Auntie's Anti-Poems

A belated thanks to my fellow LitNutters re #381, # 386, #391, and #393. Oh, and Happy First Day of Spring tomorrah.

Turtle

Hail, fellow agoraphobe,
my soul-mate of the marsh.
If dangers hover, duck and cover
‘gainst creatures cruel and harsh.

Surviving with a shell game to snatch
stray marks of fly or flea,
ambivalently napping, seldom snapping.
Slow-moving? Deliberately.

Versatile reptile with mobile digs,
at home wherever you kneel.
Cursed be the scoop that plunges you in soup
as prelude to some mocking meal.

Voiceless, unlike the mourning birds
biblically cooing the waning of the flood.
Let those namesakes fly, I only speak of thy
Benediction of the mud.

1998

Dear Auntie, turtles are my beloved creatures! they symbolize eternity too and ah! how terrible some would heedlessly throw them into boiling water to make a soup...
Here too it's the beginning of spring, turtles show up everywhere, so many will perish on the roads...

Have plenty of green in your eyes and flowers' scent in your nostrils, be well and thank you so much for this poem.

Enjoyed this very much Auntie. I pretended I didn't see the turtle soup :D. The dark humor is weaved in quite, um, deliciously. Oh I can't believe I said it!

I have small orange turtles here but the one that made an impression was on the beach on Hilton Head Island. The poor thing was probably dead. It was huge, flipped over like a Hummer.

Nothing posted in this thread since March! My, how time flies when you ain't havin' fun!

The following is the first piece of personal "poetry" I've written since the 30/30 thread. It was originally intended for the "Favorite Places" poetry contest, but for reasons beyond my control, I missed the deadline, even though I'd finished writing it in time. Two weeks ago today, I sat down to type and post it, only to find that Pong 2.0 would not power up for me. Just like a defiant child, it wouldn't put its boots on! Not even after I threatened it with jumper cables. Back to its natural parents it went. Another device has temporarily stepped in, again borrowed but this time from a different relative. He, like the generous person who lent me the first one, doesn't know what he's in for. Oh, I kid, I kid! (Mostly.)


Preferences

In October’s midst to stand
on the arch of a rustic bridge,
cresting above a slow-moving stream,
beneath some birches’ yellow flags
surrendering to the lazuli on high;

OR –-

just past the crepuscular moment
when a wide window reflects
the moon upon that creek’s clean glaze –-
in an accommodating chair
fronting a carefree fire –-
enhanced by a book, a useful light,
and – - perhaps – - a sleeping setter
reclined on a braided rug;

OR –-

when a verdant burst wakes up the world,
the chance to plant one’s feet on the spongy earth
beside that now-exuberant brook --
unvexed by buzzing pests, though curious creatures
might come around, uncoaxed, to sniff
the new radii of mellow mallows
and the amiable points of anemones;

BUT – -

while pledging summer riches to prior claims,
fate has failed to shine her favor here,
assigning instead the option of default,
proving, after all, the optimal choice:
any time and any place with you.

I'm going to have to look up crepuscular. That was like a thesaurus of the first moment Auntie which just got better and better until rounded off with the final stanza and (penultimate line?) which is a spectacular reminder in all of nature's beauty. You've made my morning before I even open the blinds!

There is the melancholy of endings and things to be left behind permeating these pieces. I feel as though I've just read the script of a eulogy for happiness, recited at its graveside and left pinned to its headstone. Tragically eloquent and deeply affecting.

I've perused them several times. Wonderful writing Auntie, though I might suggest a comma in L1 after midst.

Best to you as always,

live and be well - H

First you made me laugh (13 Ways of Looking at Wallace Stevens), and then you broke my heart (you know which one).

Thanks a lot, Auntie.

Thank you, fellow Lit-Nutters, for your comments re: #404. Here's a quick one on the same theme:


Immobile Phantom

Everybody has to be someplace,
even when there is nowhere to go,
devil-dumped on an unknown isle,
a guard-less Gitmo, a cage of space.
Even when there is no place to go,
reality’s hot – - and colder than snow.
An unguarded Gitmo, a spaceless cage
needs sunlight the same time as rain,
while reality burns more coldly than snow.
Fuzzy and vague as an angel’s face
and in need of sun as much as rain,
I cannot move, but I can’t remain.
Fuzzily vague, like an angel’s face –
an unknown devil held on an isle,
I cannot move, and I can’t remain, but
everybody’s got to be someplace.

