Auntie's Anti-Poems [Archive] - Literature Network Forums

AuntShecky

07-09-2009, 02:46 PM

Please note:
The Literature Network administrators have advised us to post all of our poems into a single thread. The following thread, "Auntie's Anti-Poetry," contains several poems. When commenting on a particular poem, please indicate the title of the work in your reply.

“When I wrote that, God and I knew what it meant, but now God alone knows.”
–Robert Browning

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.

From splatters of thoughts in scatter-shot lines
we seek some soul-balm from the sensitive,
at bottom as sincere as an infant’s cry:
a babble, sure, yet rarefied as Yeats.

We dread the water, then attempt to wade.
Too swiftly comes the splashback: “too mainstream,” “derivative,” “colloquial,” “too trite,”
or “déclassé,” or worst of all, ignored.

Listen, we don't do this because it’s easy
or that we can (or think we can.) We see
an empty page as an anti-Everest
that may be worth the risk of an unsafe climb
in front of us, because it isn't there.

PrinceMyshkin

07-09-2009, 03:33 PM

Oh, those magical final lines! The glorious truth it posits about poetry! And with what composure and lyric flow you approach it!

I envy you your equal talent in rhymed and unrhymed poetry.

Virgil

07-09-2009, 07:58 PM

Auntie, that is excellent. Yes I liked that last stanza too, but I also liked this one as well:

From splatters of thoughts in scatter-shot lines
we seek some soul-balm from the sensitive,
at bottom as sincere as an infant’s cry:
a babble, sure, yet rarefied as Yeats.
"As sincere as an infant's cry," what a marvelous simile. Love the "s" sounds too.

AuntShecky

07-10-2009, 04:53 PM

In his autobiography, My Life and Hard Times, James Thurber included an anecdote from his college days relating that immediately after one of his professors announced, “I do not expect you to take notes in this class,” every student wrote that it down. In a televised interview a few years ago, Sharon Olds told Bill Moyers that once while walking through a garden she was suddenly inspired, and not having her notebook with her, she mimed the action of writing on her palm to help her remember the idea. A mainstream magazine having published a tribute to Raymond Carver revealed that for a time after his death, his widow Tess Gallagher would find around the house random notes in which he had written what might appear to be non sequiturs, bits of seemingly unrelated phrases, and odd words such as “Antarctica.”

Hypergraphia

Symptoms include fear
of temporary memory lapse,
extreme dependence
upon blank paper, writing implements,
a vade mecum ready to be taken
several times daily, or severe anxiety
upon loss of same,
occasional cramping of an upper extremity,
and the tell-tale tiny bump,
a callus caused by constant pressure
of a pen, on the middle finger
of the dominant hand.

Prognosis indicates potential
allusions of possible grandeur--
beyond the quotidian memo:
“dish liquid,” “cheese,” “paper towels,”
tacked up here and there –
scraps of large possibilities writ small;
a strange compulsion
to capture the elusive:
an exact replica of what’s been said,
or a Karner Blue before it flutters
its way toward extinction,
or a diving Adélie lest
it disappear beneath
a sheet of ice.

PrinceMyshkin

07-10-2009, 05:18 PM

Hypergraphia

Symptoms include fear
of temporary memory lapse,
extreme dependence
upon blank paper, writing implements,
a vade mecum ready to be taken
several times daily, or severe anxiety
upon loss of same,
occasional cramping of an upper extremity,
and the tell-tale tiny bump,
a callus caused by constant pressure
of a pen, on the middle finger
of the dominant hand.

Prognosis indicates potential
allusions of possible grandeur--
beyond the quotidian memo:
“dish liquid,” “cheese,” “paper towels,”
tacked up here and there –
scraps of large possibilities writ small;
a strange compulsion
to capture the elusive:
an exact replica of what’s been said,
or a Karner Blue before it flutters
its way toward extinction,
or a diving Adélie lest
it disappear beneath
a sheet of ice.

Remember that famous scene in "When Harry Met Sally" in which Meg Ryan demonstrates to Billy Crystal how a woman might convincingly fake orgasm, in reaction to which an older woman says to the waitress, "I'll have whatever she's having!"

Well, after your last several poems & this one in particular, I understand exactly how that woman felt! (Assuming, of course, that whatever you're on is perfectly legal...)

Lynne50

07-10-2009, 08:12 PM

Aunty Shecky

Please help! I have that affliction of which you speak. Especially the ..."symptoms include fear of temporary memory lapse..."

And it has gotten worse since I joined Litnet. Bits of scraps litter my computer table and I have "notes to myself" everywhere. I know when I pass on my children will not understand any of my compulsiveness and out all of it will go.

I really enjoyed this poem, by the way.

PrinceMyshkin

07-11-2009, 11:13 AM

AuntShecky

07-13-2009, 05:42 PM

"Life's a tough proposition, and the first hundred years are the hardest," said the American writer, Wilson Mizner (1876-1933). A boxing manager, playwright, screenwriter, and a Hollywood raconteur, he was married to a socialite, for according to his biographer, Alva Johnson, "He was an idol of low society and a pet of high."

But Mizner was also a poker enthusiast. During a game, Mizner’s opponent took out his wallet, tossed it on the table, and announced, “I call you.” Mizner took off his shoe, put it on the table and said, “If we're playing for leather, I raise.”

Up the Ante

How about trying your hand
at a little crier’s poker?
Here’s my childhood,
a fistful of taunts and
ridicule, no way to treat
an orphan. And I'll throw
into the pot my acne-pitted
adolescence, a snake-bitten
siege of abashment –

then I'll raise you
with a middle age
knocked out by debts and
punch-drunk with grief,
as I tried to climb up
and looked down to see
my rock of dreams get chiseled
away, chip by chip, so let’s

see what you've got, huh?
Huh? Let’s see how the darts
in your gin mill pierced
through the soft, green felt
of hope. Show me
what’s in your wallet,
thickened by the upper cuts
of life –

Hey! Where're you going?
Come back here! You
haven't had a bite
of these store-bought
sandwiches, you haven't
even touched
the cheese dip!

AuntShecky

07-14-2009, 05:36 PM

“What does woman want? God, what does she want?"
-- Freud

“[Americans] don't know what we want, but we are ready to bite somebody to get it.” – Will Rogers

The American Dream (in a Big Nutshell)

Let me tell ya: I want
superfecta bombs and mega-
lottery jackpots and broken
banks from Atlantic City, Vegas,
and Monte Carlo;

and I want tax-free sums
from highly-publicized divorce
settlements and the real
estate profits from sales
of Park Avenue penthouses
and summer complexes in all
of the Hamptons;

and I want a big budget
from a Hollywood summer
blockbuster movie and all
the overseas box office
receipts (gross, not net);
and I want the entire
Yankee player payroll
and the astronomical tab
from thirty-second
Superbowl commercials;
and I want late-night-TV-
talk-show-host money,

and Oprah money
and Bill Gates money
and iPod money
and Google money
and YouTube money
and FaceBook money
and Twitter money
and Exxon-Mobil money
and OPEC oil minister money
and billion-trillion-gazillion
national deficit money;

for as Bogey said
way back in 1948 in
The Treasure of
Sierra Madre: “I want
dough. . .

. . .and plenty of it!”

PrinceMyshkin

07-15-2009, 12:41 PM

“What does woman want? God, what does she want?"
-- Freud

Pardon my quibble (if it is that) but I always thought that the second half began "Dear God..."

As for the rest of this, the poem proper, it's equally witty, funny and doubtless true for a great many of us, men & women!

AuntShecky

07-20-2009, 01:45 PM

“Oyster, n., A slimy, globby shellfish which civilization gives men the hardihood to eat without removing its entrails! The shells are sometimes given to the poor.” –Ambrose Bierce

“It’s a very remarkable circumstance, Sir, that poverty and oysters always seem to go together.” –The Pickwick Papers

“Nacre-Philia”

The scuttlebutt says that the natives mine
a kind of gold from a lucky dive, for among
the scores of all the dripping bivalves shucked,
one could by chance offer an opalescent gift.

It glistens in the sun, but we wouldn't say
it shines. Even the tiny diatoms floating by
reveal more glitter. Aphrodite posing on
half a shell overpowered its mortal beauty.

Still, awe and marvel greet this find,
with a momentary neglect of the pearl’s
plebeian source: over time the mollusk
scratched and rubbed a sore under its shell.

For years and years an invading alien
irked an oyster into making a pearl,
as eon after eon of monumental pressure
makes a diamond from a pebble of coal.

Through painful ores we could pan and sift
through irritating cares and itching woes
in the prospect of producing, finally,
something better, something precious;

yet no matter how much uninvited grief
infiltrates under our less-stony skin,
we're left only with a speck of grit
in an endless month without an “r.”

PrinceMyshkin

07-20-2009, 03:00 PM

I hereby rename you "AuntShucky"! It's astonishing how something can be created so light-hearted - and so beautiful, at the same time.

firefangled

07-22-2009, 11:13 AM

AuntShecky

08-29-2009, 03:01 PM

I Thought of You, Joan K.

I know you only from pictures
and old clips on a flickering screen,
and saw you only in a shadow,
as your famous spouse blocked your light.

Still, somehow I knew of your private
pain, your failings, and your grief,
always accompanied by some comment,
the pundits condescending to pity.

So when the dignitary died --
his own sins rightfully covered
by the greater effect of his deeds --
I heard encomia for your successor,

whose support for him was worthy
of such praise. Yet you, too, came
to mind – you as one of the intermediaries,
a buffer between the great and the little

people like me. I wondered where you
were and how you felt -- perhaps
a little sad, like me --
watching the funeral on tv.

PrinceMyshkin

08-29-2009, 03:07 PM

My God, that is beautiful! It would be for the sentiment alone but the dignity of it, the decorum, adds so much to what is, in the best sense, a sisterly hug. None of the commentators, as far as I've noticed, thought to mention Joan, but you did - out of some well of compassion you have.

Is there some way you could (and would) send this to her?

firefangled

08-30-2009, 01:06 PM

A beautiful song for a heart unsung. This was so many things at once - not easy I'm sure, tender, insightful, reverent to name a few.

Thanks, Auntie.

AuntShecky

08-30-2009, 01:25 PM

Thank you, Prince and fire, you're both too kind!

PrinceMyshkin

08-30-2009, 05:24 PM

Thank you, Prince and fire, you're both too kind!

I wouldn't presume to defend myself, but personally I don't think firefangled was being "kind" at all!

firefangled

08-30-2009, 06:24 PM

I wouldn't presume to defend myself, but personally I don't think firefangled was being "kind" at all!

No being kind from me, Auntie! This was a marvelous poem that needed to be written. Your perceptions often amaze me.

PrinceMyshkin

08-31-2009, 10:21 AM

No being kind from me, Auntie! This was a marvelous poem that needed to be written. Your perceptions often amaze me.

I, on the other hand, was perhaps being "kind" as I found the poem nothing more than a heartfelt outrush of compassion constrained only by the elegance of the craft in it.

AuntShecky

09-03-2009, 02:26 PM

Despite early predictions that the team would likely become a post-season contender in a favorable position to win the World Series, this year presented the New York Mets with scores of problems, most blatantly with the majority of their core players on the disabled list for most of the season. The remaining shoestring roster struggled defensively, with plenty of amateurish errors and a failure to achieve effective pitching strategies. Offensively, the structure of their new ballpark did not seem conducive to home runs, while base-running mistakes cost the team several RBIs. Emblematic of the team’s troubles this year was a late August home game in which the Phillies were leading. While seeming to rally in the bottom of the ninth, the Mets became victims of an unassisted triple play, only the second such game-winning triple play in Major League History.

As of September 1, 2009, the record of the New York Mets was 59-72, with 31 games left to play in the season.

“ ‘Life is a game that one plays according to the rules.’
‘Yes, Sir, I know it is’. . .
Some game if you get on the side where all the hot-shots are, then it’s a game all right, I’ll admit that. But if you get on the other side, where there aren’t any hot-shots, then what’s a game about it? Nothing. No game.”
–J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Playing Out the String

At this
point
the sports

metaphor
collapses
hard.

Are we supposed
to swing through
the motions,

look at our
watches, settle
our affairs --

or fight
meaningless
battles

refusing
to surrender
to the inevitable?

All right,
it is
September,

and it’s
the bottom
of the ninth,

but so far
nobody’s
out.

PrinceMyshkin

09-03-2009, 03:14 PM

Despite early predictions that the team would likely become a post-season contender in a favorable position to win the World Series, this year presented the New York Mets with scores of problems, most blatantly with the majority of their core players on the disabled list for most of the season. The remaining shoestring roster struggled defensively, with plenty of amateurish errors and a failure to achieve effective pitching strategies. Offensively, the structure of their new ballpark did not seem conducive to home runs, while base-running mistakes cost the team several RBIs. Emblematic of the team’s troubles this year was a late August home game in which the Phillies were leading. While seeming to rally in the bottom of the ninth, the Mets became victims of an unassisted triple play, only the second game-winning triple play in Major League History.

As of September 1, 2009, the record of the New York Mets was 59-72, with 31 games left to play in the season.

“ ‘Life is a game that one plays according to the rules.’
‘Yes, Sir, I know it is’. . .
Some game if you get on the side where all the hot-shots are, then it’s a game all right, I’ll admit that. But if you get on the other side, where there aren’t any hot-shots, then what’s a game about it? Nothing. No game.”
–J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Playing Out the String

At this
point
the sports

metaphor
collapses
hard.

Are we supposed
to swing through
the motions,

look at our
watches, settle
our affairs --

or fight
meaningless
battles

refusing
to surrender
to the inevitable?

All right,
it is
September,

and it’s
the bottom
of the ninth,

but so far
nobody’s
out.

A heartfelt cri du coeur, if I ever heard one!

AuntShecky

09-07-2009, 01:55 PM

“And since thou so desirously
Did’st long to die, that long before thou could’st
And long since thou no more could’st dye,
Thou in thy scatter’d mystique body would’st
In Abel dye, and ever since
In thine, let their blood come
To begge for us, a discreet patience
of death, or of worst life: for oh, to some
not to be martyrs, is a martyrdom.”
–John Donne, “The Martyrs,” 1633

“My mother is actually the most sound existential philosopher I've ever met. Her point of view is more profound than Kierkegaard or Nietzsche. She says, ‘Every day you're above ground is a good day.’ “
-Kiss musician Gene Simmons

An Exhortation Forbidding Suicide

It’s not this life but sorry circumstances
I want to shed, but still I want to leave
this earth of shredded dreams and absent chances.
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.

Without a world, I'd lack a place to stand,
I'd flounder so, bereft of gravity,
not a step closer to the closing plan,
missing what I'd left and what was left to see.
Rejecting all, far more I'd need,
adrift from terra firma ground.
Renouncing life invokes a senseless creed.
Poor lives are better than none, I have found;
so for the nonce I think I'll stick around.

PrinceMyshkin

09-08-2009, 07:42 AM

Thank God for this:

[FONT="Book Antiqua"]
Poor lives are better than none, I have found;
so for the nonce I think I'll stick around.

and I thought this

stems won't cease to bend where winds have blown.

was splendid!

firefangled

09-08-2009, 10:13 AM

Auntie, I've never subscribed to the current popular platitude, "it's all good," because it's not all good, but it is all balanced somehow.

This is what I get from both the structure and content of your poem. The couplets at the end of each stanza provide a stated harmony.

It is a just argument beautifully written.

AuntShecky

09-08-2009, 01:39 PM

Prince and Firefangled, thank you both.

DanielBenoit

09-09-2009, 05:33 AM

“When I wrote that, God and I knew what it meant, but now God alone knows.”
–Robert Browning

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.

From splatters of thoughts in scatter-shot lines
we seek some soul-balm from the sensitive,
at bottom as sincere as an infant’s cry:
a babble, sure, yet rarefied as Yeats.

We dread the water, then attempt to wade.
Too swiftly comes the splashback: “too mainstream,” “derivative,” “colloquial,” “too trite,”
or “déclassé,” or worst of all, ignored.

Listen, we don't do this because it’s easy
or that we can (or think we can.) We see
an empty page as an anti-Everest
that may be worth the risk of an unsafe climb
in front of us, because it isn't there.

This is magic. Pure magic.

I am in awe.

The rhythm.. . . .the words, it's as if you spend hours picking each and every word so that it was perfect. It's so pleasurable to read outload!

PrinceMyshkin

09-09-2009, 12:38 PM

“When I wrote that, God and I knew what it meant, but now God alone knows.”
–Robert Browning

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.

From splatters of thoughts in scatter-shot lines
we seek some soul-balm from the sensitive,
at bottom as sincere as an infant’s cry:
a babble, sure, yet rarefied as Yeats.

We dread the water, then attempt to wade.
Too swiftly comes the splashback: “too mainstream,” “derivative,” “colloquial,” “too trite,”
or “déclassé,” or worst of all, ignored.

Listen, we don't do this because it’s easy
or that we can (or think we can.) We see
an empty page as an anti-Everest
that may be worth the risk of an unsafe climb
in front of us, because it isn't there.

However did I miss before, and... I'll have whatever you're having!

Pendragon

09-09-2009, 02:19 PM

Adore it Auntie! Just what I need at the moment... :wave:

AuntShecky

09-18-2009, 12:30 PM

Escapee

From the brush he darted out
with three dull-coated sparrows
leading the way.

A nearby porch became a perch
for reveling in the new-found
freedom of the day.

Despite the downward-tilting bill,
he appeared not at all wild
but cared-for and trim,

unaware of any upcoming chill
or an unknown owner missing him–

but blissfully content to preen,
flaunting his feathered exotica,
tropical and green.

PrinceMyshkin

09-18-2009, 01:07 PM

What wonderful art it is (but is it really art - or genius?) to end with such seemingly pedestrian words:

tropical and green.

thrown, as it appears, casually over your shoulder, but which then have the force of something primary, something that neither needs nor deserves elaborating on!

:flare:

AuntShecky

09-26-2009, 02:45 PM

“Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them.”
–Emerson

Full Disclosure

Is it wrong to be in love
with the Frost that lies
in the ground of Vermont
all year round?

It doesn't really bother me
that frost has a way
of sneaking in ‘round here
without warning,

or – despite modern delays -
this time the leaf-transition
seems earlier than before.

I'm thoroughly impressed
with Thoreau’s pious awe,
and how every night
manages to morph into morning.

I'm not afraid to confess
an obsession with asters,
all fearless, purple, and wild,
as tiny threads of milkweed
chase monarchs in full flight.

But I'll admit
neither guilt nor shame
to any “No Trespassing” sign
I've ignored.

