Thank you for reading these, Grit. The nonsense double dactyls introducing each verse are prescribed by the rules. (Click "Double dactyl" in brown-colored font in the original posting for an explanation of the form.)
Thank you for reading these, Grit. The nonsense double dactyls introducing each verse are prescribed by the rules. (Click "Double dactyl" in brown-colored font in the original posting for an explanation of the form.)
I'm afraid I had to look this chap up on Google. He sounds like a bit of a twit, a bit like Jeremy Clarkson over here, but Clarkson doesn't subject us to his wilder opinions on a daily basis, and anyway, is obviously being ironically humorous. I don't get that impression about Limbaugh, from what I've read. Why have you split rushes with a hyphen? Not sure about 'oft' either as to my ear fear counts as bi syllabic. "Liberals: tongues wagging" doesn't fit the metre whereas, "liberals: wagging tongues," would.Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Poor old Simon and Garfunkle! Is this the voice of a disillusioned ex-hippie? 'Tis a jaundiced view for sure
Can't argue with that.
again I have issues with the metre. The addition of the s on pages adds a syllable and upsets it. "blasted its horn brashly" doesn't work either. Try: "Horn blasting brashly, it's"
Thanks for the entertainment.
Live and be well - H
Hyphenated "Rush-es" to underscore his first name. Makes me think of "rush to judgement."
Lines 4 and 8 in each double dactyl are supposed to rhyme. Also, the two stressed syllables are supposed to come in the form of dactyl-spondee.
To my (tin) ear "Liberals: tongue wagging" sounds more like a double dactyl (/xx /xx) than "WAGging TONGUES" (iamb + stressed syllable.)
Likewise, "Blasted its horn brashly": /xx /xx (double dactyl)
This morning on my handwritten draft I noticed the extra syllable in "pages." Will fix.
Thanks, Hawk.
Last edited by AuntShecky; 05-04-2013 at 05:13 PM.
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
Last edited by AuntShecky; 06-19-2013 at 02:49 PM.
lol
Noteworthy: [quote]"there are no hunters left
except for Orion"
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY
tailor
who am I but a stitch in time
what if I were to bare my soul
would you see me origami
7-8-2015
[QUOTE=tailor STATELY;1223883]lol
Noteworthy:Yep. He's the Gaelic constellation. ("O'Ryan.")"there are no hunters left
except for Orion"
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY
Well, Auntie: even warmed up and re-served it's a witty and amusing rant, but is it "poetry"? It's damned good Prose because its a witty and amusing rant, but does it actually qualify as prose poetry?
Not sure about this bit:
"and slapped on the same griddle
that burned burgers
through three shifts
and listed on the ripped plastic menu"
as it reads as if the grill is listed on ripped plastic menu, rather than the burger. Too many un-demarcated subordinate clauses perhaps... the insertion of an 'is' before listed would sort this, I think.
Overall, the piece comes over as a monologue infused with amusing digressions. I could imagine someone like Alan Bennett coming up with this as one of his "Talking Heads", although He was more quintessentially English in tone, and, rather than burgers, would probably have mentioned scones and jam.
here's a taste http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGCg3ARv14U
if you hit this page you should find other examples, though unfortunately not the one I was thinking of, but there are some shorts read by Bennett himself, which adds to the flavour.
Hope you enjoy them, and I did rather enjoy your offering btw, whether it's poetry or not!
Live and be well- H
No more or less than (m)any of the other pieces posted on the Personal Poetry forums, your fine verse excepted of course. On the one hand, I hear my fellow LitNutters bemoaning meter and rhyme, while others complain about free verse, which Frost famously likened to "playing tennis without a net." Guess yer ol' Auntie can please none of the people--none of the time!
Beats me. Aside from the "fish nor fowl" characterization, I'm not sure I know what it is.does it actually qualify as prose poetry?
You got me on this one, from the gal who's always harping about "misplaced modifiers." The line, wallowing in its error for a decade and a half, has beenas it reads as if the grill is listed on ripped plastic menu, rather than the burger.
edited.
Thanks for weighing in on this one, Hawk.
Your fellow LitNutter has spent the better part of the afternoon reviewing this thread, for reasons unknown (other than a particularly virulent masochistic streak.) The experience was one long exhausting cringe, my already-furrowed mug reddening at the sight of "every eggy-faced bętise" (#348, above.) On a much more "positive" note, yours fooly is --and will forever be--grateful for the many thoughtful and thoroughly helpful comments throughout this thread, which shall-- the poetry gods willing-- continue as long as the little verses strain to make their appearance and "Pong 2.1"-- the plucky little PC--holds on.
In the meantime, though, your indulgence is begged as this author attempts to revise and re-post earlier offerings from time to time, though from the looks of many of these would take another lifetime, years perhaps better spent in devotion to Finnegans Wake (as the author of that cryptic novel advised. )
Concerning revision, the conventional wisdom is to wait a certain length of time after the first version in order to approach the piece with "fresh" eyes.
