Auntie's Anti-Poems

[Hawkman]

Rather an alliterative feast, Auntie, but some great wit here. Not sure about blades of honeysuckle though. Definitely escapes me as an image. Never really considered honeysuckle to be dangerously sharp, proficient in the use of swords, or even a comic book vampire killer. Hi ho, one lives and learns

Live and be well - H

[Bar22do]

A new satirical gem, Auntie, in which keen intelligence and your poetic art combine successfully! Thanks for your 314.

Warm wishes from Bar

[AuntShecky]

Thank you Delta, Hawk, and Bar for your nice comments re: #314.

Here's my characteristically prolix reply to your replies. (Pop a couple o' No-Doz.)

I had the LitNet equivalent of "buyer's remorse" -- "PPPS--post-posting poster's syndrome"-- as in the very days and hours I was laboring over every blessed line of this thing, real life occurring elsewhere caused multitudes in the Midwest and South of the U.S. to suffer through cataclysmic weather, while here I was writing about a lengthy spate of ordinary rain, at best a nuisance.

But the damn thing was finally "done" and I went ahead and posted.


Although I certainly don't mind -- in fact, I'm flattered -- that the current ditty comes off as satirical, but I'm afraid for this one I wasn't trying to channel Juvenal and Swift as much as wanting to catch a whiff of Wordsworth and especially Thoreau. I get obsessed w. Nature that sometimes I think I might be the flesh-and-blood version of the Enthusiast in this famous Thurber cartoon.

In any event, the reference to the honeysuckle "blades" in #314 was meant to play off the mower mentioned in the previous line. I went outside to check and yep, the honeysuckle petals are spear-shaped, though slightly broader and not as "pointy" as those of the shadbush earlier this spring. If you plug the phrase "pink honeysuckle +free photo" into the Google machine, most of the pictures that come up will show the blossoms as a deep "hot" pink, almost a fuchsia color. The wild honeysuckle around here is --or was-- a much paler, pastel pink, but from this, as well as the white variety, comes the sweet aroma that the honeysuckle is famous for in song and legend.

As of this writing, especially after all that rain, the honeysuckle is wrapping up its gig for the year, along with the violet and the lilac. Next up are pockets of pink mallows and a few early specimens of the wild phlox, with 5-petaled blossoms,and smooth-edged, opposite leaves. I sometimes confuse it with another plant that's also made its appearance this year. It looks a lot like the wild phlox; the only differences are 4 instead of 5 petals, and saw-toothed, alternative leaves) -- which, conveniently enough, segues into the next number:


Dame’s Rockets

Oh, say what are these–
long past dawn,
deep into day,
bursting like benign bombs
in the glare of neglect,
weedy overgrowth, tossed tires?

Their pink, ivory, purple diversity
gives translucent proof
through the blight
that wild hope can defy
their glorious uselessness.

Oh say how those soft petals
thrive–never wavering!

They're almost enough
to make one forget
the bad –also good–
shoots of a woman
whose shared roots,
by sheer chance,
happen to be American–
red, white, and oh-so
blue.

[Hawkman]

Well Auntie, I have quite an extensive Thurber collection in my library, so precious to me that I actually made a great effort to ensure that his stuff was disenterred from the mountain of boxes in my front room, so that it could be easily accessed from the shelves of one of my few bookshelves.

The honeysuckle that grew in the garden of the last dwelling I actually owned, in that dim, distant past before my fortunes took a nose-dive, was actually white flowered, but my memory may just be playing me fale with my recollection of the shape of its leaves. I believe they were rounded rather than pointy. This particular plant was quite vigorous, having eaten the iron railings on the veranda.

Oh, and ps, Loved the last poem, too, even with it's corney, patriotic finale, with its incorporated pun Who was it said that patriotism was the last refuge of a scoundrel?

Live and be well - H

[deryk]

that wild hope can defy
their glorious uselessness.

This was my favorite couplet in the poem. It speaks volumes for the appeal of uselessness. The wild hope seems to tie to the "lost" memory of whomever the titular "Dame" might be. I'm still uncertain, but I love the unity of diverse floral colors and metaphorically blighted roots in this poem. Cultivation and neglect rarely strike such a beautiful image when they are both entwined so tightly.

[Jerrybaldy]

I took it you were the dame dear auntie (I always wonder that this should be 'aunty'). I usually find the sign off most difficult and your final stanza here is a fine example of a close that feels just right.

Each line is poetic in it's own right, far removed from prose, giving a lush feel straight through.

I have failed to decipher the rockets thus far.

[IceM]

bursting like benign bombs
in the glare of neglect,
weedy overgrowth, tossed tires?

Their pink, ivory, purple diversity
gives translucent proof
through the blight
that wild hope can defy
their glorious uselessness.

Oh say how those soft petals
thrive–never wavering!
They're almost enough
to make one forget
the bad –also good–
shoots of a woman
whose shared roots,
by sheer chance,
happen to be American–
red, white, and oh-so
blue.

Such a beautiful contrast in the first bold, one that gives firework-esque radiance to the flowers, also enhanced by the ugly, almost trashyard feel the abandoned tires offer. The repetition of sounds (I think consonance, the term) makes it much more pleasing to the ear.

