"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?

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.

I will now put all of my poems into Text and hit Speak Text. And probably cringe for a good long while.

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.

Audition: Hamlet

That's it. I'm gonna do "Hamlet: The Xtranormal Textual Eternity Version." Why? Because that's what you do with Hamlet.

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."

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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...

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.

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!

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.

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.

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

Robert Pinsky reads "ABC"

Here's mine.

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.