Auntie's Anti-Poems

[AuntShecky]

Premature Ejaculations*

The solstice hasn’t yet arrived,
but already the sun is slouching,
skulking in a low spot in the sky.
It’s far too soon
to think of Spring.

Yet the trees and fields,
donned in wintry finery,
proclaim white as the new color,
and from the roof some rhythmic drops
drip down to mark a sprightly melody,

as the boisterous jays
go crazy for black oil
sunflower seeds, like dope.

For miles around
almost everything sings
and dances beneath
bubbles of glee,
as if celebrating
the life to come.



*

[from Webster’s New World Dictionary] :
ejaculation n. 1. A sudden ejection of fluid, esp. of semen, from the body.
2. A sudden vehement utterance; exclamation
3. R.C.Ch. Any very brief, private prayer

[dara.cv]

"A murky stream from a source unknown
churns deep beneath our unschooled reckoning"


This sums up so much in one line. The natural flow of poetry from the unknowing urge/source, its murkiness since not quite filtered through schooling. Ah! i love it!

oops, I thought this was going to reply where I intended for it to. Well, I dont think I can delete this can I? Is there a way to post on previous poems without being placed at the end of the thread? It was for your first post on this thread the "Puzzle and Pity" poem.

Might as well comment on the next one here too.

An Exhortation Forbidding Suicide


"Yet lacking me, the world won't wet its sleeve
with weeping. Dogs will wag their tails,
and songs of birds will hold their tones.
Skies will stay blue against white points of sails,
while stems won't cease to bend where winds have blown.
The world would stay, if I left it alone."

This reminded me when a friend committed suicide. I was left so completely devastated and yet the world seemed unchanged. It was a difficult realization, I felt that somehow people and things should have been different, but they were only different for me. You invoked within me that memory here.

[dara.cv]

OMG! I think this is my favorite poem I have every read on here! Within it's light-hearten rhythm you bring an enormously strong binding to humanity. This is the truth of all religions, in one poem combined. I can't tout enough this has made my heart a thousand times more joyous than any hymn at church. this should be the hymn of humanity, we are all from the same wood and everybody is good!


Everybody’s Everybody

Everybody’s every color,
a multi-grain cake of yeast.
Everyone’s a hundred percent Jewish,
and a Moslem facing east.

Everybody’s an Asian
speaking Swahili in the rain.
Everybody’s an Amer-Indian
with ancestors from Spain.

Everybody’s an atheist
who reads the Good Book every day.
Everybody’s Irish-Northern-Catholic,
and everyone’s a little bit gay.

Everybody needs a place to sleep
after he hugs his kids at night.
Everybody wants to eat and drink,
but nobody – really – wants to fight.

Everybody on this elevator
feels the plunging down the chute.
That’s why everybody gets the shaft,
no matter whom they persecute.

Each of us is born a unique scion
from the same old piece of wood.
Every body will die some day,
but every body’s good.

Everybody’s everyone,
and Everyone is good.

[dara.cv]

I would agree to some extent this describes the human condition, but then again I guess it depends on what your goals were. Grabbing for fortune,success, or fame even if reached doesnt gain that cure to , that inward question to the purpose of it all. Maybe god's goal wasnt perfection, just experience and the desire to return. SOOOOO BEAUTIFUL! thank you AuntieShecky, i am loving this collection, add me to your fan club :)


“The whole earth is our hospital”
–T. S. Eliot

Condition: Human


From first gasp to final sigh
we claim we owe everything to the Divine,
the source of all existence, in Whom
we place our awe and lay our care.

At what ill-starred point in history
did Mammon’s blinding light
deflect our turn to gold – or
at least its lesser, yet all-consuming, ores? (1)

Amid fatigue we drive ourselves sick and sore,
devoted to the chronic, pecuniary chase.
Our sights veer from sheer survival to comfort, then
back, since relapse always stalks the cure.

Eros grabs our temporary interest,
a long desire not quite fully quenched
with quickly-quaffed, febrile doses.
We aim to love eternally, but we don’t.