I know the italicized expression was to glorify the unwavering strength of the petals but it didn't do much for me. It seems out of place, although that may be just me.

The pink, ivory, purple image sets up a nice parallel, and perhaps subtle contrast? between the red, white, and oh-so blue image later. Perhaps edit out oh-so and leave blue instead? Oh-so seemed banal.

I very much enjoyed this posting Auntie!

Edit: I just realized essentially everything in the quote was italicized, so specifically the "Oh, how those soft petals...wavering" was what I refered to when I meant "italicized" expression.

[Bar22do]

Your last, Auntie, is poetically very different, an inspired combination of nature, poetry and your unique sensibility. The (very unexpected and good!) finale "smells" of satire or at least is a wink of an eye. Congratulations, from me, with my lasting thought, Bar

[PrinceMyshkin]

I assume one is meant to hear the echo of "The Star-Spangled Banner" in the background of this and I loved to keep the play of the two in mind as I read through this but like some others I was puzzled as to the identity of the "dame" - the Statue of Liberty?

[AuntShecky]

Thank you Hawkman, deryk, Jerryb., Iceman, Bar and Prince for your comments re: #318.

Here I go "'splaining" again:

Hawk, perhaps the species of these honeysuckle are indigenous to the New World; the ones that grow wild near my past and present abodes-- come in both white and pale pink varieties, but they're all brown and spent.I forgot to check out the shape of the honeysuckle's leaves.

Here's the deal on the fleurs mentioned in #318, if I culled the info from the Google Machine correctly--re: the diff. between wild phlox and Dame's Rocket. If I've got it correctly, both come in a variety of pastel colors.
The wild phlox blossoms have 5 petals and the Dame's Rockets have 4. The leaves of the phlox are smooth-edgedand opposite each other but the dames rockets' are saw-toothed and alternate.

Speaking of phlox, there are several cultivated varieties, especially the small plants that are often used over here as ground covers for borders or small hillocks. That species is called "creeping phlox" which, upon first hearing the term, made me think was some kind of skin disease.

"Dame's Rockets" are the ones which appear in #318. Around here they grow on a trail first forged by a utility company. The electric company does a lot of work on the trail with bulldozers and the like, but seldom picks up the trash that people throw there indiscriminately. The wild flowers, raspberries, and strawberries don't seem to mind, though.

One more thing about #318. Prince nailed the connection with and the Star-Spangled Banner. (Wish yours fooly was as knowledgeable about "O Canada"!)

I believe he name of the flower came from the Old World, and origin. the name alluded to Our Lady. But the rocket part of the name reminded me of "And the rocket's red glare. . ." Just as the wild flower grows in disheveled areas, the word "Dame" can refer to both a noble woman and a gun moll.

In my ditty, the dame was just a generic "woman," not exclusively the speaker of the verse, but a mujer Americano just the same. (Not the "Statue of Liberty." though.)

Thanks again to all of you for your encouragement.

[AuntShecky]

The next ditty is located here:

http://www.online-literature.com/for...36#post1039436

[Bar22do]

I posted a reaction to your last, Auntie, and it mysteriously disappeared somewhere... have you found it or it just dissolved into virtuality? Strange...

In any case, I enjoyed its pace and craft and while I thought that, seeing the situation, you may never "catch a break", I also felt your humour would keep you going. Best as always, Bar

[AuntShecky]

In the Dark

Nothing shocks us anymore,
not deviant flukes nor freakish rewards.
One ship can lightly breeze
into a festooned, cheering port
as another obscurely sinks–
that’s taken as a given.

If I should be so bold as ask
how to grasp the power to discern
what separates graceful sheep
from hapless goats, wits will chafe,

with each response as opaque as fog,
an impenetrable head-shake or shrug,
the clear truth, warned the New England sage,
as hard to catch as light. Still
I'd really like to know

why seeds, planted with promise, fail
to germinate, or at best do not raise
their stunted status, shunned by the sun.
Don't for a second think
the significance of losing
the garden I loved
has been lost on me. Yet–
I really want to know

why this vague desire
for rarefied fruit remains.
It twirls around the mind’s staff
like ivy; or nagging music:
the persistent query
of a plaintive horn
while wry woodwinds clang
in futile cacophony. It bangs

on the door to the existing room,
where the question’s all but drowned
out by the trumpeting blast
of a Ganesha who dares
the world to ignore his blatant stench.

Meanwhile the power outage looms;
we might as well unplug, disconnect
from even attainable desires –
let alone some yacht, or flower-
flagged country digs.
But all at sea
in a motor-less craft,
how about a hint, a clue
to steer through this chilling
vacuum late at night, so
to spot the faintest spark,
neither blinking nor revolving
before it all disappears
off the coast of tomorrow:
is that too much to ask?
I'm dying to know.

[Hawkman]

An eloquently lyrical lament, Auntie. We look back to review the hopes and dreams of our youth in the knowledge of the present and imagine the future with trepidation. Ultimnately we endure and stay the course with faith or fatalism. I don't think there are any easy answers, only fellow travellers and friends we meet along the way. Great poem.

Live and be well - H

[Jerrybaldy]

My extended metaphors wilt unwatered beside a lengthy Shecky x