# Writing > Personal Poetry >  Auntie's Anti-Poems

## AuntShecky

> Please note:
> The Literature Network administrators have advised us to post all of our poems into a *single thread*. The following thread, "Auntie's Anti-Poetry," contains several poems. When commenting on a particular poem, *please indicate the title of the work in your reply*.




When I wrote that, God and I knew what it meant, but now God alone knows.
Robert Browning


The Puzzle and the Pity

We cannot see the ciphers, such a stretch 
of forest, dense with senseless reason, and
no rhyme. A murky stream from a source unknown
churns deep beneath our unschooled reckoning.

From splatters of thoughts in scatter-shot lines
we seek some soul-balm from the sensitive,
at bottom as sincere as an infants cry:
a babble, sure, yet rarefied as Yeats.

We dread the water, then attempt to wade.
Too swiftly comes the splashback: too mainstream, derivative, colloquial, too trite,
or déclassé, or worst of all, ignored.

Listen, we don't do this because its easy
or that we can (or think we can.) We see
an empty page as an anti-Everest
that may be worth the risk of an unsafe climb
in front of us, because it isn't there.

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## PrinceMyshkin

Oh, those magical final lines! The glorious truth it posits about poetry! And with what composure and lyric flow you approach it! 

I envy you your equal talent in rhymed and unrhymed poetry.

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## Virgil

Auntie, that is excellent. Yes I liked that last stanza too, but I also liked this one as well:



> From splatters of thoughts in scatter-shot lines
> we seek some soul-balm from the sensitive,
> at bottom as sincere as an infants cry:
> a babble, sure, yet rarefied as Yeats.


"As sincere as an infant's cry," what a marvelous simile. Love the "s" sounds too.

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## AuntShecky

In his autobiography, _My Life and Hard Times_, James Thurber included an anecdote from his college days relating that immediately after one of his professors announced, I do not expect you to take notes in this class, every student wrote that it down. In a televised interview a few years ago, Sharon Olds told Bill Moyers that once while walking through a garden she was suddenly inspired, and not having her notebook with her, she mimed the action of writing on her palm to help her remember the idea. A mainstream magazine having published a tribute to Raymond Carver revealed that for a time after his death, his widow Tess Gallagher would find around the house random notes in which he had written what might appear to be non sequiturs, bits of seemingly unrelated phrases, and odd words such as Antarctica. 

Hypergraphia

Symptoms include fear
of temporary memory lapse,
extreme dependence
upon blank paper, writing implements,
a vade mecum ready to be taken 
several times daily, or severe anxiety
upon loss of same,
occasional cramping of an upper extremity,
and the tell-tale tiny bump, 
a callus caused by constant pressure
of a pen, on the middle finger
of the dominant hand.

Prognosis indicates potential
allusions of possible grandeur--
beyond the quotidian memo:
dish liquid, cheese, paper towels,
tacked up here and there 
scraps of large possibilities writ small;
a strange compulsion
to capture the elusive:
an exact replica of whats been said,
or a Karner Blue before it flutters
its way toward extinction,
or a diving Adélie lest
it disappear beneath
a sheet of ice.

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## PrinceMyshkin

> Hypergraphia
> 
> Symptoms include fear
> of temporary memory lapse,
> extreme dependence
> upon blank paper, writing implements,
> a vade mecum ready to be taken 
> several times daily, or severe anxiety
> upon loss of same,
> ...


Remember that famous scene in "When Harry Met Sally" in which Meg Ryan demonstrates to Billy Crystal how a woman might convincingly fake orgasm, in reaction to which an older woman says to the waitress, "I'll have whatever she's having!"

Well, after your last several poems & this one in particular, I understand exactly how that woman felt! (Assuming, of course, that whatever _you're_ on is perfectly legal...)

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## Lynne50

*Aunty Shecky
*
Please help! I have that affliction of which you speak. Especially the ..."symptoms include fear of temporary memory lapse..."

And it has gotten worse since I joined Litnet. Bits of scraps litter my computer table and I have "notes to myself" everywhere. I know when I pass on my children will not understand any of my compulsiveness and out all of it will go.

I really enjoyed this poem, by the way.

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## PrinceMyshkin

> *Aunty Shecky
> *
> Please help! I have that affliction of which you speak. Especially the ..."symptoms include fear of temporary memory lapse..."
> 
> And it has gotten worse since I joined Litnet. Bits of scraps litter my computer table and I have "notes to myself" everywhere. I know when I pass on my children will not understand any of my compulsiveness and out all of it will go.


Possibly, but you're overlooking the jots and fragments of conversation, the memories you've already deposited, intentionally or not, in their minds, which they will track back to the you they already know...

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## AuntShecky

"Life's a tough proposition, and the first hundred years are the hardest," said the American writer, Wilson Mizner (1876-1933). A boxing manager, playwright, screenwriter, and a Hollywood raconteur, he was married to a socialite, for according to his biographer, Alva Johnson, "He was an idol of low society and a pet of high."

But Mizner was also a poker enthusiast. During a game, Mizner’s opponent took out his wallet, tossed it on the table, and announced, “I call you.” Mizner took off his shoe, put it on the table and said, “If we're playing for leather, I raise.”

Up the Ante

How about trying your hand
at a little crier’s poker?
Here’s my childhood,
a fistful of taunts and
ridicule, no way to treat
an orphan. And I'll throw
into the pot my acne-pitted
adolescence, a snake-bitten
siege of abashment –

then I'll raise you
with a middle age
knocked out by debts and
punch-drunk with grief,
as I tried to climb up
and looked down to see
my rock of dreams get chiseled
away, chip by chip, so let’s

see what you've got, huh?
Huh? Let’s see how the darts
in your gin mill pierced
through the soft, green felt
of hope. Show me
what’s in your wallet,
thickened by the upper cuts 
of life –

Hey! Where're you going?
Come back here! You
haven't had a bite 
of these store-bought
sandwiches, you haven't
even touched
the cheese dip!

----------


## AuntShecky

What does woman want? God, what does she want?" 
-- Freud 

[Americans] don't know what we want, but we are ready to bite somebody to get it.  Will Rogers

The American Dream (in a Big Nutshell)

Let me tell ya: I want
superfecta bombs and mega-
lottery jackpots and broken
banks from Atlantic City, Vegas,
and Monte Carlo;

and I want tax-free sums
from highly-publicized divorce
settlements and the real
estate profits from sales
of Park Avenue penthouses
and summer complexes in all
of the Hamptons;

and I want a big budget
from a Hollywood summer
blockbuster movie and all
the overseas box office
receipts (gross, not net);
and I want the entire
Yankee player payroll
and the astronomical tab
from thirty-second 
Superbowl commercials;
and I want late-night-TV-
talk-show-host money,

and Oprah money
and Bill Gates money
and iPod money
and Google money
and YouTube money
and FaceBook money
and Twitter money
and Exxon-Mobil money
and OPEC oil minister money
and billion-trillion-gazillion
national deficit money;

for as Bogey said
way back in 1948 in
_The Treasure of
Sierra Madre_: I want
dough. . .

. . .and plenty of it!

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## PrinceMyshkin

> What does woman want? God, what does she want?" 
> -- Freud


Pardon my quibble (if it is that) but I always thought that the second half began "Dear God..."

As for the rest of this, the poem proper, it's equally witty, funny and doubtless true for a great many of us, men & women!

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## AuntShecky

Oyster, n., A slimy, globby shellfish which civilization gives men the hardihood to eat without removing its entrails! The shells are sometimes given to the poor. Ambrose Bierce

Its a very remarkable circumstance, Sir, that poverty and oysters always seem to go together. The Pickwick Papers


Nacre-Philia

The scuttlebutt says that the natives mine
a kind of gold from a lucky dive, for among 
the scores of all the dripping bivalves shucked,
one could by chance offer an opalescent gift. 

It glistens in the sun, but we wouldn't say
it shines. Even the tiny diatoms floating by
reveal more glitter. Aphrodite posing on
half a shell overpowered its mortal beauty. 

Still, awe and marvel greet this find,
with a momentary neglect of the pearls
plebeian source: over time the mollusk 
scratched and rubbed a sore under its shell.

For years and years an invading alien
irked an oyster into making a pearl,
as eon after eon of monumental pressure
makes a diamond from a pebble of coal.

Through painful ores we could pan and sift
through irritating cares and itching woes
in the prospect of producing, finally,
something better, something precious;

yet no matter how much uninvited grief
infiltrates under our less-stony skin,
we're left only with a speck of grit
in an endless month without an r.

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## PrinceMyshkin

I hereby rename you "AuntShucky"! It's astonishing how something can be created so light-hearted - and so beautiful, at the same time.

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## firefangled

> Oyster, n., A slimy, globby shellfish which civilization gives men the hardihood to eat without removing its entrails! The shells are sometimes given to the poor. Ambrose Bierce
> 
> Its a very remarkable circumstance, Sir, that poverty and oysters always seem to go together. The Pickwick Papers
> 
> 
> Nacre-Philia
> 
> The scuttlebutt says that the natives mine
> a kind of gold from a lucky dive, for among 
> ...