Even though I read often, I rarely comment on your poetry, dear Aunt. I admire your work and occasionally amuse myself by trying to guess which well-known poet is hidden behind our dear Aunt's persona. I don't feel I have anything important to contribute here, nothing that the others haven't already said. So if I replied more often, I'd just be singing praises all the time.

Thank you kindly for sharing.

Regards,
DH

After I read your poem, Auntie, I couldn't help but think of Juliet when she says (I looked this up to be exact) to Romeo: "O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,/That monthly changes in her circled orb,/Lest that thy love prove likewise variable."

Though seasons and places may have their own intrinsic charm, the beauty of being with someone dear to us adds the wonderful thread of consistency, no matter where we find ourselves.

Beautiful poem, Auntie. For me it had a matter-of-fact tone that gave it much more strength than to ladden it with more emotional language.

Well, I had to google Gitmo, is it a well known word Stateside?

I love the repitition and more so the tinkering each time. The opening line, tinkered, then re-appearing at the end.

A cage of space, a spaceless cage.

Immediately resonant is ' I cannot move, but I can’t remain / I cannot move, and I can’t remain.

This may be following a poetic structure that I really should know. I don't know. But I know it is my favourite Auntie production to date.
JerryB

Thanks Lit-Nutters for your comments re: #408.

The structure is a "Pantoum" which is a good form to use for "practice." As the poetry columnist for the Writer's Digest wrote long ago, writing lines for a pantoum is similar to a piano student practicing scales. I choose the form for this topic because its prescribed repetition carries a circular effect, i.e., it ends up exactly where it starts.

Once you have the pattern for a pantoum, it's not difficult to write, provided that you haven't skipped a line or two (which of course happened to me in the first couple of go-arounds.) It doesn't necessarily have to be metered or have end rhyme-- just the prescribed pattern is enough.

So the whole thing is a metaphor of being stuck --an inability to move while simultaneously being unable to stay where one is. Hence the senseless burning snow, and the other images--you should excuse the last two syllables of the expression-- as "oxymoron."

Another term for the idea behind the double-edged cliché-- a rock and a hard place-- is "syzygy" -- a word that's as hard to spell as it is to pronounce.

"Gitmo" is an abbreviation for Guantanamo, a prison on the isle of Cuba, where once there, it's nigh impossible to leave. (I wasn't intending any political comment in the piece, just looking for a synonym for Devil's Island.)

Once again, I've 'splained too much. Thanks again for the feedback.

Auntie

Auntie, your 408 is a clean staccato in my ears, intentionally cold. Its enclosing form only adds to the anguish of someone in an impossible life situation. On a much smaller scale, it refers me to my own present condition. The form you chose to express the subject fits perfectly. But well, you're often just simply perfect. Plus, we ALWAYS learn so much from you. Thanks for your generous sharing, Auntie.

The Way It Used to Be

Winter is reliable – -
it doesn’t fool around,
doesn’t offer youthful promises
to be swiftly snatched away,
never teases us with thoughts
of newness, plenty, life.

That’s the old dependable
season for you. It covers
the sky with a dusky shroud,
and when it deigns
to grant a glimpse of sun,
the light is steely, strong:

neither a soft caress
nor a blazing blast.
The mat it lays
upon hardened earth
will crunch one day
and slosh the next,

or diabolically deny
traction, yet still step up
the gravity. It’s not defiance,
for winter stands
on its own solid ground:
what it wants is what you get.

Nice poem Auntie, but I'd be inclined to tweak and trim it a little. The last line of S1 has poor rhythm so you might try:

"newness, life or plenty."

You might consider adjusting the line break in S2:

"and when it deigns to grant
a glimpse of sun,"

S3 I'd be inclined to drop "hardened" as it's superflous in the face of "crunch... or slosh..."

In the last verse I'm not keen on, "step up the gravity" because it doesn't :D

try:

"or, diabolically,
deny traction.
It’s not defiance,
for winter stands
on its own solid ground:
what it wants is what you get."

