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
Printable View
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!
Thank you,Delta.
In addition to the "triplets" in #439^^^there are two more on the same topic. While the season is still fresh, here are the two parodies posted back in the 30/30 thread from this time last year in reply #58. (If you scroll up that April 2012 thread to the posting April 16, you'll also see the posting inspired by the sestina by Diane W. if you are interested):
http://www.online-literature.com/for...=1#post1134096
This revised version closes out the last of a group of three jazz-themed poems written in April 2008, but never before appearing on the LitNet, maybe fortunately so. (The other two are in separate threads.)
It takes a long time to revise a poem; one should probably wait for a period of time to elapse in order to see it with fresh eyes, even if it takes as long as half a decade.
The title comes from the opening line of the old, old song, "Let's Face The Music (And Dance), but other than that lifted lyric, that's it for references to Irving Berlin (at least in this particular thing.)
“There May Be Trouble Ahead”
“The saxophone of melody”
blows hot, blows cold,
as young hands deftly dribble keys.
The alto runs a scale, puts down
a triad or two, and segues
into “Caravan.”
What if Rashawn should one day
leave his instrument at home?
Would false assumptions,
with undertones untrue,
blow his innocence away?
Why should he tote around old bags?
All he wants to do is blow his horn.
In this reverberant land
some of us still bleat
overheated hymns from Hell
drowning out the soft desert’s cry
and strangling the blues.
Noise overfloods and undermines
the tunes, rejoicing, reflecting,
as heat might flash upon tin.
Heads filled with historic sand
keep feet moving, moving on
in caravans against discordant dust
kicked up by gritty winds.
Godspeed to nomads
who seek cooling springs
of sun-sparkled harmony.
Hello Auntie. I surprised myself while reading this, and the surprise came from my personal association with your word choices in the opening stanza. Whilst I understand perfectly what you were conveying in terms of the depiction of playing music, and although you are quite correct in your use of 'keys' when describing the things one fingers on a sax (or any blown instrument that has them) the image which springs to my mind is of piano keys, which caused some confusion to my internal image associated with your words. I can only assume that this was because the first instrument that I encountered was a piano, as early as the age of two. My mother always had a piano in the house, though when I was very young we had two. I don't think she played it in the last 20 years of her life, though. I remember after she died I lifted the lid to see if it was in tune and I depressed a key. It snapped off in a puff of microscopic dust; the instrument was absolutely riddled with woodworm. Your last verse reminded me. The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that I had a positively gothic upbringing. :D
The second minor issue is with your use of dribble. Apart from a rather unpleasant image of drooling, culturally, on this side of the pond, the word, when not associated with wetness, conjures up the picture of a soccer player dribbling a ball. I spose this isn't entirely inappropriate in context, except that if he uses his fingers then it's 'hand ball!' Lol.
On a technical note I do have a relevant issue with the conclusion of the final verse. Harmony is a very weak word with which to conclude the poem. The three syllables forming a dactyl allow the two weak stresses to diminish the impact. Whereas this might be perfectly acceptable in a piece of music it doesn't really work in the written word. A stronger beat is necessary to close the tale. You might try:
"who, in sparkled harmony
seek cooling springs."
But it's only a suggestion and I accept that my opinion is entirely subjective. I'd prefer sparkling, but it doesn't work with cooling.
Anyway, an enjoyable read.
Live and be well - H
"Dribble" is the word, associated w. basketball -- going up and down the keys like going up and down the court. "Harmony" has a double-meaning, both intended here to contradict "discordant." Again, I've said way too much.
Your comments are always appreciated, Hawkman.
This next number is fresh off the keyboard and offers in a "slanted" way a sop to those who loathe end rhyme. (There's an eye rhyme as well.)
The Window-Washer
To wipe square glass encased in steel
means dangling by a single belt
some fifty-seven stories steep.
The comic hard-hat’s tipped to bolt–
a useless tenant, like The Rich,
who hang where softer winds have blown,
a penthouse just beyond his reach:
a short way up, a long way down.
With a little modification in tense this would make a fine epitaph :D
Live and be well - H
Not meant to be, though. More like leaving the poor workin stiff "suspended."Quote:
Originally Posted by Hawkman
Thanks for reading this. You're the only one who graces my work with replies and I appreciate it greatly.
Auntie
1.
Foggity, Hoggity,
Limbaugh, on radio,
Rush-es where patriots
oft fear to tread.
Liberals: tongues wagging
Ultraconservative
paranoid listeners:
rocks in their heads.
2.
Parsily, Farcily,
Simon and Garfunkel,
songwriting troubadours,
dabbling in rhyme.
Absent of irony,
sentimentality
wore out their wholesomeness,
stuck in their time.
3.
Hippity, Hypety,
Phineas T. Barnum
schlepping his circus to
parts near and far.
Faking zoology
incontrovertibly
showed to the world just what
monkeys we are.
4.
Hartily, tartily,
Sisters Kardashian,
plastered on tabloid sheets,
talent unknown.
Hawking “reality,”
pseudocelebrity
blasted its horn brashly:
Culture’s last groan.
Double Dactyl
I like the rhyme scheme for this one and the last line made me style. Well done.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
I really like this one, but it's hard for me to pin point why. I suspect it's the second stanza. The first is kind of silly and had me smiling. For some reason, the second strikes me as more serious, and kind of sad. Time stops for no man, no matter how his hair looks.Quote:
2.
Parsily, Farcily,
Simon and Garfunkel,
songwriting troubadours,
dabbling in rhyme.
Absent of irony,
sentimentality
wore out their wholesomeness,
stuck in their time.
This is clever, and I'm seeing a pattern in these here with the first lines. Sounds like witch talk from Wiz of Oz.Quote:
3.
Hippity, Hypety,
Phineas T. Barnum
schlepping his circus to
parts near and far.
Faking zoology
incontrovertibly
showed to the world just what
monkeys we are.
I couldn't agree more. Why is it that today all you need to be famous is absolutely no shame? I think the brash horn line suits the hole culture quite well.Quote:
4.
Hartily, tartily,
Sisters Kardashian,
plastered on tabloid pages,
talent unknown.
Hawking “reality,”
pseudocelebrity
blasted its horn brashly:
Culture’s last groan.
This is awesome work. It really put me in mind of the poor bastard who has to get up on a scaffold and wash those massive windows. The last line has depth to it.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky