Auntie's Anti-Poems

[Delta40]

I am a tiny Ant
blind without my 'i"
I wander through Lit-Net
and hope I will get by

[Buh4Bee]

[Hawkman]

Well Auntie, you’ve no idea how much this poem resonates with me. How I crave the absence of intrusive, man-made sound. The blare of exhaust from boy-racer’s chariots, the screamed, abusive conversations of intoxicated humanity as it staggers home at 2am. I would far rather listen to the sounds of wind and rain, or a nice, soothing thunderstorm.

I like the rhythm of the this piece. With so much of it in iambic pentameter spurious syllables stand out a bit. For example, I feel L1 of S2 is a little ungainly. There are too many stressed syllables adjoining in the line. My preference would be to tighten it up a bit:

“But here, sound thrives within our atmosphere.”

L2, “The sweep of air through trees, the gurgling swirls”

while in S3 I feel L1 is missing a beat:

“to alien strains of (cruel) invading noise–-“

In S5 I’m not sure about, “taken over by the overlords.” I can see why you’d want to use it, it has an element of assonance and symmetry, but it does force an awkwardness in the meter.

S6, L2 might be better as: “that hides behind aloof and neutral stars?” Not only is this better for the metre but ties in with the plural ‘they’, which defy count in the next line. I also feel you need a comma in this line, “…they are far, and far apart,”

I’m not sure I get, “The gloomy gyre of Yeats…” Is this a reference to a specific poem? Likewise, who’s Emily? the same question, vis. specific poem applies.

On the whole I like it, there is ironic humour here which winks at me as I read it, and as I said before, I’m sympathetic to it’s message. So thanks for posting it, Auntie.

Live and be well, H

[AuntShecky]

Thanks for your comments re: post #134 above.

I have to admit that I'm a little surprised that no one nailed me on the fact that the subject matter-- ambient noise -- is an item fairly far down on the list of evils. In certain countries of the world in which warfare and violence are a daily threat, the least of their problems is noise, which is more often than not the bellwether of imminent danger.

On the other hand, maybe noise can serve as a symbol or as just one of the symptoms of an eroding culture as is often displayed in the good old U. S. A.

Did anybody get the joke in "existing" room?

I also thought that some would question the structure and/ or meter of these lines.

In the case of this line,
all squeal as if some animal’s been trapped
after having posted the "down and dirty" punctuation guide, I thought somebody would question the apostrophe in "animal's". I intended it as a contraction for "some animal has been trapped." Kosher or nay?

Is the meter all right in this one?
taken over by the overlords of din.
It starts with a headless iamb, and a prepositional phrase that's an automatic anapest, but I believe that the line still retains 5 stresses:
Taken over by the overlords of din

[I]In this one, a paraphrase of a line by Yeats,
The gloomy gyre of Yeats grows wider still.
the meter is more or less okay since "gyre" is not pronounced as two syllables with a long "y" but as one stressed syllable--"jir." (I had to look that one up.)
{Added 10/14/10: The previous sentence reads like gibberish, but, try as I may, every time I try to pronounce a one-syllable word ending in "r," it comes out like two syllables: "fire" as "fi-er," "gyre," as "gi-er." It's almost as hard as pronouncing "luxury" correctly. Maybe I have really idiosyncratic speech patterns.}

Speaking of looking things up, maybe I should provide links to the three allusions, one from the prose intro and
two in the verse itself:

"Shine, Perishing Republic"
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/arch...html?id=176411

"This is My Letter to the World"
http://www.online-literature.com/dickinson/834/

"The Second Coming"
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/arch...html?id=172062

Speaking of quotations from "real" poets, if you describe to
"Poem-A-Day" you might have enjoyed this line by
Ana Bozicevic:


[. . .]There's the kind of angel that when I say
Someone please push me out of the way
Of this bad poem like it was a bus-

Thanks again for your comments.
That's it for today. Over and out.

[AuntShecky]

Before I forget, I have to say that I posted the reply above before reading the response that preceded it.Thank you, Hawkman for your thoughtful, reasonable, and well-expressed reply #138.) It is everything a response to a posting in the Personal Poetry should be.


Now, in case some of you are wondering why I am posting another poem so soon after the previous one. It usually takes me days, sometimes weeks to crank out a new piece of verse. Well, this one's not new. I wrote the original version way back in December of Ought Seven. Revising one's own work is always difficult, but it's really surprising how much easier it is if you put the piece away for a couple of weeks or years.


Anyway, here's the revised version:



Samuel Beckett once attended an outdoor function during which an official said to him, “Isn't this a beautiful day? Doesn't it make you feel happy to be alive?” “Well,” Beckett replied, “I wouldn't go that far.”

Actuarial

Toss the stats.
Forget expectancy.

