Auntie's Anti-Poems

[AuntShecky]

Pantoum for Jan. 1


Welcome, New Year, though you may be the same
old year dressing its number up as new.
I never ordered tears, and yet they came –-
they’ll come again to dun, as bills past due.
Same old year, counting numbers that seem new,
rings up no interest in what’s been shown
to dun as bills long past and overdue.
The same old devils that I’ve always known
bring little interest in what’s been shown
when losses are gained. And nothing’s earned
by the same old devils I’ve always known.
If only laughter, for once, had a turn
when losses were gained and nothing was earned.
I never ordered tears, and yet they came - -
unless one’s laughter had not missed its turn.
Well, come next year, I may not be the same.

[miyako73]

Nice one, Auntie. Should this "when losses are gained. And nothing’s earned" (L10) be "when losses are gained. And nothing is earned"?

[firefangled]

Wonderful Pantoum, Auntie! A perfect form for how we react in and with time and circumstances. Pantoums are not easy to do without losing the sense of the content. This is playful in its usage without losing the seriousness of the poem. It was indicative of the way we worry the same fundamental experiences year after year and wish to do so, as often as possible, with some laughter.

I've been trying to write one of these for years. You have inspired me to take it up again.

[Haunted]

Auntie, you are one of the very few here who can do a rhyming poem and do it like a pro, without any hint that there's any compromise to the content in order to fit the rhymes. The opening three lines are my favorite and I like the repetition at the end. I really enjoyed it!

[AuntShecky]

Thanks for your comments re: #421. ^^^ For this one, I chose the pantoum, because in that verse form the poem begins and ends the same way. That’s the point it was attempting to make about the so-called “new” year: each one blends into the other, and essentially the only thing that changes is the calendar.

I truly appreciate that some readers may have detected the irony, which was exactly what I intended. The “laughter” and “tears” are both banally generalized terms (almost abstractions) and both clichés, common to poems about the turning of the year. You’ll also notice the glaring absence of optimism, though the remaining pessimism can be construed as possibly self-inflicted and definitely self-perpetuated. What’s inferred and not spelled out is that interchangeable years as in the adage, “the devils you know,” are much less painful to confront than the unknown ones. The “same old, same old” keeps recurring because it’s comfortable! The final line of the piece, “Well, come next year I may not be the same,” of course, is a delusion, if not an out-and-out lie, because odds are the speaker -- like the misnomer “new” year - -is fraught with the same intractable inertia.

Finally, I confess that the inspiration for this piece comes directly from John Kilgore’s cogent and truthful analysis of Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” in Kilgore’s fine essay “Why Teachers Can’t Read Poetry,” which I strongly urge every LitNutter to read:

http://thescreamonline.com/essays/es...01/poetry.html

[AuntShecky]

“I hear tell he stays up to all hours of the night working on strambotti and rispetti for her.”

“He makes pasta?”
–from The Lyin’ King, Part Eleven


The Fat Little Archer

That chubby sprite’s less threatening than a toy;
His naked, winking grin that barely covers
his sensual self, shows as modestly coy.
Not high above, with flighty wings he hovers – -
not quivering, takes aim at a girl and boy
as unsuspecting shots for certain lovers.
One arrow pierces both sharply, and – - I guess –
directly points them to unsure happiness.

[Jerrybaldy]

Were you in a valentine state of mind Auntie? I dont think you needed 'unsure' in the closing line. Think it was a given. Great title. Hope you are well.

[AuntShecky]

Were you in a valentine state of mind Auntie? I dont think you needed 'unsure' in the closing line. Think it was a given. Great title. Hope you are well.

Not so much in a valentine state of mind as much as seeing if yours fooly could come up with an example of those eleven-syllable Italian-style poems. I needed two syllables; hence "unsure." Thanks for reading this, Jerry.

[AuntShecky]

Spider in the Shower

This creature in my washing spot:
“Itsy-bitsy” clearly was not!
With an exasperated scowl,
I wrapped it in a paper towel,
then dressed and took it for a ride
to find it better digs outside.
Shaken out, the stubborn fella
scampered back into the cellar.
I’d be rich if I had a dime
for each one caught at shower time:
all coming from some dark, dank den –
or this same one over (and over) again?

