Auntie's Anti-Poems

[PrinceMyshkin]

“mouthfeel,” always concocted to be
craved but never meant to satisfy.

In these lines in particular but throughout this Jeremaiad you reveal yourself once again as the Aunty that all of North America badly needs. May whomever you wish to be blessed by, bless you bountifully!

[Bar22do]

American Pastime

It’s strange, this compulsion
that must be forever fed -- not a hunger
per se, but like the Poor,
it’s always here.

As armies and reptiles travel on their bellies,
so do we keep our vehicles well-stocked,
to tide us through emergencies or the inevitable
red light delay. We don't leave home without it.

The road we venture down is an endless esophagus,
while we keep one eye peeled for a place to stop--
for a bite to slake the appetite of dreams,
perchance to sample the local fare.

At picnic tables flanking the pavement,
or in parks, on benches, on beaches,
every place you look people may be drinking
or now and then smoking but mostly
gnawing and chewing and swallowing and gulping
and scarfing and devouring, chowing down,

pigging out on salty things and sweet
things and crispy things and greasy things
and saucy things and crunchy things and
drippy, messy, sticky things, all designed
for good looks and what experts mysteriously
call “mouthfeel,” always concocted to be
craved but never meant to satisfy.

At flashy shows of fiery music, or classy
venues for virtuoso strings, the star
is the intermission or interval, the time
at last for refreshments, the obbligato
snack: fast food or slow food or crowd-
pleasing moderato middle food,

not to mention tonight’s special,
that long-awaited occasion,
when the sparkling night spreads out
its velvet tablecloth across the sky,
as we, with silken apparel and jewels,

prepare ourselves for a fine
dining experience, more sacred
than the post-service Sunday brunch,
elevating our everyday activity,

which we do every day, every morning,
every evening, and especially
in between, spending every spare
minute eating and eating and eating,
always and everywhere eating

and eating.

I didn't know what to indicate as the best, the most hilarious, the saddest, so I just quote it all above.
I have some reservation about US having the exclusivity for this cursed compulsion... one of the places I live in ever organises mostly around food and unlike in France, where I also spend time, restaurants, bandstands, market places simply never close...
Your poem (excellent!!!) breathes health, though! a sound voice - that hopefully will be heard at least by few, here, there, wherever it's badly needed...
Be very well, AuntSh, it's always a treat when you post! Bar

[AuntShecky]

“I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floor of silent seas.”
–T. S. Eliot


Hermit Crab

Dumb luck dubbed both halves of the name quite wrong.
She'd do much better with large social groups
alive in swirling tide pools streaked with sun,
not a solo fixture stuck in salty sand.
Her identity was already crushed
when science deemed her class of crab not “true,”
though she’s crustaceous, to be sure. Not doomed
like that fabled Dutchman, wandering the sea,
she entered life marooned and anchorless;
now scours round for a fitting carapace.
She moors on vacant digs in which to squat,
where whelks and periwinkles once called home.

To such a creature one could call me kin:
both born by chance beneath the star-sketched sign
which shares its name with a deadly malady–
that gritty pearl!– but not the toughest wave
to ride. An absent birthright’s harder still.
I washed ashore with nothing; just the same
I'll leave. Oh, for a harbor, safe against
abashing inconvenience and the harsh
perils of poverty’s rough surf. I tend
to shun my fellow creatures' company.
I never felt at home on tossing seas
of fleeting treasures, whistles, and brash tweets.

In modern times I cannot swim nor float.
A voyage to a century twice past
might map a chart to show the way to thrive.
New England’s recluse, left alone to dry,
retiring to her room, was thought to clench
sweet solitude close to her quiet heart.
To the surface came scores of pithy poems,
unsigned, the dactyl of her name obscured,
the boast of frogs too public for her taste.
At times she'd greet the children passing by
the weathered windowsill where she had set –
to cool for future gifts – an empty shell.