I like the poem though, a reflective take on winter :)

Live and be well - H

Aunty, I have tried to reconcile the tense of the title (past) with the tense of the poem (present). I read this as a sutle comment on climate change (that winters are not like they used to be), but then why the present tense?

That aside, I enjoyed the poetic description, particularly S4 and getting stuck in snow (which rapidly turns to slush from the heat of spinning tires and, yes, gravity pulls the car deeper and deeper in the mud, which ends up on those trying to help push. That would have been a nice addition to this description.

Love the last line, the futility of trying to pretend everything is as usual (getting to work on time for one), when winter has full control over one's life using many of its devices.

Then of course we stop by woods and our view of winter changes to that of Mary Oliver, even as we are reminded of Frost and his little (quite observant) horse.

Thank you, Hawkman and firefangled for your comments. "Step up" -- to quicken or to increase the power of, intended as word play, the other meaning of "step."

It is possible to read the thing as a comment on climate change. Or not. The title comes from what young folks might hear from an old-timer, among whose ranks yours truly might belong much sooner than later. (To tell the truth, I recall that the winters of yesterday were really much more brutal than they seem in recent years.)

This particular "anti-poem" itself comes from cynicism and perversity, against the sentimentality of softly falling snow, sleigh bells, and the like, but most of all it was an attempt to fulfill a challenge (by yours fooly) to write about winter without the usual suspects: snow, ice, cold, wind, etc.

Like your take on the harshness of winter as a metaphor for a lament of lost youth/ the way we were, the grass was greener..........? acceptance perhaps. Nostalgia ain't what it used to be. Reminds me of a Pink Floyd lyric ' hanging on in quiet desperation is the english way'. Now that's a fine line. And your poem also has many.

Always love your verse and this one particularly for all the reasons you mentioned yourself. "what it wants is what you get" is absolutely great.

Thank you JB and Bar for your comments. The ditty was going for irony -- the opening line that "tells" too much contradicts (intentionally) the final line, "what it wants is what you get," so winter is not really "reliable" at all.

That's my last word on what has turned out to be a fairly lame piece of banality.

Now you know why there hasn't been much verse-posting from yours fooly since August! Maybe I peaked here:

http://www.online-literature.com/for...ems-in-30-Days


Gee, I've been on the LitNut for hours! What's his name must be wondering where his supper is. And if that's not enough reason to log off, the ad on top of the page says "Click here to view your arrest record now!"


"We keep coming back and coming back to the real.” -- Wallace Stevens

Pantoum for Jan. 1


Welcome, New Year, though you may be the same
old year dressing its number up as new.
I never ordered tears, and yet they came –-
they’ll come again to dun, as bills past due.
Same old year, counting numbers that seem new,
rings up no interest in what’s been shown
to dun as bills long past and overdue.
The same old devils that I’ve always known
bring little interest in what’s been shown
when losses are gained. And nothing’s earned
by the same old devils I’ve always known.
If only laughter, for once, had a turn
when losses were gained and nothing was earned.
I never ordered tears, and yet they came - -
unless one’s laughter had not missed its turn.
Well, come next year, I may not be the same.

Nice one, Auntie. Should this "when losses are gained. And nothing’s earned" (L10) be "when losses are gained. And nothing is earned"?

Wonderful Pantoum, Auntie! A perfect form for how we react in and with time and circumstances. Pantoums are not easy to do without losing the sense of the content. This is playful in its usage without losing the seriousness of the poem. It was indicative of the way we worry the same fundamental experiences year after year and wish to do so, as often as possible, with some laughter.

I've been trying to write one of these for years. You have inspired me to take it up again.

Auntie, you are one of the very few here who can do a rhyming poem and do it like a pro, without any hint that there's any compromise to the content in order to fit the rhymes. The opening three lines are my favorite and I like the repetition at the end. I really enjoyed it!

Thanks for your comments re: #421. ^^^ For this one, I chose the pantoum, because in that verse form the poem begins and ends the same way. That’s the point it was attempting to make about the so-called “new” year: each one blends into the other, and essentially the only thing that changes is the calendar.

