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Thread: Auntie's Anti-Poems

  1. #481
    Registered User DieterM's Avatar
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    You wanted me to be brutal, something I have difficulty being. I'm a people-pleaser, so please bear with me ;-)
    Well, I'm not really sure about the first poem. I've first read it without checking the historical background, wanting to let the words and rythm soak in. And to be honest, is it the rhyme or what, there was something that disturbed me. I wasn't really able to understand, I thought you were talking about a bell that hadn't remained silent for whatever obscure reason. Of course, I understood better once I had followed the link beneath.
    I agree with Hawk re. the last stanza that you could easily drop without changing the meaning. I really didn't like the suture-future-thing; it disrupted the rythmical flow of the rest. Where I disagree with Hawk is the line break in st2 because it, too, disrupts the rythm rather aggressively (and doesn't match the words "remained still" – I don't know if I'm expressing myself so as to be understood).

    All in all, I preferred the second poem, especially the second stanza with its really great and inspiring images.
    "Im Arm der Liebe schliefen wir selig ein…" ("Liebesode" - Otto Erich Hartleben)
    New poetry collection available (Kindle and paperback)

  2. #482
    Registered User prendrelemick's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by AuntShecky View Post
    Perhaps there is a definite reason for G.K. Chesterton's observation, cited earlier today in a LitNutter's thread:
    http://www.online-literature.com/for...s-about-cheese.
    The following is from 1998, during a phase when yours fooly was so infatuated by enjambment that all the punctuation fled in disgust.



    Making A Toasted Cheese Sandwich


    When you have nothing
    the philosophers tell you
    to be happy with
    the little you have
    take delight in the simple things
    philosophers say

    Well, I have a slice of cheese
    and two slices of bread
    what could be simpler
    or cheaper
    than that

    I'd prefer wheat bread
    healthy whole grain
    with a hearty bite
    and some Swiss
    neutral like the country
    and therefore harmless
    though subtly nutty
    and not as pully
    as mozza-pizza
    but snappy enough
    to melt into what
    product researchers call
    "mouth-feel"

    What I have
    is a square
    of store-brand synthetic
    processed stuff
    that's tasteless
    and bland
    and therefore one
    hundred per cent
    American

    imposed between a pair
    of machine-cut sponges
    to pop into
    the toaster-oven

    That's right I'm making
    this the old-fashioned way
    not like the greasy-spoon staple
    drowned in margarine
    and slapped on the same griddle
    that burned burgers
    through three shifts

    (while listed on the ripped plastic menu
    as "grill" cheese)

    Nor would I be crazy
    enough to consider
    the wacky Heloise-style
    hint of wrapping it in foil
    and cooking it at the same time
    as doing the ironing
    (nobody irons anymore)

    and besides -- what about the crumbs
    escaping from the Reynolds' Wrap armor
    and mixing with the
    inadvertently-washed Kleenex
    in the pockets
    of your pants

    No, when it comes to
    toasting cheese sandwiches
    I'm a purist though not a true
    vegan, having been known
    to consume your occasional fish
    the communal omelet
    and of course
    cheese

    So I'm standing guard
    in front of the countertop appliance
    that's like an abandoned wife
    whose husband left her for
    a younger, flashier microwave
    and I'm watching the coil
    turn red
    in embarrassment or anger

    You'd think I were some snooty
    chef from the Cordon Bleu
    fussing over a feast
    for some fastidious dignitary
    the way this social-climbing sandwich
    has commanded my attention

    But you've got to watch
    you've got to know
    the precise moment
    when to flip

    or one side burns
    and the other side stays pale
    and the cheese, inside,
    doesn't even warm up,
    let alone melt

    and you can bet
    somebody will complain
    about the crumbs
    on the floor

    you've got to watch

    Though I'd much prefer
    to look out the window
    and see the sky stretch
    and change into its evening wear
    that isn't quite basic black
    and definitely not blue

    and into the brush to catch
    a glimpse of furry beings
    sniffing the twilight air
    while hustling for a meal
    they can afford
    to be curious and brave
    now that it's dusk

    and the sportsmen have all
    gone home or to a diner
    for a quick beer
    and a burned burger
    there are no hunters left

    except for Orion
    amid the sharp and witty stars
    and the Moon
    rumored to be made of green cheese
    playing Toastmaster to the night
    and raising a shimmering glass
    that spills a silver spotlight
    over the dance floor of the field

    which in the cold morning
    will melt into bits
    of glittering confetti
    these frosty crumbs
    of moonlight in the grass

    with the Cosmos taking its
    simple delight
    in the things it has
    both little and big
    though when you're talking
    about the Universe
    and its timeless banquet
    size doesn't matter

    while I'm inside
    in the kitchen

    toasting cheese
    So disappointing - not the poem, I liked that- I mean unmelted cheese in your toasted sandwich Soo...