PrinceMyshkin

09-26-2009, 02:52 PM

The thing of it is, in this poem as in every one of yours I recall, that the virtuosity goes hand in hand with the sheer (sometimes mischievous) pleasure you get in the writing of these - but isn't writing, poetry in particular, supposed to be grim, starchy, the product of or exercised with pain?

~Sophia~

09-26-2009, 03:51 PM

but isn't writing, poetry in particular, supposed to be grim, starchy, the product of or exercised with pain?

.... absolutely, much like the gut wrenching Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock!
_______________________

I'm not sure if I've ever said it before AuntShecky but, I love the way your poems tickle all the senses! :nod:

AuntShecky

09-28-2009, 04:32 PM

Thank you, Prince and Sophia. I have to think about your comments. The speaker of a poem and its author aren't always the same person, and that as a writer (or would-be writer) I would like my role to follow what T.S. Eliot said in "Tradition and Individual Talent," if it isn't presumptous of me to mention his illustrious name in the same sentence as myself. That's all I'm going to say for now.

~Sophia~

09-28-2009, 07:08 PM

I couldn't agree more AuntShecky! I was just pulling PM's leg. And it isn't presumptuous of you at all mention your name with his. I think TSE would be very okay with it!

AuntShecky

10-31-2009, 04:17 PM

Faithful Failures

Who invited them? They crashed my life!
Each time I turn around,
they're right there – mugging,
shoulders scrunched, palms upward,
heads tilted with a simpering look
as if to say, “Eh, what're ya gonna do?”

I can't even take a perfectly innocent
stroll down the line
without their tracing my every step.
It’s as if every little stray pup
in the world who ever followed a 4th grader home
suddenly morphed
into a ravenous pack of Hell-hounds.

No, we can't keep them.

Well, I was already worn out,
and they were never welcome.
Now it’s way, way, way past
three days – no fish in all the waters
of the earth ever stunk as much

as these, who pitch
their moldy tents at the foot
of my bed, and hog the night. They cop
the eggs of freshly-laid plans
and crack ‘em, one by one.

Above the rim
of a shaky cup
I see them,
diving into the day
with their know-it-all smirk.

firefangled

11-01-2009, 05:32 AM

Another great one, Faithful Failures, Auntie! I love these humorous laments.

I especially love the pups and tents.

Faithfully Successful!

By the way, did you mean "heads tilted" instead of "heads titled" in S1?

PrinceMyshkin

11-01-2009, 09:10 AM

Some lines that stand out even above the rest of this:

They cop
the eggs of freshly-laid plans
and crack ‘em, one by one.

and:

Above the rim
of a shaky cup
I see them,
diving into the day
with their know-it-all smirk.

AuntShecky

11-02-2009, 07:02 PM

By the way, did you mean "heads tilted" instead of "heads titled" in S1?

Yep! And it's fixed. Typos have been hounding me lately.There was even a glaring one in my autumn poetry contest entry. Thanks for pointing it out so I had a chance to fix it.

cogs

11-02-2009, 07:22 PM

this gets better and better. what did the 'past three days' mean? the image of the hell hounds chasing a person is funny.

AuntShecky

11-02-2009, 09:00 PM

what did the 'past three days' mean?

Reference to a famous saying (spouse and I) believe to have originated with Benjamin Franklin:

"After three days, fish and visitors start to stink."

AuntShecky

11-02-2009, 09:02 PM

There were so many stellar entries in the Autumn Poetry Contest, I didn't vote on the one submitted by yours truly, but here 'tis --a variation on the sonnet, 12 instead of 14 lines and instead of iambic pentameter, iambic hexameter (clumsily rendered, perhaps):

“Does a leaf get lonely when it watches its neighbors fall?” –John Muir (Quoted in Our National Parks: America’s Best Idea)

Anthropomorphism in Autumn

Can winter’s omens shake slim aspens with cold fears?
Would mountain peaks yearn to suckle an infant in the sky?
Do geese compare this trip to those of other years?
Are airborne tufts of milkweed aware of where they'll fly?

Would fading flowers cause the meadow’s heart to ache?
Does a maple ever dream of a future April bed?
Might the October moon want to get a rake
to whisk occluding clouds away from its clearer head?

Do nettles itch to snag crisp days on bristled burrs?
Could wildlife somehow imagine a poorer patch,
to contemplate nature’s bliss and brutal spurs,
while wretchedly singular, from the universe detached?

Virgil

11-02-2009, 11:00 PM

Oh that is such a good poem Aunty. I almost voted for it too. There were lots of good ones to choose from. I must admit the title threw me, but the poem was extremely engaging. That last stanza was excellent. :)

Do nettles itch to snag crisp days on bristled burrs?
Could wildlife somehow imagine a poorer patch,
to contemplate nature’s bliss and brutal spurs,
while wretchedly singular, from the universe detached?

cogs

11-02-2009, 11:31 PM

*loved it! maybe personalize the wildlife with an individual, is a minor suggestion. wow... i love the aspens shaking and the moon raking(rhyme). goto *

qimissung

11-03-2009, 12:28 AM

cogs has a point, now that I think of it. This was my personal favorite in the contest, AuntShecky.

AuntShecky

11-03-2009, 01:57 PM

Thank you, dear readers. Here is a short link to another
important quotation from John Muir, to which the last line of the ditty refers:

http://www.sierraclub.org/john_muir_exhibit/writings/misquotes.html

AuntShecky

11-06-2009, 03:01 PM

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.

Virgil

11-06-2009, 03:42 PM

Enjoyable!! The poem is really solid. This stanza hit home:

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.
That really pulls everything together.

I don't know if you meant but it echos the Leonard Cohen song, "Everybody Knows." Here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yG5e1oaen-M.

By the way you have a typo in the fourth line. It should be "muslim" not "moslim."

PrinceMyshkin

11-06-2009, 04:22 PM

firefangled

11-07-2009, 03:48 AM

Anthropomorphism in Autumn

Can winter’s omens shake slim aspens with cold fears?
Would mountain peaks yearn to suckle an infant in the sky?
Do geese compare this trip to those of other years?
Are airborne tufts of milkweed aware of where they'll fly?

Would fading flowers cause the meadow’s heart to ache?
Does a maple ever dream of a future April bed?
Might the October moon want to get a rake
to whisk occluding clouds away from its clearer head?

Do nettles itch to snag crisp days on bristled burrs?
Could wildlife somehow imagine a poorer patch,
to contemplate nature’s bliss and brutal spurs,
while wretchedly singular, from the universe detached?

I loved the variation of this piece. It was my favorite. I expecially liked this line:

Do nettles itch to snag crisp days on bristled burrs?

firefangled

11-07-2009, 03:58 AM

You need to send Everybody's Everybody to the UN. It should be posted in all the school classrooms of the world.

It is important hearty stuff but it's light and less filling the way Everyone makes India Pale Ale.

Wonderful poem, Auntie! I couldn't not read it several times.

~Sophia~

11-07-2009, 01:02 PM

I second that (those)!!!!! Inspired and inspirational!

qimissung

11-07-2009, 08:55 PM

It makes me feel happy inside. :)

AuntShecky

11-14-2009, 03:43 PM

Wish List

-Exoneration
-Vindication
-Justification

-Communication
-Compilation
-Dedication

-Validation
-Re-forestation
-a long vacation

-less frustration
-more elation
-less putrefaction
-more elevation

-a white carnation
-and a robust potation
(less filling– tastes great!)

-gratification
-celebration
-bebop-ulation

-jubilation
-congratulations
-adulation

Affirmation!

~Sophia~

11-14-2009, 05:20 PM

Christmas is coming and you've been very very good! I think you'll get it all!

firefangled

11-15-2009, 08:41 PM

Christmas is coming and you've been very very good! I think you'll get it all!

Absolutely, once the list is checked twice and undergoes the summation.

AuntShecky

11-24-2009, 03:10 PM

This reply begins with a thank you to all of the readers of this thread so far, especially those who posted such flattering replies.

Please believe that I accept your attention and comments with gratitude, and, though I risk sounding like a stand-up comedian who tries to defuse all of his insulting jokes by ending with the comment -- "You've been a wonderful audience and I mean that most sincerely."

I don't deserve any of this praise, and I mean that sincerely as well.

Let me backtrack a little. Even though I really am grateful for your comments, I have to, as Desi commanded Lucy to do, "'splain" myself.

Explaining, expanding, or otherwise commenting on one's own work is a "no no" in literary circles. At best, it sounds defensive; at worst, it pegs the writer as a mealy-mouthed, attention-starved bore (and "boor.")

Even so, the opinions, sentiments, philosophies implied in all of the ditties above are not necessarily those of the author. The speaker and/or the "I" of the poem is usually not yours truly, and despite what pundits have been telling us since September of Aught One, it is still the Age of Irony. For instance, I, personally am not as materialistic as the speaker in # 9 above, although I am an American. #48 ("Everybody's Everybody") could have been written by an incorrigibly earnest undergraduate female or have an entirely different meaning if had come from a frat boy mocking her idealism. Maybe it's the voice of a seventh-grader, who is too young to know what the world is really like but old enough to know what he'd like it to be. Beats me-- and I wrote the damn thing!

"Don't trust the teller, trust the tale," D. H. Lawrence famously said. All we have is what's on the page.

We're all familiar with critics who rail about "the heresy of paraphrase," because with good verse, one can never separate the content from the form. Well, the title of this thread is "anti" poems, and I don't see myself as astute as Cleanth Brooks. ("Cleanth"-- how's that for a name for one's first-born?) Even so, critics such as Brooks know more than I, and they always will.

Here's a case in point. As John Kilgore says in this excellent article:
http://www.eiu.edu/~ipaweb/pipa/volume3/kilgore.htm

it's deadly to try to speculate on a poet's intentions. Again, all we have is what's on the page, but we might have to read it more than a couple of times to glean what's there.

For instance, Prof. Kilgore (a name's the same as a Kurt Vonnegut character) says that in their efforts to get students to "like" poetry by making it "relevant" to the lives of adolescents, teachers unwittingly do a disservice to the original poet, the poem, and to the teachers themselves. Imagine the topic of Frost's "The Road Not Taken" as an example of "peer pressure!" And it's interesting to note that Kilgore states that no one ever "complains" about "bad" poetry-- not principals, not parents, not students.

One more thing about that article I couldn't ignore is the obvious notion that I could try to move heaven and earth and spend 24/7 writing verse for the rest of my life (give or take, with the shadow of what the news is calling "Ukrainian Super Flu" waiting in the wings) yet never, EVER produce a poem as good as "The Road Not Taken." And that's a fact, Jack!

If I may be so bold to suggest that even poets themselves, as in Browning's famous quotation, might not be aware of the actual "reason" they're writing a particular piece. If there is a message, maybe we should just call Western Union (or we would, if we were all still living back in 1935.)

There wasn't really any message in #55, which arose from attempting to have each line end with the same rhyming sound (more or less) as well as -- forgive me, Mssrs. Brooks et al. -- to defy the rule against writing verse containing "abstractions," the occasional white carnation aside. Sometimes, however, when we say we want certain materialistic items, what we really wish for are the abstractions: self-esteem, success, praise, attention, etc.

And, the "message" in this particular reply is: again, thank you for your comments, but if, after reading this, you might want to go back and edit or delete them, certainly I wouldn't blame you.

Still, thank you.

Really.

PrinceMyshkin

11-25-2009, 12:43 PM

I don't deserve any of this praise, and I mean that sincerely as well.

Who deserves what praise or how much of it - or for that matter how much fault-finding - must have been an issue from early in our species history! But consider that it may give someone pleasure to praise you, would you really deny them that pleasure?

Virgil

11-25-2009, 12:58 PM

Auntie, I must say I've been amiss in not stopping here. I assumed everyone starts up a new thread for each new poem. You on the other hand collate them here under one roof. I shall make it a point to go back and read them and stop by more often.

"Don't trust the teller, trust the tale," D. H. Lawrence famously said. All we have is what's on the page.
That is my reading assumption for any work. I never assume autobiographical, though bits and pieces may, or quite likely be, be based on personal experience. But the reader has no clue and shouldn't assume he can tell. Essentially it's irrevelant.

AuntShecky

11-27-2009, 02:32 PM

Prince and Virgil, both of your comments are valid, as it's always a good policy not to take things at face value. We
have a tendency to think that others have the same motivation as we do, or think the same way we do.

The worst enemy of art is not a critical audience, but a complacent one. It's better for the artist to take risks than wallow in the same old, same old comfort zones.

Virgil

11-27-2009, 02:42 PM

PrinceMyshkin

11-27-2009, 03:09 PM

God bless the grace of this. I was especially taken with:

as tiny threads of milkweed
chase monarchs in full flight.

That sings!

AuntShecky

02-02-2010, 05:41 PM

“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.

PrinceMyshkin

02-02-2010, 05:52 PM

This is so glum, Aunty! but if only for "relapse always stalks the cure," I value it.

Bar22do

02-02-2010, 06:10 PM

It is deep true wise... and beautifully written!

And yes:

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

as simple as that.

Thank you Auntie's

firefangled

02-03-2010, 06:18 PM

Condition

This speaks of us truthfully as both foresaken and foresaking, nothing sure but failure and death ultimately.

In the last four lines though, it seems to say in the end there is something noble in the ways we fail in the face of death.

AuntShecky

02-04-2010, 03:26 PM

Thank you for all three comments.
I don't know about "glum," though. Should we only write happy stuff? Wasn't meant to be glum, merely realistic, although I am sorry, Prince, if it lowered your mood. To quote Eliot again: "Humankind cannot stand much reality." (Forgive me if I didn't quote him exactly.)

AuntShecky

02-23-2010, 06:13 PM

“And Nietzsche, with his theory of eternal recurrence. He said the life we've lived we're gonna live over the same way for eternity. Great. That means I'll have to sit through the Ice Capades again."
--Woody Allen

Zombies on Ice

The Zeitgeist’s lately been a blasé mix:
sensual lust chilled with a zesty twist
of fear and morbid curiosity.
The juggernaut rumbling through each zone,
which mesmerized erstwhile lighter souls,
draws zealots from Zurich to Kalamazoo.

Here hosted by our humble civic center–
which taxes built and named for the county czar
(despite bamboozling embezzlement)--
the snaky skaters to our public plaza came.
The crowd, prepared for fright but not for shock,
gasped as a zzzt-zzzt buzzed the collective spine.

Upon their entrance to the frozen floor,
as if just roused from a lazy snooze,
the stars appeared altogether in parts:
here an upward arm, there a shaky leg.
Haphazard moves belied the graceful glaze
as sheer stupor themed the choreography.

Or so it seemed. Meanwhile the denizens
of the mezzanine in the ziggurat above
steered their homage toward spicy pretzels,
their zinfandel kept warm and safe in zarfs.
A sudden subtlety caught strong gaze
as zircon-studded costumes swished a swirl.

Attention switched away from schlock to awe
as silver blades put down a zany waltz,
segueing into steps set to Zydeco,
now solving a rebus puzzle, then a maze
across a zeugma of complexity with
some to zig, others to zag.

At the climactic zenith of the act
all Hell ascended through the icy stage.
With Zen-like detachment backs climbed
up bumps of others, a Ponzi scheme of souls.
Against the bold frieze body parts flew,
but fortunately no one fell.

Whole-handed cheers and roaring claps
sent the zapped-out stars to resume their sleep
upon a stack of z’s and cash, while in advance
of next week’s arrival of the pole-vaulting vampires
(who wowed SRO venues from Vegas to Valdez),
the Zamboni swept up splintered chips
and bits and crystalline shavings--

and various sundries unknown.

tailor STATELY

02-23-2010, 07:30 PM

LOL I enjoyed z-poem.

Also, wonderful quote from Woody Allen; quite apropos.

PrinceMyshkin

02-25-2010, 11:30 AM

You (and this poem) are amazzzing, Aunty! Do you constantly search for things that no one one else could do or would even contemplate attempting?

The folks stacked up on each other like a Ponzi scheme was just one piece of wit among so many.

PrinceMyshkin

03-20-2010, 02:41 PM

Assuredly NOT chopped-liver (although why chopped-liver should ever be spoken of in a derogatory way beats me. I just wish that any one of my poems were as good as the chopped liver at Moishe's or the Snowdon Deli)!

qimissung

03-20-2010, 08:07 PM

No, indeed! Hardly chopped or hardly liver!

I liked this stanza best:

"At the climactic zenith of the act
all Hell ascended through the icy stage.
With Zen-like detachment backs climbed
up bumps of others, a Ponzi scheme of souls.
Against the bold frieze body parts flew,
but fortunately no one fell."

As Prince said of "a Ponzi scheme of souls...", brilliant!

You do zombies proud, Aunty!:)

AuntShecky

03-21-2010, 12:13 PM

Thank you, q! and. . .

Assuredly NOT chopped-liver (although why chopped-liver should ever be spoken of in a derogatory way beats me. I just wish that any one of my poems were as good as the chopped liver at Moishe's or the Snowdon Deli)!

This webpage
http://www.phrases.org.uk/bulletin_board/16/messages/558.html

says that "chopped liver is always served as a side dish, never a main dish. It therefore makes a good metaphor for someone who is being treated as unimportant or dispensable" (thus an appropriate phrase for your ol' sad-sacky Auntie.)

On the other hand, when one goes to a fancy-schmanzy restaurant --so I'm told -- and orders one of the most expensive appetizers on the menu, he or she will be brought a dish called "paté"-- but it's really chopped liver.

qimissung

03-21-2010, 01:22 PM

Aha! so you are pate passing yourself off as chopped liver! For shame, Aunty! :)

AuntShecky

03-22-2010, 01:55 PM

Aha! so you are pate passing yourself off as chopped liver! For shame, Aunty! :)

Nah, but it would be even more shameful if it were the other way around.

AuntShecky

03-23-2010, 12:48 PM

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.

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

PrinceMyshkin

03-23-2010, 01:09 PM

It's a splendid, splendid poem! (The Snodgrass, by the way is "April Inventory") in which, throughout, your humorous self-depreciation is leavened with wisdom, nowhere more elegantly than in that final

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.

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

Bravo! Bravo! Oh, Bra[obscenity]vo!!!

Hawkman

03-23-2010, 01:16 PM

Hi Auntie,

This is really nice and I did enjoy it. The only flaw is that full stop in S2 L2. I thnk that if you fiddled a bit, lines 2 and 3 here could be tidied up to maintain the flow.