Bless everything about this, from the title to those longed for months with rs. Very fitting internal and off rhymes. If we could only reap such beauty from our grit...

I long for the days when things had a preciousness because they had limited availability - oysters only in the months with rs, watermelon only in the summer and pearls only if you were lucky to find the long enduring oyster.

A pleasure to read. Thanks!

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## AuntShecky

I Thought of You, Joan K.

I know you only from pictures
and old clips on a flickering screen,
and saw you only in a shadow,
as your famous spouse blocked your light.

Still, somehow I knew of your private
pain, your failings, and your grief,
always accompanied by some comment,
the pundits condescending to pity.

So when the dignitary died --
his own sins rightfully covered
by the greater effect of his deeds --
I heard encomia for your successor,

whose support for him was worthy
of such praise. Yet you, too, came
to mind  you as one of the intermediaries,
a buffer between the great and the little

people like me. I wondered where you
were and how you felt -- perhaps
a little sad, like me -- 
watching the funeral on tv.

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## PrinceMyshkin

My God, that is beautiful! It would be for the sentiment alone but the dignity of it, the decorum, adds so much to what is, in the best sense, a sisterly hug. None of the commentators, as far as I've noticed, thought to mention Joan, but you did - out of some well of compassion you have.

Is there some way you could (and would) send this to her?

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## firefangled

A beautiful song for a heart unsung. This was so many things at once - not easy I'm sure, tender, insightful, reverent to name a few.

Thanks, Auntie.

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## AuntShecky

Thank you, Prince and fire, you're both too kind!

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## PrinceMyshkin

> Thank you, Prince and fire, you're both too kind!


I wouldn't presume to defend myself, but personally I don't think firefangled was being "kind" at all!

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## firefangled

> I wouldn't presume to defend myself, but personally I don't think firefangled was being "kind" at all!


No being kind from me, Auntie! This was a marvelous poem that needed to be written. Your perceptions often amaze me.

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## PrinceMyshkin

> No being kind from me, Auntie! This was a marvelous poem that needed to be written. Your perceptions often amaze me.


I, on the other hand, was perhaps being "kind" as I found the poem nothing more than a heartfelt outrush of compassion constrained only by the elegance of the craft in it.

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## AuntShecky

Despite early predictions that the team would likely become a post-season contender in a favorable position to win the World Series, this year presented the New York Mets with scores of problems, most blatantly with the majority of their core players on the disabled list for most of the season. The remaining shoestring roster struggled defensively, with plenty of amateurish errors and a failure to achieve effective pitching strategies. Offensively, the structure of their new ballpark did not seem conducive to home runs, while base-running mistakes cost the team several RBIs. Emblematic of the team’s troubles this year was a late August home game in which the Phillies were leading. While seeming to rally in the bottom of the ninth, the Mets became victims of an unassisted triple play, only the second such game-winning triple play in Major League History. 

As of September 1, 2009, the record of the New York Mets was 59-72, with 31 games left to play in the season.

“ ‘Life is a game that one plays according to the rules.’
‘Yes, Sir, I know it is’. . . 
Some game if you get on the side where all the hot-shots are, then it’s a game all right, I’ll admit that. But if you get on the other side, where there aren’t any hot-shots, then what’s a game about it? Nothing. No game.”
–J.D. Salinger, _The Catcher in the Rye_


Playing Out the String

At this
point
the sports

metaphor
collapses
hard.

Are we supposed
to swing through
the motions,

look at our
watches, settle
our affairs --

or fight
meaningless
battles

refusing
to surrender
to the inevitable?

All right,
it is
September,

and it’s
the bottom
of the ninth,

but so far
nobody’s
out.

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## PrinceMyshkin

> Despite early predictions that the team would likely become a post-season contender in a favorable position to win the World Series, this year presented the New York Mets with scores of problems, most blatantly with the majority of their core players on the disabled list for most of the season. The remaining shoestring roster struggled defensively, with plenty of amateurish errors and a failure to achieve effective pitching strategies. Offensively, the structure of their new ballpark did not seem conducive to home runs, while base-running mistakes cost the team several RBIs. Emblematic of the teams troubles this year was a late August home game in which the Phillies were leading. While seeming to rally in the bottom of the ninth, the Mets became victims of an unassisted triple play, only the second game-winning triple play in Major League History. 
> 
> As of September 1, 2009, the record of the New York Mets was 59-72, with 31 games left to play in the season.
> 
>  Life is a game that one plays according to the rules.
> Yes, Sir, I know it is. . . 
> Some game if you get on the side where all the hot-shots are, then its a game all right, Ill admit that. But if you get on the other side, where there arent any hot-shots, then whats a game about it? Nothing. No game.
> J.D. Salinger, _The Catcher in the Rye_
> 
> ...


A heartfelt cri du coeur, if I ever heard one!

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## AuntShecky

And since thou so desirously
Didst long to die, that long before thou couldst
And long since thou no more couldst dye,
Thou in thy scatterd mystique body wouldst
In Abel dye, and ever since
In thine, let their blood come
To begge for us, a discreet patience
of death, or of worst life: for oh, to some
not to be martyrs, is a martyrdom. 
*John Donne, The Martyrs, 1633*

My mother is actually the most sound existential philosopher I've ever met. Her point of view is more profound than Kierkegaard or Nietzsche. She says, Every day you're above ground is a good day.  
* -Kiss musician Gene Simmons*


An Exhortation Forbidding Suicide

Its not this life but sorry circumstances
I want to shed, but still I want to leave
this earth of shredded dreams and absent chances.
Yet lacking me, the world won't wet its sleeve
with weeping. Dogs will wag their tails,
and songs of birds will hold their tones.
Skies will stay blue against white points of sails,
while stems won't cease to bend where winds have blown.
The world would stay, if I left it alone.

Without a world, I'd lack a place to stand,
I'd flounder so, bereft of gravity,
not a step closer to the closing plan,
missing what I'd left and what was left to see.
Rejecting all, far more I'd need,
adrift from terra firma ground.
Renouncing life invokes a senseless creed.
Poor lives are better than none, I have found;
so for the nonce I think I'll stick around.

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## PrinceMyshkin

Thank God for this:




> [FONT="Book Antiqua"]
> Poor lives are better than none, I have found;
> so for the nonce I think I'll stick around.


and I thought this




> stems won't cease to bend where winds have blown.


was splendid!

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## firefangled

Auntie, I've never subscribed to the current popular platitude, "it's all good," because it's not all good, but it is all balanced somehow.

This is what I get from both the structure and content of your poem. The couplets at the end of each stanza provide a stated harmony. 

It is a just argument beautifully written.

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## AuntShecky

Prince and Firefangled, thank you both.

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## DanielBenoit

> “When I wrote that, God and I knew what it meant, but now God alone knows.”
> –Robert Browning
> 
> 
> The Puzzle and the Pity
> 
> We cannot see the ciphers, such a stretch 
> of forest, dense with senseless reason, and
> no rhyme. A murky stream from a source unknown
> ...


This is magic. Pure magic.

I am in awe. 

The rhythm.. . . .the words, it's as if you spend hours picking each and every word so that it was perfect. It's so pleasurable to read outload!

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## PrinceMyshkin

> When I wrote that, God and I knew what it meant, but now God alone knows.
> Robert Browning
> 
> 
> The Puzzle and the Pity
> 
> We cannot see the ciphers, such a stretch 
> of forest, dense with senseless reason, and
> no rhyme. A murky stream from a source unknown
> ...


However did I miss before, and... I'll have whatever you're having!

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## Pendragon

Adore it Auntie! Just what I need at the moment...  :Wave:

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## AuntShecky

Escapee

From the brush he darted out
with three dull-coated sparrows
leading the way.

A nearby porch became a perch
for reveling in the new-found
freedom of the day.

Despite the downward-tilting bill,
he appeared not at all wild
but cared-for and trim,

unaware of any upcoming chill
or an unknown owner missing him

but blissfully content to preen,
flaunting his feathered exotica,
tropical and green.

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## PrinceMyshkin

What wonderful art it is (but is it really art - or genius?) to end with such seemingly pedestrian words:




> tropical and green.


thrown, as it appears, casually over your shoulder, but which then have the force of something primary, something that neither needs nor deserves elaborating on!

 :Flare:

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## AuntShecky

_Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them.
Emerson_

Full Disclosure

Is it wrong to be in love
with the Frost that lies
in the ground of Vermont
all year round?

It doesn't really bother me
that frost has a way
of sneaking in round here
without warning,

or  despite modern delays -
this time the leaf-transition
seems earlier than before.

I'm thoroughly impressed
with Thoreaus pious awe,
and how every night
manages to morph into morning.

I'm not afraid to confess
an obsession with asters,
all fearless, purple, and wild,
as tiny threads of milkweed
chase monarchs in full flight.

But I'll admit 
neither guilt nor shame
to any No Trespassing sign
I've ignored.

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## PrinceMyshkin

The thing of it is, in this poem as in every one of yours I recall, that the virtuosity goes hand in hand with the sheer (sometimes mischievous) pleasure you get in the writing of these - but isn't writing, poetry in particular, supposed to be grim, starchy, the product of or exercised with pain?