For a time we delight in scions of ourselves,
reaching farther out toward deep posterity,
each of us a little Achilles, ever-striving
for legendary status, settling for ersatz fame. (2)

We do not concern ourselves with why,
preferring to act and direct the pain
of an inward gaze away. We’d rather sit
than stand, and rather move than think.

We aspire to live perfectly,
but we fail.
We never really want to die,
but we do.




(1) Matthew 6:24; Paradise Lost, I, 674
(2) Lines near the conclusion of The Iliad suggest that Achilles will achieve immortality from the stories which future ages will tell about him.

[dara.cv]

Reading all this wonderful poetry, I would feel so sad if you had ever felt this way. Each poem is a testament to your talent. I hope that spring brought you your well deserved plenty.


"This strange myopia of mine
weakens my view in prisms of ways.
It strains my eyes when hours shine,
with its focus on the darkest days."

- yes, that narrow shortsighted view of only our faults, well put.



The following, which attempts to channel the spirit of "April Inventory" by W.D. Snodgrass and "The Reckoning" by Richard Wilbur -- with maybe a passing nod to the great Frank Loesser, as an entry in a recent LitNet poetry contest, is re-posted here for comments:

Hindsight

This strange myopia of mine
weakens my view in prisms of ways.
It strains my eyes when hours shine,
with its focus on the darkest days.
I can't see my way clear enough to shake
the sight of every dumb mistake.

I see more flaws than I can count.
The list gets longer. Wrongs arrange
themselves into a steep amount.
I'm blind to faults that I could change.
And I have felt at my heart’s core
a thousand needles, maybe more.

Past peers misread Marcuse off the shelves.
Aloof, I looked at them askance.
Now wealth has claimed their former selves,
while failure long since has seized my stance.
No doubt those folks have pity to share.
(Of that, this self has plenty to spare.)

The times I squandered, wasted, spent
chasing silly dreams or foolish men!
No dough, a deadbeat with the rent:
the same old me I've always been.
I could patch my wounds with duct tape and string,
or open my eyes and look at spring.

The blackbird with his rosy stripe,
the waking frogs down in the mud,
the forsythia so eagerly ripe
to welcome its early golden bud
all show that stale old winds have blown.
I'll force an April of my own,

and with each green spear that pokes its head
up through the ground that’s soft at last,
I'll soundly spank and send to bed
all the bad winters of my past.
For spring gives me another chance
to live -– without a backward glance.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[AuntShecky]

Thanks for your comments. ^^^^
The following is the current, most recent post in the thread:



Premature Ejaculations*

The solstice hasn’t yet arrived,
but already the sun is slouching,
skulking in a low spot in the sky.
It’s far too soon
to think of Spring.

Yet the trees and fields,
donned in wintry finery,
proclaim white as the new color,
and from the roof some rhythmic drops
drip down to mark a sprightly melody,

as the boisterous jays
go crazy for black oil
sunflower seeds, like dope.

For miles around
almost everything sings
and dances beneath
bubbles of glee,
as if celebrating
the life to come.



*

[from Webster’s New World Dictionary] :
ejaculation n. 1. A sudden ejection of fluid, esp. of semen, from the body.
2. A sudden vehement utterance; exclamation
3. R.C.Ch. Any very brief, private prayer

[Delta40]

I loved this! Witty title too aunty - gives a positive spin to the term. Lovely imagery as I travel to work on a hot summers morn...

[AuntShecky]

I loved this! Witty title too aunty - gives a positive spin to the term. Lovely imagery as I travel to work on a hot summers morn...

Thanks, Delta! Enjoy your summer sun. I like Winter, but I don't have to drive in it. (See today's anti-humor post.) A big snowstorm (a foot plus) along with another storm yesterday. Maybe too much of a good thing.

