the nave-spliced architecture, a few boys scattered
alphabetically in a garden line of gliding girls, each one in a dress
unique to its awkward flower. The hymn, the gravity of Domus Dei,
slows the procession to lock-step. The Stations pass, grim scenes
in woodcut: Romans, stumbles, stoning, shroud. The congregation,
oddly somber, mumbles psalms. The flash of Dad’s camera reflects
off circular halos, saints in cut colored glass, and the patterns blur
as I step up to the line to receive. I roll up my sleeves. "This is
the play. You, run the post." Past the pile of limp ties, past the slender
giggling dresses, with an improvised fake at the convent door, I cut
to mid-parking lot. I turn and the ball, amazingly perfectly spiral,
thuds into my graceless clutch. I bobble it, then trip, but lock it in
as I step across the flagpole goal line. A chorus of whoops greets
my aching feet chicken walk strut dance, and I spike the ball
before the helmetless head thumping and hand slaps start.
-----
Early workshop stuff. What can I say? The revise is much better, anyway.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Bull
Bull
My sign is Taurus. That explains my head
case rage. I'm quiet, but my horns are sore.
I scratch and grunt my anger. When I shed
myself of handlers' grips, I grunt the more.
I'd rather not engage the matador,
all slick and Spanish, clad in red and black,
awaiting my advance. A pointless chore,
but I am helpless. Charge the flag! Attack!
I snort my weight across the ring. He pulls it back.
-----
A Spenserian stanza about my sign, man.
Sci-Fi Limerick
Posted 10-29-2002 at PFFA.
Sci-Fi Limerick
A day trip at faster-than-light
is odd, since you start off at night.
With atom dispersal
and time's near reversal,
you arrive at your target pre-flight.
-----
For a challenge at PFFA.
Sci-Fi Limerick
A day trip at faster-than-light
is odd, since you start off at night.
With atom dispersal
and time's near reversal,
you arrive at your target pre-flight.
-----
For a challenge at PFFA.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Mock-Latin Macaronic Verse
Macaronic language has a long, disreputable history.
My dad used to recite a mock-Latin poem sometimes after dinner, a few drinks, and the prodding of his children. It was always funny, and the joke always got across, even to the youngest kid at the table, which happened to be me, and I hadn't even taken Latin in high school yet. It's the repetition of -ibus and -orum, and the classic boy meets girl, boy has ass handed to him by girl's angry father, story narrated (in my mind) by noted Latin scholar Vincent Price.
Skimming the internet haphazardly for instances of this macaronstrosity, it seems to be squarely in the oral tradition. None of what I have seen online is attributed, and spelling varies greatly. It seems that variations of the main theme were written in Latin notebooks and texts, by disgruntled sophomores, who were probably mimicking the dignified seniors, who might have been capable of writing such wit. Thank yearbooks, then, and college-town newspapers, for finding this stuff amusing and printing it in the back with the catering ads and football scores.
These mock-Latin macaronics are all printed as I found them with no editorial scrubbing. The first version below is from The Log, 1924: Juniata High School Yearbook: Blair Co, PA.
O, Caesar!
Darkibus nightibus
Nota lamporum
Boyibus kissibus
Sweet girlorum
Girlibus likabus
Wanta someorum
Pater puellibus
Enter parlorum
Kickabus boyibus
Exibus doorum
Nightibus darkabus
Minus lamporum
Climbibus fencibus
Breechibus torum
-----
Another version, from The Cornell Daily Sun, November 24, 1937 [PDF file].
Latin Lesson
Peuribus kissibus
Sweeta girlorum;
Girlibus likibus,
Wanta somorum.
Pateribus girlibus
Enter parlorum;
Kickum peuribus
Exit duorum.
Nightibus darkibus,
Nonus lamporum;
Jumpibus fencibus,
Pantibus torum.
–Boston College Heights
-----
Another one, from The Wesleyan Argus, January 14, 1895 [PDF file].
A Modern Tragedy
Boyibus kissibus,
Sweet girliorum;
Girlibus likibus,
Wanti someorum.
Inibus lapibus,
Sitigirliorum;
Thenibus boyibus,
Kissi someorum.
Papibus seeibus,
Slapi girliorum.
Kickibus boyibus,
Outi doororum.
Thenibus boyibus,
Limpi homeorum;
Girlibus cryibus
Kissi nomoreorum.
–Exchange
-----
And one for the ladies, from Potter College for Young Ladies Exhibit, Bowling Green, Kentucky, 1889-1909.