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## ~Sophia~

> but isn't writing, poetry in particular, supposed to be grim, starchy, the product of or exercised with pain?


.... absolutely, much like the gut wrenching Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock!
_______________________

I'm not sure if I've ever said it before AuntShecky but, I love the way your poems tickle all the senses!  :Nod:

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## AuntShecky

Thank you, Prince and Sophia. I have to think about your comments. The speaker of a poem and its author aren't always the same person, and that as a writer (or would-be writer) I would like my role to follow what T.S. Eliot said in "Tradition and Individual Talent," if it isn't presumptous of me to mention his illustrious name in the same sentence as myself. That's all I'm going to say for now.

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## ~Sophia~

I couldn't agree more AuntShecky! I was just pulling PM's leg. And it isn't presumptuous of you at all mention your name with his. I think TSE would be very okay with it!

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## AuntShecky

Faithful Failures

Who invited them? They crashed my life!
Each time I turn around,
they're right there – mugging,
shoulders scrunched, palms upward,
heads tilted with a simpering look
as if to say, “Eh, what're ya gonna do?”

I can't even take a perfectly innocent
stroll down the line
without their tracing my every step.
It’s as if every little stray pup
in the world who ever followed a 4th grader home
suddenly morphed
into a ravenous pack of Hell-hounds.

No, we _can't_ keep them.

Well, I was already worn out,
and they were never welcome.
Now it’s way, way, way past
three days – no fish in all the waters
of the earth ever stunk as much

as these, who pitch
their moldy tents at the foot
of my bed, and hog the night. They cop
the eggs of freshly-laid plans
and crack ‘em, one by one.

Above the rim 
of a shaky cup
I see them,
diving into the day
with their know-it-all smirk.

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## firefangled

Another great one, Faithful Failures, Auntie! I love these humorous laments.

I especially love the pups and tents.

Faithfully Successful!

By the way, did you mean "heads tilted" instead of "heads titled" in S1?

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## PrinceMyshkin

Some lines that stand out even above the rest of this: 




> They cop
> the eggs of freshly-laid plans
> and crack em, one by one.


and:




> Above the rim 
> of a shaky cup
> I see them,
> diving into the day
> with their know-it-all smirk.

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## AuntShecky

> By the way, did you mean "heads tilted" instead of "heads titled" in S1?


Yep! And it's fixed. Typos have been hounding me lately.There was even a glaring one in my autumn poetry contest entry. Thanks for pointing it out so I had a chance to fix it.

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## cogs

this gets better and better. what did the 'past three days' mean? the image of the hell hounds chasing a person is funny.

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## AuntShecky

> what did the 'past three days' mean?


Reference to a famous saying (spouse and I) believe to have originated with Benjamin Franklin:

"After three days, fish and visitors start to stink."

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## AuntShecky

There were so many stellar entries in the Autumn Poetry Contest, I didn't vote on the one submitted by yours truly, but here 'tis --a variation on the sonnet, 12 instead of 14 lines and instead of iambic pentameter, iambic hexameter (clumsily rendered, perhaps): 

*“Does a leaf get lonely when it watches its neighbors fall?” –John Muir* (Quoted in Our National Parks: America’s Best Idea)

Anthropomorphism in Autumn

Can winter’s omens shake slim aspens with cold fears?
Would mountain peaks yearn to suckle an infant in the sky?
Do geese compare this trip to those of other years?
Are airborne tufts of milkweed aware of where they'll fly?

Would fading flowers cause the meadow’s heart to ache?
Does a maple ever dream of a future April bed?
Might the October moon want to get a rake
to whisk occluding clouds away from its clearer head?

Do nettles itch to snag crisp days on bristled burrs?
Could wildlife somehow imagine a poorer patch,
to contemplate nature’s bliss and brutal spurs,
while wretchedly singular, from the universe detached?

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## Virgil

Oh that is such a good poem Aunty. I almost voted for it too. There were lots of good ones to choose from. I must admit the title threw me, but the poem was extremely engaging. That last stanza was excellent.  :Smile: 




> Do nettles itch to snag crisp days on bristled burrs?
> Could wildlife somehow imagine a poorer patch,
> to contemplate natures bliss and brutal spurs,
> while wretchedly singular, from the universe detached?

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## cogs

*loved it! maybe personalize the wildlife with an individual, is a minor suggestion. wow... i love the aspens shaking and the moon raking(rhyme). goto *

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## qimissung

cogs has a point, now that I think of it. This was my personal favorite in the contest, AuntShecky.

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## AuntShecky

Thank you, dear readers. Here is a short link to another
important quotation from John Muir, to which the last line of the ditty refers:

http://www.sierraclub.org/john_muir_...misquotes.html

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## AuntShecky

Everybodys Everybody

Everybodys every color,
a multi-grain cake of yeast.
Everyones a hundred percent Jewish,
and a Moslem facing east.

Everybodys an Asian
speaking Swahili in the rain.
Everybodys an Amer-Indian
with ancestors from Spain.

Everybodys an atheist
who reads the Good Book every day.
Everybodys Irish-Northern-Catholic,
and everyones a little bit gay.

Everybody needs a place to sleep
after he hugs his kids at night.
Everybody wants to eat and drink,
but nobody  really  wants to fight.

Everybody on this elevator
feels the plunging down the chute.
Thats why everybody gets the shaft,
no matter whom they persecute.

Each of us is born a unique scion
from the same old piece of wood.
Every body will die some day,
but every bodys good.

Everybodys everyone,
and Everyone is good.

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## Virgil

Enjoyable!! The poem is really solid. This stanza hit home:



> Each of us is born a unique scion
> from the same old piece of wood.
> Every body will die some day,
> but every bodys good.


That really pulls everything together. 

I don't know if you meant but it echos the Leonard Cohen song, "Everybody Knows." Here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yG5e1oaen-M.

By the way you have a typo in the fourth line. It should be "muslim" not "moslim."

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## PrinceMyshkin

> Everybodys Everybody
> 
> Everybodys every color,
> a multi-grain cake of yeast.
> Everyones a hundred percent Jewish,
> and a Moslem facing east.
> 
> Everybodys an Asian
> speaking Swahili in the rain.
> ...


Holy Mother! And I do mean Holy Mother, Father, Child and Cousin! Who cares that this is GOOD poetry? It's way more than that, more like GREAT HUMANITY! 

Auntie! I mean Auntie! I'll have whatever you're having...

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## firefangled

> Anthropomorphism in Autumn
> 
> Can winters omens shake slim aspens with cold fears?
> Would mountain peaks yearn to suckle an infant in the sky?
> Do geese compare this trip to those of other years?
> Are airborne tufts of milkweed aware of where they'll fly?
> 
> Would fading flowers cause the meadows heart to ache?
> Does a maple ever dream of a future April bed?
> ...


I loved the variation of this piece. It was my favorite. I expecially liked this line:




> Do nettles itch to snag crisp days on bristled burrs?

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## firefangled

You need to send Everybody's Everybody to the UN. It should be posted in all the school classrooms of the world. 

It is important hearty stuff but it's light and less filling the way Everyone makes India Pale Ale.

Wonderful poem, Auntie! I couldn't not read it several times.

----------


## ~Sophia~

I second that (those)!!!!! Inspired and inspirational!

----------


## qimissung

It makes me feel happy inside.  :Smile:

----------


## AuntShecky

Wish List

-Exoneration 
-Vindication
-Justification

-Communication 
-Compilation
-Dedication

-Validation
-Re-forestation
-a long vacation

-less frustration
-more elation
-less putrefaction
-more elevation

-a white carnation
-and a robust potation
(less filling tastes great!)

-gratification
-celebration
-bebop-ulation

-jubilation
-congratulations
-adulation

Affirmation!

----------


## ~Sophia~

Christmas is coming and you've been very very good! I think you'll get it all!

----------


## firefangled

> Christmas is coming and you've been very very good! I think you'll get it all!


Absolutely, once the list is checked twice and undergoes the summation.

----------


## AuntShecky

This reply begins with a thank you to all of the readers of this thread so far, especially those who posted such flattering replies. 

Please believe that I accept your attention and comments with gratitude, and, though I risk sounding like a stand-up comedian who tries to defuse all of his insulting jokes by ending with the comment -- "You've been a wonderful audience and I mean that most sincerely." 

I don't deserve any of this praise, and I mean that sincerely as well. 

Let me backtrack a little. Even though I really am grateful for your comments, I have to, as Desi commanded Lucy to do, "'splain" myself.

Explaining, expanding, or otherwise commenting on one's own work is a "no no" in literary circles. At best, it sounds defensive; at worst, it pegs the writer as a mealy-mouthed, attention-starved bore (and "boor.")

Even so, the opinions, sentiments, philosophies implied in all of the ditties above are not necessarily those of the author. The speaker and/or the "I" of the poem is usually not yours truly, and despite what pundits have been telling us since September of Aught One, it is still the Age of Irony. For instance, I, personally am not as materialistic as the speaker in # 9 above, although I am an American. #48 ("Everybody's Everybody") could have been written by an incorrigibly earnest undergraduate female or have an entirely different meaning if had come from a frat boy mocking her idealism. Maybe it's the voice of a seventh-grader, who is too young to know what the world is really like but old enough to know what he'd like it to be. Beats me-- and I wrote the damn thing! 