H

AuntShecky

03-24-2010, 02:31 PM

Thank you, Prince and Hawkman.
Actually, it dawned on me that I had confused "April Morning" (Howard Fast) with "April Inventory" last night when I was babysitting my grandson and didn't have access to a PC.
The worst of it is that I'd tried consciously to incorporate an inventory in my verse, which, by the bye, is part of a larger compilation called "Heart's Needle." Snodgrass used that title from an Irish proverb: "A daughter is like a needle in the heart."
It also makes me think, somehow, of acupuncture!

AuntShecky

03-24-2010, 02:34 PM

Hi Auntie,

The only flaw is that full stop in S2 L2. I thnk that if you fiddled a bit, lines 2 and 3 here could be tidied up to maintain the flow.

H

Certainly you could consider that a flaw. But I thought perhaps the full stop (or period) would be okay, since the line is an enjambment into line 3. I think both lines scan okay, both are iambic tetrameter, with the stresses in the right locations. I know there are still a couple of lines in the thing that have an extra foot.

hack

03-24-2010, 03:01 PM

It is a beautiful poem, Auntie.

PrinceMyshkin

03-24-2010, 03:01 PM

AuntShecky

04-02-2010, 06:12 PM

A Poem With a Preface

One of the unwritten rules of modern poetry is that form and content are so intertwined that a poem, like a joke, dissolves under analysis, hence the dictum from Cleanth Brooks about the "heresy of paraphrase." Because everything the reader needs to know is already in the poem – supposedly – it needs no prefatory explanation. That a poem almost always comes unaccompanied sometimes works to the detriment of its full comprehension and/or appreciation. As a case in point, not many know the story behind the red wheelbarrow in the well-known short verse by William Carlos Williams, but in step with the modern tradition, all that appears on the page is the tiny block of its familiar lines. The main title of this thread is “Anti-poetry,” a self-issued license to break the conventions. That’s why the posting today comes with the following long introduction.

Every year, Good Friday brings to me the realization that the remembrance of history’s most famous tragic death is fraught with melancholy. The happier antithesis of this is eternal gratitude for such a gift of incomparable Love (cf. John 15:13.) Closing out the trinity of these emotions is the undeniable -- yet ultimately impossible – responsibility to make one’s own individual soul worthy of redemption, or at least to live a meaningful life. Forgive me for the belief that the need for meaning is true for every human being in this world, and has absolutely nothing to do with one’s chosen religion or lack of it.

Along with this, I somehow recall that Thomas Merton once wrote that reading the newspaper is a penance. Pick any “current” event describing the suffering of one or more of our fellow human beings. Often one’s reaction plunges into judgmental mode, a tried and tired-true ranting against “the cruelty of nature” or in most cases, the cliché about “man’s inhumanity to man.” But occasionally, something about a specific news item or two will strike a different nerve, kicking in a pang of shared guilt. This comes despite our inability to prevent the tragedy from occurring or even to offer succor as way of assuaging the inevitable sorrow, both the sorrow experienced by the loved ones of the victims and, of course, our own. And in spite of that nearly-universal powerlessness, we ask ourselves, how can we allow such a thing to happen? Why can't we do better?

Two recent news items struck me with their startling similarity, though the women which each report concerned couldn't be more different. About a month ago I saw an AP article that took only an inch of space in one of the back pages of the local newspaper. The item said that a the body of a 60-year-old woman had been found in her rural house in a tiny town in western New York State. Although sad, that news in itself is not especially remarkable, until the article explained that the woman had been dead for over a year. The report said the deceased did indeed have relatives living close-by, and that she hadn't picked up her mail in over a year, about the same time her utilities had been shut off. It was only by happenstance that a couple who were inquiring whether the property was sale that the woman’s body was found. The second story, which received considerable media play during this Holy Week, occurred in Massachusetts, where a teenaged girl whose family had recently emigrated from Ireland, did not receive anything resembling a warm welcome from her new classmates in her adopted country. Instead she underwent what can only be described as mental torture, as her male and female peers harassed her both to her face and through on-line social network sites. School officials were allegedly aware of the bullying but did not try to stop it, to the point at which the girl took her own life at the age of 15.

The long prose passage above is the background for this piece of verse, called

Perpetual Care

Their backgrounds completely veered
a couple hundred miles, and a distance of years--
four and half decades, to be exact.
They had little in common, beyond the one thing
all of us hold in common.
They didn't even know
each other, but they were twins,
spiritual siblings, sisters of the soul.

Neither could have been aware
the chimera called up by attention,
the lack of it or the excess
of the wrong kind.
Both must have known, as all
of us know, deep down
that everything, every day,
every youthful hope
has its end, and that the end
comes early or later, but for all
always too soon.

Once, there may have been a time
when each might‘ve spun her respective
dream, and each, perhaps cuddling
upon her loving mother’s lap,
may have marveled at a world
new to her: the predictable
phases of a changing moon,
a bird’s greeting to the unspoiled
morning, the invariable cheer
behind an immaculate, blue sky.

Dr. Cambridge

04-02-2010, 06:52 PM

A Poem With a Preface
The long prose passage above is the background for this piece of verse, called

Perpetual Care

Their backgrounds completely veered
a couple hundred miles, and a distance of years--
four and half decades, to be exact.
They had little in common, beyond the one thing
all of us hold in common.
They didn't even know
each other, but they were twins,
spiritual siblings, sisters of the soul.

Neither could have been aware
the chimera called up by attention,
the lack of it or the excess
of the wrong kind.
Both must have known, as all
of us know, deep down
that everything, every day,
every youthful hope
has its end, and that the end
comes early or later, but for all
always too soon.

Once, there may have been a time
when each might‘ve spun her respective
dream, and each, perhaps cuddling
upon her loving mother’s lap,
may have marveled at a world
new to her: the predictable
phases of a changing moon,
a bird’s greeting to the unspoiled
morning, the invariable cheer
behind an immaculate, blue sky.
I felt a cold shiver reading this, such neglect.

A carefully chosen subject with a poignant message from you, AuntShecky. Thankyou.

Hawkman

04-03-2010, 07:02 AM

Hi Auntie, I read your preface to the poem and was equally moved by the poem and the reason for it. It is a very good poem but I do have an observation.

I wonder if the second and last stanzas would not be better exchanged. the sentiment at the end of S2 reads like a conclusion, whereas the the end of S3 leaves me expecting more... In view of your stance on anti poetry, was this intentional?

Happy Easter, and may Ēostre’s hares bring you eggs of hues to gladden your heart.

H

PrinceMyshkin

04-03-2010, 08:34 AM

I want to say that I disagree with Hawkman's suggestion re altering the order of the 2nd & 3rd stanzas. The openness, the eternal possibility (and mystery?) of that "immaculate blue sky" makes for a splendid ending in my view to this immensely compassionate poem.

Maybe it's because I have read and adored virtually all of Flannery O'Connor's stories and novels, that I am sensitized to the sky as symbol and as possibility. There is the "pathetic fallacy" of course, but in virtually every one of O'Connor's narratives, the sky is sketched in in a few vivid strokes, and it is unquestionably the same naturalistic sky we all see - but it is, always, something much, much more.

Bravo!

Buh4Bee

04-03-2010, 08:51 AM

Aunt Shecky- To this poem I must say I was deeply moved. You have expressed the brutality of humanity quite well. I usually try to stay "secular" on the forums, but given the subject matter of your poem, I feel I can express how important it is to me to remember the spirit of the Easter season.

AuntShecky

04-03-2010, 03:08 PM

Thank you Dr. Cambridge, jersea, Prince, and Hawkman for your replies. And yes, the order of the three stanzas was absolutely intentional.

Bar22do

04-03-2010, 03:56 PM

A/Sh,

I've just posted a long comment on your well penned, rather tragic poem. But I must have made a wrong mvt and now all is gone. So again -

I was telling you that I found the final lines so perfect!

the predictable
phases of a changing moon,
a bird’s greeting to the unspoiled
morning, the invariable cheer
behind an immaculate, blue sky.

I was also suggesting that you consider (but it's only my humble opinion, as we say, to take or to toss) compressing a little the following lines which would thus gain in poignancy:

Both must have known, as all
of us know, deep down
that everything, every day,
every youthful hope
has its end, and that the end
comes early or later, but for all
always too soon.

perhaps sth like:

Both must have known
that every day, something
ends and that the end
comes, early or later,
always too soon.

I read and re-read your poem, loved it very very much.

Warm regards - Bar

AuntShecky

05-06-2010, 04:49 PM

It’s From Hunger

For too long I’ve been losing weight,
undernourished in this venue.
Lately I’ve begun to hate
these stale items on the menu.

Don’t order in that rich paté
or a burger with the works,
washed down with chai or a large latte.
My appetite’s for props and perks.

Spicy food? Don’t want to try it,
nor condiments on hors d’oeuvre trays.
I’m starving for a esteem-y diet
full of compliments and fatty praise.

No need to book a pricey table
at a chi-chi place to sup.
Ply me with sweet-talk, or if unable-
lie. Try whipping something up.

So if you want to know my dining credo,
remember this, my fine amigo:
feed my ego.

PrinceMyshkin

05-06-2010, 05:05 PM

The only competition for your wit is your last poem - or your next! This one is truly an act of virtuosity!

Hawkman

05-06-2010, 05:38 PM

Very entertaining, Auntie! I like mine with lots of sugar, lol

AuntShecky

05-07-2010, 01:53 PM

Thank you, Prince and Hawkman, but methinks I messed up the meter, which oft is my Achilles' heel.

Which reminds me: don't forget, Prince and Hawkman, to post your entries in both the Form and the Subject Poetry Contests on or before
this Monday, May 10.

Bar22do

05-07-2010, 07:15 PM

Your craft here is at its highest, your "ego" - well fed I hope as it assesses your abilities! a very witty, fine verse, A/Sh - thanks - and warm rgds - Bar

qimissung

05-08-2010, 09:07 PM

Hello Auntie. I'm late to the party, but i would like to comment on Perpetual Care. I brought a tear to my eye. Thank you for your tender mercy. I've read about Phoebe Prince. I work in a school, so I took that one to heart. Bullying is becoming a serious problem in schools across the country.

And to die alone, and to have no one care enough to inquire, what a bleak and undeserved ending to life. Thank you for you tribute to them both.

And "It's from Hunger"-thank you again. You made me laugh, and I needed that. :)

AuntShecky

05-16-2010, 06:19 PM

For this next number, we're going to change the tempo a little bit. Arguably this would fit into the "Your Poems Inspired by Music" thread, but instead it's going into the "Anti -poems" thread. So with no further intro, here's a little ditty we like to call

Variation on a Theme by Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown

At some early point
someone unknown
injected vaulting dreams
into my head
and never came back
to spring them.

Into an infinite sky
the notions jumped.
They look on lives
of their own, expecting
that each leaping launch
would land true --

in a parallel
universe, perhaps.
In this one my feet
remain too big,
my balance inept,
my coordination, clumsy.

On graceful toes
an aspiration danced
with the thought that
whenever I entered a room
every head would turn–
and they do! (The other way.)

Another idea had the effrontery
to believe that tiny scrawls
and scratches would elevate
me to a perch so high
that I’d no longer have to wail
the blues or wait for change.

Now overripe and cowering
in the corner and weeping
into their tepid tea, the failures
gum the stale crust of delusion,
while their bones crack jokes and
their once-golden manes turn gray.

But –“Wait! There’s still time!”
one could say. “You ain’t dead
yet, and where’s there’s life,
there’s . . .” Dozens of et ceteras
overflow off the twelve-bar charts.
“Someday my luck will change.”

On the other hand, the future–
both near and far– finds its feet
stuck in irrelevance. My mind
turns back instead of ahead,
especially when it knows
that “someday” is the saddest
word in the world when
at this late point I’m running
out of somedays.

Hawkman

05-16-2010, 07:21 PM

Now overripe and cowering
in the corner and weeping
into their tepid tea, the failures
gum the stale crust of delusion,
while their bones crack jokes and
their once-golden manes turn gray.

Says it all really...

Seriously though, this is a cracking read and very entertaining. Thanks Auntie.

PS Last stanza l2 "finds it feet" shouldn't that be "its"? :)

Live and be well. H

PrinceMyshkin

05-16-2010, 08:59 PM

Splendid, up to and most certainly including that last, sad stanza.

AuntShecky

05-17-2010, 02:24 PM

PS Last stanza l2 "finds it feet" shouldn't that be "its"? :)

H

Yep! Thank you very much for catching it for me.

AuntShecky

05-25-2010, 07:18 PM

At the root of the vibrant topics currently growing throughout the mainstream media and the blogosphere, one critical question dominates: why do governments, corporations, institutions, and individuals seem unable to make timely and effective decisions? Could the cause of this apparent indecisiveness, as well as the pervasive “lack of commitment,” stem from the idea of permanence, the fear that we're forever stuck with the choices we make? Or is it a possibility even more frightening – that one option is as good as another, or, even worse, that in the grand scheme of things, a specific, individual choice really doesn't matter a whit.

In one of his last monologues, the comedian George Carlin (1937-2008) observed that Americans are duped into believing that they are bestowed with a bottomless supply of multiple choices, divergent options for consumer products such as soda, dog food, cars, ad infinitum, while systematically and covertly denied access to the types of decisions that really matter, the choices that truly affect our daily lives.

A frequently anthologized and misunderstood poem, “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost (1874-1963 ) pokes fun at a man who tends to agonize over minor decisions that ultimately turn out to be more-or-less meaningless. A footnote appearing in The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, quotes a critic stating that Frost “did not approve of romantic ‘sighing over what may have been.’ ” Some readers inadvertently overlook the subtle irony in the poem’s concluding couplet: taking the “road less traveled by” doesn't really make all that much difference.

Another poet, Delmore Schwartz (1913-1966) used the line, “In dreams begin responsibilities” as the title for one of his poetry collections as well as for a brilliant short story. Nevertheless a major theme of his work is “the contradiction in every act.” A poem from Schwartz’s final collection, Selected Poems: Summer Knowledge, covers similar ground as Carlin’s much-later monologue. In “True-Blue American,” a boy is confronted with the choice of a chocolate sundae or a banana split; his response is: “Both! I must have both!” It’s difficult to disagree with the Norton editor’s assessment that the poem represents the “metaphysical casualness” marked by a certain indifference typical of the American character. The kid’s plunge into satisfying his confectionary preferences all at once– a gleeful greediness, perhaps– is only a symptom of a larger dysfunction: the inability to bother oneself with the difficulty of making a choice. Hence, as the Norton folks point out, the poem presents a “comic rejection” of the weighty thought processes of --as the poem’s speaker tells us, a “Kierkegaard and many another European.” A line from this astutely-observed poem was stolen for the title of the following “anti-poem” which you could call truthfully “derivative” or kindly, “a post-modern mash-up.”

Rejecting Selection

At Jutland’s gloomy tip, as Arctic winds
dipped down to mock a futile wish for sun,
it wasn't easy for the thinker to announce:
“Not to decide is to decide.”

A tug o’ war of “Either” equally matched
with an “Or” can really rip a soul in two–
half banished to a Limbo off the map;
half to a wishy-washy Switzerland.

While clinging to the comfort of a fence,
why force a guy to make a choice he dreads?
(The right side’s just as likely to be left.)
Sore and battered, he’s loath to take a leap

Where logic fails.

Some choice he has!
Damned both ways, or pegged a namby-
pamby in-between, discomposed to make up
his mind: to shirk – or not to shirk,
another question, a whole ‘nother choice!

A neutral coin won't let him off the hook;
it flips without a cash-back warranty;
can't count on Fate or things unseen for help
to guide the falling dice to roll his way.

The universe has better things to do,
although –believe me - I can sympathize
when forces outside our control deny
desire, answering only nothing but "nyet.”

So go ahead and pick the team you like.
The shirt may feel as if it’s thick with hair.
Just tell yourself the jersey’s made of silk
that’s fashioned from defiance or a joke.

Now take the stamp of the inevitable
in hopeless passes at a football missed
by Sparky’s mild and melon-headed boy.
He (as well as you and I) in spirit share

the same contented calm as Sisyphus
and his uphill stare at the pesky rock,
as, with gravity in doomed embrace, it rolls
back down, each glorious and stinking time.

---
Links:
George Carlin (A reference to the cited monologue appears in this interview in the answer to question #5)
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page3/story?page=10bqs/carlin

Contains an interpretation of "The Road Not Taken":
http://www.eiu.edu/~ipaweb/pipa/volume3/kilgore.htm

"True-Blue American" by Delmore Schwartz
http://poetryoutloud.org/poems/poem.html?id=171352

The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus (1913-1960)
http://dbanach.com/sisyphus.htm

PrinceMyshkin

05-26-2010, 10:56 AM

WHAT!? Did you challenge yourself before writing this to outshine even your most brilliant recent poems? You've been showing wit & or comedy to be the equal of even the most dour philosophical questions.

This is an

a
ma
zing

poem!

AuntShecky

07-01-2010, 04:38 PM

During the warmer seasons here in North America, I spend many an evening watching a televised Major League Baseball game. Lately, I've noticed something startling when the camera pans the crowd in the stands: generally speaking, the primary focus of the audience isn't the game. While some fans divert their attention toward cell phones and other portable electronic devices, the real distraction/attraction for most is food. We're no longer talking hot “peanuts and Cracker Jacks,” Folks. Beyond the customary comestibles of hot dogs, pizza, chicken wings, and ice cream, modern ballparks offer a vast variety of complete, Styrofoam-encased meals delivered right in the stands, in addition to the full-service restaurants within the stadium itself. And it’s not just sports venues or other spectator events. These days America apparently has a new favorite recreational activity. Hence the following serving of verse about the Curse of the Middle Class which we like to call

American Pastime

It’s strange, this compulsion
that must be forever fed -- not a hunger
per se, but like the Poor,
it’s always here.

As armies and reptiles travel on their bellies,
so do we keep our vehicles well-stocked,
to tide us through emergencies or the inevitable
red light delay. We don't leave home without it.

The road we venture down is an endless esophagus,
while we keep one eye peeled for a place to stop--
for a bite to slake the appetite of dreams,
perchance to sample the local fare.

At picnic tables flanking the pavement,
or in parks, on benches, on beaches,
every place you look people may be drinking
or now and then smoking but mostly
gnawing and chewing and swallowing and gulping
and scarfing and devouring, chowing down,

pigging out on salty things and sweet
things and crispy things and greasy things
and saucy things and crunchy things and
drippy, messy, sticky things, all designed
for good looks and what experts mysteriously
call “mouthfeel,” always concocted to be
craved but never meant to satisfy.