[tailor STATELY]

LOL Love it.

It's usually shrieks that prompt me to action.

Yes, I too prefer to put the octolegs back outside where they belong.

A spider poem I wrote almost a year ago:

Trapped / 7.4 (3.20.2012)


It's a small village, not
too far from Oaxaca, where
a tarantula struggles to
scale the slick porcelain
basin walls it has trapped
itself within. It has already
been a difficult day and the
cool water smelled so inviting
as it drip-dropped-splot down.
Vibrations... Fear, as the
spider imagines the return
of the people who scorn it so.


The light breeze trembles
Wave upon wave pulse the earth
Children cry; Dogs bark

3/24/2012 r.4/2/2012

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie. This is a lot of fun! It rather reminds me of when I awoke in an African lodge to discover that I'd spent the night with a large arachnid. Remind me to send you a photo!

But back to the poem. I can't help wondering why you tied yourself to such a rigid syllable count, at least until the last line. In a humourous verse like this I feel that fluidty in the read would be preferable. Line two doesn't flow as well as it could because of the order of stresses, which for the most part in the body of the poem, is much more consistant. You might try:

"an "Itsy-Bitsy" - clearly not."

L9 suffers from the mixing of 'I'd' and 'I had' - "I'd be rich if I'd a dime," reads much more snappily.

The last line isn't really working for me though. I know it's possible that you elected to let it ramble, breaking your own rule on syllable count for comic effect, but I feel that this is a bit of a cop out, a self-deprecating admission that you couldn't think of a tighter ending which rhymed with den. Den certainly makes it difficult to wind up the last line succinctly. You might consider replacing it with lair which would give you more options, even if it means diminishing the alliteration of the line. This may not be a bad thing anyway as allteration isn't really a feature of the piece. Also, dank and damp are a touch tautologous.

Nevertheless, an enjoyable read, Auntie.

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

Thanks Tailor STATELY and Mr. Hawk -- nice to see you both back here in LitNutterland.

Line two doesn't flow as well as it could because of the order of stresses, which for the most part in the body of the poem, is much more consistant.

Headless iamb.

L9 suffers from the mixing of 'I'd' and 'I had' - "I'd be rich if I'd a dime," reads much more snappily.

Nah. wanted to keep it at 8 syllables. It's an idiom over here (and evidently in Canada, whence the Bare-naked Ladies hail:
"If I had a million dollars, I'd be rich."

The last line isn't really working for me though. I know it's possible that you elected to let it ramble, breaking your own rule on syllable count for comic effect, but I feel that this is a bit of a cop out, a self-deprecating admission that you couldn't think of a tighter ending which rhymed with den.

Actually, colloquial and an idiom again -- maybe a joke in that we almost always repeat the phrase (over and over), similar to what the oft-quoted line from Casablanca had done, to this day, to the word "shocked."

dank and damp are a touch tautologous.

You got me there, eagle-eye Hawk. Actually a misprint.Thinking of "dank" as the same as "dark"but with dampness. Now edited to read the way it's supposed to read--"dark and dank."

Thanks again to both of you for your comments. It's rare when yours fooly gets 'em, so when I do, I truly appreciate them.


PS The critter was back last night, only this time in my kitchen area.

[AuntShecky]

Before I present the next two numbers, let me say that writing so-called "free verse" is every bit as difficult for yours fooly as is blank verse and all the other varieties of metrical form. I guess in my particular case I have the same problem when attempting prose. One would think I would find it easier after all these decades of trying, but no. Perhaps the more one reads, the more she sees examples of what good writing can be. So with that disclaimer, here goes nothin':


“It Just Seems Easy, Dunno Why”

It’s reached the point
of an epidemic, this delusional
disease from which few are immune.
Our names, though yet unknown, are Legion:

an Adonis beaming back
from every mirror,
and in the distorted steam
of each shower,
a Sinatra.