[AuntShecky]

Starting Point

It may have been the day
winter storms got names,
though we’ve known snow
and coldness
and ice, always;

or when art became
a tawdry trinket,
thinner ware for sale,
like common cans of corn,
when musical comedies
lost their comedy and music.

Or when money tended
to favor the already-monied,
gaining more respect than God
and making poverty a sin;

when a mantle of guilt
hung around scrawny shoulders
shivering beneath
a garland of grief,

and the Sabbath became
a synonym for despair.

It may have been the dawn
of consciousness–-
and with it, pain
in the reality of lack,
lack of power,
lack of usefulness,
lack of grace

amid the awareness
that the self which most
would purely love to shed
is the only thing we have.

But probably in the moment
of that infinitesimal spark
of nothing
into something
into everything.

[Haunted]

This is so well crafted Auntie. Cans of corn could tie in better with musical comedies. Each great on its own but the juxtaposition not quite as smooth as the rest. It feels so symbolic considering it's the new year. Heck, even the snow is real!

[prendrelemick]

Nice! Both of them. The Premature joculation one I enjoyed, I do like a bit of nature in poetry. The Starting Point was more difficult because I couldn't find the subject amidst all that keen-eyed poetical/political commentry. This is probably a good thing - making me think a bit for a change.

[AuntShecky]

Thank you for your comments, Haunted and Pren.

I had misgivings about the New Year piece, as it turned out a little more abstract as well as slightly more pessimistic than I'd intended. It's a "no-no" to 'splain the meaning of one's poems, but I'll tell you what I was thinking when I wrote it: (1) Thomas Pynchon's favorite concept, "entrophy," AKA "the heat death of the universe." The first stanza/"strophe"/verse paragraph alludes to that, and (2) The deathbed line by Billy Pilgrim's mother: "How did I get so old?"

[Jerrybaldy]

I really enjoyed "premature ejaculations", Auntie. I like it when you become accessible to mere mortals :p x

[AuntShecky]

This next one previously disgraced the virtual pages of the LitNet way back in late January of Ought Eight. The only place it belonged was in the "Write a Really Bad Poem" thread, which didn't exist five years ago.

Upon retrieving it, I found that the ditty was in dire need of a make-over. The local "Planet Fitness" was packed, and anyway, it would probably slip off all the exercise machines. So I took the wretched thing out into the alley and slapped it silly.


Hogging Ground

How mean is Winter, a miser with light!
Hope comes in drips, as with a desert rain.
So furry folklore finds itself in doubt.
Pink streaks glimpsed through a dimly frosted pane:
predictions alleged Spring might come again.
In march the strangers, creatures seldom seen:
fair possibilities for things of green,
blue skies, brightness, perhaps love popping out.
The next day’s winds waged another bout
to freeze – - or melt – - the optimism of one
made a fool by the February sun.

[YesNo]

This is how I feel about our current winter around Chicago. Nice phrase, "furry folklore".

[prendrelemick]

Loved That first line .

I have but one gripe "Hope comes in drips" is so clever and perfect, it made me smile and imagine a melting icicle. but the "as with desert rain" spoils its perfection, it hi-jacks the imagery somehow. I think it is too definite and too unrelated to the rest of the piece. But that's just me.

[AuntShecky]

Thanks, Yes/No and Prendrelemick, for your comments on the last one^.

Now it's time for some DDs:

I.
Woolity-Bullity.
Theodore Roosevelt,
Trust-busting President,
cut to the quick.

Strongman domestically,
Geopolitical:
vowed with diplomacy,
soft voice, big stick.

II.
Oility-Foility.
Winnipeg, Canada (http://environmentaldefence.ca/articles/winnipeg-blast-casts-spotlight-pipeline-safety).
Transcontinental pipe
blasted the map,

threatening resources.
Environmentalists
chastise the townspeople,
wealth in their laps.



III.
Shovity-Glovity.
Saltalamacchia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jarrod_Saltalamacchia)
swings with free agency,
catcher of fame.

Iron-clad contract signed--
superlegality –
wears a new uniform
squeezing his name.