Drawing of student making fudge
Girlibus makibus
Sweet fudgiorum
Over her gasibus
Crack in her doorum
Deanibus smellibus
Rushes to doorum
Scaribus girlibus
Out of year’s growrum.
Darkibus nightibus
No lightiorium
Girlibus weepibus
Fudge on the floorum
-----
There's much more to macaronic language than just the Latinate puns. Perhaps an update later on.
116. Let me not to the pouring of true suds
Posted 12-16-2003 at PFFA.
Let me not to the pouring of true suds
Admit impediments. Stout is not stout
When ordered by my drinking buddies. Bud's
The only name for beer when boys are out.
O no! Don't buy another round of piss!
Cannot your will to drink this crap be shaken?
Oh, waitress, kindly ask the bar for this
If tips is what you reckon you'll be makin':
A pint of Guinness each! We'll not perturb
The bouncers if and when last call does come,
Or even if they bear us to the curb
For unpaid tabs of quite enormous sum.
If this, my wallet, proves to be too light,
I swear I'll buy a round another night.
-----
116
Let me not to the pouring of true suds
Admit impediments. Stout is not stout
When ordered by my drinking buddies. Bud's
The only name for beer when boys are out.
O no! Don't buy another round of piss!
Cannot your will to drink this crap be shaken?
Oh, waitress, kindly ask the bar for this
If tips is what you reckon you'll be makin':
A pint of Guinness each! We'll not perturb
The bouncers if and when last call does come,
Or even if they bear us to the curb
For unpaid tabs of quite enormous sum.
If this, my wallet, proves to be too light,
I swear I'll buy a round another night.
-----
116
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Between the Lines
Between the Lines
Originally uploaded by Brian in Cleveland
Posted 01-19-2006 for a Found Poem challenge at PFFA.
I think this is an example of a found poem.
Or a poem-picture.
Or: Poem: Picture-Found.
STOP-PARD
STOP-PARD
There's currently a writer named Stoppard.
As a playwright, he's cream of the crop. Hard
to smoothly proclaim
is his multi-stressed name,
so here's one that's simpler to drop: Bard!
-----
Posted at PFFA to the Genral forum.
Naughty Limericks, Shouldn't Read
A woman with bad halitosis
overheard, "Her mouth never closes!
It's rotten and vile,
and brings up my bile!
But it's true that her farts smell like roses."
-----
There is a young man in Helsinki
whose dingus is shaped like a slinky.
He proudly declares
(as it walks down the stairs),
"I love my retractable dinky!"
-----
Posted at PFFA in the Humor forum; the dates published are lost to time, but truly these limericks should be saved. Truly. Truly.
Abecedarian
Posted 07-23-2001 at PFFA.
Abecedarian
"Ah, badly cut diamonds!"
Encountering fake gems,
Herr Ishmael, jewel knower,
lets mingle Nepalese opals,
pure quartz, razorthin silver
tapers under various waves (X-rays).
"Yes, zero. Zilch. Your xth
wrecked venture. Unless topaz
soon realizes quarterly payoffs
over normal market listings...."
Know, Jesus, I'll have golden
fingers eventually. Destitute
capitalist! Burned again!
-----
Former US poet laureate Robert Pinsky has a decent abecedarian here. And here.
Abecedarian
"Ah, badly cut diamonds!"
Encountering fake gems,
Herr Ishmael, jewel knower,
lets mingle Nepalese opals,
pure quartz, razorthin silver
tapers under various waves (X-rays).
"Yes, zero. Zilch. Your xth
wrecked venture. Unless topaz
soon realizes quarterly payoffs
over normal market listings...."
Know, Jesus, I'll have golden
fingers eventually. Destitute
capitalist! Burned again!
-----
Former US poet laureate Robert Pinsky has a decent abecedarian here. And here.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Poems (About A Poet & A Poetess)
Posted 03-16-2001 at PFFA.
A Poem (About A Poet)
there once was a poet named e e
no "."s or ","s for he e
but! for 1 or 2 pieces
he signed the relieces
etc.) and capitalized "SHE" e
-----
Posted 03-16-2001 at PFFA.
A Poemess (About A Poetess)
There once was a Poet named Emily
Whose off-rhymes tended toward simile.
To use the long dash
-- she had a large stash --
Was the topic of one editor's homily.
-----
I like the Cummings one.
A Poem (About A Poet)
there once was a poet named e e
no "."s or ","s for he e
but! for 1 or 2 pieces
he signed the relieces
etc.) and capitalized "SHE" e
-----
Posted 03-16-2001 at PFFA.
A Poemess (About A Poetess)
There once was a Poet named Emily
Whose off-rhymes tended toward simile.