    Put two slices on the rack,
    The bottom slice down side up,
    The top, up side down,
    Cheese up the bottom of the top,
    Put under the grill till the cheese bubbles,
    And the bottom of the bottom browns,
    Then put the bottom onto the top,
    ( Put the top of the bottom (which is on the bottom remember) to the cheese on the bottom of the top,)
    Turn them over, so the top of the top is on the top,
    Grill till brown,
    Butter the top.

    Simple really.
    ay up

  3. #483
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    Two seasonal ditties

    Leaf Peeping

    As on a pilgrimage, in faith we came
    to gape, not pray. We gasped at artistry
    of star-and-finger shapes upon each tree,
    all streaked and stained with russet, bronze, and flame.
    Soon suffering for art, we quickly blamed
    the smarting pain on necks craned constantly,
    ignoring cricks in soulful inquiry,
    not straying off trails always marked the same.
    But seasons change, and change sometimes means death.
    Another tree witnessed a different fall;
    it’s by not knowing that a human grieves.
    While vibrant hues tinge our collective breath,
    we could keep looking, searching, asking all,
    in case we don’t find answers in the leaves.




    I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man. –-Chuang Tse

    Choreography

    Do I like baseball
    because it reminds
    me of ballet – -
    or do I like ballet
    because it looks
    just like baseball?
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 10-19-2013 at 05:37 PM.

  4. #484
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    Educating Waiters

    Even though the previous anti-poetry post sank like a stone (i.e. gathered moss), here comes another. It was directly inspired by another LitNutter's thread questioning whether a college education is worth all the trouble and dough.

    Though disturbing, the problem isn't really new. Emil's thread made me a recall a song which dates way, way back to the 1970s. I think I first heard it on the old Mike Douglas show. If I recall correctly, Harry Nillson sang it, but after considerable time doing online searches I found that the ditty originated with Steve Goodman. When you listen to it and hear a reference to extremely- former Pres. Ford, you'll realize how far back the issue goes. It still exists, so many decades later!Every kind of unemployment is heart-breaking, but the state of being "overeducated and unemployed" brings a special kind of humiliation.

    Why is it that many college grads, if they can find work at all, can only find jobs for which they are overqualified? Maybe it’s because of automation–-no more openings for elevator operators.

    “Training is everything. A cauliflower ain’t nothin’ but a cabbage with a college education."
    Puddin’head Wilson


    Educating Waiters

    On shoes all buffed to a blinding shine,
    worn heels still trail slightly desiccated ivy
    from Cornell, Bucknell, Drexel, Tulane,
    the customary stance is attentively erect,
    though the position necessarily requires
    an obsequious bow. It’s all up here,
    like a valedictorian’s address,
    the obligatory script:
    “Hi, I’m Brandon, Aiden, Conor, Flynn,
    and I’ll be your server this evening.”

    That’s all the intro management sanctions–
    no expounding on the marketing plan
    behind the à la carte’s hidden tiers, the design
    of classical font on top-quality vellum,
    sheepskin for gourmands. Same goes
    for table botany: how paper buds evolved
    in Physalis alkekengi, or why pigmentation
    in a calendula will thrive in season.

    Proffer the wine list, but hands off the history
    of Gascony and the Hundred Years War,
    the coveted cases purloined in WW II;
    ditto the etymology, including Shakespearean
    allusions to Sherris sack.
    The diktat likewise to clam up
    about the chemical process of molecular
    gastronomy in layman’s terms:
    the nearly-magical nitrogen immersion
    transforming a blue point or a Brussels sprout
    into a gelatinous jewel that mystifies the tongue.

    Ixnay on the comments re:
    the sociological-economic-political implications
    of taking the Lady’s order first, or the latest
    psychological research data about
    post-traumatic check syndrome, e.g.
    which dominant alpha male in a group
    will pounce for the discreet leather folder.
    Above all, the server is forbidden
    to flaunt post-graduate expertise
    by offering to calculate the gratuity
    instantly in his head.