Those are the breaks:
bad brakes, or after running
on eight, stopping
to open the black hood
and seeing just six;

farmers who know the scythe
on sight and the scythe-man
by the thick treads of tractors;

drummers who one night rock
and the next day ruffle their last roll;

Keats, Bunny Berigan, Hart Crane, Bix–
-and Clifford Brown, a mere 25;

sickly heirs to irrelevant thrones;
gangsters sentenced to do hard time
in harder neighborhoods;

self-medicating melancholiacs
and sloe-eyed romantics
in one-sided affairs with a bottle;

neglected spinsters hoarding cats;
the oddly-hunched loner in 9-B,

spindly-armed toddlers
whose fly-infested faces
take in the sparseness of trees
and question the Future;

guileless little guys with epicanthic
lids and constant chromosomal smiles
and chests conceal a hob-nailed
boot poised to kick;

strings of souls stuck
as if by ancient amber
in somebody else’s battle

saints targeted
for martyrdom,

and The Good:


fruit flies hovering
for a trifling second
‘round the apple
of the world.

We, of course, are luckier,
aren't we,

Godot?

fruit flies hovering
for a trifling sec around
the apple of the world.

We of course
are luckier, aren't we,
Godot?

[jajdude]

Good work. I enjoyed this thread.

[PrinceMyshkin]

If (heaven forfend) I had to puck just one thing out of this melancholy poem, it would be:

gangsters sentenced to do hard time
in harder neighborhoods;

Brava!

[jajdude]

I'm pretty sure this writer has enough talent to have her work read by more than just the few around here.

Some of the best stuff I've read in a while, and I used to read a lot of poetry, being a Lit major and all that.

[AuntShecky]

I didn't want to "bump" this cavalierly, but I do want to thank you both of you for your comments.

And jajdude, in an unofficial capacity I'd like to say, welcome to the LitNet. As to your flattering comment, I hasten to add that whatever is posted in this particular thread is less the effect of "talent" than it is the result of four decades of practice and learning everything I can about the craft of verse-writing. I'm still an amateur, and still learning.

Incidentally, the theme of poem (#140) is pretty obvious, but whether we're conscious of the fact or not, ultimately that's behind every piece of verse we write, including and especially between the lines of lyrics that rhapsodize the "preciousness" and fragility of life.

The constant possibility that death can strike anywhere and anyone --including those who are too young, a few of whom are listed in "Actuarial"-- is why we make any kind of art: painting, sculpture, fiction, movies. That's why I am so impressed by the following poem by 33-year-old Croatian poet, Ana Bozicevic. I don't understand the comma in the title, but the colloquial language and the sustained "angel" metaphor of this piece are superb. Please read it, Prince and jajdude, if you have time:

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21911

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie,

If I may quote:

“[I]In this one, a paraphrase of a line by Yeats,
The gloomy gyre of Yeats grows wider still.
the meter is more or less okay since "gyre" is not pronounced as two syllables with a long "y" but as one stressed syllable--"jir." (I had to look that one up.)
{Added 10/14/10: The previous sentence reads like gibberish, but, try as I may, every time I try to pronounce a one-syllable word ending in "r," it comes out like two syllables: "fire" as "fi-er," "gyre," as "gi-er." It's almost as hard as pronouncing "luxury" correctly. Maybe I have really idiosyncratic speech patterns.}”

I should have got this reference, although it is a little oblique, as I do actually know this poem but alas, it sneaked under my radar. With regard to your discussion of the pronunciation of gyre: I don’t know if Yeats was a falconer, but I think it likely that he may have known something of the art.

“Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;”

There is the distinct possibility of a falconry related pun with gyre and gyr (gyrfalcon). Gyrs are notorious for “straight-lining” when not served with game quickly enough. They are tricky birds to fly and there is a school of thought that believes that their migratory habit may be responsible for this. I know several falconers who fly them, and late in the season, they often take it into their heads to disappear over the horizon which results in a frantic telemetry chase!

“but I believe that the line still retains 5 stresses:
Taken over by the overlords of din”

Agreed Auntie, but you still end up with an 11 syllable line

Vis. Actuarial: this is a very good poem which has a lot to say and for the most part says it well. I get the message about life expectancy. However, there are a couple of allusions I find puzzling.

“farmers who know the scythe
on sight and the scythe-man
by the thick treads of tractors;”

I take it the scythe-man is our old friend the reaper, but “thick treads of tractors?” Do US farmer run themselves over with their own machinery?

“guileless little guys with epicanthic
lids and constant chromosomal smiles
and chests(,) conceal a hob-nailed
boot poised to kick;”

Am I right in thinking the hob nailed boot poised to kick is a reference to heart failure? I do think that this line needs a comma though.

Also, I’m not sure that the rhetorical device of repeating the question is necessary. I understand why you’ve done it, but I don’t think it works.

However, There are some stunning lines in this poem.