UPDATE -- 7/24/10
Yesterday I came across this article:

http://www.slate.com/id/2255272

which contains some ***shocking!*** revelations about the homelife of one of the characters in this anti-poem above. Although the "dangerous liaison" of a romantic nature occurred under the poet's roof, she herself was not one of the participants. The point in the article that really gave me pause was the notion that Emily was not expected to do a lick of housework! I do believe that I've previously read that she was fond of baking, however, and thus the pie allusion in the verse above remains.

[Bar22do]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNqosHRbWog

an illustration (re your previous one)...

[Hawkman]

Auntie, I'd never have called you crabby! I think this is a very clever, self-depricating poem with more than a wisp of sad reflection and a fair sprinkling of honest to goodness wit. I have already read it three times and I'm certain to come back again and read it some more, just for the fun of it. So thanks for giving me something to do this evening

Best, H

[Bar22do]

... and the last one leaves me smiling. Actually, doesn't leave me. For I'll soon crave for another glance at it! Thanks for posting! Bar

[PrinceMyshkin]

This is an astoundingly good poem! How on earth do you manage to make elegance seem like the most natural thing on earth?

[AuntShecky]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNqosHRbWog

an illustration (re your previous one)...

Thanks for posting this.
Those hot dogs had better be Kosher! I wouldn't be surprised if some of those trenchermen (and women)were American tourists.

[Bar22do]

Thanks for posting this.
Those hot dogs had better be Kosher! I wouldn't be surprised if some of those trenchermen (and women)were American tourists.

he he... it's very likely....!

[Bar22do]

With you we always oscillate between fun and philosophical depths. What a wit. What a crab you are!

"born by chance beneath the star-sketched sign"

Should I wish you a happy birthday then? for we are in the Crab/Cancer passage right now; ok, just in case, a very healthy funny amazing birthday to you, wrapped in love of whoever is dear to you...

I'm on the way to addiction to your talent, Aunty, but, to paraphraze Wilde, if one cannot enjoy reading a poem (book) over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all...

A very deep bow to you Aunty (hack'ian bow) - Bar

[AuntShecky]

/I]

Should I wish you a happy birthday then? for we are in the Crab/Cancer passage right now; ok, just in case, a very healthy funny amazing birthday to you, wrapped in love of whoever is dear to you...

- Bar

Thank you very much!

[acdouglas92]

I happened upon this thread purely by accident, and I must say, I'm pleasantly surprised. The poems I've read here all flow so easily, and your choice of language is absolutely exquisite. If I could, I would tip my hat to you; I will most definitely be looking forward to the next one (of many more, I hope!).

Cheers!

-AC

[qimissung]

Crab cakes, anyone? Aunty, for someone who's so vociferously anti, your poetry positivly overflows with things for us to think about. I'm not sure that I always agree, but the pleasure of the trip is always, always worth it, and I am always satieted at the end of the meal.

I realize this is a somewhat general compliment, but this is intended for the last three that you wrote specifically, or the ones on the this page and the last one.

Delightful! ("dabs at mouth, reluctantly pushes away from the table...")

[hack]

Delicious, Auntie.

[AuntShecky]

Variation on an Old American Folk Song*

It’s hard to tend this little light of mine
when duller shades conspire to cloud the sky.
I only lack a way to let it shine.

Stuck under a bushel in a crowded line,
the flame burns down; its illumination, shy.
It’s hard to tend this little light of mine.

Emerging stars have me dream and pine.
An earth-bound incandescence yearns to fly.
I only lack a way to let it shine.

The night lets out its thunder and a whine,
and through the darkness comes an unknown cry.
It’s hard to tend this little light of mine.

A flash will flicker like an aging sign
while tiny bulbs refuse to fade and die.
I only lack a way to let it shine.

I pray to heaven for a spark divine,
or worldly watts to fan each switch I try.
It’s hard to tend this little light of mine.
I only lack a way to let it shine.



*Often listed as "traditional." A 2009 YouTube posting by the University of New Hampshire lists Harry Dixon Loes as the author, circa 1920. A video performance of the song may be viewed by clicking:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lz0DySippak