    “It’s a sorry situation that you can’t avoid/ When you’re overeducated and unemployed.”
    --Steve Goodman
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 11-09-2013 at 07:24 PM.

  5. #485
    It wasn't me Jerrybaldy's Avatar
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    Unemployed and over educated? This must be you dear Auntie. Think I may be employed and under educated. I feel under educated to enjoy some of your postings. I very much enjoyed my trip with you to the politics of fine dining though.
    You are eclectic in your taste to enjoy anything I write. I can taste a strong seasoning of cynicism in your poem however so maybe that is our tender thread. Write me something guttural x
    Last edited by Jerrybaldy; 11-04-2013 at 02:54 PM.

    For those who believe,
    no explanation is necessary.
    For those who do not,
    none will suffice.

  6. #486
    Registered User DieterM's Avatar
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    I really liked "Tea Peeping", surely because it's so very much novemberish outside right now… especially the lines
    "While vibrant hues tinge our collective breath,
    we could keep looking, searching, asking all,
    in case we don’t find answers in the leaves."
    give room for thought. Thought I'd bump this one up – it deserves to be bumped anyway.

    Not so fond of "Choreography" but only because, personnally, I don't do sports (neither as an activity nor as something you'd watch on telly) and I've been to a ballet representation once and have nearly fallen asleep… ;-)
    "Im Arm der Liebe schliefen wir selig ein…" ("Liebesode" - Otto Erich Hartleben)
    New poetry collection available (Kindle and paperback)

  7. #487
    Justifiably inexcusable DocHeart's Avatar
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    Every time I decide to treat myself to spending some time in this thread I feel nothing but sheer admiration for how accomplished your poetry is. You *are* a published and well-known poet who's just trolling us, aren't you?

    Thanks for sharing.

    DH
    Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...

  8. #488
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    Thank you, JerryB, Dieter, and Doc.

    Quote Originally Posted by DocHeart View Post
    You *are* a published and well-known poet who's just trolling us, aren't you?


    DH
    From your mouth to God's ear -- or from your device to His (or Her) panoramic screen.

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    Snail Explodes; Birthday Ruined

    A widely-circulated factoid about the great poet Auden reports that he never stopped revising his works, even years after they were published and anthologized. Whether or not you are a compulsive tinkerer, it really is a good practice, sometimes, to take a poem hot off the press (or word processing file)and put it aside. Then after a time --days, weeks, even months--resurrect it for revising. The idea is to look at it with fresh eyes.

    This next ditty is a revision of a (much) earlier effort, and, man, did it ever require rewriting! I first wrote the thing when I was young and foolish. Now I am just. . . young.

    And I'm pretty sure that sufficient time has elapsed since --1987!



    “Snail Explodes; Birthday Ruined”
    (Actual headline in the Sunday paper.)

    After the toast, a little whine
    squeaks the brewing trouble:
    in full-burst when entrees arrive
    all garlicky and a-bubble.

    The shells are steaming-- miffed!
    The evening’s gone awry.
    A sore gastropod makes a crack
    and pops the diner in the eye.

    Anarchist snail! Eschewing both
    invertebrate God and Bible,
    it bows to neither fetes nor fates
    and leaves the restaurant liable.

    “I’ll never order escargot again!”
    quoth the birthday girl, still seething.
    Somewhere in the south of France rest
    molluscan kin, more easily breathing.

  10. #490
    Registered User DieterM's Avatar
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    How nice that you kept the "young"-label whereas I mostly think all there's left for me is "and" ;-)

    Very funny, anyway; but: I somehow stumbled over "garlicky", and my first thought was "all garlick and a-bubble" would perhaps let the line flow better. But that's just a thought, and one has to have a quibble, otherwise one would have to admit that one thinks this is very nicely done ;-)
    "Im Arm der Liebe schliefen wir selig ein…" ("Liebesode" - Otto Erich Hartleben)
    New poetry collection available (Kindle and paperback)

  11. #491
    Registered User prendrelemick's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by AuntShecky View Post
    [COLOR="#008080"]Even though the previous anti-poetry post sank like a stone (i.e. gathered moss),


    I feel guilty now, I liked your tree peeping, but, rather than saying something inane, said nothing .
    ay up

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    Two Featherweights

    It's so rare to have a sunny and mild day in November, as we're currently enjoying in this neck o' the woods that yours fooly is loath to ruin it with ponderous and heavy stuff; hence a pair of light ones for this gorgeous Saturday.