“sickly heirs to irrelevant thrones;
gangsters sentenced to do hard time
in harder neighborhoods;”

“self-medicating melancholiacs
and sloe-eyed romantics
in one-sided affairs with a bottle;”

Just some of the many goodies which pack this piece.

Well worth the effort of reading what you slaved over writing.

Many thanks, H

[AuntShecky]

Thank you Hawkman for the comments above. You were absolutely correct about both the farmers and the children with Down's syndrome. In the U.S. farming is in the list of the top three most dangerous occupations, because of accidents involving machinery, and heart disease affects many children who have Down's Syndrome.

I did not know that it was a hard-and-fast rule that every line of pentameter must never veer from 10 syllables. Doesn't it go by feet rather than syllables? An imabic foot has two syllables, but an anapestic foot has three. The most important aspect of a metric foot (in English) is the stressed syllable. Just like unhittable pitches tossed by a major league ace, and --real estate -- it's location, location, location.

Another ditty follows. Thanks again.

Auntie

[AuntShecky]

The "back story" of this next piece appears in the blog.

http://www.online-literature.com/for...d=1#post966973

This posting represents a revision of an earlier version, first written circa January 2008. The metric structure of the original was, to steal Sam Seder's title, "FUBAR," but apart from a couple of trochees and the occasional anapest imbedded in prepositional phrases, it more-or-less attempts to follow a 4-stress, iambic pattern. The rhyme scheme may appear bizarre, but the irregular appearance of end rhymes were intentionally designed to depict a sense of dislocation.




Losing My Place

Mere rent receipts belonged to me,
in my own home a refugee,
though no force occupied our town.

The agent stated real command;
she clicked her heels on hardwood floors
while rifling closets, slamming doors.

A warm salute, an offered hand
for live ones, not the tenant --
not trespassing, but still present,

so very inconveniently–
as that front elm’s effrontery
defies its peeling bark to stand.

I loved the thickness of its trunk
and how its leaves held back the wind
that felt the touch of hope in its crown.

Oh, how I wish I still lived there,
back in that old and scruffy chair,
its angle bent like no man’s land.

(Evicting rage, despair would flee)
With books, I used to mark the page
with flowers that I pressed and saved

from gardens I recall and crave --
no doubt by now they’re plowed and paved,
or like an unkempt lawn, mowed down.

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie,

A line of iambic pentameter should contain five stressed, and five unstressed, syllables. the definition may be found at:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iambic_pentameter

As for, "Losing my Place", well, I consider it a sound and evocative poem describing a plight which has affected many in recent times. I like the way it reads. The only line which I might take issue with is S4 L3, where the syntactical wrenching does stand out.

Best, H

[Virgil]

The "back story" of this next piece appears in the blog.

http://www.online-literature.com/for...d=1#post966973

This posting represents a revision of an earlier version, first written circa January 2008. The metric structure of the original was, to steal Sam Seder's title, "FUBAR," but apart from a couple of trochees and the occasional anapest imbedded in prepositional phrases, it more-or-less attempts to follow a 4-stress, iambic pattern. The rhyme scheme may appear bizarre, but the irregular appearance of end rhymes were intentionally designed to depict a sense of dislocation.




Losing My Place

Mere rent receipts belonged to me,
in my own home a refugee,
though no force occupied our town.

The agent stated real command;
she clicked her heels on hardwood floors
while rifling closets, slamming doors.

A warm salute, an offered hand
for live ones, not the tenant --
not trespassing, but still present,

so very inconveniently–
as that front elm’s effrontery
defies its peeling bark to stand.

I loved the thickness of its trunk
and how its leaves held back the wind
that felt the touch of hope in its crown.

Oh, how I wish I still lived there,
back in that old and scruffy chair,
its angle bent like no man’s land.

(Evicting rage, despair would flee)
With books, I used to mark the page
with flowers that I pressed and saved

from gardens I recall and crave --
no doubt by now they’re plowed and paved,
or like an unkempt lawn, mowed down.

What a fine poem Aunty. I'm glad you directed me to it.

[AuntShecky]

Hi Auntie,

A line of iambic pentameter should contain five stressed, and five unstressed, syllables. the definition may be found at:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iambic_pentameter

Oh my goodness, if it's on "the Internets" it must be true! Please check this thread out and tell me if I'm all wet:
http://www.online-literature.com/for...672#post967672

As for, "Losing my Place", The only line which I might take issue with is S4 L3, where the syntactical wrenching does stand out.

Best, H

As to the stanza in "LMP":

so very inconveniently–
as that front elm’s effrontery
defies its peeling bark to stand.

I parse it thusly: the subject of the clause is "effrontery" the verb, "defies," and "its peeling bark to stand" the object. So the syntax is off how?

Quibbles aside, I will be eternally grateful for the
well-thought-out analysis you've given my work.
Frankly, I'm humbled by it.