At flashy shows of fiery music, or classy
venues for virtuoso strings, the star
is the intermission or interval, the time
at last for refreshments, the obbligato
snack: fast food or slow food or crowd-
pleasing moderato middle food,

not to mention tonight’s special,
that long-awaited occasion,
when the sparkling night spreads out
its velvet tablecloth across the sky,
as we, with silken apparel and jewels,

prepare ourselves for a fine
dining experience, more sacred
than the post-service Sunday brunch,
elevating our everyday activity,

which we do every day, every morning,
every evening, and especially
in between, spending every spare
minute eating and eating and eating,
always and everywhere eating

and eating.

Hawkman

07-01-2010, 04:46 PM

Hi Auntie,

This latest offering of yours is not only wickedly funny but also a positively horrific expose of Western profligacy and overindulgence. One may only hope that the truly hungry never get to read it! :D

Best, H

dafydd manton

07-01-2010, 04:58 PM

PrinceMyshkin

07-01-2010, 05:22 PM

“mouthfeel,” always concocted to be
craved but never meant to satisfy.

In these lines in particular but throughout this Jeremaiad you reveal yourself once again as the Aunty that all of North America badly needs. May whomever you wish to be blessed by, bless you bountifully!

Bar22do

07-01-2010, 05:39 PM

American Pastime

It’s strange, this compulsion
that must be forever fed -- not a hunger
per se, but like the Poor,
it’s always here.

As armies and reptiles travel on their bellies,
so do we keep our vehicles well-stocked,
to tide us through emergencies or the inevitable
red light delay. We don't leave home without it.

The road we venture down is an endless esophagus,
while we keep one eye peeled for a place to stop--
for a bite to slake the appetite of dreams,
perchance to sample the local fare.

At picnic tables flanking the pavement,
or in parks, on benches, on beaches,
every place you look people may be drinking
or now and then smoking but mostly
gnawing and chewing and swallowing and gulping
and scarfing and devouring, chowing down,

pigging out on salty things and sweet
things and crispy things and greasy things
and saucy things and crunchy things and
drippy, messy, sticky things, all designed
for good looks and what experts mysteriously
call “mouthfeel,” always concocted to be
craved but never meant to satisfy.

At flashy shows of fiery music, or classy
venues for virtuoso strings, the star
is the intermission or interval, the time
at last for refreshments, the obbligato
snack: fast food or slow food or crowd-
pleasing moderato middle food,

not to mention tonight’s special,
that long-awaited occasion,
when the sparkling night spreads out
its velvet tablecloth across the sky,
as we, with silken apparel and jewels,

prepare ourselves for a fine
dining experience, more sacred
than the post-service Sunday brunch,
elevating our everyday activity,

which we do every day, every morning,
every evening, and especially
in between, spending every spare
minute eating and eating and eating,
always and everywhere eating

and eating.

I didn't know what to indicate as the best, the most hilarious, the saddest, so I just quote it all above.
I have some reservation about US having the exclusivity for this cursed compulsion... one of the places I live in ever organises mostly around food and unlike in France, where I also spend time, restaurants, bandstands, market places simply never close...
Your poem (excellent!!!) breathes health, though! a sound voice - that hopefully will be heard at least by few, here, there, wherever it's badly needed...
Be very well, AuntSh, it's always a treat when you post! Bar

AuntShecky

07-09-2010, 05:30 PM

“I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floor of silent seas.”
–T. S. Eliot

Hermit Crab

Dumb luck dubbed both halves of the name quite wrong.
She'd do much better with large social groups
alive in swirling tide pools streaked with sun,
not a solo fixture stuck in salty sand.
Her identity was already crushed
when science deemed her class of crab not “true,”
though she’s crustaceous, to be sure. Not doomed
like that fabled Dutchman, wandering the sea,
she entered life marooned and anchorless;
now scours round for a fitting carapace.
She moors on vacant digs in which to squat,
where whelks and periwinkles once called home.

To such a creature one could call me kin:
both born by chance beneath the star-sketched sign
which shares its name with a deadly malady–
that gritty pearl!– but not the toughest wave
to ride. An absent birthright’s harder still.
I washed ashore with nothing; just the same
I'll leave. Oh, for a harbor, safe against
abashing inconvenience and the harsh
perils of poverty’s rough surf. I tend
to shun my fellow creatures' company.
I never felt at home on tossing seas
of fleeting treasures, whistles, and brash tweets.

In modern times I cannot swim nor float.
A voyage to a century twice past
might map a chart 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.
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 gifts – an empty shell.

UPDATE -- 7/24/10
Yesterday I came across this article:

http://www.slate.com/id/2255272

which contains some ***shocking!*** revelations about the homelife of one of the characters in this anti-poem above. Although the "dangerous liaison" of a romantic nature occurred under the poet's roof, she herself was not one of the participants. The point in the article that really gave me pause was the notion that Emily was not expected to do a lick of housework! I do believe that I've previously read that she was fond of baking, however, and thus the pie allusion in the verse above remains.

Bar22do

07-09-2010, 05:49 PM

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNqosHRbWog

an illustration (re your previous one)...

Hawkman

07-09-2010, 05:54 PM

Auntie, I'd never have called you crabby! I think this is a very clever, self-depricating poem with more than a wisp of sad reflection and a fair sprinkling of honest to goodness wit. I have already read it three times and I'm certain to come back again and read it some more, just for the fun of it. So thanks for giving me something to do this evening :D

Best, H

Bar22do

07-09-2010, 06:03 PM

... and the last one leaves me smiling. Actually, doesn't leave me. For I'll soon crave for another glance at it! Thanks for posting! Bar

PrinceMyshkin

07-09-2010, 06:57 PM

This is an astoundingly good poem! How on earth do you manage to make elegance seem like the most natural thing on earth?

AuntShecky

07-10-2010, 11:50 AM

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNqosHRbWog

an illustration (re your previous one)...

Thanks for posting this.
Those hot dogs had better be Kosher! I wouldn't be surprised if some of those trenchermen (and women)were American tourists.

Bar22do

07-10-2010, 03:00 PM

Thanks for posting this.
Those hot dogs had better be Kosher! I wouldn't be surprised if some of those trenchermen (and women)were American tourists.

he he... it's very likely....!

Bar22do

07-10-2010, 04:17 PM

With you we always oscillate between fun and philosophical depths. What a wit. What a crab you are!

"born by chance beneath the star-sketched sign"

Should I wish you a happy birthday then? for we are in the Crab/Cancer passage right now; ok, just in case, a very healthy funny amazing birthday to you, wrapped in love of whoever is dear to you...

I'm on the way to addiction to your talent, Aunty, but, to paraphraze Wilde, if one cannot enjoy reading a poem (book) over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all...

A very deep bow to you Aunty (hack'ian bow) - Bar

AuntShecky

07-11-2010, 12:02 PM

/I]

Should I wish you a happy birthday then? for we are in the Crab/Cancer passage right now; ok, just in case, a very healthy funny amazing birthday to you, wrapped in love of whoever is dear to you...

- Bar

Thank you very much!

acdouglas92

07-11-2010, 12:14 PM

I happened upon this thread purely by accident, and I must say, I'm pleasantly surprised. The poems I've read here all flow so easily, and your choice of language is absolutely exquisite. If I could, I would tip my hat to you; I will most definitely be looking forward to the next one (of many more, I hope!).

Cheers!

-AC

qimissung

07-12-2010, 05:41 PM

Crab cakes, anyone? Aunty, for someone who's so vociferously anti, your poetry positivly overflows with things for us to think about. I'm not sure that I always agree, but the pleasure of the trip is always, always worth it, and I am always satieted at the end of the meal.

I realize this is a somewhat general compliment, but this is intended for the last three that you wrote specifically, or the ones on the this page and the last one.

Delightful! ("dabs at mouth, reluctantly pushes away from the table...")

hack

07-13-2010, 11:27 AM

Delicious, Auntie.

AuntShecky

07-15-2010, 04:49 PM

Variation on an Old American Folk Song*

It’s hard to tend this little light of mine
when duller shades conspire to cloud the sky.
I only lack a way to let it shine.

Stuck under a bushel in a crowded line,
the flame burns down; its illumination, shy.
It’s hard to tend this little light of mine.

Emerging stars have me dream and pine.
An earth-bound incandescence yearns to fly.
I only lack a way to let it shine.

The night lets out its thunder and a whine,
and through the darkness comes an unknown cry.
It’s hard to tend this little light of mine.

A flash will flicker like an aging sign
while tiny bulbs refuse to fade and die.
I only lack a way to let it shine.

I pray to heaven for a spark divine,
or worldly watts to fan each switch I try.
It’s hard to tend this little light of mine.
I only lack a way to let it shine.

*Often listed as "traditional." A 2009 YouTube posting by the University of New Hampshire lists Harry Dixon Loes as the author, circa 1920. A video performance of the song may be viewed by clicking:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lz0DySippak

Hawkman

07-15-2010, 05:15 PM

Auntie, this is really witty and I love the choice of form. It's so well executed I'm breathless with admiration :D Personally I think your light shines brightly.

Best, H

PrinceMyshkin

07-16-2010, 07:55 AM

This little light of yours is incandescent. Really, Auntie, you go from strength to strength.

Bar22do

07-16-2010, 08:37 AM

Aunty,

You "only lack the way to make it shine" on the eighth day of the week.
Flexibility you write with raises my approval to its peak!
Lightness of your humour vastly haloes your wisdom depth, ever meek...
Let me express my gratitude for your art by a kiss on your cheek!

Smiling - Bar

AuntShecky

07-16-2010, 03:44 PM

Thank you, Hawkman, Prince and Bar for these and your other flattering comments as well!

the choice of form.

It's impersonating a villanelle.

qimissung

07-17-2010, 11:56 AM

Were you a methodist in a previous life, Aunty? In any event, it is brilliant with emotion and wit!

AuntShecky

09-10-2010, 05:26 PM

Two Steps to a Healthier, Happier Poem

STEP ONE:

Take a word –
any word – then:

pound it like a fielder’s mitt,
pet it like a neighbor’s mutt,
stretch it like a braggart’s truth,
snap it like a hipster’s thumb,
slap it like a jazzman’s bass,
flatten it like a Minnesotan’s “a,”
sharpen it like a harridan’s tongue,
twist it like a trysting couple’s sheets,
tweak it like a toddler’s nose.

STEP TWO:

Repeat.

PrinceMyshkin

09-10-2010, 05:29 PM

The site ought to charge people for having as much fun as you obviously do! I loved this. Thanks.

hillwalker

09-10-2010, 05:38 PM

Brilliant - but I think you missed one - soothe it like a loved one's lips

Bar22do

09-10-2010, 06:05 PM

On the tenth day the Almighty formed Aunty in the fulness of her being.

Your poem about one word poem:

... witty!
I repeat:
witty!

(ah, and - you'll never fall into categories whose desuetization E. Pound wished for!)

Hawkman

09-10-2010, 06:16 PM

Marvellous Auntie, Your muse must have been Terpsichŏrē, for they read like dance calls :D

Best, H

dafydd manton

09-10-2010, 06:19 PM

I just loved the pace, the rhythm, the flow. Thanks so much.

blank|verse

09-10-2010, 07:37 PM

Very good, and works well as a companion piece, or counter perhaps, to Hawk's recent poem.

I particularly enjoyed the 'twist - tryst' echo, even though the latter word isn't the most contemporary! Enjoyable stuff.

AuntShecky

09-11-2010, 05:46 PM

Thank you, all, incl. daffyd and Hillwalker, and dear Hawkman.

Bar, I'm making a mental note to send you a PM about your latest poem. Blank__Verse, I had started working on the next anti-poem, but after yesterday when Iread yours about the noise in the flat, I see that this next one will echo yours. Prince, please don't even mention charging fees for this site. I love it and would gladly pay for the privilege, but who's got any dough?

Now I've got to look up"desuetization." "Terpsichore" I already know, but all my life yours fooly has been known as having two left feet.

Thanks again.

AuntShecky

10-11-2010, 05:12 PM

Here we go with another lengthy intro, but it's my thread, so what the hell. Initially the idea for this next piece came from blank_verse's poem, "Four Floors Up" about intrusive, outside noise.

Without invitation, chaos seems to follow me wherever I go. A couple of decades ago we lived in a city whose time had already come and gone, and our particular neighborhood was well on its way to becoming run-down. Around the corner was a dive, of course, and its patrons had the habit of parking their vehicles directly beneath the upstairs flat of our rented two-family house. Late one night noise woke me up, and when I went to investigate I saw a guy and a gal engaged in loud conversation on the sidewalk right beneath our front window. I said nothing, but the couple saw me and immediately reacted as if I had intruded upon them!

In that same squalid city every Fourth of July we had to spirit our older daughter out of town because she would get extremely frightened by firecrackers --though to be truthful, kids would set off those explosions (illegal in our state) from Memorial Day in May right on through Labor Day in September. Same with those colorful girandoles that use the night sky as their canvas. Formerly confined to Independence Day, fireworks now are featured in every kind of sporting event, craft festival, supermarket opening, you name it. Fireworks are pretty, but they make an ungodly, booming noise. I read this year that a community event in our erstwhile hometown featured a professional fireworks show, but the planners apparently forgot -- or totally disregarded -- the fact that the veteran's hospital was a mere two blocks away. Some of the patients were suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome, or what used to be called "shell shock."

Speaking of hospitals, early last month I went to one to visit my stricken sister. On that horrible, tear-filled day, I managed to find something to make me laugh. Apparently this hospital supplements its medical insurance income through parking fees. But instead of hiring
human attendants, the hospital handles the transactions with a vending machine that uses audio instructions. The computerized voice that tells the visitors to "insert your ticket" and to "press one if you need a receipt" is exactly the same as that of a famous astrophysicist's voice synthesizer. "Gee, the economy must be worse than I thought," I told my younger daughter. "Even Steven Hawking has to supplement his income."

But seriously, doesn't life seem greedier, ruder, and especially louder now? Maybe those things are mere symptoms of our rapidly deteriorating society, the cultural equivalent of Gresham's Law. That notion hounding me for weeks put me into full "Shine, Perishing Republic" mode and resulted in the following ditty, which we like to call

Miss Communication

There’s little matter in the universe.
What’s there can't squeak its presence in the dark
where silence penetrates through gas and rocks.
Our lens sees stars but hears no harmony.

Yet down here, blessed with an atmosphere, sound thrives:
the sweep of air through trees, the gurgles and swirls
of gentle waters, the triumph of a child’s
first garbled words: such melodies must yield

to alien strains of invading noise–-
attacking, digging in, aligned to squelch
the quiet space of unsuspecting homes.
A raging army occupies our world.

The useful wheels which merely used to turn
all squeal as if some animal’s been trapped.
Cars once contented with an internal hum
now throb with anger through the neighborhood.

When harsh, unruly shouts usurp the streets,
how can a tender whisper co-exist?
A cry for quiet will escape each ear
taken over by the overlords of din.

Seek sanctuary in some other world
hiding behind an aloof and neutral star?
Defying count, they're far and far apart,
and life (for now) is here, and here alone.

“We're not alone,” the physicist has said,
his faith more tuned to beings less supreme
than God. (Easier to explain black holes.)
Loud vacuums suck up reason and real art.

The empty mind in the existing room,
the Cyclops whose blaring bellows crack the walls,
bites off the heads of men of former sense
and belches back their undigested truth.

The gloomy gyre of Yeats grows wider still.
Such discord! I cannot grasp a single word,
and words I make will not be understood.
Where’s Emily’s new letter to the world?

What solace rests in measured syllables,
the honest bounce of bygone peppy songs,
the glimpse of silent sparkles in the sky,
with people talking loudly late at night?

PrinceMyshkin

10-11-2010, 05:37 PM

Oh, Aunty! Your poems make me want to be a better man! (Or if not, at least a better poet.) "the overlords of din"! - oh yes, but on the other hand, the pleasure of using language as if it - and almost it alone - were God's gift to us; or ours to Him!

(P.S. Case I overlooked saying so in my effort to be fancy, I loved this poem!)

And P.p.s. Not that this applies to you but I love this saying:

"Say it simple, forget your Dixie grammar." Jack Teagarden

Delta40

10-11-2010, 05:56 PM

I am a tiny Ant
blind without my 'i"
I wander through Lit-Net
and hope I will get by

Buh4Bee

10-11-2010, 07:15 PM

:lol::lol:

Hawkman

10-12-2010, 02:57 PM

Well Auntie, you’ve no idea how much this poem resonates with me. How I crave the absence of intrusive, man-made sound. The blare of exhaust from boy-racer’s chariots, the screamed, abusive conversations of intoxicated humanity as it staggers home at 2am. I would far rather listen to the sounds of wind and rain, or a nice, soothing thunderstorm.

I like the rhythm of the this piece. With so much of it in iambic pentameter spurious syllables stand out a bit. For example, I feel L1 of S2 is a little ungainly. There are too many stressed syllables adjoining in the line. My preference would be to tighten it up a bit:

“But here, sound thrives within our atmosphere.”

L2, “The sweep of air through trees, the gurgling swirls”

while in S3 I feel L1 is missing a beat:

“to alien strains of (cruel) invading noise–-“

In S5 I’m not sure about, “taken over by the overlords.” I can see why you’d want to use it, it has an element of assonance and symmetry, but it does force an awkwardness in the meter.

S6, L2 might be better as: “that hides behind aloof and neutral stars?” Not only is this better for the metre but ties in with the plural ‘they’, which defy count in the next line. I also feel you need a comma in this line, “…they are far, and far apart,”

I’m not sure I get, “The gloomy gyre of Yeats…” Is this a reference to a specific poem? Likewise, who’s Emily? the same question, vis. specific poem applies.

On the whole I like it, there is ironic humour here which winks at me as I read it, and as I said before, I’m sympathetic to it’s message. So thanks for posting it, Auntie.

Live and be well, H

AuntShecky

10-12-2010, 03:54 PM

Thanks for your comments re: post #134 above.

I have to admit that I'm a little surprised that no one nailed me on the fact that the subject matter-- ambient noise -- is an item fairly far down on the list of evils. In certain countries of the world in which warfare and violence are a daily threat, the least of their problems is noise, which is more often than not the bellwether of imminent danger.

On the other hand, maybe noise can serve as a symbol or as just one of the symptoms of an eroding culture as is often displayed in the good old U. S. A.

Did anybody get the joke in "existing" room?

I also thought that some would question the structure and/ or meter of these lines.

In the case of this line,
all squeal as if some animal’s been trapped
after having posted the "down and dirty" punctuation guide, I thought somebody would question the apostrophe in "animal's". I intended it as a contraction for "some animal has been trapped." Kosher or nay?