Here, then, is a slightly revised version of #108, which originally appeared on 7/9/10:
“I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floor of silent seas.”
–T. S. Eliot
Hermit Crab
Two times dumb luck named her wrong.
Not quite a solo fixture stuck in salty sand,
she could do better among large social groups
swirling in tide pools streaked with sun.
Genus, species, identity--already cracked apart
before science deemed her class of crab not “true,”
(though crustaceous, to be sure.) Not doomed
like that fabled Dutchman, wandering the sea,
yet just as unmoored and marooned,
now scours round for a fitting carapace,
in which to squat: abandoned digs
vacated by whelks and periwinkles.
To such a creature one could call me kin:
born by chance beneath the star-sketched sign
which shares its name with a deadly malady –-
that gritty pearl! –-but not the hardest wave
to ride. An absent birthright’s tougher still.
I washed ashore with nothing; just the same
I’ll leave. Oh, for a harbor, safe against
the perils of poverty’s rough surf.
I tend to shun my fellow creatures’ company --
never at home in the tossing seas
of fleeting treasures, whistles, and brash tweets --
not fish nor fowl, not swimming, nor floating,
with trepidation treading modern times.
A voyage to a century twice past
might chart a map to show the way to thrive.
New England’s recluse, left alone to dry,
retiring to her room, was thought to clench
sweet solitude close to her quiet heart,
the plangent sea-song in her ear.
To the surface came scores of pithy poems,
unsigned, the dactyl of her name obscured,
the boast of frogs too public for her taste.
At times she’d greet the children passing by
the weathered windowsill where she had set –
to cool for future fruit – an empty shell.
Last edited by AuntShecky; 08-15-2013 at 06:19 PM.
I admire how you craft the parallel. The melancholia is not lost on me. These lines touched me particularly:
I washed ashore with nothing; just the same
I’ll leave. Oh, for a harbor, safe against
the perils of poverty’s rough surf.
It's really a great poem, Auntie.
"But do you really, seriously, Major Scobie," Dr. Sykes asked, "believe in hell?"
"In flames and torment?""Oh, yes, I do."
"That sort of hell wouldn't worry me," Fellowes said."Perhaps not quite that. They tell us it may be a permanent sense of loss."
"Perhaps you've never lost anything of importance," Scobie said.
Hi Auntie.
There’s a lot to like in this poem: the analogy of the hermit crab is a fun one and there is a kind of mournful, tongue-in-cheekiness to the poem which is amusing. But there are also things in here which don’t quite work, at least for me. I’m not keen on that opening line.
“Two times dumb luck named her wrong.”
For a start, “two times” sounds like a multiplication table. “Twice” would have been much better here, and “named her wrong” may be idiomatic, I suppose, but it isn’t elegant. Neither do I like the opening line terminating in a full stop. The opening statement, as it were, is too bold, too stark and stops the poem, so that the reader has to “start again at line two, which incidentally changes the subject from the misnaming of the beast to where it lives and goes on for three lines before returning to the theme of classification at line 5. More logically this should flow directly from line one. The aside, (though crustaceous to be sure) obviously included for humorous effect doesn’t actually touch my funny-bone, it just stalls the flow. It feels to me like unnecessary exposition.
The Flying Dutchman is a fun image, but unmoored and marooned doesn’t really work for me, although I do see what you were getting at, but it would work better if this flowed from the beach and rock pools bit:
Twice misnamed by luck and man, her genus,
class and species cracked apart, long before
science deemed her class of crab not “true.”
Not quite a solo fixture stuck in salty sand,
she could do better among large social groups
swirling in tide pools streaked with sun.
Not doomed like that fabled Dutchman,
wandering the sea, the hermit is marooned,
and scours round for a fitting carapace,
in which to squat: abandoned digs
vacated by whelks and periwinkles.
The second verse has better structure, although I’m not sure that:
“that gritty pearl! –-but not the hardest wave
to ride.”
Does that much for the flow. Presented as it is, “that gritty pearl” reads as another aside with the subsequent bit about the wave being another aside tacked on the end. Again, I do see what you’re getting at, but I’m not sure that it’s expressed very well: Cancer or homelessness? I know which I’d prefer! The only other problem in this verse is in the last line; not sure what whistles have to do with anything, so I’d be inclined to drop it.
The first line of S3 might be better by omitting one of the “ings” try:
“not fish nor fowl, neither swimming nor afloat,”
I’m not quite sure where “a voyage to a century twice past” takes us either. I guess what you are saying is that life was easier 200 years ago. I’m not sure I’d agree. Oh, and boasting Frogs, what have you got against the French?
“At times she’d greet the children passing by
the weathered windowsill where she had set –
to cool for future gifts – an empty shell.”