"Don't trust the teller, trust the tale," D. H. Lawrence famously said. All we have is what's on the page. 

We're all familiar with critics who rail about "the heresy of paraphrase," because with good verse, one can never separate the content from the form. Well, the title of this thread is "anti" poems, and I don't see myself as astute as Cleanth Brooks. ("Cleanth"-- how's that for a name for one's first-born?) Even so, critics such as Brooks know more than I, and they always will.

Here's a case in point. As John Kilgore says in this excellent article: 
http://www.eiu.edu/~ipaweb/pipa/volume3/kilgore.htm

it's deadly to try to speculate on a poet's intentions. Again, all we have is what's on the page, but we might have to read it more than a couple of times to glean what's there.

For instance, Prof. Kilgore (a name's the same as a Kurt Vonnegut character) says that in their efforts to get students to "like" poetry by making it "relevant" to the lives of adolescents, teachers unwittingly do a disservice to the original poet, the poem, and to the teachers themselves. Imagine the topic of Frost's "The Road Not Taken" as an example of "peer pressure!" And it's interesting to note that Kilgore states that no one ever "complains" about "bad" poetry-- not principals, not parents, not students. 

One more thing about that article I couldn't ignore is the obvious notion that I could try to move heaven and earth and spend 24/7 writing verse for the rest of my life (give or take, with the shadow of what the news is calling "Ukrainian Super Flu" waiting in the wings) yet never, EVER produce a poem as good as "The Road Not Taken." *And that's a fact, Jack!*


If I may be so bold to suggest that even poets themselves, as in Browning's famous quotation, might not be aware of the actual "reason" they're writing a particular piece. If there is a message, maybe we should just call Western Union (or we would, if we were all still living back in 1935.)

There wasn't really any message in #55, which arose from attempting to have each line end with the same rhyming sound (more or less) as well as -- forgive me, Mssrs. Brooks et al. -- to defy the rule against writing verse containing "abstractions," the occasional white carnation aside. Sometimes, however, when we say we want certain materialistic items, what we really wish for are the abstractions: self-esteem, success, praise, attention, etc.

And, the "message" in this particular reply is: again, thank you for your comments, but if, after reading this, you might want to go back and edit or delete them, certainly I wouldn't blame you.

Still, thank you. 

_Really_.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

> I don't deserve any of this praise, and I mean that sincerely as well.


Who deserves what praise or how much of it - or for that matter how much fault-finding - must have been an issue from early in our species history! But consider that it may give someone pleasure to praise you, would you really deny them that pleasure?

----------


## Virgil

Auntie, I must say I've been amiss in not stopping here. I assumed everyone starts up a new thread for each new poem. You on the other hand collate them here under one roof. I shall make it a point to go back and read them and stop by more often.




> "Don't trust the teller, trust the tale," D. H. Lawrence famously said. All we have is what's on the page.


That is my reading assumption for any work. I never assume autobiographical, though bits and pieces may, or quite likely be, be based on personal experience. But the reader has no clue and shouldn't assume he can tell. Essentially it's irrevelant.

----------


## AuntShecky

Prince and Virgil, both of your comments are valid, as it's always a good policy not to take things at face value. We
have a tendency to think that others have the same motivation as we do, or think the same way we do. 

The worst enemy of art is not a critical audience, but a complacent one. It's better for the artist to take risks than wallow in the same old, same old comfort zones.

----------


## Virgil

> _“Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them.”
> –Emerson_
> 
> Full Disclosure
> 
> Is it wrong to be in love
> with the Frost that lies
> in the ground of Vermont
> all year round?
> ...


Solid poem Auntie. I would normally wince at the word "morph" in a poem, I think it's great. Evening morphing into morning, wow, what a great image.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

God bless the grace of this. I was especially taken with:




> as tiny threads of milkweed
> chase monarchs in full flight.


That sings!

----------


## AuntShecky

_“The whole earth is our hospital”
–T. S. Eliot_

Condition: Human


From first gasp to final sigh
we claim we owe everything to the Divine,
the source of all existence, in Whom
we place our awe and lay our care.

At what ill-starred point in history
did Mammon’s blinding light
deflect our turn to gold – or
at least its lesser, yet all-consuming, ores? (1)

Amid fatigue we drive ourselves sick and sore,
devoted to the chronic, pecuniary chase.
Our sights veer from sheer survival to comfort, then
back, since relapse always stalks the cure.

Eros grabs our temporary interest,
a long desire not quite fully quenched
with quickly-quaffed, febrile doses.
We aim to love eternally, but we don’t.

For a time we delight in scions of ourselves,
reaching farther out toward deep posterity,
each of us a little Achilles, ever-striving
for legendary status, settling for ersatz fame. (2)

We do not concern ourselves with why, 
preferring to act and direct the pain
of an inward gaze away. We’d rather sit 
than stand, and rather move than think.

We aspire to live perfectly,
but we fail.
We never really want to die,
but we do.




(1) Matthew 6:24; _Paradise Lost_, I, 674
(2) Lines near the conclusion of The Iliad suggest that Achilles will achieve immortality from the stories which future ages will tell about him.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

This is so _glum,_ Aunty! but if only for "relapse always stalks the cure," I value it.

----------


## Bar22do

It is deep true wise... and beautifully written! 

And yes:

We aspire to live perfectly,
but we fail.
We never really want to die,
but we do.

as simple as that.

Thank you Auntie's

----------


## firefangled

*Condition*

This speaks of us truthfully as both foresaken and foresaking, nothing sure but failure and death ultimately. 

In the last four lines though, it seems to say in the end there is something noble in the ways we fail in the face of death.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you for all three comments.
I don't know about "glum," though. Should we only write happy stuff? Wasn't meant to be glum, merely realistic, although I am sorry, Prince, if it lowered your mood. To quote Eliot again: "Humankind cannot stand much reality." (Forgive me if I didn't quote him exactly.)

----------


## AuntShecky

“And Nietzsche, with his theory of eternal recurrence. He said the life we've lived we're gonna live over the same way for eternity. Great. That means I'll have to sit through the Ice Capades again." 
 --Woody Allen
 
Zombies on Ice

The Zeitgeist’s lately been a blasé mix:
sensual lust chilled with a zesty twist
of fear and morbid curiosity.
The juggernaut rumbling through each zone,
which mesmerized erstwhile lighter souls,
draws zealots from Zurich to Kalamazoo.

Here hosted by our humble civic center–
which taxes built and named for the county czar
(despite bamboozling embezzlement)--
the snaky skaters to our public plaza came.
The crowd, prepared for fright but not for shock,
gasped as a zzzt-zzzt buzzed the collective spine.

Upon their entrance to the frozen floor,
as if just roused from a lazy snooze,
the stars appeared altogether in parts:
here an upward arm, there a shaky leg.
Haphazard moves belied the graceful glaze
as sheer stupor themed the choreography.

Or so it seemed. Meanwhile the denizens
of the mezzanine in the ziggurat above
steered their homage toward spicy pretzels, 
their zinfandel kept warm and safe in zarfs.
A sudden subtlety caught strong gaze
as zircon-studded costumes swished a swirl.

Attention switched away from schlock to awe
as silver blades put down a zany waltz,
segueing into steps set to Zydeco,
now solving a rebus puzzle, then a maze
across a zeugma of complexity with
some to zig, others to zag.

At the climactic zenith of the act
all Hell ascended through the icy stage.
With Zen-like detachment backs climbed 
up bumps of others, a Ponzi scheme of souls.
Against the bold frieze body parts flew,
but fortunately no one fell.

Whole-handed cheers and roaring claps
sent the zapped-out stars to resume their sleep
upon a stack of z’s and cash, while in advance
of next week’s arrival of the pole-vaulting vampires
(who wowed SRO venues from Vegas to Valdez),
the Zamboni swept up splintered chips
and bits and crystalline shavings--

and various sundries unknown.

----------


## tailor STATELY

LOL I enjoyed z-poem.

Also, wonderful quote from Woody Allen; quite apropos.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

You (and this poem) are amazzzing, Aunty! Do you constantly search for things that no one one else could do or would even contemplate attempting?

The folks stacked up on each other like a Ponzi scheme was just one piece of wit among so many.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

Assuredly NOT chopped-liver (although why chopped-liver should ever be spoken of in a derogatory way beats me. I just wish that any one of my poems were as good as the chopped liver at Moishe's or the Snowdon Deli)!

----------


## qimissung

No, indeed! Hardly chopped or hardly liver!

I liked this stanza best:

"At the climactic zenith of the act
all Hell ascended through the icy stage.
With Zen-like detachment backs climbed
up bumps of others, a Ponzi scheme of souls.
Against the bold frieze body parts flew,
but fortunately no one fell."

As Prince said of "a Ponzi scheme of souls...", brilliant!

You do zombies proud, Aunty! :Smile:

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, q! and. . .




> Assuredly NOT chopped-liver (although why chopped-liver should ever be spoken of in a derogatory way beats me. I just wish that any one of my poems were as good as the chopped liver at Moishe's or the Snowdon Deli)!


