Very well done, I enjoyed the humor and the crafting.
M
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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
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
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
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.
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/for...ad.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 nightwhile 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 moreto honor ceremony’s threshold mete,
off her feethe 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 joysconcealed a back-up babe, all game and so not shy
standing by.
Where once the lock of wedded bliss felt loose,
now a noosetightly wound itself ‘round her still youthful neck.
What the heck:more quickly than hubby leaping from bed,
fast she spedto 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.
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
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
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
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!
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:
but then perhaps these are excusable in what is after all a light-hearted piece.Quote:
he did sweep her, but then said of the room:
tightly wound itself ‘round her still youthful neck
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.
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.
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.
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.
deleted by Jassy Melson
What an apropos poem for these days. Excellent pantoum, Auntie.
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
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.
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.
“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.
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
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
The rhyming and the wit (as if one could separate the two) in this are wonderful!
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!
Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
I enjoyed this simply as a poem on vendors (particularly telemarketers aka the scourge of the earth).
"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?
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.
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."
Quote:
Originally Posted by Delta40
Quote:
Originally Posted by firefangled
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.)
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?
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:
Quote:
Originally Posted by Delta40
Thanks for your replies to #228.
*Here's a definition from one of the words in the current title:
http://www.dailywritingtips.com/the-...u-should-know/as it rehashs the topic from a
previous verse
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
----