This image is a little confusing and I can’t quite get the sense of it. I know to what it should refer but the “empty shell cooling on a windowsill” (for some reason) makes me think of apple pies, although as it’s empty I guess it’s just the pastry. But, “for future gifts” has me thinking of a classical cornucopia.
The trouble is, that having introduced the hermit crab seeking temporary digs, we are left wondering whether the empty shell is a previous abode, or, having brought them up, some kind of poem without meaning. I feel there needs to be a little more focus in the conclusion and a decision made about the nature of the metaphor. It almost feels the poem was rushed to a conclusion; “an empty shell” is certainly a good way to wind the poem up, but it just doesn’t sit quite well enough with what immediately precedes it.
Generally though, the poem has good rhythm and is sprinkled with fitting and inventive imagery and was a fun read.
Live and be well - H
Thank you, Haunted and Hawkman for reading the previous posting and offering such thoughtful responses. I truly appreciate them, and promise to give your suggestions serious consideration.
This next number is making its debut, after fermenting for three weeks or so:
Power Outage
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
That shock of sound
too loud for a leftover
crack from the Fourth,
this unnatural thunder.
Out of meadow-locked mansions
across the asphalt divide
the tee-shirted squires streamed,
their eyes blinking with wonder,
arms raised in inquiry,
if not surrender.
Couple of hours later
(by our still-counting clocks)
rumbling equipment charged ahead.
Inside a human crow’s-nest
cranked up by a metal crane,
glinting in the brass ball of the sun,
a hard-hatted crewman stretched
and poked the problematic pole.
Exploding like a pod,
something split open, spilling
acrid, yellow powder
upon the road below.
Another blast! The foreman
signaled over to our window:
everyone’s okay.
Our second-hand microwave whistled;
the refrigerator continued to hum,
as the ball games segued
into Sixty Minutes, Sunday
prime time. Overhead
the ceiling light beamed
with no gloating in the glow
of the temporary switch
from disparity, transformed.
The inconvenienced haves
waited in the day’s vestigial heat
and interior darkness,
while the work went on all night,
lit by the headlights of company trucks
beneath the flickering stars.
Hi Auntie. There are a couple of places in here where the syntax feels awkward, if not actually inverted. I daresay you could claim idiomatic usage, but it seems inconsistent.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
That shock of sound
too loud for a leftover
crack from the Fourth,
this unnatural thunder."
The use of that and this is jarring, and the punctuation feels wrong.
it could be written thusly:
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
That shock of sound,
too loud for a leftover
crack from the Fourth;
an unnatural thunder."
or perhaps
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
Some unnatural thunder,
a shock of sound;
too loud for a crack
left over from the Fourth."
Again, probably idiomatic, but jarring to my ear:
"Couple of hours later"
I keep looking for an indefinite article at the start of the line. I'd prefer; "Two hours later" here, and I'm not sure that the parentheses are strictly warranted in the next line either.
I'm sure this is intentional:
"a hard-hatted crewman stretched
and poked the problematic pole.
Exploding like a pod,"
but every time I read this (and I've read it several times) I skip the full stop after pole. Quite an amusing image that.
I have trouble with the sense of this verse:
"with no gloating in the glow
of the temporary switch
from disparity, transformed."
Are you commenting on the news programme (or more likely) saying that the voice of the poem, usually a 'have not' in the great divide, is now surprisingly a have, whereas the usual 'haves' have been deprived. This would make sense in context, since the explosion of the transformer doesn't seem to have affected the author's household, but the use of 'from' in the last line confuses this. If 'to' were used it would make sense. Thus, in the next line, "The inconvenienced haves" now temporarily deprived of power, wait in darkness.
Overall it reminds me of one of Edmund Crispin's tales (I think it's Glimpses of the Moon) set in some rural habitat, where the habitual fizzing of "The Pizzer," a pylon or power pole, means the locals live in perpetual expectation of its imminent detonation.
Anyway, it's an entertaining tale, Auntie.
Live and be well - H
I'll have to come back to 'Hermit Crab' later, as it's certainly an ambitious poem, but I find I'm in agreement with some of Hawk's concerns, as well as having a few of my own. I'll try and post a more detailed response soon.
As for 'Power Outage', it just reads like prose, or a monologue. It's a decent enough narrative, and I didn't have a problem with the idiomatic voice, but it just feels like a simple recounting of an event that happened, and is lacking in any poetic magic. It's not bad, but I don't feel I want to read it again, which isn't a good sign. Perhaps some of us have come to expect more?
The Puzzle and the Pity
We cannot see the ciphers, such a stretch
of forest, dense with senseless reason, and
no rhyme. A murky stream from a source unknown
churns deep beneath our unschooled reckoning.
*************************
I really liked the way you came charging out the gate on this one. The murkiness of origins has always weighed heavily upon my attempts to understand the "now" that I/all inhabit.
Good stuff!
*******************************************
O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:
Robert Burns (old Gallic)
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