This webpage
http://www.phrases.org.uk/bulletin_b...sages/558.html

says that "chopped liver is always served as a side dish, never a main dish. It therefore makes a good metaphor for someone who is being treated as unimportant or dispensable" (thus an appropriate phrase for your ol' sad-sacky Auntie.)

On the other hand, when one goes to a fancy-schmanzy restaurant --so I'm told -- and orders one of the most expensive appetizers on the menu, he or she will be brought a dish called "paté"-- but it's really chopped liver.

----------


## qimissung

Aha! so you are pate passing yourself off as chopped liver! For shame, Aunty!  :Smile:

----------


## AuntShecky

> Aha! so you are pate passing yourself off as chopped liver! For shame, Aunty!


Nah, but it would be even more shameful if it were the other way around.

----------


## AuntShecky

The following, which attempts to channel the spirit of "April Inventory" by W.D. Snodgrass and "The Reckoning" by Richard Wilbur -- with maybe a passing nod to the great Frank Loesser, as an entry in a recent LitNet poetry contest, is re-posted here for comments:

Hindsight 

This strange myopia of mine
weakens my view in prisms of ways.
It strains my eyes when hours shine,
with its focus on the darkest days.
I can't see my way clear enough to shake
the sight of every dumb mistake.

I see more flaws than I can count.
The list gets longer. Wrongs arrange
themselves into a steep amount.
I'm blind to faults that I could change.
And I have felt at my heart’s core
a thousand needles, maybe more.

Past peers misread Marcuse off the shelves.
Aloof, I looked at them askance.
Now wealth has claimed their former selves,
while failure long since has seized my stance.
No doubt those folks have pity to share.
(Of that, this self has plenty to spare.)

The times I squandered, wasted, spent
chasing silly dreams or foolish men!
No dough, a deadbeat with the rent:
the same old me I've always been.
I could patch my wounds with duct tape and string,
or open my eyes and look at spring.

The blackbird with his rosy stripe,
the waking frogs down in the mud,
the forsythia so eagerly ripe
to welcome its early golden bud
all show that stale old winds have blown.
I'll force an April of my own,

and with each green spear that pokes its head
up through the ground that’s soft at last,
I'll soundly spank and send to bed
all the bad winters of my past.
For spring gives me another chance
to live -– without a backward glance. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

It's a splendid, splendid poem! (The Snodgrass, by the way is "April Inventory") in which, throughout, your humorous self-depreciation is leavened with wisdom, nowhere more elegantly than in that final




> and with each green spear that pokes its head
> up through the ground that’s soft at last,
> I'll soundly spank and send to bed
> all the bad winters of my past.
> For spring gives me another chance
> to live -– without a backward glance. 
> 
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Bravo! Bravo! Oh, Bra[obscenity]vo!!!

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie,

This is really nice and I did enjoy it. The only flaw is that full stop in S2 L2. I thnk that if you fiddled a bit, lines 2 and 3 here could be tidied up to maintain the flow.

H

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Prince and Hawkman.
Actually, it dawned on me that I had confused "April Morning" (Howard Fast) with "April Inventory" last night when I was babysitting my grandson and didn't have access to a PC.
The worst of it is that I'd tried consciously to incorporate an inventory in my verse, which, by the bye, is part of a larger compilation called "Heart's Needle." Snodgrass used that title from an Irish proverb: "A daughter is like a needle in the heart."
It also makes me think, somehow, of acupuncture!

----------


## AuntShecky

> Hi Auntie,
> 
> The only flaw is that full stop in S2 L2. I thnk that if you fiddled a bit, lines 2 and 3 here could be tidied up to maintain the flow.
> 
> H



Certainly you could consider that a flaw. But I thought perhaps the full stop (or period) would be okay, since the line is an enjambment into line 3. I think both lines scan okay, both are iambic tetrameter, with the stresses in the right locations. I know there are still a couple of lines in the thing that have an extra foot.

----------


## hack

It is a beautiful poem, Auntie.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

> Thank you, Prince and Hawkman.
> Actually, it dawned on me that I had confused "April Morning" (Howard Fast) with "April Inventory" last night when I was babysitting my grandson and didn't have access to a PC.
> The worst of it is that I'd tried consciously to incorporate an inventory in my verse, which, by the bye, is part of a larger compilation called "Heart's Needle." Snodgrass used that title from an Irish proverb: "A daughter is like a needle in the heart."
> It also makes me think, somehow, of acupuncture!


As best I recall, the statement is "An only daughter is like a needle in the heart." To those who might care to look for the collection the line is the conclusion to an old Irish parable.

----------


## AuntShecky

A Poem With a Preface

One of the unwritten rules of modern poetry is that form and content are so intertwined that a poem, like a joke, dissolves under analysis, hence the dictum from Cleanth Brooks about the "heresy of paraphrase." Because everything the reader needs to know is already in the poem  supposedly  it needs no prefatory explanation. That a poem almost always comes unaccompanied sometimes works to the detriment of its full comprehension and/or appreciation. As a case in point, not many know the story behind the red wheelbarrow in the well-known short verse by William Carlos Williams, but in step with the modern tradition, all that appears on the page is the tiny block of its familiar lines. The main title of this thread is Anti-poetry, a self-issued license to break the conventions. Thats why the posting today comes with the following long introduction.

Every year, Good Friday brings to me the realization that the remembrance of historys most famous tragic death is fraught with melancholy. The happier antithesis of this is eternal gratitude for such a gift of incomparable Love (_cf_. John 15:13.) Closing out the trinity of these emotions is the undeniable -- yet ultimately impossible  responsibility to make ones own individual soul worthy of redemption, or at least to live a meaningful life. Forgive me for the belief that the need for meaning is true for every human being in this world, and has absolutely nothing to do with ones chosen religion or lack of it.

Along with this, I somehow recall that Thomas Merton once wrote that reading the newspaper is a penance. Pick any current event describing the suffering of one or more of our fellow human beings. Often ones reaction plunges into judgmental mode, a tried and tired-true ranting against the cruelty of nature or in most cases, the cliché about mans inhumanity to man. But occasionally, something about a specific news item or two will strike a different nerve, kicking in a pang of shared guilt. This comes despite our inability to prevent the tragedy from occurring or even to offer succor as way of assuaging the inevitable sorrow, both the sorrow experienced by the loved ones of the victims and, of course, our own. And in spite of that nearly-universal powerlessness, we ask ourselves, how can we allow such a thing to happen? Why can't we do better?

Two recent news items struck me with their startling similarity, though the women which each report concerned couldn't be more different. About a month ago I saw an AP article that took only an inch of space in one of the back pages of the local newspaper. The item said that a the body of a 60-year-old woman had been found in her rural house in a tiny town in western New York State. Although sad, that news in itself is not especially remarkable, until the article explained that the woman had been dead for over a year. The report said the deceased did indeed have relatives living close-by, and that she hadn't picked up her mail in over a year, about the same time her utilities had been shut off. It was only by happenstance that a couple who were inquiring whether the property was sale that the womans body was found. The second story, which received considerable media play during this Holy Week, occurred in Massachusetts, where a teenaged girl whose family had recently emigrated from Ireland, did not receive anything resembling a warm welcome from her new classmates in her adopted country. Instead she underwent what can only be described as mental torture, as her male and female peers harassed her both to her face and through on-line social network sites. School officials were allegedly aware of the bullying but did not try to stop it, to the point at which the girl took her own life at the age of 15.

The long prose passage above is the background for this piece of verse, called

Perpetual Care

Their backgrounds completely veered
a couple hundred miles, and a distance of years--
four and half decades, to be exact.
They had little in common, beyond the one thing
all of us hold in common. 
They didn't even know
each other, but they were twins,
spiritual siblings, sisters of the soul.


Neither could have been aware
the chimera called up by attention,
the lack of it or the excess
of the wrong kind. 
Both must have known, as all
of us know, deep down
that everything, every day,
every youthful hope
has its end, and that the end
comes early or later, but for all
always too soon.

Once, there may have been a time
when each mightve spun her respective
dream, and each, perhaps cuddling
upon her loving mothers lap,
may have marveled at a world
new to her: the predictable
phases of a changing moon,
a birds greeting to the unspoiled
morning, the invariable cheer
behind an immaculate, blue sky.

----------


## Dr. Cambridge

> A Poem With a Preface
> The long prose passage above is the background for this piece of verse, called
> 
> Perpetual Care
> 
> Their backgrounds completely veered
> a couple hundred miles, and a distance of years--
> four and half decades, to be exact.
> They had little in common, beyond the one thing
> ...


I felt a cold shiver reading this, such neglect. 

A carefully chosen subject with a poignant message from you, AuntShecky. Thankyou.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie, I read your preface to the poem and was equally moved by the poem and the reason for it. It is a very good poem but I do have an observation. 

I wonder if the second and last stanzas would not be better exchanged. the sentiment at the end of S2 reads like a conclusion, whereas the the end of S3 leaves me expecting more... In view of your stance on anti poetry, was this intentional?

Happy Easter, and may Ēostre’s hares bring you eggs of hues to gladden your heart.