I truly appreciate that some readers may have detected the irony, which was exactly what I intended. The “laughter” and “tears” are both banally generalized terms (almost abstractions) and both clichés, common to poems about the turning of the year. You’ll also notice the glaring absence of optimism, though the remaining pessimism can be construed as possibly self-inflicted and definitely self-perpetuated. What’s inferred and not spelled out is that interchangeable years as in the adage, “the devils you know,” are much less painful to confront than the unknown ones. The “same old, same old” keeps recurring because it’s comfortable! The final line of the piece, “Well, come next year I may not be the same,” of course, is a delusion, if not an out-and-out lie, because odds are the speaker -- like the misnomer “new” year - -is fraught with the same intractable inertia.

Finally, I confess that the inspiration for this piece comes directly from John Kilgore’s cogent and truthful analysis of Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” in Kilgore’s fine essay “Why Teachers Can’t Read Poetry,” which I strongly urge every LitNutter to read:

http://thescreamonline.com/essays/es...01/poetry.html

“I hear tell he stays up to all hours of the night working on strambotti and rispetti for her.”

“He makes pasta?”
–from The Lyin’ King, Part Eleven


The Fat Little Archer

That chubby sprite’s less threatening than a toy;
His naked, winking grin that barely covers
his sensual self, shows as modestly coy.
Not high above, with flighty wings he hovers – -
not quivering, takes aim at a girl and boy
as unsuspecting shots for certain lovers.
One arrow pierces both sharply, and – - I guess –
directly points them to unsure happiness.

Were you in a valentine state of mind Auntie? I dont think you needed 'unsure' in the closing line. Think it was a given. Great title. Hope you are well.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Jerrybaldy

Were you in a valentine state of mind Auntie? I dont think you needed 'unsure' in the closing line. Think it was a given. Great title. Hope you are well.

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Not so much in a valentine state of mind as much as seeing if yours fooly could come up with an example of those eleven-syllable Italian-style poems. I needed two syllables; hence "unsure." Thanks for reading this, Jerry.

Spider in the Shower

This creature in my washing spot:
“Itsy-bitsy” clearly was not!
With an exasperated scowl,
I wrapped it in a paper towel,
then dressed and took it for a ride
to find it better digs outside.
Shaken out, the stubborn fella
scampered back into the cellar.
I’d be rich if I had a dime
for each one caught at shower time:
all coming from some dark, dank den –
or this same one over (and over) again?

LOL Love it.

It's usually shrieks that prompt me to action.

Yes, I too prefer to put the octolegs back outside where they belong.

A spider poem I wrote almost a year ago:

Trapped / 7.4 (3.20.2012)


It's a small village, not
too far from Oaxaca, where
a tarantula struggles to
scale the slick porcelain
basin walls it has trapped
itself within. It has already
been a difficult day and the
cool water smelled so inviting
as it drip-dropped-splot down.
Vibrations... Fear, as the
spider imagines the return
of the people who scorn it so.


The light breeze trembles
Wave upon wave pulse the earth
Children cry; Dogs bark

3/24/2012 r.4/2/2012

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

Hi Auntie. This is a lot of fun! It rather reminds me of when I awoke in an African lodge to discover that I'd spent the night with a large arachnid. Remind me to send you a photo!

But back to the poem. I can't help wondering why you tied yourself to such a rigid syllable count, at least until the last line. In a humourous verse like this I feel that fluidty in the read would be preferable. Line two doesn't flow as well as it could because of the order of stresses, which for the most part in the body of the poem, is much more consistant. You might try:

"an "Itsy-Bitsy" - clearly not."

L9 suffers from the mixing of 'I'd' and 'I had' - "I'd be rich if I'd a dime," reads much more snappily.

The last line isn't really working for me though. I know it's possible that you elected to let it ramble, breaking your own rule on syllable count for comic effect, but I feel that this is a bit of a cop out, a self-deprecating admission that you couldn't think of a tighter ending which rhymed with den. Den certainly makes it difficult to wind up the last line succinctly. You might consider replacing it with lair which would give you more options, even if it means diminishing the alliteration of the line. This may not be a bad thing anyway as allteration isn't really a feature of the piece. Also, dank and damp are a touch tautologous.

Nevertheless, an enjoyable read, Auntie.

Live and be well - H

Thanks Tailor STATELY and Mr. Hawk -- nice to see you both back here in LitNutterland.