Is the meter all right in this one?
taken over by the overlords of din.
It starts with a headless iamb, and a prepositional phrase that's an automatic anapest, but I believe that the line still retains 5 stresses:
Taken over by the overlords of din

In this one, a paraphrase of a line by Yeats,
The gloomy gyre of Yeats grows wider still.
the meter is more or less okay since "gyre" is not pronounced as two syllables with a long "y" but as one stressed syllable--"jir." (I had to look that one up.)
{Added 10/14/10: The previous sentence reads like gibberish, but, try as I may, every time I try to pronounce a one-syllable word ending in "r," it comes out like two syllables: "fire" as "fi-er," "gyre," as "gi-er." It's almost as hard as pronouncing "luxury" correctly. Maybe I have really idiosyncratic speech patterns.}

Speaking of looking things up, maybe I should provide links to the three allusions, one from the prose intro and
two in the verse itself:

"Shine, Perishing Republic"
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=176411

"This is My Letter to the World"
http://www.online-literature.com/dickinson/834/

"The Second Coming"
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=172062

Speaking of quotations from "real" poets, if you describe to
"Poem-A-Day" you might have enjoyed this line by
Ana Bozicevic:

[. . .]There's the kind of angel that when I say
[I]Someone please push me out of the way
Of this bad poem like it was a bus-

Thanks again for your comments.
That's it for today. Over and out.

AuntShecky

10-13-2010, 05:50 PM

Before I forget, I have to say that I posted the reply above before reading the response that preceded it.Thank you, Hawkman for your thoughtful, reasonable, and well-expressed reply #138.) It is everything a response to a posting in the Personal Poetry should be.

Now, in case some of you are wondering why I am posting another poem so soon after the previous one. It usually takes me days, sometimes weeks to crank out a new piece of verse. Well, this one's not new. I wrote the original version way back in December of Ought Seven. Revising one's own work is always difficult, but it's really surprising how much easier it is if you put the piece away for a couple of weeks or years.

Anyway, here's the revised version:

Samuel Beckett once attended an outdoor function during which an official said to him, “Isn't this a beautiful day? Doesn't it make you feel happy to be alive?” “Well,” Beckett replied, “I wouldn't go that far.”

Actuarial

Toss the stats.
Forget expectancy.

Those are the breaks:
bad brakes, or after running
on eight, stopping
to open the black hood
and seeing just six;

farmers who know the scythe
on sight and the scythe-man
by the thick treads of tractors;

drummers who one night rock
and the next day ruffle their last roll;

Keats, Bunny Berigan, Hart Crane, Bix–
-and Clifford Brown, a mere 25;

sickly heirs to irrelevant thrones;
gangsters sentenced to do hard time
in harder neighborhoods;

self-medicating melancholiacs
and sloe-eyed romantics
in one-sided affairs with a bottle;

neglected spinsters hoarding cats;
the oddly-hunched loner in 9-B,

spindly-armed toddlers
whose fly-infested faces
take in the sparseness of trees
and question the Future;

guileless little guys with epicanthic
lids and constant chromosomal smiles
and chests conceal a hob-nailed
boot poised to kick;

strings of souls stuck
as if by ancient amber
in somebody else’s battle

saints targeted
for martyrdom,

and The Good:

fruit flies hovering
for a trifling second
‘round the apple
of the world.

We, of course, are luckier,
aren't we,

Godot?

fruit flies hovering
for a trifling sec around
the apple of the world.

We of course
are luckier, aren't we,
Godot?

jajdude

10-13-2010, 06:30 PM

Good work. I enjoyed this thread.

PrinceMyshkin

10-13-2010, 07:01 PM

If (heaven forfend) I had to puck just one thing out of this melancholy poem, it would be:

gangsters sentenced to do hard time
in harder neighborhoods;

Brava!

jajdude

10-14-2010, 10:40 AM

I'm pretty sure this writer has enough talent to have her work read by more than just the few around here.

Some of the best stuff I've read in a while, and I used to read a lot of poetry, being a Lit major and all that.

AuntShecky

10-14-2010, 01:41 PM

I didn't want to "bump" this cavalierly, but I do want to thank you both of you for your comments.

And jajdude, in an unofficial capacity I'd like to say, welcome to the LitNet. As to your flattering comment, I hasten to add that whatever is posted in this particular thread is less the effect of "talent" than it is the result of four decades of practice and learning everything I can about the craft of verse-writing. I'm still an amateur, and still learning.

Incidentally, the theme of poem (#140) is pretty obvious, but whether we're conscious of the fact or not, ultimately that's behind every piece of verse we write, including and especially between the lines of lyrics that rhapsodize the "preciousness" and fragility of life.

The constant possibility that death can strike anywhere and anyone --including those who are too young, a few of whom are listed in "Actuarial"-- is why we make any kind of art: painting, sculpture, fiction, movies. That's why I am so impressed by the following poem by 33-year-old Croatian poet, Ana Bozicevic. I don't understand the comma in the title, but the colloquial language and the sustained "angel" metaphor of this piece are superb. Please read it, Prince and jajdude, if you have time:

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21911

Hawkman

10-14-2010, 08:16 PM

Hi Auntie,

If I may quote:

“[I]In this one, a paraphrase of a line by Yeats,
The gloomy gyre of Yeats grows wider still.
the meter is more or less okay since "gyre" is not pronounced as two syllables with a long "y" but as one stressed syllable--"jir." (I had to look that one up.)
{Added 10/14/10: The previous sentence reads like gibberish, but, try as I may, every time I try to pronounce a one-syllable word ending in "r," it comes out like two syllables: "fire" as "fi-er," "gyre," as "gi-er." It's almost as hard as pronouncing "luxury" correctly. Maybe I have really idiosyncratic speech patterns.}”

I should have got this reference, although it is a little oblique, as I do actually know this poem but alas, it sneaked under my radar. With regard to your discussion of the pronunciation of gyre: I don’t know if Yeats was a falconer, but I think it likely that he may have known something of the art.

“Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;”

There is the distinct possibility of a falconry related pun with gyre and gyr (gyrfalcon). Gyrs are notorious for “straight-lining” when not served with game quickly enough. They are tricky birds to fly and there is a school of thought that believes that their migratory habit may be responsible for this. I know several falconers who fly them, and late in the season, they often take it into their heads to disappear over the horizon which results in a frantic telemetry chase!

“but I believe that the line still retains 5 stresses:
Taken over by the overlords of din”

Agreed Auntie, but you still end up with an 11 syllable line :D

Vis. Actuarial: this is a very good poem which has a lot to say and for the most part says it well. I get the message about life expectancy. However, there are a couple of allusions I find puzzling.

“farmers who know the scythe
on sight and the scythe-man
by the thick treads of tractors;”

I take it the scythe-man is our old friend the reaper, but “thick treads of tractors?” Do US farmer run themselves over with their own machinery? :D

“guileless little guys with epicanthic
lids and constant chromosomal smiles
and chests(,) conceal a hob-nailed
boot poised to kick;”

Am I right in thinking the hob nailed boot poised to kick is a reference to heart failure? I do think that this line needs a comma though.

Also, I’m not sure that the rhetorical device of repeating the question is necessary. I understand why you’ve done it, but I don’t think it works.

However, There are some stunning lines in this poem.

“sickly heirs to irrelevant thrones;
gangsters sentenced to do hard time
in harder neighborhoods;”

“self-medicating melancholiacs
and sloe-eyed romantics
in one-sided affairs with a bottle;”

Just some of the many goodies which pack this piece.

Well worth the effort of reading what you slaved over writing.

Many thanks, H

AuntShecky

10-15-2010, 08:33 PM

Thank you Hawkman for the comments above. You were absolutely correct about both the farmers and the children with Down's syndrome. In the U.S. farming is in the list of the top three most dangerous occupations, because of accidents involving machinery, and heart disease affects many children who have Down's Syndrome.

I did not know that it was a hard-and-fast rule that every line of pentameter must never veer from 10 syllables. Doesn't it go by feet rather than syllables? An imabic foot has two syllables, but an anapestic foot has three. The most important aspect of a metric foot (in English) is the stressed syllable. Just like unhittable pitches tossed by a major league ace, and --real estate -- it's location, location, location.

Another ditty follows. Thanks again.

Auntie

AuntShecky

10-15-2010, 08:33 PM

The "back story" of this next piece appears in the blog.

http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=966973&posted=1#post966973

This posting represents a revision of an earlier version, first written circa January 2008. The metric structure of the original was, to steal Sam Seder's title, "FUBAR," but apart from a couple of trochees and the occasional anapest imbedded in prepositional phrases, it more-or-less attempts to follow a 4-stress, iambic pattern. The rhyme scheme may appear bizarre, but the irregular appearance of end rhymes were intentionally designed to depict a sense of dislocation.

Losing My Place

Mere rent receipts belonged to me,
in my own home a refugee,
though no force occupied our town.

The agent stated real command;
she clicked her heels on hardwood floors
while rifling closets, slamming doors.

A warm salute, an offered hand
for live ones, not the tenant --
not trespassing, but still present,

so very inconveniently–
as that front elm’s effrontery
defies its peeling bark to stand.

I loved the thickness of its trunk
and how its leaves held back the wind
that felt the touch of hope in its crown.

Oh, how I wish I still lived there,
back in that old and scruffy chair,
its angle bent like no man’s land.

(Evicting rage, despair would flee)
With books, I used to mark the page
with flowers that I pressed and saved

from gardens I recall and crave --
no doubt by now they’re plowed and paved,
or like an unkempt lawn, mowed down.

Hawkman

10-16-2010, 06:12 AM

Hi Auntie,

A line of iambic pentameter should contain five stressed, and five unstressed, syllables. the definition may be found at:

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

As for, "Losing my Place", well, I consider it a sound and evocative poem describing a plight which has affected many in recent times. I like the way it reads. The only line which I might take issue with is S4 L3, where the syntactical wrenching does stand out.

Best, H

Virgil

10-17-2010, 02:25 PM

AuntShecky

10-17-2010, 06:13 PM

Hi Auntie,

A line of iambic pentameter should contain five stressed, and five unstressed, syllables. the definition may be found at:

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

Oh my goodness, if it's on "the Internets" it must be true! Please check this thread out and tell me if I'm all wet:
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=967672#post967672

As for, "Losing my Place", The only line which I might take issue with is S4 L3, where the syntactical wrenching does stand out.

Best, H

As to the stanza in "LMP":

so very inconveniently–
as that front elm’s effrontery
defies its peeling bark to stand.

I parse it thusly: the subject of the clause is "effrontery" the verb, "defies," and "its peeling bark to stand" the object. So the syntax is off how?

Quibbles aside, I will be eternally grateful for the
well-thought-out analysis you've given my work.
Frankly, I'm humbled by it.

Hawkman

10-18-2010, 05:25 AM

Hi Auntie, well I was taught to keep iambic pentameter to ten syllable lines, but I accept that the rule may not be universal. I did check with a few classic examples from Shakespeare (and others) but the examples I chose were all deccasyllabic. It certainly makes writing blank verse easier if you don't have to work in a straightjacket :D

Re. syntactical wrenching: well ok, but it's not common usage and does sound a little archaic. Strangely, it would have appeared less so if the sentence had continued beyond stand. e.g. "defies its peeling bark to stand unaided" otherwise contemporary useage would be to say, "...still stood, despite its peeling bark." but it's a minor quibble.

Best, H

AuntShecky

10-18-2010, 01:32 PM

Re. syntactical wrenching: well ok, but it's not common usage and does sound a little archaic. Strangely, it would have appeared less so if the sentence had continued beyond stand. e.g. "defies its peeling bark to stand unaided" otherwise contemporary useage would be to say, "...still stood, despite its peeling bark." but it's a minor quibble.

H

Well, I'm afraid I disagree and still believe that the structure is a standard simple declarative sentence:
S + V + O.
Also, "unaided" wouldn't fit the crazy-quilt rhyme scheme.

But seriously, thanks again.

AuntShecky

10-20-2010, 04:37 PM

Here's a ditty already posted long ago in the "Parodies" thread, but I felt like digging it up in order to change the title and the arrangements of the stanzas. Now, as at its premiere in 2008, Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan are undoubtedly rockin' and rollin' in their graves.

“H.M.S. Tin Ear”

I'm no damned good at symmetry
and versifying gimmickry.
The wrenching rhymes that I've thus wrought
are often fraught with limerick-ry.
In track-wide doubt I ever can
train a wretchéd line to scan,
I am the very model
of a swayback poet also-ran.

I slice my bread before the wise,
and the sharp advice they live to give
says even the wriest loaf is stale,
très trite, if not derivative,
referring to my alluding skill
as swill from a cut-and-paster-er.
I am the moldy model
of a post-modern poet-taster-er.

The Greats whom I strain to parody
and flatter with temerity
I take more seriously than myself,
which “I say with all sincerity.”
No tears will drip,
but laughs may trip
out of my rash and leaky pen.
I am a photocopy
of a poet-slash-comedienne.

cjm12345

10-20-2010, 05:06 PM

the Miss Communication one about noise is one of the most enjoyable poems I have read on this part of the forum! I love it's originality and the direction you take with it...though you say the subject matter is maybe not the biggest evil there is in the world I think it is a significant feeling of modern times. Saving that one!

PrinceMyshkin

10-20-2010, 05:10 PM

Wonderfully funny! And all the more reason why you ought to rent Mike Leigh's "Topsy-Turvy"!

Hawkman

10-21-2010, 07:28 AM

This is both clever and funny and I take it from the subject (and the title) that the extraneous beats are therefore deliberate :D

Live and be well. H

AuntShecky

10-29-2010, 05:32 PM

In my opinion --which becomes more and more aware of its inherent humility with every passing day -- "free" verse can be just as difficult to compose as metered verse. If she wants a piece of free verse to be effective, the writer has to invent a brand-new form to embody the particular subject matter.

Well, the chance of discovering an appropriate pattern in this next one is pretty slim. Whatever you do, don't attempt to scan the lines. It is an example of "free" verse, though, in the sense that it won't cost you anything to read the following, which we like to call

"No Soliciting"

At the table in a mismatched chair
you sat picking at your plate
to push away the lima beans,
like little bags of gravel
strewn about the buds of truth.

From the other room The News
announced the alarming change
in the– “Cost of Living”? What succotash!
Never in your life did you have to pay
to breathe, to live. You expected
no one, but the pounding came.

Your mother never stirred nor wiped
her ruddy hands on the faded apron front. Still,
the sudden sound had sped to a staccato,
opportunity this time
requiring more than one knock.
“Tell them,” she said, “we have no money.”

It could have been a drummer
clad in a blaring sports coat with a clashing
tie above which his Adam’s apple throbbed
to exclaim, “My, what an impressive-
looking lad you are!” through a de rigueur
smile designed to go with
a different set of eyes.

There might have been brushes in his bag: coarse
bristles arranged in neat rows across a block
of rough wood – and delicate handles of fine ones
For The Hair. He'd be more than happy to show
you a sample volume, with A-Ar
stamped in gold on its spine,
or a free demonstration
of the very Latest in Vacuums,
hungry – ravenous!– to devour
all the dirt in the world.
“We have no money.”

It wasn't until later that the kids would come,
college students in sandals or beat-up
sneakers, with idealism in their eyes
and in their sun-brushed hands a slim
pen and a thick binder, as they sought
sponsors for a week from next Saturday’s
Fun Run, or valid signatures for their petitions,
subscribers for moribund magazines –

long-shot wagers strategically placed,
a shot-in-the-dark manuscript
slinging itself over the transom, like a knife-
in-the-mouth ragtag soldier, scaling the enemy wall.

All over the world handshakes are offered
and heads are shaken and doors are slammed
and fortresses are rushed but seldom breached,

where arms stretch outward and upward
with an empty bowl for alms,
for a sale, for praise – everywhere, everyone
seeking, begging, asking.

Hawkman

10-29-2010, 05:49 PM

I really like this one Auntie. It resonates on my sounding board. I have certainly felt that life is a gauntlet of demanding, threatening, grasping pleaders whose sole aim is to take what I've got, because they think they have a better right to it than me. Wouldn't it be nice if someone approached you out of the blue just to give you whaqt you need instead of relieve you of it!

However, back to the poem :D My only observation would be to perhapse cut the seventh strophe. it isn't that it's bad, but it feels like a digression from the rest of the poem. I think you could lose it and the overall effect would be to tighten it up. and l3 of the last strophe i would put a line break after breached.

Good poem. H

AuntShecky

10-29-2010, 06:15 PM

Thanks for reading and commenting, Hawk.

The seventh strophe was included for two reasons: military images, as well as the "unsolicited" label for
the typescripts of aspiring writers.

I will put the line break in.

hillwalker

10-30-2010, 08:17 AM

Very topical - and perhaps 'free verse' is the only free thing that's left us.

I enjoyed the progression from door-to-door salesmen to the legion of doorsteppers all after our money, or at least a little respect and sympathy.

H

AuntShecky

10-30-2010, 03:23 PM

Thank you very much for your comment, Hillwalker. Actually, this wasn't at all intended to be acutely "topical," as it was based on a boyhood remembrance related to me by someone near and dear.
In any event, thanks again.

AuntShecky

11-09-2010, 04:59 PM

Imperatives

Give it away.

Give a little, give a lot, give a damn, give a darn,
give a hoot (and don't pollute), give a fig, give a you-know-what, give a rat’s you-know-what, give
a flying you-know-what.

Give me something to go on, give me a hint,
give me a clue, give me a sign, give me
my cue, give me a nod, give me your word
of honor, give me a hand, give me some slack,
give me a break, give me a second, give me
a minute, give me a couple of hours, give me
a few more days, give me shelter, give me
some room, give me space, give me land
lots of land under starry skies above, give me
whiskey (and don't be stingy, Baby), give me a hug,give me a kiss to build a dream on, give me some menwho are stout-hearted men, give my regards to Broadway, give me the old soft shoe, give me that old time religion, give me your poor,
your tired, huddled masses yearning to be free,
give me an A, give me a B, give me a V
for Vic-tor-y, give me just a little more time.

Give it a go, give it a try, give it a rip, give it some
gas, give it the gun, give him the old one-two, give him my love, give her the eye, give him the evil eye, give the gift that keeps on giving, give her the gift that lasts a lifetime, give a man a fish, give him a run for his money, give him a pat on the back, give him the cold shoulder, give him heat, give him a taste of his own medicine, give him the business, give him a knuckle sandwich, give him what for, give him the finger, give
him the bird, give him the gate,
give it your all, give it everything you've got,
give yourself a round of applause,
give it up.

And-

Take it away.