And finally, unless your d.o.b. predates 1960 or so, you probably won’t get this one:

IV.
Bangstery-Gangstery.
Edward G. Robinson,
actor in crime filmdom,
shot foes down flat.

Gained immortality
under-respectfully.
Mimicry quoted his
“You dirty rat.”





http://environmentaldefence.ca/articles/winnipeg-blast-casts-spotlight-pipeline-safety

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jarrod_Saltalamacchia

[prendrelemick]

I love these even more because I can't do them. Bangstery Gangstery is spot on for Edward G. (I'm 1958)

I think so much depends on that first nonsense line, if you get it apt and sounding right (which you do) it sets the rest up.

[AuntShecky]

Thanks, Prendrelemick. Double dactyls are tricky for several reasons, but the "nonsense" opening line is sort of a freebie. A majority of the pre-existing double dactyls begins with the same line: "Higgety-Piggety."

In addition to trying to think up double dactyl phrases (that scan appropriately!), a real challenge comes in line 6 -- this has to be a single double dactyl word that has never been used before in a double dactyl. Since, I'm not sure that I've read every double dactyl poem that's out there, so I have doubts that "geopolitical" in the Teddy Roosevelt one is a debut appearance in a DD.

And there may be one other goof in this batch. Remembering the comedians doing impressions on "The Ed Sullivan Show" (subject of references with the Beatles 50th Anniversary this week), I recalled the phrase "You dirty rat!" as a famous quoted line by Edward G. But memories can play tricks on you. Though it may be apocryphal , the epithet's provenance was another gangster (http://www.groupsrv.com/movie/about54632.html), played by an entirely different Hollywood star. But the name "James Cagney" isn't a double dactyl.

Looks like this one belongs on the cutting room floor.

[prendrelemick]

I seem to remember, YOu dirty rat, you killed my brudder.

Well thanks for adding an extra complication to those DDs

[AuntShecky]

Hey! Has your love-life lost its glow?
Then head on down to Love-to-Go.®

We’ve got the hottest deals around
for hugs and kisses by the pound.

You can’t beat our price – do the math!
Just one mile off the Primrose Path.

We ask nothing and we don’t pry.
Our lips are sealed (but not too dry.)

We’ll tie you up but never down.
Your secret’s the best-kept in town.

Stop waiting for Cupid’s quiver.
Don’t forget – we can deliver!

Pick up fast love that’s freshly-grown
before it walks out on its own.

For love as pure as last year’s snow
come see us here at Love-to-Go!®


Remember to Ask About Our Valentine's Special!


(I hope the heirs of Mr. Cole "Love for Sale" Porter don't sue me!)

[AuntShecky]

Two Short and Simple Takes on Genesis

I.

I’m grateful for this good, green earth
and thrilled when dismal skies turn blue,
but not sure how God made us all
or why He even wanted to.


II.

God had His reasons to create
this world of warmth, cool water, air.
No need to make it beautiful –
except to let us know He’s there.

[AuntShecky]

Late-Night Agenda

“And so to bed.” –Samuel Pepys

Remains of supper congeal in the sink.
The movie reeked and left no lasting mark.
All news girls make the same fake sound, I think:
a squeaking puppy mimicking a bark.

A brief consideration of a brush,
toothpaste, a quick glance at a few pages.
New Boswells aren’t exactly in a rush
to bore the world with my life’s dull stages.

The day’s full failures stare me in the face,
attempting to spur consciousness of sin,
as room temps fluctuate around this space:
the cold outside, the loneliness within.

Next, missing dear losses stolen outright
by Death, stalking the ones it left behind,
and I don’t doubt it has me in its sight.
Oh, how free-floating care can vex the mind!

No nocturne to be sung, no lambs to leap,
no soothing female voice that softly streams
a tale to sail me safely off to sleep,
once more to chase perfection in stark dreams.

[Haunted]

Hey! Has your love-life lost its glow?
Then head on down to Love-to-Go.®

We’ve got the hottest deals around
for hugs and kisses by the pound.