H

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

I want to say that I disagree with Hawkman's suggestion re altering the order of the 2nd & 3rd stanzas. The openness, the eternal possibility (and mystery?) of that "immaculate blue sky" makes for a splendid ending in my view to this immensely compassionate poem.

Maybe it's because I have read and adored virtually all of Flannery O'Connor's stories and novels, that I am sensitized to the sky as symbol and as possibility. There is the "pathetic fallacy" of course, but in virtually every one of O'Connor's narratives, the sky is sketched in in a few vivid strokes, and it is unquestionably the same naturalistic sky we all see - but it is, always, something much, much more.

Bravo!

----------


## Buh4Bee

Aunt Shecky- To this poem I must say I was deeply moved. You have expressed the brutality of humanity quite well. I usually try to stay "secular" on the forums, but given the subject matter of your poem, I feel I can express how important it is to me to remember the spirit of the Easter season.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you Dr. Cambridge, jersea, Prince, and Hawkman for your replies. And yes, the order of the three stanzas was absolutely intentional.

----------


## Bar22do

A/Sh, 

I've just posted a long comment on your well penned, rather tragic poem. But I must have made a wrong mvt and now all is gone. So again -

I was telling you that I found the final lines so perfect!

_the predictable
phases of a changing moon,
a birds greeting to the unspoiled
morning, the invariable cheer
behind an immaculate, blue sky._

I was also suggesting that you consider (but it's only my humble opinion, as we say, to take or to toss) compressing a little the following lines which would thus gain in poignancy:

_Both must have known, as all
of us know, deep down
that everything, every day,
every youthful hope
has its end, and that the end
comes early or later, but for all
always too soon._

perhaps sth like:

Both must have known
that every day, something
ends and that the end
comes, early or later,
always too soon.


I read and re-read your poem, loved it very very much.

Warm regards - Bar

----------


## AuntShecky

It’s From Hunger

For too long I’ve been losing weight,
undernourished in this venue.
Lately I’ve begun to hate
these stale items on the menu.

Don’t order in that rich paté
or a burger with the works,
washed down with chai or a large latte.
My appetite’s for props and perks.

Spicy food? Don’t want to try it,
nor condiments on hors d’oeuvre trays.
I’m starving for a esteem-y diet
full of compliments and fatty praise.

No need to book a pricey table
at a chi-chi place to sup.
Ply me with sweet-talk, or if unable-
lie. Try whipping something up.

So if you want to know my dining credo,
remember this, my fine amigo:
feed my ego.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

The only competition for your wit is your last poem - or your next! This one is truly an act of virtuosity!

----------


## Hawkman

Very entertaining, Auntie! I like mine with lots of sugar, lol

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Prince and Hawkman, but methinks I messed up the meter, which oft is my Achilles' heel.

Which reminds me: don't forget, Prince and Hawkman, to post your entries in both the Form and the Subject Poetry Contests on or before
this Monday, May 10.

----------


## Bar22do

Your craft here is at its highest, your "ego" - well fed I hope as it assesses your abilities! a very witty, fine verse, A/Sh - thanks - and warm rgds - Bar

----------


## qimissung

Hello Auntie. I'm late to the party, but i would like to comment on Perpetual Care. I brought a tear to my eye. Thank you for your tender mercy. I've read about Phoebe Prince. I work in a school, so I took that one to heart. Bullying is becoming a serious problem in schools across the country.

And to die alone, and to have no one care enough to inquire, what a bleak and undeserved ending to life. Thank you for you tribute to them both.

And "It's from Hunger"-thank you again. You made me laugh, and I needed that.  :Smile:

----------


## AuntShecky

For this next number, we're going to change the tempo a little bit. Arguably this would fit into the "Your Poems Inspired by Music" thread, but instead it's going into the "Anti -poems" thread. So with no further intro, here's a little ditty we like to call 

Variation on a Theme by Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown

At some early point
someone unknown
injected vaulting dreams
into my head
and never came back
to spring them.

Into an infinite sky 
the notions jumped.
They look on lives
of their own, expecting
that each leaping launch
would land true --

in a parallel
universe, perhaps.
In this one my feet
remain too big,
my balance inept,
my coordination, clumsy.

On graceful toes
an aspiration danced
with the thought that
whenever I entered a room
every head would turn–
and they do! (The other way.)

Another idea had the effrontery
to believe that tiny scrawls
and scratches would elevate
me to a perch so high
that I’d no longer have to wail
the blues or wait for change.

Now overripe and cowering
in the corner and weeping 
into their tepid tea, the failures
gum the stale crust of delusion,
while their bones crack jokes and
their once-golden manes turn gray.

But –“Wait! There’s still time!”
one could say. “You ain’t dead
yet, and where’s there’s life,
there’s . . .” Dozens of et ceteras
overflow off the twelve-bar charts.
“Someday my luck will change.”

On the other hand, the future–
both near and far– finds its feet
stuck in irrelevance. My mind
turns back instead of ahead,
especially when it knows 
that “someday” is the saddest
word in the world when 
at this late point I’m running 
out of somedays.

----------


## Hawkman

> Now overripe and cowering
> in the corner and weeping 
> into their tepid tea, the failures
> gum the stale crust of delusion,
> while their bones crack jokes and
> their once-golden manes turn gray.


Says it all really...

Seriously though, this is a cracking read and very entertaining. Thanks Auntie.

PS Last stanza l2 "finds it feet" shouldn't that be "its"?  :Smile: 

Live and be well. H

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## PrinceMyshkin

Splendid, up to and most certainly including that last, sad stanza.

----------


## AuntShecky

> PS Last stanza l2 "finds it feet" shouldn't that be "its"? 
> 
> H



Yep! Thank you very much for catching it for me.

----------


## AuntShecky

At the root of the vibrant topics currently growing throughout the mainstream media and the blogosphere, one critical question dominates: why do governments, corporations, institutions, and individuals seem unable to make timely and effective decisions? Could the cause of this apparent indecisiveness, as well as the pervasive lack of commitment, stem from the idea of permanence, the fear that we're forever stuck with the choices we make? Or is it a possibility even more frightening  that one option is as good as another, or, even worse, that in the grand scheme of things, a specific, individual choice really doesn't matter a whit.

In one of his last monologues, the comedian George Carlin (1937-2008) observed that Americans are duped into believing that they are bestowed with a bottomless supply of multiple choices, divergent options for consumer products such as soda, dog food, cars, ad infinitum, while systematically and covertly denied access to the types of decisions that really matter, the choices that truly affect our daily lives.

A frequently anthologized and misunderstood poem, The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost (1874-1963 ) pokes fun at a man who tends to agonize over minor decisions that ultimately turn out to be more-or-less meaningless. A footnote appearing in _The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry_, quotes a critic stating that Frost did not approve of romantic sighing over what may have been.  Some readers inadvertently overlook the subtle irony in the poems concluding couplet: taking the road less traveled by doesn't really make all that much difference.

Another poet, Delmore Schwartz (1913-1966) used the line, In dreams begin responsibilities as the title for one of his poetry collections as well as for a brilliant short story. Nevertheless a major theme of his work is the contradiction in every act. A poem from Schwartzs final collection, _Selected Poems: Summer Knowledge_, covers similar ground as Carlins much-later monologue. In True-Blue American, a boy is confronted with the choice of a chocolate sundae or a banana split; his response is: Both! I must have both! Its difficult to disagree with the Norton editors assessment that the poem represents the metaphysical casualness marked by a certain indifference typical of the American character. The kids plunge into satisfying his confectionary preferences all at once a gleeful greediness, perhaps is only a symptom of a larger dysfunction: the inability to bother oneself with the difficulty of making a choice. Hence, as the Norton folks point out, the poem presents a comic rejection of the weighty thought processes of --as the poems speaker tells us, a Kierkegaard and many another European. A line from this astutely-observed poem was stolen for the title of the following anti-poem which you could call truthfully derivative or kindly, a post-modern mash-up.

Rejecting Selection

At Jutlands gloomy tip, as Arctic winds
dipped down to mock a futile wish for sun,
it wasn't easy for the thinker to announce:
Not to decide is to decide.

A tug o war of Either equally matched
with an Or can really rip a soul in two
half banished to a Limbo off the map;
half to a wishy-washy Switzerland.

While clinging to the comfort of a fence,
why force a guy to make a choice he dreads?
(The right sides just as likely to be left.)
Sore and battered, hes loath to take a leap

Where logic fails.
Some choice he has!Damned both ways, or pegged a namby-
pamby in-between, discomposed to make up
his mind: to shirk  or not to shirk,
another question, a whole nother choice!

A neutral coin won't let him off the hook;
it flips without a cash-back warranty;
can't count on Fate or things unseen for help
to guide the falling dice to roll his way.

The universe has better things to do,
although believe me - I can sympathize
when forces outside our control deny
desire, answering only nothing but "nyet.

So go ahead and pick the team you like.
The shirt may feel as if its thick with hair.
Just tell yourself the jerseys made of silk
thats fashioned from defiance or a joke.