Take it from the top, take a little, take as many as you need, take a little piece of my heart now Baby, take one, take five, take ten, take a break, take a breather, take the day off, take a vacation, take your time, take it easy, take a load
off, take a seat, take it lying down, take it hard, take it the wrong way, take a compliment, take no guff, take a look, take a look at yourself, take another look, take a test, take a number, take my card, take my place, take a message, take my advice, take it from me, take it with a grain of salt, take it with meals, take it three times a day, take it at bedtime, take her out on the town, take a wife, take her home, take him to the cleaners, take it to the bank, take out a loan, take an offer,
take it to the limit, take me out
to the ball game, take your base, take it downtown.

Take a loss, take it on face value, take it for what
it’s worth, take the stairs, take the elevator,
take me to your leader, take him for a ride,
take the car, take the high road and the low road, take the Interstate, take the scenic route, take
the next exit, take a right, take a left, take the bus
(and leave the driving to us), take the subway, take
the A-Train, take the shuttle, take the red eye,
take a walk, take a stroll, take it on the arch,
take it to the streets, take it to the People.

Take me for a sap, take me for a fool, take it
outside, take a punch, take a beating, take
what’s coming to you, take him for every
penny he’s got, take him out, take
the money and run, take it to Court,
take the Fifth, take a plea, take it
on the chin, take it like a man.

Take a nap, take a snooze, take
a bath, take a shower, take a powder,
take an aspirin, take a moment or two
to reflect, take comfort, take heart,
take courage, take Communion, take it
as it is, take it as it comes, take it
as it goes, take one day at a time,
take the good with the bad, take
the bitter with the sweet, take your leave,
take leave of your senses, take a bow.

Take it or leave it.

PrinceMyshkin

11-10-2010, 04:24 PM

My loss, for not having seen #157 until today. There was a seemingly inexhaustible bravura to the procession of detail. I loved it and could well see that, free or not, there was plenty of discipline to it.

But.. what to say about "Imperatives"? Unapologetic, irreverent fun, with a sidewise reminiscence of C. Porter's "Let's Not Talk about Love."

Silas Thorne

11-10-2010, 08:07 PM

This is on 162.
Wow, incredible! I'm amazed by the sheer amount of research you must have done to put this one together, and the skill with which you've done it. You 'take it to a whole 'nother level' ! (Did you use that one?)
I love the narrative in it, or what I see in it.

But you've put me off 'give' or 'take' forever (or at least for a temporary 'forever') now, I feel like you've killed those words dead. :) You probably feel like you want to avoid these words as much as possible now too.

Hawkman

11-11-2010, 05:29 AM

Hi Auntie,

Well they say a little give and take goes a long way ;) This has to be the ultimate list poem and for me at least, it really works. The rhythm just drives it ever forward. I can imagine you slaving over your keyboard all through the night, fuelled by caffine, and emerging with this magnum opus, proud and twitching, as the sun's first rays penetrated the curtains in the morning. Bravo! :D

Live long and prosper - H

ryandyson

11-11-2010, 05:48 AM

This is strange, 'cus I love this poem but I do see a number of problems. I love the theme and the first stanza is great, but a few things.

I'm not sure about "splatters" of thought! How's about "the spinning out of thought in scatter-shot lines"?
I miss read this at first and thought it said "we see some soul-balm from the sensitive" and was going to say perhaps 'in' the sensitive, but then I realised you said seek, but perhaps this is a bit 'telling rather than showing'.

"sincere as an infant’s cry" - a little cleche'd
Not sure about "babble", and maybe reified or ossified rather then rarefied

"We dread the water, then attempt to wade." bit traditional and cleche'd, could be nuanced somehow, not sure about 'wade' cus it sounds to volitional, 'tread' would be another fit in this whymewise, something like 'but we tread it anyway'.

I see you tempering your critique here;

"Too swiftly comes the splashback: “too mainstream,” “derivative,” “colloquial,” “too trite,”or “déclassé,” or worst of all, ignored."

by putting things in "'s and infering its a backlash rather than you. Why not be barbed and direct? Don't apologise for your self (but use knives my brain insists on making me write).

The last stanza is all in all a bit staid; you've got a real tallent with the poetry but the language is struggling in traditionalisms. I'd say anything that is even slightly cleche'd should be taken with inordinate seriousness. It undermines the whole - but even so something shines through quite brightly.

AuntShecky

11-11-2010, 01:14 PM

Thanks for your comments re: #162 "Imperatives."

Prince, thanks for commenting on both #157. Re: #162:
I love Cole Porter, but other than the specific song titles which I-- to use a favorite verb from cable news--"referenced" in the text, the only other song in the back of my mind was the Jackie and Roy classic:
"You've got to give a little/ Take a little/ and let your poor heart break a little."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81ChxpoZc40

Silas, You're kidding about the "research," right? Unlike many of the other ditties in this thread, this one didn't require any research at all. I wish I had put in "take it to a whole 'nother level," but if I had included every "give and take" cliché I'd still be typing!

and Hawkman, You got it right--the main thing I was going for in this exercise in deconstruction was rhythm-- "Who could ask for anything more?" You, like Silas, must've been kidding when you said that I was "slaving over the keyboard all night." Sometimes the other ditties in this thread can take days --weeks even-- to write. But not this one.
(Maybe it shows!)

Thanks again, everybody.

AuntShecky

11-29-2010, 05:25 PM

Gegenschein

[ In Memory of My Sister
March 14, 1953-November 17, 2010 ]

Not opposites but merely counterglow:
from you the shine of charm and healthy looks,
with me, in shadowed corners, hugging books.
We were some pair! The wider sphere would know
us not, our lives in paler lines below
the radar screen. The showy blips and hooks
forgot the folks so humbly stowed in nooks.
We craved a richer, finer meaning, though:
a word of quiet light to justify
true worth. Despite how future arcs may bend
or point to signs that final doom is nigh,
what misplaced bands of pink might signify
won't hasten the old world’s untimely end.
It’s just the sun’s reflection in the sky.

PrinceMyshkin

11-29-2010, 05:35 PM

How quietly and with what great dignity this starts out and maintains that throughout until the heart-wrenching couplet with which it closes

blank|verse

11-29-2010, 08:00 PM

A fittingly well-crafted Italian-variant sonnet, with the volta a line early and a rather politically combative sestet, which takes the reader from the individual to consider the whole world and its future. The image of the 'sun's reflection' picks up nicely the neologism 'counterglow' of the first line.

Given the subject, a sonnet in couplets would also have been appropriate, like Robert Graves's 'In Her Praise', but this works very effectively and affectingly.

Hawkman

11-29-2010, 08:25 PM

Oh Auntie, did you know your sister shared her birthday with Michael Kane, Albert Einstein - and me.

Your exquisitely crafted, dignified tribute is, I am sure, an apposite reflection on memory and loss.

Be well, H

YesNo

11-29-2010, 09:14 PM

I enjoyed reading Gegenschein.

I particularly liked the alliteration and rhyme in "shine of charm and healthy looks" when paired with "shadowed corners, hugging books".

Silas Thorne

11-29-2010, 09:33 PM

This is a beautiful poem of loss, a powerful tribute of words. I particularly enjoy your description of the two glows of you and your sister, and of her 'shine', although you seem to describe yourself in somewhat more muted tones.

hillwalker

11-30-2010, 11:00 AM

How gracious - I loved the subtle way you began with the counterpoint between you and your sister. Then how that contrasted with what you also had in common (things obvious to the pair of you but perhaps hidden from everyone else) -

our lives in paler lines below
the radar screen

H

AuntShecky

12-03-2010, 06:51 PM

Thanks for all of the heartfelt comments above^. They consoled me more than you'll ever know.

One of Hillwalker's recent poems
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=57784
has a reference to Garbo, which reminded me of this piece of fluff from my earliest days on the LitNet, so long ago that I couldn't locate the original thread! Anyway, here it is, intended as lyrics for an old-fashioned tune:

Greta

Today’s stars all come from the same bottle,
These cupcakes will never last.
Though pleasant and droll –
I found my crescent "role"
in a goddess of the past. . .

I want to be like Greta Garbo--
that would be so cool, so neat,
though all we have in common
are two pairs of giant feet.
I'd hop the next flight to Stockholm
If I had half the chance.
Maybe I'm not a raving beauty,
but I look okay in pants.

I'm going Scandinavian
gonna take that Nordic ride.
Just gif me Vhiskey, Bay-bee,
with a little love,
a little love,
a little love on the side.

Oh, I'll be the mysterious figure
in kerchief and glasses dark
who fans'll spot but never say so
when I stroll through Central Park.

I really wanna be like Garbo,
all standoffish and aloof,
but instead of Swedish meatball,
I'm a red-blooded American goof.
Gonna affect a Swedish accent (yah)
With some husky smoke in my voice
'cause sometimes I vant to be alone
but most of the time
most of the time
most of the time I have no choice.

I'm going Scandinavian
gonna take that Nordic ride.
Just giff me Vhiskey, Bay-bee,
with a little love,
a little love,
a little luff on the side.

Yah.

Hawkman

12-03-2010, 09:12 PM

I'm afraid I can't place the appropriate tune to this entertaining piece and I seem to be missing something with the, "crescent role" so I'm not sure what you mean here, but the poem is very amusing. I have a photo of Garbo floating around somewhere, I must dig it out and admire it sometime. Mercifully the screen goddess is sans scarf and glasses, so one may admire her in her prime. I remember her as Queen Christina staring off into space in the bow of a ship while (I think) John Gilbert expired romantically in a cabin. and who can forget that, "Garbo Laughs" in Ninotchka :D As for being alone, I will never forget Peter Cook and Dudly Moore parrodying that famously misquoted phrase, with Mr. Cook, incongruously dressed in a plastic mack, wig, dark glasses and beret, being driven around london on top of an aromoured car, shouting "I want to be alone", through a loud hailer at startled pedestrians.

Things just ain't what they used to be... :devil:

Best wishes, Auntie. H

firefangled

12-04-2010, 06:12 AM

Auntie, your sonnet for your sister is a beautiful poem. The most difficult poems to write are often those closest to our hearts about a loved one. There is so much to write, even about one aspect. I appreciate the control and care you put into this.

Fire

firefangled

12-04-2010, 06:17 AM

I can't place the tune for your Garbo poem either. You are, however,far more versatile than Garbo, Auntie.

Love the crescent "role" play on words and the refrain.

hillwalker

12-04-2010, 10:08 AM

I cannot place the song this parodies, but loved the playfulness of it - particularly the narrator's willingness to go all Nordic.

H

AuntShecky

12-04-2010, 03:44 PM

Thanks for the comments, Guys. No "real" song to be parodied, just any generic, forgettable tune one might hear buried in the soundtrack of a movie from Garbo's era, or a piece of sheet music that, no matter the time signature, always had the words
"fox trot" printed on the left-hand side.

AuntShecky

12-09-2010, 06:59 PM

This:
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=985814#post985814

engendered this:

The Moral Life of Downtown

When forceful winds conspire
to blow rickety hopes off course,
we harbor no twinkling illusions
that deadweight can learn to fly.

Still, we search for fatal glitches
within the time-wrought rig
that’s stacked against our uppity wish
to launch –and leave the ground.

It’s good for you–
but not for us–
to stay.

You expect us to wrap your ears
in angry, popping rhymes.
You glare at those of us with names
that end in “z,” in your puzzlement
over our arrival, on whether
we landed in the right way.

You ogle our Jennifers and Michelles–
not out of passion borne,
but from ugly, languid habit
that again and again swells
with life that begs its welcome.

You tilt your head toward Carlos
over there, ask him a silly question
just to hear his answer
with the lilting sounds that make you laugh.

Admit it:
you'd really, really like
us to stay for your amusement
but mostly for the work
that no one’s inclined to do.

For we are completely, totally,
one hundred percent free
to snip your grass for you,
braise your grub for you,
wipe Grandma’s nose for you,
stretched out on the sheets
that our women washed.

You want us, need us
to push your stash for you,
populate your prisons for you.

We'd much prefer to become
active by doing nothing,
each one of us a Cato, aloft in thought.

We own nothing of our own, yet grasp
the fact you'd sooner let us steal
everything you have
except your place.

You want us to stay–
stay out of your sight,
stay out of your way.

We'd purely love to snatch
your books and make a clean
break for it–
the only escape via air,

which is why we're taking off,
of course, on borrowed wings.

PrinceMyshkin

12-09-2010, 07:09 PM

I get the message all right, but I don't sufficiently see or believe in the messenger.

Jerrybaldy

12-09-2010, 08:35 PM

Dear Aunty
you add a draconian, victorian, authoritarian dust to this place that turns the arial black to grey. IMHO (circa Bar your equal in sanctimony)
best wishes
JerryB

AuntShecky

12-10-2010, 02:17 PM

Dear Aunty
you add a draconian, victorian, authoritarian dust to this place that turns the arial black to grey. IMHO (circa Bar your equal in sanctimony)
best wishes
JerryB

Dear Jerry, I would understand your comment better if you would be more specific as to how the observation above relates to the little ditty itself.

I get the message all right, but I don't sufficiently see or believe in the messenger.

Dear Prince,
The little ditty was intended to be a companion piece to the "serious discussion" thread at the top of this posting.

My verse is was intended to be a companion piece to that essay and project which still inspires me 13 years after I originally read it.

As to your comment, I have to ask which "messenger" do you mean -- the speaker in my poem or the author of the Harper's essay who created the humanities program for poor people?

My verse is was intended to be a companion piece to that essay and project which still inspires me 13 years after I originally read it.

I'm sure you know the anecdote about the thirties era movie mogul who after listening to a pitch for an "important" motion picture about social issues said, "If you want to send a message, use Western Union."

AuntShecky

12-10-2010, 02:32 PM

. . . . . . .

hillwalker

12-10-2010, 02:33 PM

A very apt, political poem (how dare you) in the current climate of enforced austerity (over here in blighty anyway).

Presumably our politicians believe cutting funding for education and the Arts is a painless way of saving the tax payers money - those who can afford to read books or visit art galleries will continue to have the expendable income do so - those who rely on government hand-outs would probably get nothing worthwhile from it anyway..... so everyone knows their rightful place in society.

From the perspective of the writer here, one is left to assume that the class divide is as much an issue in the US, and the have-nots know it.

The most telling lines being

.....you'd sooner let us steal
everything you have
except your place.

Of course, over here revolution is fast a-coming. You read it here first.

H

AuntShecky

12-10-2010, 02:48 PM

Thanks, hillwalker, for your comment. The original "serious discussion" posting and especially the companion poem are "political" only in the broad definition created by Thucydides. (I'm only just getting used to spelling that illustrious name!)

PrinceMyshkin

12-10-2010, 03:27 PM

As to your comment, I have to ask which "messenger" do you mean -- the speaker in my poem or the author of the Harper's essay who created the humanities program for poor people?

I was referring to the poem itself, where I heartily agreed with the ideological points but thought they'd have registered more forcefully if I'd been presented with even one of these downtrodden people in the round.

Transmodernism

12-10-2010, 03:29 PM

I want to say that I disagree with Hawkman's suggestion re altering the order of the 2nd & 3rd stanzas. The openness, the eternal possibility (and mystery?) of that "immaculate blue sky" makes for a splendid ending in my view to this immensely compassionate poem.

Hello AuntShecky! I'm new here and I can't tell you how much I have thoroughly enjoyed reading through your anti-poetry. I absolutely loved your linking of pearl-production to human suffering and how we may fail to bring forth something precious out of it (from number I-can't-remember-which). I also fully agree with PrinceMyshkin in the quote above that "immaculate blue sky" and the sentimates found at the end of #84 seem, to me, to be the best possible ending. It gives it a touch of compassion and humanity--a beautiful ending, rather than a depressing one.

(Sorry that I'm sorta commenting on stuff way back in the thread; I'm still reading through!)

hillwalker

12-10-2010, 03:44 PM

Hi again Aunty - my opening comment was very much tongue-in-cheek (just in case Admin are watching) :-)

firefangled

12-10-2010, 09:15 PM

There are so many bells this rings, Auntie. A very apt follow up to the essay on poverty and the humanities. The attitude at the root of exclusion damages us beyond just the poor, but that is many other stories.

I though the poem was perfect in its sarcasm. Though you paralleled the essay well with the content, you never forgot this was a poem with sonics, rhythm and rhyme. I liked nearly all the stanzas, but especially this one:

You want us to stay–
stay out of your sight,
stay out of your way.

In his essay, Poetry and Selfhood in Democracy and Poetry, Robert Penn Warren wrote:

The "made thing" stands as a vital emblem of the integrity of the self, whether the thing is a folk ballad or a high tragedy. But for whom? We never know precisely for whom art is, or on whom, directly or indirectly, it works its effects. But if art turns out to be, in an immediate sense, for only a minority, how can it fortify democracy?

One by one, let the bells be rung by the bells ringing. Thank you, Auntie.

AuntShecky

12-11-2010, 06:08 PM

Thank you again, Prince and Hillwalker, thanks (and welcome!) to Transmodernism, and firefangled, thank you for flattering comment and especially for posting the thoughtful lines from Robert Penn Warren.

The following is partially a response to Prince's comment in #188 about the seemingly multiple P.O.V.s but also because I feel like adding this p.s.:

Beware the writer who sets himself or herself up as the voice of a nation. This includes notion of race, gender, sexual orientation, elective affinity. This is the New Behalfism. Beware behalfies! The New Behalfism demands uplift, accentuates the positive, offers stirring moral instruction. It abhors the tragic sense of life. Seeing literature as inescapably political, it replaces literary values by political ones. It is the murderer of thought. Beware!
--Salman Rushdie

Oddly enough, that passage appeared in an article in the very same issue of Harper's that featured the essay which sparked the whole debate. I can't dispute Salman Rushdie's admonition, and I daresay that even Earl Shorris would probably agree with him as well. Still, I'm sticking to my stance that the little "Downtown" poem is "political"
only in the broader sense from Thucydides.

The speaker in the poem, "we" is a collective voice-- albeit impetuous, anti-authoritarian, colloquial (maybe prose-y in a couple of places), ironic, and democratic. "We" are not specifically speaking "in behalf" of hyphenated Americans or women or Americans with disabilities or any other group that historically has been marginalized and silenced.

"We are not speaking "for" any distinct oppressed small group but rather a heartbreakingly large group in order to express in down-to-earth terms the most clear-cut dividing line in today's society: the burgeoning and seemingly unbridgeable gap between the Haves and the Have-Nots.

In the poem, the central metaphor of flight was intended to symbolize a possible escape for all of us who are culturally deprived. With few or no opportunities offered, we take it upon ourselves to deracinate their lot from the street by studying the arts and the humanities. We don't literally "snatch the books" but what is written in them. In this way,we empower ourselves, perhaps "govern" ourselves, not unlike the anecdote about the students continuing a spirited yet elegantly civilized discussion after the logic class.