To use the long dash
-- she had a large stash --
Was the topic of one editor's homily.
-----
I like the Cummings one.
The Non-Skier
Posted 09-16-2001 at PFFA.
The Non-Skier
In the warm and cozy lodge,
my head is mighty jolly
with a potent spicy rum
and ladies most demure.
I'll have a rumbling belly laugh
at their husbands' errant folly:
they hit the slopes with proper whoosh
but their lassies're mine, for sure.
-----
It was fun finding the rhymes on this one. An example of amphisbaenic or backward rhyme:
(stop / pots : lame / mail).
The Non-Skier
In the warm and cozy lodge,
my head is mighty jolly
with a potent spicy rum
and ladies most demure.
I'll have a rumbling belly laugh
at their husbands' errant folly:
they hit the slopes with proper whoosh
but their lassies're mine, for sure.
-----
It was fun finding the rhymes on this one. An example of amphisbaenic or backward rhyme:
(stop / pots : lame / mail).
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Quick Sonnets: At Superhero 101 with Maven Hawk (a.k.a. The RAVER!) / The Harbinger of Inkling (exclusive)
Posted 02-09-2008 at PFFA.
At Superhero 101 with Maven Hawk (a.k.a. The RAVER!)
Some hay awoke me, katzenjammer loud
and whirling. Swish by my ear - fooh. It lit
the wall. Had I had half the time allowed
I could have stifled it. I could not hit
a barn door, though, for all my drowsing senses.
This circumstance crops up on training day:
time-shackled managers cut loose, climb fences,
dream big, don capes, oh bright menagerie!
The right sightline can bend your arrow home.
Remember how to see through grit and gauze.
A shimmy-belt will do, and with a comb,
your hair shall not distract. And just because
your super powers manifest as muscle,
well, so do ours. Now, let me see some hustle.
-----
Quick sonnet. I'm hoping to pitch this as a movie.
---
Wrote "The Harbinger of Inkling" (27 mins.) mid-February, 2009. Exclusive to Formalist Saurian!
The Harbinger of Inkling
Hark! Back to the airport remains! Alack,
the mule retreat explicitly denied
my way. I feared I would not make it back
to register my ticket. Pick your ride
like you would pick your girlfriend, or a wife.
I guess a mile or two would change the map
I had in '89. It changed my life
of woe and pain, just like a thunderclap.
I'm lying. I am prepping fluted shrooms,
won't take a minute. Oh, I've been remiss,
my hosting duties! Howzyerdringg? Those booms
will calm themselves. I have seen worse than this.
Vodka. He shook his head against the thought.
Return, go back. They'll scan it. You'll be caught.
-----
Um, quick sonnet. So bad, it's going exclusively to my blog. I'll be revising, of course.
At Superhero 101 with Maven Hawk (a.k.a. The RAVER!)
Some hay awoke me, katzenjammer loud
and whirling. Swish by my ear - fooh. It lit
the wall. Had I had half the time allowed
I could have stifled it. I could not hit
a barn door, though, for all my drowsing senses.
This circumstance crops up on training day:
time-shackled managers cut loose, climb fences,
dream big, don capes, oh bright menagerie!
The right sightline can bend your arrow home.
Remember how to see through grit and gauze.
A shimmy-belt will do, and with a comb,
your hair shall not distract. And just because
your super powers manifest as muscle,
well, so do ours. Now, let me see some hustle.
-----
Quick sonnet. I'm hoping to pitch this as a movie.
---
Wrote "The Harbinger of Inkling" (27 mins.) mid-February, 2009. Exclusive to Formalist Saurian!
The Harbinger of Inkling
Hark! Back to the airport remains! Alack,
the mule retreat explicitly denied
my way. I feared I would not make it back
to register my ticket. Pick your ride
like you would pick your girlfriend, or a wife.
I guess a mile or two would change the map
I had in '89. It changed my life
of woe and pain, just like a thunderclap.
I'm lying. I am prepping fluted shrooms,
won't take a minute. Oh, I've been remiss,
my hosting duties! Howzyerdringg? Those booms
will calm themselves. I have seen worse than this.
Vodka. He shook his head against the thought.
Return, go back. They'll scan it. You'll be caught.
-----
Um, quick sonnet. So bad, it's going exclusively to my blog. I'll be revising, of course.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
A Haiku (That Is Pure, Liquid Trash)
Posted 04-04-2001 at PFFA.
A Haiku (That Is Pure, Liquid Trash)
There once was a man
named Basho (means "banana")
who lived in a hut.
