Auntie's Anti-Poems

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

M

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.”

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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