Now take the stamp of the inevitable
in hopeless passes at a football missed
by Sparkys mild and melon-headed boy.
He (as well as you and I) in spirit share

the same contented calm as Sisyphus
and his uphill stare at the pesky rock,
as, with gravity in doomed embrace, it rolls
back down, each glorious and stinking time.


---
Links:
George Carlin (A reference to the cited monologue appears in this interview in the answer to question *#5*)
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page3...e=10bqs/carlin 

Contains an interpretation of "The Road Not Taken":
http://www.eiu.edu/~ipaweb/pipa/volume3/kilgore.htm

"True-Blue American" by Delmore Schwartz
http://poetryoutloud.org/poems/poem.html?id=171352

_The Myth of Sisyphus_ by Albert Camus (1913-1960)
http://dbanach.com/sisyphus.htm

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

WHAT!? Did you challenge yourself before writing this to outshine even your most brilliant recent poems? You've been showing wit & or comedy to be the equal of even the most dour philosophical questions.

This is an
*a
ma
zing

poem!*

----------


## AuntShecky

During the warmer seasons here in North America, I spend many an evening watching a televised Major League Baseball game. Lately, I've noticed something startling when the camera pans the crowd in the stands: generally speaking, the primary focus of the audience isn't the game. While some fans divert their attention toward cell phones and other portable electronic devices, the real distraction/attraction for most is food. We're no longer talking hot peanuts and Cracker Jacks, Folks. Beyond the customary comestibles of hot dogs, pizza, chicken wings, and ice cream, modern ballparks offer a vast variety of complete, Styrofoam-encased meals delivered right in the stands, in addition to the full-service restaurants within the stadium itself. And its not just sports venues or other spectator events. These days America apparently has a new favorite recreational activity. Hence the following serving of verse about the Curse of the Middle Class which we like to call

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.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie,

This latest offering of yours is not only wickedly funny but also a positively horrific expose of Western profligacy and overindulgence. One may only hope that the truly hungry never get to read it!  :Biggrin: 

Best, H

----------


## dafydd manton

> Its From Hunger
> 
> For too long Ive been losing weight,
> undernourished in this venue.
> Lately Ive begun to hate
> these stale items on the menu.
> 
> Dont order in that rich paté
> or a burger with the works,
> ...


Live it! Love it! Puts me in mind of Betjeman, or possibly Dylan Thomas.

----------


## 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,
> ...


 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  :Biggrin:  

Best, H

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## 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?

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## 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.

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## 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, i_f 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

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## 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...")

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## 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

----------


## Hawkman

Auntie, this is really witty and I love the choice of form. It's so well executed I'm breathless with admiration  :Biggrin:  Personally I think your light shines brightly.

Best, H

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

This little light of yours is incandescent. Really, Auntie, you go from strength to strength.

----------


## Bar22do

Aunty,

You _"only lack the way to make it shine"_ on the eighth day of the week.
Flexibility you write with raises my approval to its peak!
Lightness of your humour vastly haloes your wisdom depth, ever meek...
Let me express my gratitude for your art by a kiss on your cheek!

Smiling - Bar

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Hawkman, Prince and Bar for these and your other flattering comments as well!




> the choice of form.


It's impersonating a villanelle.

----------


## qimissung

Were you a methodist in a previous life, Aunty? In any event, it is brilliant with emotion and wit!

----------


## AuntShecky

Two Steps to a Healthier, Happier Poem

STEP ONE:

Take a word 
any word  then:


pound it like a fielders mitt,
pet it like a neighbors mutt,
stretch it like a braggarts truth,
snap it like a hipsters thumb,
slap it like a jazzmans bass,
flatten it like a Minnesotans a,
sharpen it like a harridans tongue,
twist it like a trysting couples sheets,
tweak it like a toddlers nose.

STEP TWO:

Repeat.

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## PrinceMyshkin

The site ought to charge people for having as much fun as you obviously do! I loved this. Thanks.

----------


## hillwalker

Brilliant - but I think you missed one - soothe it like a loved one's lips

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## Bar22do

On the tenth day the Almighty formed Aunty in the fulness of her being.

Your poem about one word poem:

... witty!
I repeat:
witty!


(ah, and - you'll never fall into categories whose _desuetization_ E. Pound wished for!)

----------


## Hawkman

Marvellous Auntie, Your muse must have been Terpsichŏrē, for they read like dance calls  :Biggrin: 

Best, H

----------


## dafydd manton

I just loved the pace, the rhythm, the flow. Thanks so much.

----------


## blank|verse

Very good, and works well as a companion piece, or counter perhaps, to Hawk's recent poem.

I particularly enjoyed the 'twist - tryst' echo, even though the latter word isn't the most contemporary! Enjoyable stuff.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, all, incl. daffyd and Hillwalker, and dear Hawkman.

Bar, I'm making a mental note to send you a PM about your latest poem. Blank__Verse, I had started working on the next anti-poem, but after yesterday when Iread yours about the noise in the flat, I see that this next one will echo yours. Prince, please don't even mention charging fees for this site. I love it and would gladly pay for the privilege, but who's got any dough?

Now I've got to look up"desuetization." "Terpsichore" I already know, but all my life yours fooly has been known as having two left feet. 

Thanks again.

----------


## AuntShecky

Here we go with another lengthy intro, but it's my thread, so what the hell. Initially the idea for this next piece came from blank_verse's poem, "Four Floors Up" about intrusive, outside noise. 

Without invitation, chaos seems to follow me wherever I go. A couple of decades ago we lived in a city whose time had already come and gone, and our particular neighborhood was well on its way to becoming run-down. Around the corner was a dive, of course, and its patrons had the habit of parking their vehicles directly beneath the upstairs flat of our rented two-family house. Late one night noise woke me up, and when I went to investigate I saw a guy and a gal engaged in loud conversation on the sidewalk right beneath our front window. I said nothing, but the couple saw me and immediately reacted as if I had intruded upon them!

In that same squalid city every Fourth of July we had to spirit our older daughter out of town because she would get extremely frightened by firecrackers --though to be truthful, kids would set off those explosions (illegal in our state) from Memorial Day in May right on through Labor Day in September. Same with those colorful girandoles that use the night sky as their canvas. Formerly confined to Independence Day, fireworks now are featured in every kind of sporting event, craft festival, supermarket opening, you name it. Fireworks are pretty, but they make an ungodly, booming noise. I read this year that a community event in our erstwhile hometown featured a professional fireworks show, but the planners apparently forgot -- or totally disregarded -- the fact that the veteran's hospital was a mere two blocks away. Some of the patients were suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome, or what used to be called "shell shock."

Speaking of hospitals, early last month I went to one to visit my stricken sister. On that horrible, tear-filled day, I managed to find something to make me laugh. Apparently this hospital supplements its medical insurance income through parking fees. But instead of hiring
human attendants, the hospital handles the transactions with a vending machine that uses audio instructions. The computerized voice that tells the visitors to "insert your ticket" and to "press one if you need a receipt" is exactly the same as that of a famous astrophysicist's voice synthesizer. "Gee, the economy must be worse than I thought," I told my younger daughter. "Even Steven Hawking has to supplement his income."

But seriously, doesn't life seem greedier, ruder, and especially louder now? Maybe those things are mere symptoms of our rapidly deteriorating society, the cultural equivalent of Gresham's Law. That notion hounding me for weeks put me into full "Shine, Perishing Republic" mode and resulted in the following ditty, which we like to call

Miss Communication

There’s little matter in the universe.
What’s there can't squeak its presence in the dark
where silence penetrates through gas and rocks.
Our lens sees stars but hears no harmony.

Yet down here, blessed with an atmosphere, sound thrives:
the sweep of air through trees, the gurgles and swirls
of gentle waters, the triumph of a child’s 
first garbled words: such melodies must yield

to alien strains of invading noise–-
attacking, digging in, aligned to squelch
the quiet space of unsuspecting homes.
A raging army occupies our world.

The useful wheels which merely used to turn
all squeal as if some animal’s been trapped.
Cars once contented with an internal hum
now throb with anger through the neighborhood.

When harsh, unruly shouts usurp the streets,
how can a tender whisper co-exist?
A cry for quiet will escape each ear
taken over by the overlords of din. 

Seek sanctuary in some other world
hiding behind an aloof and neutral star?
Defying count, they're far and far apart,
and life (for now) is here, and here alone.

“We're not alone,” the physicist has said,
his faith more tuned to beings less supreme
than God. (Easier to explain black holes.)
Loud vacuums suck up reason and real art.

The empty mind in the existing room,
the Cyclops whose blaring bellows crack the walls,
bites off the heads of men of former sense
and belches back their undigested truth.

The gloomy gyre of Yeats grows wider still.
Such discord! I cannot grasp a single word,
and words I make will not be understood.
Where’s Emily’s new letter to the world?

What solace rests in measured syllables,
the honest bounce of bygone peppy songs,
the glimpse of silent sparkles in the sky,
with people talking loudly late at night?

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

Oh, Aunty! Your poems make me want to be a better man! (Or if not, at least a better poet.) "the overlords of din"! - oh yes, but on the other hand, the pleasure of using language as if it - and almost it alone - were God's gift to us; or ours to Him!

(P.S. Case I overlooked saying so in my effort to be fancy, I loved this poem!)