Even though the first person plural voice of the poem is collective, it is crucial to remember that every human being is a unique individual, having the absolute right to maintain an autonomous identity, not merely a microdot on a graph or a part of a number in a statistical table, not just one of thousands constituting "The Poor" which is the term the ruling class often uses to lump us all together.

qimissung

12-11-2010, 10:36 PM

Very apt. The idea that the arts and humanities are not of vast importance to all people is simply too ludicrous to contemplate.

I like the phrase "surround of force." You have given me something to think about and perhaps write about, AuntShecky.

Hawkman

12-12-2010, 07:29 AM

Hi Auntie, I'm sorry that I've taken so long to get round to commenting.

My first thought is that the first 6 stanzas are unnecessary. They form something of a rambling preamble, and the poem doesn't really get going until S7. It would be tighter and more forceful as a more compact piece, and is still making the same point.

In S8:

For we are completely, totally,
one hundred percent free
to snip your grass for you,
braise your grub for you,
wipe Grandma’s nose for you,*
stretched out on the sheets
that our women washed."

*There is a problem with the expression here because the subordinate clause reads as though we wipe grandma's nose for you while we are stretched out on the sheets. I think that to say what I beleive you mean to say it should be:

"wipe grandma's nose for you
while she stretches out on the sheets"

Interestingly there is a debate rageing over here about whether the state should withdraw funding for students on arts and humanities courses in university to save money. They still intend to support science and technology though. It seems that the Arts and Humanities are deemed less vital to the educational wealth of the nation.

Live and be well, H

AuntShecky

12-12-2010, 02:06 PM

Thank you q and Hawkman
My first thought is that the first 6 stanzas are unnecessary. They form something of a rambling preamble, and the poem doesn't really get going until S7. It would be tighter and more forceful as a more compact piece, and is still making the same point.

Nah, I need them there, in order to set up the metaphors for flight. For instance, the "rickety rig" refers both to a mechanical object --a dilapidated aircraft -- but also to the established society which perpetuates a system deliberately "rigged" against the disadvantaged part of the population.

In S8:

For we are completely, totally,
one hundred percent free
to snip your grass for you,
braise your grub for you,
wipe Grandma’s nose for you,*
stretched out on the sheets
that our women washed."

*There is a problem with the expression here because the subordinate clause reads as though we wipe grandma's nose for you while we are stretched out on the sheets.

I don't see it as a problem. The appositive, "stretched out on the sheets" refers back to the antecedent "you," the same "you" addressed throughout the poem. When I wrote that line I was thinking of ancient Patricians, lounging around on their couches.
H

As always, thanks for your thoughtful criticism.

AuntShecky

12-15-2010, 03:44 PM

This one originally appeared on the LitNet way, way back when. It has been exhumed and, one would hope, resuscitated. In any case, it's been revised.

No Comment

Nobody expects the likes of me to save
the world or even a piece of it,
or set it afire or light with flair
a Kumbaya flame for peace.

Listen, sometimes a gal
just wants to hang
back and silently swear
at the darkness.

I'm not fuming or consuming
or snoozing or schmoozing
or musing or communing
with a muse who begs to be excused.

Believe me, once
in a widely-spaced while,
backlit by moonlight
of a rare azure hue,
it's okay to be blue.

Not benighted in the slightest,
not sighing or denying,
not excited or delighted,
not dying to be fighting,
opening up or closing down
a dialogue, damn it, I'm just
not talking to you.

Bar22do

12-15-2010, 04:29 PM

It does ring a bell, though distant, Auntie. Sharp and defying! let me be, I don't give a d***! It's ok to be blue, and it is... well revised, I mean, reads smooth to me, it's as if I'm riding your horse!

I simply LOVE

Listen, sometimes a gal
just wants to hang
back and silently swear
at the darkness.

So good to read you, Dear Auntie.

Bar

Hawkman

12-15-2010, 04:44 PM

Hi Auntie,

I really like this one, particularly:

"I'm not fuming or consuming
or snoozing or schmoozing
or musing or communing
with a muse who begs to be excused."

Great poem.

Live and be well, H

firefangled

12-16-2010, 09:30 AM

The sound repetition in No Comment has the distinct repercussion of ruminating on a mental sore and not feeling the least bit guilty because this is one of those things the positivist tell us not to do.

A very healthy poem IMO. I like the implied intrusion and dismissal at the end, as if you sense the reader reading like you intended it for them, when N's intent is to vent, nothing more.

Nice one, Auntie.

PrinceMyshkin

12-16-2010, 11:28 AM

There seems to me to be a disconnect between the defense the narrator makes throughout most of this poem - a defense in response to all the things the world or her social circle expect her to do or be - and that final verse, which appears to be aimed at one single listener, a partner, a friend she's p/o at?

Too bad, because I thoroughly enjoyed the free-wheeling rhyming & ranting throughout that preceded that last verse.

mpdague

12-17-2010, 12:35 PM

Very well done, I enjoyed the humor and the crafting.

M

AuntShecky

12-17-2010, 06:48 PM

Thanks all for taking the time to respond to #196^^^^.
Here's the next number:

Ill Lumination

In the beginning rare and cloistered bowers
kept Latin words whose worth may bear light still.
Initialing the “I” with gilt and flowers,
their vision cowled by candles and a quill,
in painful zeal the brothers toiled for years
as cold, stone walls wept moisture, not fake tears.

Now bloggers hunch in basements bent for clicking
up missiles, quickly launched without a fight.
While warm in robes of brighter flannel ticking,
they twist and wring out wrongs from what was right,
inspiring readers lacking guile to run
off seeking sanctuary or a gun–-

causing souls, once hopeful, to sigh and hiss:
“There’s never been a darker age than this.”

firefangled

12-17-2010, 10:08 PM

My my, Auntie, this is a deep river to step into with a sonnet so well done. We do live in a time of bad faith. Wonders all around us, but a bit like the water surrounding the Ancient Mariner.

Ill Lumination, indeed. Reminds me of Bill Moyers's essays on the state of journalism.

Very thought provoking as usual.

Bar22do

12-17-2010, 10:20 PM

So you master the sonnet in addition to all the other forms you use! And the subject is vivid... True, as well, for with all the excitement about human progress, we live none the less in a fragile age, in which one 'spark' is enough to annihilate the world... and that perhaps has some connection with arts and humanities being relegated to a position of the least importance.
A great poem, Auntie, thoughtful, concerned, a warning... and as always permeated with your unique mixture of wit, intelligence and culture.
Be well and congratulations for this new effort. Bar

Hawkman

12-18-2010, 06:16 AM

Hi Auntie,

I thought S1 beautifully crafted but you lost me a bit in S2. The mention of missiles pulled me up short. Was this intended as a pun on missal? If so, I'm afraid it only works in American, as we Europeans know how to pronounce missile - :devil:

Despite years of Hollywood's linguistic propoganda, whenever I hear someone say, "Launch the missle" I have a vision of someone thowing a book! Doubtless, this is where the expression "Throw the book at him," comes from.

Still, I did enjoy the poem, especially its closing couplet :D

Live long and prosper, H

AuntShecky

12-18-2010, 06:40 PM

Thank you, firefangled, Bar, and Hawk re #202 above.

Yes, I was thinking of "missal" when I wrote the line, and though I am aware that the British pron. has a long "i" I had totally forgotten it, because if there's ever a pun to go after, Auntie will not ignore it -- sad to say. And Hawk, I was actually thinking of you through the entire writing process. It's said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and while sincerity is not necessarily the hallmark of poesy (which will appear in an upcoming essay, I was trying to emulate your ability to blend the old with the new, for which you have a unique talent in your own work.

That's why this one has both the "old" (the monks) and the "new" (the careless bloggers.) Actually, blogging is already old news, replaced and all but rendered passé by Twitter, Facebook, et al. Both the monks and the bloggers ostensibly withdraw from the "world" but both groups one foot in it-- the former by "keeping learning alive" by preserving the manuscripts for future generations, the latter by sending his messages, missives, "missiles" out into the world. The problem of course is that both cases
there is a chance that among their efforts misinformation can slip through. Not everything posted on the World Wide Web is accurate, and the mistakes are copied again and again until the truth is nowhere to be found. Neither the monks nor the bloggers -more dangerous in my opinion -
really know exactly who will receive the information and how exactly they will react.

Again, thanks for reading and commenting.

AuntShecky

12-21-2010, 09:19 PM

Here's something loose and colloquial in order to say so long-- and good riddance!-- to 2010.

But before I get sidetracked, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the LitNutters for all their kind words and support this year. Please accept all good wishes as you celebrate the holiday of your choice.

Incidentally, we've just gone through Winter Solstice, marked this year by a rare astronomical event, a total lunar eclipse. Of course, as is always the case with once-in-a-lifetime events in this neck of the woods, we had a cloud cover. Then again, who wants to get up at an ungodly hour of the a.m.? Guess I'll have to wait for the next time the winter solstice and the eclipse coincide--
in 2094.

As an everyday practice, the moon is often "eclipsed" by the sun, but nonetheless has inspired poets and songwriters for centuries. So, without further ado, here is yet another tribute to the Moon, which we like to call

Lucidity in Late December

Couple of winters ago the moon came out
with a bold statement. Oh, I don’t mean
it “talked” talked– what kind of lunatic do you
take me for? But it did invade the sky
the way some mega-celebrity makes an entrance.

Believe me, this was huge, totally out of character
for a celestial body not known for its spunk.
Until this point the moon had never been brazen–
more or less the shy guest at a crowded party,
taking tentative sips of a non-alcoholic brew,
as he hugs the lesser-lit corners of the room,
or hangs out in the kitchen with its overhead
fluorescent tubes flickering for a second
before fully coming on,
I could say that, but it would be an out-and-out lie,
the raving of a pathetic loser
(or something.)

In reality, as we all know, the moon’s a latecomer,
the earth’s afterthought, if you will, a second-
string back-up utility outfielder, understudy to the star,
the sun, which this time of year chills out
for a little R & R, keeps a low profile, generously–
make that “begrudgingly”– cuts back on its schedule
to give the little one a chance – too much?

All right, let’s be rational here and take
a look at what the moon is really like:

a homebody-
wrinkled like a pair of “no iron” pants
scuffed like those brogans your wife keeps bugging
you to throw out,
pock-marked like her thirty-year-old soup pot,
scarred like oak bark blown through
by too many blizzards and bugs, old –
like me, like me, like me.

But just the same, a restless, wandering fool.
When it’s not waxing, it’s waning, never making up
its mind, migrating from this side of the sky
to the next. Nothin’s ever good enough. So
once a month it picks up and makes itself scarce;
a creature (if that’s the word) of habit,
yet ever swinging its moods, this volatile
Cancerian, eloquently mute in its immutability,
a mess of contradictions, that one--
like me, like me, like me.

Okay this will sound nuts, and I hate to say this
but I don’t really know
if I can trust the moon.
It has a tendency to trick me
into doing things a normal person wouldn’t do,
like the time one summer
in the middle of the night when I staggered
across the room and broke
my favorite lamp just to get
a better gander at the fullness
through the window. The damage done,
the moon kept right on shining.
(I’d even say that it was laughing at me,
but I’m not that crazy.)

Then there was that night, about a week
before Epiphany when, stumbling
around the dark backyard, I couldn’t find
the tiny flashlight hiding somewhere
in the deep and empty pockets of my parka,
as I looked around for my mislaid dreams
and hoped to lose my guilt
over the failure to “actualize”– what did
that famous shrink call them?– “peak experiences.”
Sweet Jesus! It was cold –- colder
still with the wind, and that’s when

the moon barged straight in,
startling me like a kid on a sleep-over
the split-second a parent pushes open
the door and flips the wall switch.

I glared at the moon which stared back at me,
not like a near-invisible organism squirming
under the microscope,
not like some soloist in the spotlight
laying down some riffs–
no, just me, standing there shivering
on the icy lawn and speculating,
wondering, mulling, musing, dreaming,
but mostly thinking, as the moon–
I swear! –tried to tell me something.

It’s flat-out insane, I know, hearing things:
“Shed the sorrow. Stick with the old. Change.
Try something new. Be like me,” it said.
It said, shooting a lucent cone of itself
across the snow, glistening with the color of cream.

PrinceMyshkin

12-21-2010, 09:42 PM

This is like the winning collegiate football team interspersed with the corps de ballet, all whooping it up together! A glorious conglomeration of all the words you had left over from the early part of 2010 and surely some you borrowed from 2011.

Great fun! Thank you.

Hawkman

12-22-2010, 05:26 AM

Indeed Auntie, this was a delightful ramble through the canyons of your mind, and what better way to view the scenery than by moonlight! I think this would work up very nicely into a short story.

Live and be well, H

Bar22do

12-22-2010, 06:45 AM

A pleasurable kaleidoscope of your art "colours" and - a long piece for my morning, Auntie, so this is going to wait for when I can read it at my usually slow tempo... will come back, but wanted you to know I already got a sense of it - fondly Bar

hillwalker

12-22-2010, 07:30 AM

An amusing read - and filled with so many sly, witty observations.

I noted the change from 'it' to 'he' (L 11) then back to 'it' - which made me pause for thought because I always thought la Luna was a 'she'.

A seasonal delight now that the shortest day is over and done with. Best wishes for 2011.

H

Bar22do

12-22-2010, 06:34 PM

What a tour de force! Auntie, now I read it again and will go to sleep thoughtful... shed the sorrow, be like me said the moon... hmmm... your moon reminded me of "mine" I had seen (and wrote about, but it's yet a draft) while on the flight, lately, from Jerusalem to Paris, it went with me all the way long! and spoke to me too, though I have to look up the notes to remember the message. Although it didn't really manage to cheer me up, I still think it's outstanding moons can talk, don't you agree?

My very best to you, Auntie,

Bar

blank|verse

12-23-2010, 01:29 PM

Well, I don't think you need me or anyone else to tell you about the consistently high quality of the poems you post on this thread, Aunty.

The latest is very chatty and imaginative, if very prosey, and happily reminds us that winter's volta means longer days to come.

'Ill Lumination' draws an excellent comparison and brings 'The Tempest' to mind, with its consideration of how the democratization of language isn't always wholly beneficial.

Enjoyable and accomplished poems, all.

AuntShecky

01-14-2011, 07:19 PM

Thanks for all your previous comments.^^^^

My next number is a response and/or feminine counterpart to a poem posted by Hawkman way, way back in early August of last year:
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=54819

Better late than never, I suppose, for this little ditty we like to call

For Bitter and Far Worse

The fresh-faced bride, still clad in strapless white,

blessed the night
while holding both her head and fond hopes high,

sweetly shy,
so sure her groom would hear, nearing the hall,

Custom’s call.
He’d hoist her up, as her veil touched the floor;

even more
to honor ceremony’s threshold mete,

off her feet
he did sweep her, but then said of the room:

“Get a broom.”

Scant time she crossed the bridge from bride to wife,--

what a life!--
worn out from picking up socks and–I swear!--

underwear.
A scarce year found her tightly bound in some

kid-dom come,
as she came home from a day’s work to another

as Mother.
The mister’s ruse of nights out with the boys’

manly joys
concealed a back-up babe, all game and so not shy

standing by.

Where once the lock of wedded bliss felt loose,

now a noose
tightly wound itself ‘round her still youthful neck.

What the heck:
more quickly than hubby leaping from bed,

fast she sped
to Court, whence despair and domestic rot

tied the “Not.”
Deadlocked no more, to single bliss set free,

“Good for me!”
she crowed, as dames for ages shed their curse,

wed for worse.

Hawkman

01-19-2011, 06:10 AM

Well Auntie, This certainly deserves a response, and as you cliam it was I who inspired this witty gem as a response to my Deadlock, even if it was a while ago, It is only fitting that I should start the ball rolling! Doubtless it is as true as mine, up to a point :D but it only goes to show that the institution of marriage is the creation of a sick and unreasonable mind, which seeks to impose order upon a human nature which is naturally chaotic. We are mostly but ships in the night who sometimes chart a parallel course for a while. The lucky ones are those who depart from the same port with the same destination and travel in company for the entire voyage. In convoy they risk the U-boats of fate and storms of fortune on equal terms, and celebrate together at journey's end...

There is something familliar about the format of your poem, but I just can't place it for the moment. I hope you will enlighten us at some point.

Great poem Auntie, Live and be well - H

hillwalker

01-19-2011, 10:26 AM

It's almost like a catechism - with some extremely cutting responses.

It actually reminded me of William Blake's abhorrence of marriage - defined as the paternalistic slavery of womanhood.

H

Bar22do

01-19-2011, 11:54 AM

Very well put, Auntie! I enjoyed reading your poem, though it presents only one aspect of this very ancient "institution". This is not a place to discuss the actual marriage, but I see what you address here (as I did for Hawk's poem), it illustrates how an empty shell (institution as opposed to choice by true affinity and the power of blessing...) does more evil than good...
Your poems always give much to think, thanks for this reading!

With my lasting thought, Bar

AuntShecky

01-19-2011, 02:48 PM

Thank you so much , Bar and Hill for your comments.

I must confess I'm not well-versed in the works of Blake. Coleridge now, I love 'im, but he was one helluva cynic wasn't he?:
"The most happy marriage I can picture or imagine to myself would be the union of a deaf man to a blind woman."

And to you, Hawkman, this is going to sound like a Golden Globes acceptance speech, w/o, thank goodness, some snarky comment by Ricky Gervais, thanks for the "Bump!" I'm grateful to you for providing the original poem for me to riff on, even though it took months.

Also thank you also for asking about the stanza form, (ahem) which in a way was also inspired by an allusion to "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came." So I borrowed the stanza form from another work by the same poet:

http://www.online-literature.com/robert-browning/2772/

Oh, and incidentally, that "two ships passing in the
night" reference comes up from time to time in this
particular household, in which case it's the Andrea
Doria and the Stockholm.

To all three of you, thanks again!

blank|verse

01-19-2011, 05:56 PM

An enjoyable piece, Aunty. There is some clever punning, including the title itself, and the broken-line form works well in reflecting the split in the relationship.

This Browning-inspired form (which I admit I didn't recognise) seems to have rubbed off on the diction and syntax, which is a bit on the archaic side for me (eg. 'whence'; 'fast she sped'; 'to honor ceremony’s threshold mete') perhaps needed to meet the demands of the rhyme scheme. And the zeugma seemed a bit showy: 'while holding both her head and fond hopes high'.

This clashes with the presence of more modern day words like 'babe', 'hubby' and the more 'matey' interjections ('and-I swear'; 'and so not shy') and makes the narrator sound on the whole a bit arch and aloof.