You can’t beat our price – do the math!
Just one mile off the Primrose Path.

We ask nothing and we don’t pry.
Our lips are sealed (but not too dry.)

We’ll tie you up but never down.
Your secret’s the best-kept in town.

Stop waiting for Cupid’s quiver.
Don’t forget – we can deliver!

Pick up fast love that’s freshly-grown
before it walks out on its own.

For love as pure as last year’s snow
come see us here at Love-to-Go!®


Remember to Ask About Our Valentine's Special!

Not Superbowl ad, but definitely late night infomercial material. An abundance to love here Auntie. Be back later for the other offerings!

[Jerrybaldy]

I swear I commented on this ... some body is wiping my replies! I loved Late-Night Agenda. The depressing details and the poignant memories of a mother to close. Heartfelt and real.

[prendrelemick]

Don't know whether to laugh or cry, so did both! Well done.

[Haunted]

Baacck!

Enjoyed the wittiness in Now it's time for your catechism lesson. To read Late-Night Agenda right after marks a sad turn. Really touching.

[AuntShecky]

Some Oldies and a Newie

Yours fooly is in the mood for a little nonsense today, undoubtedly making LitNutters ask, “That’s new?”)

In any event, I’ve dredged up a couple of parodies which first appeared in the “Thirty Poems in Thirty Days” (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=68342) thread from two years ago.




Here’s the original from Dodgson’s Sylvie and Bruno--



He thought he saw a rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek;
He looked again and found it was
The middle of next week.
“The one thing I regret,” he said,
“Is that it cannot speak.”

--followed by my pale imitations:

He thought he saw new luggage
with handles and matching locks.
He looked again and found it was
a croc with monkey pox.
“Next trip,” he said, “I’ll have to use
a trash bag and a box.”

---------

He thought he saw a dragon
lashing a damsel to a rack.
He looked again and found it was
a tattoo on her back.
He tried to help her out, until
his laser jumped the track.

- - - - - - -

He thought he saw a topless bar:
lascivious, loud, uncouth.
He looked again and found it was
a place without a roof.
When it rains, the joint provides
Umbrellas for each booth.


Now for the debut of the following, which, while not a direct parody, is a homage to radio commentator Charles Osgood. Occasionally he’d treat his listeners with his colloquial light verse about the American scene. Yours fooly will be the first to admit that this doggerel isn’t nearly as witty and wise as Mr. Osgood’s offerings.

But see if you can guess the verse form.

Don’t Ask (And I Won’t Tell)

Unless you mean it, do not ask how I
am doing while expecting no reply.
Who truly cares if others are okay?
A polite greeting’s all one has to say.

Don’t fret –- I’ll still think you’re a nice guy,
acknowledging an acquaintance passing by
with the quick courtesy of a genial “Hi.”
Skip the inquiry on how I am today,


unless you mean it.

You don’t want answers and don’t want to stay.
We both want to continue on our way.
If I look a bit off, please don’t ask why --


unless you mean it.

http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=68342

[prendrelemick]

No idea about the verse form or who Charles Osgood is but the theme is universal.

As usual I like your nonsense stuff. I'm a nonsense fan.

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie,

There are some tiny flaws in the scansion of the three shorts, but they don't really detract from one's enjoyment of the verses.

As for Don't Ask - well, that's rather good! a delightful comment on the insincerity of greetings. Still, the insincerity is perhaps preferable to that other kind of greeting that tells you how awful you look! There was an old music hall song about a chap who, though feeling generally in the pink, was greeted by a succession of his acquaintances who told him how poorly he was looking. Sorry, but I can't remember the artist or the whole song, but it was rather funny, I can remember that... :D Always a pleasure to peruse an Auntiegram ;)

Live and be we'll - H

PS I remembered! http://monologues.co.uk/You_Do_Look_Queer.htm

[Haunted]

The croc series is a lot of fun, nothing "pale" at all. I always enjoy a croc or gator joke. The dragon piece is breathtaking. But the third one is a bit of a challenge to me. Mind shedding some filtered light through the umbrella? :D

Charles Osgood is unfamiliar to me. Without any comparison I'd say this definitely stands on its own. I must admit I'm guilty of that. So how you doing Auntie? :devil: (expecting a reply for this one)

[AuntShecky]

Thanks everybody!