Quote:

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Line two doesn't flow as well as it could because of the order of stresses, which for the most part in the body of the poem, is much more consistant.

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Headless iamb.

Quote:

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L9 suffers from the mixing of 'I'd' and 'I had' - "I'd be rich if I'd a dime," reads much more snappily.

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Nah. wanted to keep it at 8 syllables. It's an idiom over here (and evidently in Canada, whence the Bare-naked Ladies hail:
"If I had a million dollars, I'd be rich."

Quote:

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The last line isn't really working for me though. I know it's possible that you elected to let it ramble, breaking your own rule on syllable count for comic effect, but I feel that this is a bit of a cop out, a self-deprecating admission that you couldn't think of a tighter ending which rhymed with den.

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Actually, colloquial and an idiom again -- maybe a joke in that we almost always repeat the phrase (over and over), similar to what the oft-quoted line from Casablanca had done, to this day, to the word "shocked."

Quote:

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dank and damp are a touch tautologous.

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You got me there, eagle-eye Hawk. Actually a misprint.Thinking of "dank" as the same as "dark"but with dampness. Now edited to read the way it's supposed to read--"dark and dank."

Thanks again to both of you for your comments. It's rare when yours fooly gets 'em, so when I do, I truly appreciate them.


PS The critter was back last night, only this time in my kitchen area.

Before I present the next two numbers, let me say that writing so-called "free verse" is every bit as difficult for yours fooly as is blank verse and all the other varieties of metrical form. I guess in my particular case I have the same problem when attempting prose. One would think I would find it easier after all these decades of trying, but no. Perhaps the more one reads, the more she sees examples of what good writing can be. So with that disclaimer, here goes nothin':


“It Just Seems Easy, Dunno Why”

It’s reached the point
of an epidemic, this delusional
disease from which few are immune.
Our names, though yet unknown, are Legion:

an Adonis beaming back
from every mirror,
and in the distorted steam
of each shower,
a Sinatra.

No dorm without scores
of students of unquavering faith
in their ability to play the guitar.
No kitchen operating without
a chef worthy of the Cordon Bleu.

Firm is the personal belief
in oneself: clearly
a faultless driver
and an expert lover
with a sense of humor
(motoring but one way);
and when so moved
“to take pen in hand”
who isn’t quick
to describe the inky spurts
spilling out as “poetry”?

Amid the cloudy source
of the certifying chops,
presumed the peers of professional quals,
for the instant diagnosis
delivered in a snap:

you’re crazy.





Lines for the First Day of Spring

I love the look
of sun-lit snow,
the white costumes
and caps of conifers,
and seeing the bittersweet
scene play out,
as winter’s finale
slowly drips away.

There are some nice puns: "unquavering" is rather jolly, although in my experience of musical internet instruction, it seems to be the norm for notes to be referred to as half, quarter, eigth, and sixteenth, rather than minims crotchets, quavers and semiquavers - at least when teacher is American :D of course, there don't seem to be may opportunities for breves in Banjo music - lol. "Cerifying chops" is also rather good. But "the motoring but one way" would be improved by moving it.

Not sure about the first line of S2, the excision of ing from beam would make the line more comfortable in context. I think I'd prefer it thus:

"an Adonis beams out
from every mirror,
and in each shower's distorting steam,
Sinatra sings."

"Firm is the personal belief
in oneself:"

really dosn't read well. Combining personal and self-belief is unnecessary, tautologous and just makes the line tortuous. "The self-belief is firm." would be quite sufficient

"clearly an expert lover,
a faultless driver
with a sense of humour
(motoring but one way);

would have been my choice here.

I like the chops pun, although it might be a bit obscure to those unfamiliar with the term for a Chinese seal/signature ;) Overall I like the conceit of the piece which highlights conceit lol.

The second poem is a fitting little tribute to the changing season.

Thanks for the entertainment.

Live and be well - H

Originally appearing on this forum on 4/15/12, it is re-posted here because the topic came up today.


A Kid Does His Homework

(Translated from the original Martian by William McGonagall, Ph.D., Distinguished Professor and Chairman of the Department of Martian Language and Literature at Downstate University at Hogwash.)