    Assessment

    I made a faux pas and a flub
    when I declined to join the club:
    that girly-girly coterie.
    There must be something wrong with me.

    I hate the Mall, much as a male,
    won’t salivate over a sale,
    nor lust for gems marked womanly.
    There must be something wrong with me.

    To fix my face and hair unnerves,
    but I don’t curse my lack of curves.
    My shape’s as straight as straight can be.
    There must be something wrong with me.

    Make no mistake! I’d love a guy,
    but won’t play coy to catch his eye.
    I’ll only flirt with irony.
    I guess there’s something wrong with me.
    Oh yes, there’s something wrong with me.

    ----

    On the Lake Road

    Though all the leaves
    have already blown,
    the pears hang on,
    ripe for a strong wind
    or a passing deer.

  13. #493
    Registered User prendrelemick's Avatar
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    Ahh a single rhyming in couples.

    Flirting with irony is mostly lost on we chaps - the irony part that is.
    ay up

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    Reconciliation


    The previous posting was a little lighter than this next number. (For yours fooly's latest bit of humor -- intentional, that is--click this reply in the Anti-humor Thread., post #84.) Meanwhile into a slightly more somber realm we go:


    Reconciliation




    More logs will be thrown on the fire
    without adding fuel to the flames.
    Tamp down the latent gas and ire.
    Try to recall the children’s names.


    It was not difficult
    coming here.
    Some obligations
    are easier to meet
    than others. Paying
    attention to the Mass
    on TV: does that count?

    Watching The Parade
    from a well-cushioned couch
    is not The Real Thing,
    not at all the same
    as craning my neck
    above a crowded curb,
    while the icy wind
    burns my face
    and invades my bones
    as the brass-blare
    tickles my inner ear,
    and the drumbeat burrows
    deep into my heart.



    Repeat the anecdotes and jokes.
    Hold up your end of the chatter.
    No lectures on the drinks and smokes,
    nor fights about What Really Matters.



    I’m thankful for inclusion
    among this company gathered
    for a revved-up meal. Sufficiency seems
    like abundance, an overflowing
    cornucopia spilling out the fruits
    of a half-forgotten past.

    It’s good to get out for the day,
    away from the forever-so-humble digs
    with the old, familiar plywood panels,
    the plaster crumbs, and the gaps
    letting in scores of unwanted things.

    The porous walls reek of unsettled sounds
    from the good-looking couple on the floor above,
    up and at it all night
    with the shouts and the squabbling,
    the rumbling and the thuds.
    They’re much too young to battle this much.


    “What have they got to fight about?”
    complains the busybody from 3-G.
    She has a late-model car and a live-in beau.
    Also, curiosity. So many questions!
    But I’m not really sure she knows my name.

    The tight-lipped guy who lives downstairs–-
    the one who thinks he can play bass guitar- -
    resents it when I try to say hello.
    Once he yanked the pudgy arm
    of his friendly, joint-custody son
    and tugged the toddler back inside.



    Of all the wild wars waged against a Noun,
    The War on Poverty was first, Number One.
    Fighting the good fight, oppressed, broke, and down,
    we fought a War on Poverty. And Poverty won.

    For ever I have scaled the “Ladder
    of Opportunity,” on call,
    each time slipping, getting madder.
    The thud, always. Always, a fall.
    (Which never really surprised me at all.)


    All of us love to say
    we hate personal drama,
    although we seek it
    like a drug.

    Somehow we have to make peace,
    patch up the past,
    tacitly come to terms

    with a universe that would
    just as soon turn its back
    on us as smack us down
    with a what’s-it-to-me shrug.

    Yet here we are
    in this shared world

    where nutmeg smells
    as good to a pauper
    as it does to a CEO,

    where little fingers
    sketch turkeys that look
    like peacocks, the colors
    of their fanned-out feathers
    primal and bold,

    where the unexpected
    sight of soft snow
    upon dead leaves
    can catch one’s breath,
    puffing out like a ghost
    in the chilly night air.


    Offer help with the greasy chore;
    rinse that glass dry-flecked with foam.
    Don’t linger too long at the door.
    Just say your good-night and go home.

    Go home.
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 11-26-2013 at 08:34 PM.

  15. #495
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    Did anyone catch the Thanksgiving connection w. #494 above?^^^

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