Auntie's Anti-Poems

[Hawkman]

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

[blank|verse]

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.

[AuntShecky]

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.

[Hawkman]

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 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

[hillwalker]

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

[PrinceMyshkin]

The rhyming and the wit (as if one could separate the two) in this are wonderful!

[AuntShecky]

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!

[Delta40]

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.

I enjoyed this simply as a poem on vendors (particularly telemarketers aka the scourge of the earth).

[qimissung]

"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?

[firefangled]

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.

[Bar22do]

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."

[AuntShecky]

I enjoyed this simply as a poem on vendors (particularly telemarketers aka the scourge of the earth).

I always ask the telemerketers if calling during the dinner hour is working for them.

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.)

[Delta40]

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?

[AuntShecky]

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:

. 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?

[AuntShecky]

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








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