-----
Pure, liquid trash.
A Haiku (That Is Pure, Liquid Trash)
There once was a man
named Basho (means "banana")
who lived in a hut.
-----
Pure, liquid trash.
Song For Her Boyfriend
Posted 09-25-2005 at PFFA.
Song For Her Boyfriend
You twit. You flit and point your beak to feed at slits, but still
your wings mesh easily with sky when you control your trill.
Hummingbird Bill, we'll feast on flies and spiderweb a nest!
And hum the rest.
-----
For the "Bestiary" challenge at the Poetry Free-For-All.
Song For Her Boyfriend
You twit. You flit and point your beak to feed at slits, but still
your wings mesh easily with sky when you control your trill.
Hummingbird Bill, we'll feast on flies and spiderweb a nest!
And hum the rest.
-----
For the "Bestiary" challenge at the Poetry Free-For-All.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Triolets
Canvas (A Triolet)
The artist's first expression is
an unmarked canvas on the wall.
A stretch with no impurity
the artist's first expression is.
The oils are mixed explicitly
to flow with horsehair's glide and fall.
The artist's first expression is:
an unmarked canvas on the wall.
-----
Laundromats (A Triolet)
The poet writes in laundromats.
The inspiration comes in tides.
Until the clothes are folded flat,
the poet writes. In laundromats
you cannot wash your velvet hats
or take the dryer for a ride.
The poet writes in laundromats;
the inspiration comes! More Tide.
-----
I wrote Canvas immediately after learning what a triolet was. I screwed it up. The form is somewhat forgiving, though, and has let me write a few decent ones over the years...
-----
Posted 12-04-2000 at PFFA.
I am a germ. I do not wish
to frighten you. You are my host,
provident, my nourishment.
I am a germ. I do not wish
to leave this moist environment,
in Petri dish to be enclosed!
I am a germ. I do not wish
to frighten you. You are my host.
-----
Posted 03-27-2002 at PFFA.
Because I never knew his smile,
God bless my oldest brother George.
I choose a photo from the pile
because I never knew his smile.
I prop it here and pray a while,
the only bond that I can forge
because I never knew his smile.
God, bless my oldest brother George.
(for Helen & John)
Sunday, February 22, 2009
On the Topic of What Makes One Greatly Admire and/or Appreciate the Continent of Europe
Posted 01-19-2006 at PFFA.
On the Topic of What Makes One Greatly Admire
and/or Appreciate the Continent of Europe
There once was a lady in Europe
whose foot would get caught in the stirrup
during doctor's exams.
It would tense up her hams
and make her squirt pure maple syrup.
-----
I like this one. From a challenge at PFFA.
On the Topic of What Makes One Greatly Admire
and/or Appreciate the Continent of Europe
There once was a lady in Europe
whose foot would get caught in the stirrup
during doctor's exams.
It would tense up her hams
and make her squirt pure maple syrup.
-----
I like this one. From a challenge at PFFA.
Little Willy
Posted 02-10-2002 at the Poetry Free-For-All.
Little Willy
Willy had a sister, Rita.
Willy also had a cheetah
just in case his mom said, "Mister,
pucker up and kiss your sister!"
-----
Harry Graham (apparently) is to be blamed for this nasty little "ruthless" form. "Little Willies" (again, apparently) may be found in several different meters and lengths, though the one I've chosen seems the best to me. And sometimes they're not even about Willy. That's actually kind of understandable.
Little Willy
Willy had a sister, Rita.
Willy also had a cheetah
just in case his mom said, "Mister,
pucker up and kiss your sister!"
-----
Harry Graham (apparently) is to be blamed for this nasty little "ruthless" form. "Little Willies" (again, apparently) may be found in several different meters and lengths, though the one I've chosen seems the best to me. And sometimes they're not even about Willy. That's actually kind of understandable.
What Really Happened in the Cretaceous
(It only took 7+ years! The revised poem follows the rougher draft.)
Posted 01-06-2002 at the Poetry Free-For-All:
What Really Happened in the Cretaceous
Rompity-Stompity
Rex, the tyrannosaur,
wrote with unmetrical
feet in his work.
Doubledactylicus,
formalist saurian,
published his treatise and
then went berserk.
-----
I would probably amend this thusly:
What Really Happened in the Cretaceous
Fondle-a-Rondelet
Rex, the tyrannosaur,
wrote with unmetrical
feet in his work.
Doubledactylicus,
formalist saurian,
read Rex: Collected and
then went berserk.
-----
The original was dedicated to Teela, a poster at the Poetry Free-For-All, for the inspiration.
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