No dorm without scores
of students of unquavering faith
in their ability to play the guitar.
No kitchen operating without
a chef worthy of the Cordon Bleu.

Firm is the personal belief
in oneself: clearly
a faultless driver
and an expert lover
with a sense of humor
(motoring but one way);
and when so moved
“to take pen in hand”
who isn’t quick
to describe the inky spurts
spilling out as “poetry”?

Amid the cloudy source
of the certifying chops,
presumed the peers of professional quals,
for the instant diagnosis
delivered in a snap:

you’re crazy.





Lines for the First Day of Spring

I love the look
of sun-lit snow,
the white costumes
and caps of conifers,
and seeing the bittersweet
scene play out,
as winter’s finale
slowly drips away.

[Hawkman]

There are some nice puns: "unquavering" is rather jolly, although in my experience of musical internet instruction, it seems to be the norm for notes to be referred to as half, quarter, eigth, and sixteenth, rather than minims crotchets, quavers and semiquavers - at least when teacher is American of course, there don't seem to be may opportunities for breves in Banjo music - lol. "Cerifying chops" is also rather good. But "the motoring but one way" would be improved by moving it.

Not sure about the first line of S2, the excision of ing from beam would make the line more comfortable in context. I think I'd prefer it thus:

"an Adonis beams out
from every mirror,
and in each shower's distorting steam,
Sinatra sings."

"Firm is the personal belief
in oneself:"

really dosn't read well. Combining personal and self-belief is unnecessary, tautologous and just makes the line tortuous. "The self-belief is firm." would be quite sufficient

"clearly an expert lover,
a faultless driver
with a sense of humour
(motoring but one way);

would have been my choice here.

I like the chops pun, although it might be a bit obscure to those unfamiliar with the term for a Chinese seal/signature Overall I like the conceit of the piece which highlights conceit lol.

The second poem is a fitting little tribute to the changing season.

Thanks for the entertainment.

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

Originally appearing on this forum on 4/15/12, it is re-posted here because the topic came up today.


A Kid Does His Homework

(Translated from the original Martian by William McGonagall, Ph.D., Distinguished Professor and Chairman of the Department of Martian Language and Literature at Downstate University at Hogwash.)

Our assignment was to report
about an aspect of our neighbor,
the one that’s one step closer
to the star we share.

My composition is about whatever it is
that almost covers that entire sphere.

It is a sickening color.
It is not red at all.
It is nothing like we have here.

Below a bunch of star-colored streaks
that follow the big ball while
it rotates and revolves, we see
the non-red thing wrinkling
the way our sand ripples in the wind.

When we get a closer look,
we see the expansive edge
rush back and forth
like it’s chasing itself.

If you put a small quantity
into a transparent vessel,
the color goes away.

If you put some in a flat container
and wait–
all of it goes away
(except for the mark it leaves behind,
a gray shadow, like a ghost.)

There are a few solid places
where this covering doesn’t reach.
But on those stony parts you’ll find
basins full and narrow lines of it
wriggling and cross-cutting rocks.

When you’re next to a border
and bravely stick an appendage in,
it feels strange, as if you want
to shrivel up and get yourself small,
as you do in night-time.

There’s a story about
how these aliens catch
some of it in little containers
which they keep by their sides
everywhere they go, like captured prisoners,

though from time to time
they tilt the contents out--
right into their maws!

I don’t believe this.
It makes me gag!

Also, it’s said that tiny, noisy
bits of it shoot down
from the tops of boxes
where the creatures stand erect.

They let these flashy meteors
fall directly on themselves.
They’re happy --
sometimes they sing –
as they rub and caress
these needles into their body-shells.

But when they move about their world
and the white streaks in their sky
meld into great clumps of dark gas
and begin to ooze the identical drops,

the earth-beings bolt in fear.
Sometimes they hold up parabolic shields
but mostly they run

as if they must avoid this stuff
or die.

They should do what our ancestors did
three million years ago
when they gathered up the putrid poison
and hid it all underground.


Mittfzlzl
(“The End”)