Our assignment was to report
about an aspect of our neighbor,
the one that’s one step closer
to the star we share.

My composition is about whatever it is
that almost covers that entire sphere.

It is a sickening color.
It is not red at all.
It is nothing like we have here.

Below a bunch of star-colored streaks
that follow the big ball while
it rotates and revolves, we see
the non-red thing wrinkling
the way our sand ripples in the wind.

When we get a closer look,
we see the expansive edge
rush back and forth
like it’s chasing itself.

If you put a small quantity
into a transparent vessel,
the color goes away.

If you put some in a flat container
and wait–
all of it goes away
(except for the mark it leaves behind,
a gray shadow, like a ghost.)

There are a few solid places
where this covering doesn’t reach.
But on those stony parts you’ll find
basins full and narrow lines of it
wriggling and cross-cutting rocks.

When you’re next to a border
and bravely stick an appendage in,
it feels strange, as if you want
to shrivel up and get yourself small,
as you do in night-time.

There’s a story about
how these aliens catch
some of it in little containers
which they keep by their sides
everywhere they go, like captured prisoners,

though from time to time
they tilt the contents out--
right into their maws!

I don’t believe this.
It makes me gag!

Also, it’s said that tiny, noisy
bits of it shoot down
from the tops of boxes
where the creatures stand erect.

They let these flashy meteors
fall directly on themselves.
They’re happy --
sometimes they sing –
as they rub and caress
these needles into their body-shells.

But when they move about their world
and the white streaks in their sky
meld into great clumps of dark gas
and begin to ooze the identical drops,

the earth-beings bolt in fear.
Sometimes they hold up parabolic shields
but mostly they run

as if they must avoid this stuff
or die.

They should do what our ancestors did
three million years ago
when they gathered up the putrid poison
and hid it all underground.


Mittfzlzl
(“The End”)

I don't beleive this was translated by McGonnagall, there aren't enough execrable rhymes... It's a fun read though, even if it is, perhaps, just a teensy bit prosaic. Maybe the Martian lyricism has been lost in translation ;)

Live and be well - H

I don't get the joke about mcgonagall. This is no where near his style at all.

This is marvelous.

Thank you, Hawkman, for your comments re #433 and #435^^^
And thanks, all of you, for weighing in on the Martian thingie, originally posted about a year ago in the 30/30 thread for National Poetry Month, at which time this particular piece generated nothing in the way of a response. I guess one could say "Better late than never."

The impetus of so-called "Martian" poetry comes from a pressing need in contemporary poetry to see the world through an entirely new lens. The idea is to present the subject as "unfamiliar," a theme masterfully explored by poets such as Diane Wakoski, as well as those mentioned in the Wikipedia link. What more convenient way to present an object as unfamiliar than to look at it as if the writer were a Martian? (Not at all to imply that yours fooly's writing is in any way "out of this world.")

The piece, purporting "translated" by Prof. McG, is allegedly a classroom exercise written by a student in the Red Planet's counterpart to middle school.

RE: The question of Prof. McGonagall, the chairman of the department of Martian Language and Literature at the upstate campuse of Downstate University at Hogwash (DUH.): that particular institution of higher learning has been strapped, financially speaking; hence the inability to pay for top-notch talent. (The highest paid staff member is of course the athletic director. It's an open question of whether he earns his keep, with the Hogwash Boars this season going 0-9.) Prof. McG, while an earnest scholar, is no Mark Van Doren. The only joke is an "inside" one, I guess, in that the surname is the same as an allegedly bad poet. Perhaps the Professor's namesake, the unappreciated bard, is one of his ancestors, a distant
relative on his father's side. Then again, maybe it's just a coincidence.

Speaking of which, it is definitely a coincidence that Opening Day coincides with April Fool's Day. You may undoubtedly think the following is a little of both:


Opening Day

The season’s fresh: a level field;
the spotless record holds a shield
against what ruthless fate may yield.

The new slate’s clean for groups of nine,
though numbers slide and sink in time,
as water reaching its own line.

While clouds of doubt are pitched away,
the sun sits high and cheers today.
Our trust runs sacred: Let us play.

Aha. We were all thinking of the worst poet in the world...many apologies, even if he is a distant ancestor!