There are a few lines where the rhythm falls flat:

he did sweep her, but then said of the room:

tightly wound itself ‘round her still youthful neck
but then perhaps these are excusable in what is after all a light-hearted piece.

AuntShecky

01-20-2011, 05:35 PM

Thanks for your comments, B/V and kudos to you for recognizing the attempt, if a bit overly-earnest, to include a zeugma, in which one word has the double-duty to refer to two others in the sentence.

It turns out that the line you cited "while holding both her head and fond hopes high" is a specialized type of zeugma, called a syllepsis in which only one of the objects agrees grammatically, or refers in a different sense, as in the famous from "The Rape of the Lock":
Doth sometimes counsel take--and sometimes tea.

Speaking of rhetorical pairings, recently on another's thread you mentioned hendiadys which refers to two words often coupled to make one meaning: "hue and cry," "life and limb," etc. "Kith and kin" is a hendiadys we don't see often these days, now referring to significant relationships among extended family and close friends. It originally meant a person's household -- family
and lifestock included.

Speaking of archaisms in the little ditty, they were deliberate for the very reason that you mentioned, as a homage to R.B. The modernisms, by contrast, were a nod to the modernity of my other source, Hawkman's original marriage (or anti-marriage) poem.

One more thing, while I have your ear. I searched "high and low" (another hendiadys) for the name of the kind of foot R.B. uses in his even-numbered lines, which consist of one unstressed syllable in the middle of two stressed syllables.

The answer (I think!) is that the foot is an amphimacer,* literally "long at both ends." Of course, we're not supposed to mix the quantitative verse of the Greeks up with the stressed syllables that form the basis of English prosody. Thus, amphimacer, sometimes called "cretic," is relatively rare in English verse, though there it is (I think) in "Love Among the Ruins" and in Blake's "Spring" as well:

Sound the flute.
Now it's mute.
Birds delight.
Day and night.

(Example courtesy of The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms.)

{*Added 1/23/11:}
This line by yours fooly:
as Mother
is the opposite of amphimacer, an amphibrach, in which there is one stressed syllable between two unstressed syllables: x/x

Thanks again, for taking the time to weigh in with your expertise.

qimissung

01-22-2011, 05:21 PM

Clever, Auntie! You are good with a pun and a rhyme. Yours and Hawkman's poems make me think of that classic song by Meatloaf, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PN_YjM4V4fc

Yes, that is how old I am.

firefangled

01-22-2011, 11:56 PM

Auntie, a very clever and enjoyable read. I am curious if you started the poem in this form. It seems so appropriate I can't imagine it as effective another way.

AuntShecky

01-29-2011, 07:01 PM

Thank you q. and firefangled for your response to #214^^ ("2/14" --same as the date for St. Valentine's Day, a bit of unexpected irony.)
Now, for my next number:

‘Ax’ Not What Your Company Can Do For You

Man, how it hurts to have to be the one
to say, after much time spent on thought
and careful consideration, we've made
the choice to go in a different direction.

We say that after spending time and thought.
We understand how hard it is to hear.
Our choice to go in a different direction
should not for a moment mean you're to blame.

We understand how hard it is to hear
decisions which, alas, affect one’s life.
Don't for a moment think that you're to blame–
that topic never came up in our plan.

Decisions can, alas, affect a man’s life
from careful considerations we've made.
The topic that never came up in our plan
was how much it might hurt to be the one.

Jassy Melson

01-29-2011, 07:22 PM

deleted by Jassy Melson

firefangled

01-30-2011, 11:30 PM

What an apropos poem for these days. Excellent pantoum, Auntie.

Hawkman

02-03-2011, 07:46 AM

Well, I see I neglected to comment on this although I remember reading it. So, sorry for the oversight. You have introduced me to a new form, for which I thank you, though as yet I'm not sure whether I like it - lol. Form aside, if one can put it aside, I think this is really clever and witty social commentary which reflects the platitudes and stock phrases of HR and PR incincerity. A great idea well executed to my mind.

Live long and prosper - H

blank|verse

02-03-2011, 08:14 PM

Well spotted, fire; and this is a very effective poem, Aunty. The repetition inherent in the form is put to good use, echoing the platitudes of middle management-speak.

With that in mind, the ending struck me as slightly odd, suggesting that the faceless bosses have suddenly had an epiphany and realised the 'human' in 'human resources'. I'm not sure this is something that would be admitted even if it were thought - but it does offer an effective twist to the poem and stopping it just being an exercise in shooting an easy target.

AuntShecky

02-18-2011, 08:58 PM

Thanks for the comments re #223 above ^^^

If nothing else, this next number might be the only posting today with references to both a Frank Capra movie and a line from Mr. T-Bone Walker. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVR8lg1YLuc)

“Well, it sure comes in handy down here, Bub.”
–George Bailey

Scratch

A common ploy’s the bandage of a joke
told with extended palms and simpering.
It strains to cut the rough, degrading yoke
for which no wit nor whimsy can atone,
as Harpies haunt the mailbox and the phone
to tear up threadbare assets, whimpering.

The itch to vend one’s sweat, sweet time, and soul
to those without an urgent will to buy–
like fickle Luck who hides her shallow bowl:
reluctant to yield an affirming nod.
The eagle, as invisible as God,
on Friday after Friday does not fly.

His talons aren’t what brings an unscarred patch.
The ample backside of the rich man’s beast
can’t squeeze through slits. None springs the locked-up latch.
No whip will move a camel to the light,
as needling barbs to angels in poor plight,
who never had to want it in the least.

Hawkman

02-19-2011, 06:46 AM

Hi Auntie. Firstly I think this is a really trim little poem, but I confess, I'm a little at sea as to what it's about :D My impression was that it might refer to telecanvassers (possibly the worst job in the world) or even door to door salesmen trying to earn their crust selling something nobody wants by force of personality alone.

There are some lovely touches here, being a classicist albeit a modest one, I was particularly pleased by the eagle reference and the nod of god.

I enjoyed this.

Live and be well - H

hillwalker

02-19-2011, 11:21 AM

I enjoyed this and must have read it half a dozen times already - and I'm with Hawk in terms of interpretation - possibly Death of a Salesman territory but also condemning consumerism and the hard-sell.

I particularly liked the combination of 'camel' and 'needling' in :

No whip will move a camel to the light,
as needling barbs

presumably a reference to the scriptures where rich men have less chance of passing into heaven than a camel through the eye of a needle.

H

PrinceMyshkin

02-19-2011, 12:30 PM

The rhyming and the wit (as if one could separate the two) in this are wonderful!

AuntShecky

02-19-2011, 04:29 PM

Thank you Hawkman, Hillwalker, and Prince for your comments.

I'm a bit averse to making comments on my own "stuff" (euphemism) as once the piece is finished and posted it's on its own, and whatever intentions its author might have had are more or less moot. However, since the question came up over what it might be about I'll clarify some things (but just a little bit):

Right on, Hill,with your Biblical reference --Matthew 19:24.

The title "Scratch" is (or was in the past) a slang term for money. One could, I suppose, see an imbedded reference to the figure sometimes called "Old Scratch" and note the # of lines in each stanza and line 'em up, not in any way to be construed as a tribute to that figure but as a synonym for something that has been idolized in place of God -- "$"(I heard a rabbi say that very thing yesterday on an early morning news cable show.)

The word "itch" could be wordplay, but not as a yen or a craving for but as something that has to be dealt with-- one has to make all kinds of compromises in order to obtain said "scratch." When a person is "lucky" enough to have a job-- not one as acutely specific as a telemarketer-- supposedly the "eagle flies on Friday" (thank you, Mr. Walker) and the paycheck comes. The eagle drops it, not from his talons, but from the general area of his "backside."

Oh, God -- I've said too much! I feel awful!

Delta40

02-19-2011, 06:06 PM

Scratch

A common ploy’s the bandage of a joke
told with extended palms and simpering.
It strains to cut the rough, degrading yoke
for which no wit nor whimsy can atone,
as Harpies haunt the mailbox and the phone
to tear up threadbare assets, whimpering.

The itch to vend one’s sweat, sweet time, and soul
to those without an urgent will to buy–
like fickle Luck who hides her shallow bowl:
reluctant to yield an affirming nod.
The eagle, as invisible as God,
on Friday after Friday does not fly.

His talons aren’t what brings an unscarred patch.
The ample backside of the rich man’s beast
can’t squeeze through slits. None springs the locked-up latch.
No whip will move a camel to the light,
as needling barbs to angels in poor plight,
who never had to want it in the least.

I enjoyed this simply as a poem on vendors (particularly telemarketers aka the scourge of the earth).

qimissung

02-19-2011, 07:34 PM

"Scratch" is good, Auntie, but may I say that your previous one, "Ax Not What Your company Can Do For You" is absolutely brilliant? You surely nailed the disinterested insincerity of administrators everywhere. Is it something they drink or what?

firefangled

02-20-2011, 03:16 AM

Another witty one, Auntie. As usually you excell at bring humor to bear on irritation and even frightful things, such as reducing life to selling and buying. One needs a rest from it, either by fleeing or through humor.

I always ask the telemerketers if calling during the dinner hour is working for them.

Bar22do

02-20-2011, 06:38 AM

Don't feel awful that you've shown the way to a stranger (me)!, Dear Auntie! You did a good deed! I owe it to your explanation to have grasped a meaning here (I feel as much for the salesman reduced to do such a job as for the one who doesn't even have that luck) and the wit of your poem. Now after several readings (each more enjoyable then the former) I could fully appreciate your art and message and I thank you for this feast!

Warmest regards as always, Bar

On an optimistic note, your poem reminded me of that old joke about a wise salesman on the beach:
An unemployed salesman walks along the beach and finds a bottle. He picks it up, rubs it and wow! a genie appears! "I'll grant you three wishes for the freedom you've given me," says the genie. "But since the bastard who first had imprisoned me still has his bad eye on me, and for every wish you make, he must get the double..."
"No problem", says the salesman. "For my first wish, I'd be glad to have ten million dollars," he announces. The genie arranges for him an account with a deposit of $10,000,000. And second one for his former oppressor with $20,000,000.
"Now, for my second wish, I've always dreamed to have a Ferrari" ventures the salesman. A shining new Ferrari appears in no time. "But the beast has just received two Ferraris," the genie says. "And what is your third wish?"
"Hmm..." says the salesman, "I've always wished to donate a kidney for transplant."

AuntShecky

02-20-2011, 11:59 AM

I enjoyed this simply as a poem on vendors (particularly telemarketers aka the scourge of the earth).

I always ask the telemerketers if calling during the dinner hour is working for them.

There really isn't a reference to telemarketers in this, Delta and Firefangled The line in question means merely getting a job ("vending" or selling, putting on the market one's services, cf. "sweat, sweet time, and soul."

And, Bar, I liked your joke. I wouldn't be surprised if the salesman is a recent product of a certain Am. public school system (which shall remain nameless.)

Delta40

02-20-2011, 06:16 PM

Fair enough. When it comes to interpreting poetry, I'm in the fail class for sure however, it worked for me just fine in this regard. I take it for granted that each reader will get their own fulfillment from anothers writing which may well be totally off base as far as the poet is concerned.

How important is it to be understood precisely in the way one expects to be as opposed to receiving a good critique as one realizes their poem has implications they did not aniticipate when writing it?

AuntShecky

02-24-2011, 03:37 PM

Thank you, all, for your comments.
It's been ages since I put an entry in the "A Word With You" section of my LitNet blog, but I looked up the origin of the slang term which is the title of #228 above. Please look at all the definitions of the word, especially #13 and #26. Nothing about telemarketers there, but it does mention making a living w. difficulty.
{Edit 2/24/11 Whoops! Forgot to add the dictionary link:
http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/scratch

And Delta you're right about this -- and it's in line with New Criticism:

. I take it for granted that each reader will get their own fulfillment from anothers writing which may well be totally off base as far as the poet is concerned.

How important is it to be understood precisely in the way one expects to be as opposed to receiving a good critique as one realizes their poem has implications they did not aniticipate when writing it?

AuntShecky

03-06-2011, 03:31 PM

Thanks for your replies to #228.

*Here's a definition from one of the words in the current title:
http://www.dailywritingtips.com/the-yiddish-handbook-40-words-you-should-know/as it rehashs the topic from a
previous verse (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=708612#post708612)

Zilch, Nada, Bupkes*, Zilch

Long ago I lost my reason, also lost my rhyme.
Never had much reason, lost all sense of rhyme.
I put in senseless hours, now I’m runnin’ out of time.

‘Could’ve used some more money, and a lot more love.
I said, more money, and a hell of a lot more love.
Only got one thing there’s way too much of.

Maybe if I’d ‘ve been smarter or a bit more dumb.
Say, what if I’d been smarter, or a bit more dumb?
Could’ve been Somethin’ instead of a first-class bum.

Hallelujah!

Like a failing pitcher who’s been yanked off the hill,
a lousy poker hand miles away from the till,
Lear’s loving daughter left out of the will,

I got

Lord, have mercy

I got

plenty of, don’t want any of,
not a penny of, there are so many of
us with

----

Hawkman

03-07-2011, 06:30 AM

Ah say, ah say, Lord ha'mercy theyer, Auntie. y'all gone blusey on our donkey!

Well ah woke up this mornin'
an' Auntie's poem caught my eye!
Ah say ah woke up this mornin'
an' ah saw Auntie's poem stridin' by.
an' if you don' wan' poems in the mornin'
then don' you bother openin' your eyes!

Oh yeah!

Now ah see people in the mornin'
an' they is on to somethin' good.
Yeah, ah see people in the mornin'
an they is doin' what they should;
they soak up culture in the mornin'
from Muddy Auntie's neighbourhood!

Lay it on me, brothers and sisters of the forum...

See y'all, H

blank|verse

03-07-2011, 07:35 PM

:smilielol5: I don't know which I enjoyed more - your original, Aunty, or Hawk's rather cheeky pastiche!

AuntShecky

03-10-2011, 06:37 PM

Re: #240^^ Thank you, Hawk for the "sincerest form of flattery," and thank you Blank_Verse for liking them both.

Next up:

My Cousin’s Still Single

The men she likes
like voluptuous women,
women with convex lines coursing,
like fertile rivers swollen with warm
mineral-milk from the mountains
flowing down to sweeten the sea.

They like their gurgling voices
giddily chirping like guileless birds,
yet smart enough to accommodate
whims with cheerful compliance.

The men who like her
like little in particular–ready to pop
on an available train
snaking toward any place at all,
the uniqueness of some town
left beside the rail.

The lot leave behind a track
of fruitless Saturday nights
with a novel, a cat, nervous
notions of extinction and ennui,
and the sharp mockery
of a clock’s constant clicks.

Hawkman

03-10-2011, 07:05 PM

Well Auntie, the first three lines open the poem with such a strong rhythm I was kind of disappointed when it was dropped. I felt in the unrhymed quatrain of the second stanza the alliteration was a bit too much. The use of the device elswhere in the poem seems less prominent. Maybe it's just the G sound with fewer lines in the stanza making it seem more concentrated.

In the last stanza I'm not convinced by nervous notions on ennui - (can one be nervously bored?) though I accept it in connection with extinction - lol.

There are some great images though, I love:

"fertile rivers swollen with warm
mineral-milk from the mountains"
&
"the sharp mockery
of a clock’s constant clicks."

I also enjoyed the opening three lines and as I said, I would have liked to see the rhythm expanded throughout the poem, or at least recurring occasionally.

Unususally for your work, my subjective opinion is that maybe this one could benifit from a little revision. Perhaps you too are suffering from the creative malaise which I seem to be feeling... Or then again it could just be my failing that I can't appreciate this one properly.

Live and be well - H

PrinceMyshkin

03-10-2011, 07:07 PM

This is a marvel and a mystery! There's such richness in the inventions - although they come so effortlessly, it seems, that they should maybe not be called "inventions" and the fun you quite obviously had writing this, hurrying, perhaps, to keep up with your fertile, effervescent mind!

MyBoy

03-10-2011, 07:12 PM

:nonod::nonod::nonod::nonod::nonod::nonod:i disagreee

PrinceMyshkin

03-10-2011, 08:03 PM

:nonod::nonod::nonod::nonod::nonod::nonod:i disagreee

This is in keeping with the only two other responses you've made to other threads. To help you develop a vocabulary, I offer the word "because" to follow "I disagree".

firefangled

03-11-2011, 03:30 AM

Zilch, Nada, Bupkes*, Zilch I enjoyed very much. It reminded me of 'ol Foghorn Leghorn, I thought the absence of a word in places was very effective.

My Cousin’s Still Single Interesting how N describes her through a man's eyes as if to show this is how she defined herself. She is not an individual, but one of a class of women whose features are reduced to geometry and similies.

This created a distance that persists down to the description of the towns, the trains to anywhere and the odd things left behind. And in the end we are left, like the cousin, in an empty room with the ticking of a clock.

The inventiveness of language is counter-point to what it is portraying, as if to show how facade operates. What a treat for the reader!

everyadventure

03-11-2011, 10:13 AM

My Cousin's Still Single seemed to start out so hopefully: here she's found a woman who can appreciate her curves, who can love her for who she is... but then it turns out she draws the wrong type of men after all.

And yes, one can definitely be nervously bored. A sort of restless agitation is easy to envision in this scenario.

Nicely done, Aunt!

AuntShecky

03-11-2011, 03:44 PM

Thank you, Hawk, firefangled, Prince, and everyadventure for your comments.
I don't know, Hawk, you may be right about the structure. I knew I wanted to try free verse, but without formal meter, we need substitutes. Hence, an attempt to be conscientious about the line breaks and the parallel imagery. The alliteration was absolutely deliberate, as I was going for really hard consonants, "c" and "k," for
instance.

the nervous notions of extinction (mostly personal extinction but also the species) and ennui (more rarefied than mere boredom -- more like Kierkegaard's "the sickness under death."

My Cousin's Still Single seemed to start out so hopefully: here she's found a woman who can appreciate her curves, who can love her for who she is... but then it turns out she draws the wrong type of men after all.

And yes, one can definitely be nervously bored. A sort of restless agitation is easy to envision in this scenario.

Nicely done, Aunt!

Thanks, everyadventure, but uh, the first stanza/strophe/section was not intended to describe the subject but instead was a reference to the physical attributes of the subject's rivals.

Uh-oh, misunderstood again (similar to lines 7-8 in #228)intended to be about searching around for a job, any job which readers took to be "telemarketing."

All of this tells me that there might be something wrong with my choice of expression, maybe I'm too much in love with subtlety.