Prendrelemick:

This wasn't a direct parody of one of Osgood's verses, per se, but I wanted to emulate his lighthearted spirit and wry perspective of the American scene.
Here are some links to Charles Osgood's verses. I think they're charming:
Charles Osgood –“My POSSLQ”
http://2000clicks.com/graeme/LangPoetryFunnyPOSSLQ.htm

“Pretty Good”
http://holyjoe.org/poetry/osgood1.htm

“The Responsibility Poem”
http://theradicaluprise.wordpress.com/2012/04/03/the-responsibility-poem-by-charles-osgood/

Hawk:
I thought there was something wrong! I'll try to fix the meter, but do you happen to know what form frames Lewis Carroll's ditty? (There are several similar verses in the novel, which can be found right here on the LitNet site.)

The rondeau above wants to be a diatribe against banality, in banal terms, I'm afraid. But did you ever hear a couple of old-timers chewing the fat? They try to top each other as to whose aches and pains are worse.It's not a conversation, it's an exchange of symptoms.

Haunted:
Thanks for reading these and your always-welcome comments. The last of the three nonsense ditties refers to a "topless bar," which disappointed the "he" in the verse who was expecting maybe a bunch of exotic dancers underdressed from the waist up. But the "topless" bar was described that way because it lacked a roof. Hence, the umbrellas go up during inclement weather. (You know a joke's no good when it has to be explained. Aw well, back to the old drawin' board.)

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie. Well, The Mad Gardener's Song is written in simple iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter and is essentially a ballade form with six lines instead of four. There are nine verses in the original, although they aren't presented all together in one go. I don't think it can really be called heptameter verse because of the line breaks and rhyme scheme, but I have seen it described as such.

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

Hi Auntie. Well, The Mad Gardener's Song is written in simple iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter and is essentially a ballade form with six lines instead of four. There are nine verses in the original, although they aren't presented all together in one go. I don't think it can really be called heptameter verse because of the line breaks and rhyme scheme, but I have seen it described as such.

Live and be well - H

Thank you for the above. Sylvie and Bruno is in my increasingly humble opinion Carroll/Dodgson's greatest work. I'm going to try re-post my "take" on that hilarious novel in the "Write a Book Review Section." It originally appeared in the "Thirty Poems for Thirty Days" thread on April 27, 2012.

[AuntShecky]

It's like judging between a tree, a bowl of soup and a sunset.



(You meant “among.”)


Mixed Reviews

Long noodle strands hang off the yew.
A cloudy chowder ends the day.
The sun has deemed the ash as dew,
while minestrone shouts “Okay!”

[Haunted]

Haunted:
Thanks for reading these and your always-welcome comments. The last of the three nonsense ditties refers to a "topless bar," which disappointed the "he" in the verse who was expecting maybe a bunch of exotic dancers underdressed from the waist up. But the "topless" bar was described that way because it lacked a roof. Hence, the umbrellas go up during inclement weather. (You know a joke's no good when it has to be explained. Aw well, back to the old drawin' board.)

Nononono it's not you, it's me! It's a clever piece, and I thought that might be what you meant, but I was looking for the neon sign that says topless bar, to connect the dots for me. So that's my only suggestion. I kept wondering what made him think it's a topless bar in the first place. I thought the umbrella was quite intriguing, I kept thinking "bottomless"….



Mixed Reviews

Long noodle strands hang off the yew.
A cloudy chowder ends the day.
The sun has deemed the ash as dew,
while minestrone shouts “Okay!”

Great description, simple but vivid. Definitely a "soup" day. Makes me hungry!