Printable View
Quote:
Originally Posted by Hawkman
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.
It is a beautiful poem, Auntie.
As best I recall, the statement is "An only daughter is like a needle in the heart." To those who might care to look for the collection the line is the conclusion to an old Irish parable.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
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.
I felt a cold shiver reading this, such neglect.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
A carefully chosen subject with a poignant message from you, AuntShecky. Thankyou.
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
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!
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.
Thank you Dr. Cambridge, jersea, Prince, and Hawkman for your replies. And yes, the order of the three stanzas was absolutely intentional.
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
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.
The only competition for your wit is your last poem - or your next! This one is truly an act of virtuosity!
Very entertaining, Auntie! I like mine with lots of sugar, lol
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.
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
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. :)
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.
Says it all really...Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
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
Splendid, up to and most certainly including that last, sad stanza.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Hawkman
Yep! Thank you very much for catching it for me.
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...e=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
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!
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.
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
Live it! Love it! Puts me in mind of Betjeman, or possibly Dylan Thomas.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
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!Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
I didn't know what to indicate as the best, the most hilarious, the saddest, so I just quote it all above.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
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
“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.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNqosHRbWog
an illustration (re your previous one)...
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
... 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
This is an astoundingly good poem! How on earth do you manage to make elegance seem like the most natural thing on earth?
Thanks for posting this.Quote:
Originally Posted by Bar22do
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....!Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
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
Thank you very much!Quote:
Originally Posted by Bar22do
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
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...")
Delicious, Auntie.
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