And P.p.s. Not that this applies to you but I love this saying:

"Say it simple, forget your Dixie grammar." Jack Teagarden

----------


## Delta40

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

----------


## Buh4Bee

:FRlol:  :FRlol:

----------


## 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:
*Tak*en *o*ver by the *o*ver*lords* 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  :Biggrin: 

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?  :Biggrin: 

“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.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> ...


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 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.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie, well I was taught to keep iambic pentameter to ten syllable lines, but I accept that the rule may not be universal. I did check with a few classic examples from Shakespeare (and others) but the examples I chose were all deccasyllabic. It certainly makes writing blank verse easier if you don't have to work in a straightjacket  :Biggrin: 

Re. syntactical wrenching: well ok, but it's not common usage and does sound a little archaic. Strangely, it would have appeared less so if the sentence had continued beyond stand. e.g. "defies its peeling bark to stand unaided" otherwise contemporary useage would be to say, "...still stood, despite its peeling bark." but it's a minor quibble.

Best, H

----------


## AuntShecky

> Re. syntactical wrenching: well ok, but it's not common usage and does sound a little archaic. Strangely, it would have appeared less so if the sentence had continued beyond stand. e.g. "defies its peeling bark to stand unaided" otherwise contemporary useage would be to say, "...still stood, despite its peeling bark." but it's a minor quibble.
> 
> H


Well, I'm afraid I disagree and still believe that the structure is a standard simple declarative sentence: 
S + V + O. 
Also, "unaided" wouldn't fit the crazy-quilt rhyme scheme. 

But seriously, thanks again.

----------


## AuntShecky

Here's a ditty already posted long ago in the "Parodies" thread, but I felt like digging it up in order to change the title and the arrangements of the stanzas. Now, as at its premiere in 2008, Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan are undoubtedly rockin' and rollin' in their graves.


“H.M.S. Tin Ear” 

I'm no damned good at symmetry 
and versifying gimmickry.
The wrenching rhymes that I've thus wrought
are often fraught with limerick-ry.
In track-wide doubt I ever can
train a wretchéd line to scan,
I am the very model 
of a swayback poet also-ran.

I slice my bread before the wise, 
and the sharp advice they live to give
says even the wriest loaf is stale, 
très trite, if not derivative,
referring to my alluding skill 
as swill from a cut-and-paster-er.
I am the moldy model
of a post-modern poet-taster-er.

The Greats whom I strain to parody 
and flatter with temerity
I take more seriously than myself, 
which “I say with all sincerity.”
No tears will drip, 
but laughs may trip 
out of my rash and leaky pen.
I am a photocopy 
of a poet-slash-comedienne.

----------


## cjm12345

the Miss Communication one about noise is one of the most enjoyable poems I have read on this part of the forum! I love it's originality and the direction you take with it...though you say the subject matter is maybe not the biggest evil there is in the world I think it is a significant feeling of modern times. Saving that one!

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## PrinceMyshkin

Wonderfully funny! And all the more reason why you ought to rent Mike Leigh's "Topsy-Turvy"!

----------


## Hawkman

This is both clever and funny and I take it from the subject (and the title) that the extraneous beats are therefore deliberate  :Biggrin: 

Live and be well. H

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## AuntShecky

In my opinion --which becomes more and more aware of its inherent humility with every passing day -- "free" verse can be just as difficult to compose as metered verse. If she wants a piece of free verse to be effective, the writer has to invent a brand-new form to embody the particular subject matter. 

Well, the chance of discovering an appropriate pattern in this next one is pretty slim. Whatever you do, don't attempt to scan the lines. It _is_ an example of "free" verse, though, in the sense that it won't cost you anything to read the following, which we like to call 

"No Soliciting"

At the table in a mismatched chair
you sat picking at your plate
to push away the lima beans,
like little bags of gravel
strewn about the buds of truth.

From the other room The News
announced the alarming change
in the– “Cost of Living”? What succotash!
Never in your life did you have to pay
to breathe, to live. You expected
no one, but the pounding came.

Your mother never stirred nor wiped
her ruddy hands on the faded apron front. Still,
the sudden sound had sped to a staccato,
opportunity this time
requiring more than one knock.
“Tell them,” she said, “we have no money.”

It could have been a drummer
clad in a blaring sports coat with a clashing
tie above which his Adam’s apple throbbed
to exclaim, “My, what an impressive-
looking lad you are!” through a _de rigueur_ 
smile designed to go with
a different set of eyes.

There might have been brushes in his bag: coarse
bristles arranged in neat rows across a block
of rough wood – and delicate handles of fine ones
For The Hair. He'd be more than happy to show
you a sample volume, with _A-Ar_
stamped in gold on its spine, 
or a free demonstration
of the very Latest in Vacuums,
hungry – ravenous!– to devour
all the dirt in the world. 
“We have no money.”

It wasn't until later that the kids would come,
college students in sandals or beat-up
sneakers, with idealism in their eyes
and in their sun-brushed hands a slim
pen and a thick binder, as they sought
sponsors for a week from next Saturday’s 
Fun Run, or valid signatures for their petitions,
subscribers for moribund magazines –

long-shot wagers strategically placed,
a shot-in-the-dark manuscript
slinging itself over the transom, like a knife-
in-the-mouth ragtag soldier, scaling the enemy wall.

All over the world handshakes are offered
and heads are shaken and doors are slammed
and fortresses are rushed but seldom breached,

where arms stretch outward and upward
with an empty bowl for alms,
for a sale, for praise – everywhere, everyone
seeking, begging, asking.

----------


## Hawkman

I really like this one Auntie. It resonates on my sounding board. I have certainly felt that life is a gauntlet of demanding, threatening, grasping pleaders whose sole aim is to take what I've got, because they think they have a better right to it than me. Wouldn't it be nice if someone approached you out of the blue just to give you whaqt you need instead of relieve you of it!

However, back to the poem  :Biggrin:  My only observation would be to perhapse cut the seventh strophe. it isn't that it's bad, but it feels like a digression from the rest of the poem. I think you could lose it and the overall effect would be to tighten it up. and l3 of the last strophe i would put a line break after breached.

Good poem. H

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## AuntShecky

Thanks for reading and commenting, Hawk.

The seventh strophe was included for two reasons: military images, as well as the "unsolicited" label for
the typescripts of aspiring writers.

I will put the line break in.

----------


## hillwalker

Very topical - and perhaps 'free verse' is the only free thing that's left us.

I enjoyed the progression from door-to-door salesmen to the legion of doorsteppers all after our money, or at least a little respect and sympathy.

H

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## AuntShecky

Thank you very much for your comment, Hillwalker. Actually, this wasn't at all intended to be acutely "topical," as it was based on a boyhood remembrance related to me by someone near and dear. 
In any event, thanks again.

----------


## AuntShecky

Imperatives

Give it away.

Give a little, give a lot, give a damn, give a darn,
give a hoot (and don't pollute), give a fig, give a you-know-what, give a rat’s you-know-what, give 
a flying you-know-what.

Give me something to go on, give me a hint,
give me a clue, give me a sign, give me 
my cue, give me a nod, give me your word
of honor, give me a hand, give me some slack,
give me a break, give me a second, give me 
a minute, give me a couple of hours, give me
a few more days, give me shelter, give me
some room, give me space, give me land
lots of land under starry skies above, give me
whiskey (and don't be stingy, Baby), give me a hug,give me a kiss to build a dream on, give me some menwho are stout-hearted men, give my regards to Broadway, give me the old soft shoe, give me that old time religion, give me your poor,
your tired, huddled masses yearning to be free,
give me an A, give me a B, give me a V
for Vic-tor-y, give me just a little more time.

Give it a go, give it a try, give it a rip, give it some
gas, give it the gun, give him the old one-two, give him my love, give her the eye, give him the evil eye, give the gift that keeps on giving, give her the gift that lasts a lifetime, give a man a fish, give him a run for his money, give him a pat on the back, give him the cold shoulder, give him heat, give him a taste of his own medicine, give him the business, give him a knuckle sandwich, give him what for, give him the finger, give
him the bird, give him the gate, 
give it your all, give it everything you've got, 
give yourself a round of applause, 
give it up.

And-

Take it away.

Take it from the top, take a little, take as many as you need, take a little piece of my heart now Baby, take one, take five, take ten, take a break, take a breather, take the day off, take a vacation, take your time, take it easy, take a load 
off, take a seat, take it lying down, take it hard, take it the wrong way, take a compliment, take no guff, take a look, take a look at yourself, take another look, take a test, take a number, take my card, take my place, take a message, take my advice, take it from me, take it with a grain of salt, take it with meals, take it three times a day, take it at bedtime, take her out on the town, take a wife, take her home, take him to the cleaners, take it to the bank, take out a loan, take an offer,
take it to the limit, take me out 
to the ball game, take your base, take it downtown.

Take a loss, take it on face value, take it for what 
it’s worth, take the stairs, take the elevator,
take me to your leader, take him for a ride,
take the car, take the high road and the low road, take the Interstate, take the scenic route, take 
the next exit, take a right, take a left, take the bus
(and leave the driving to us), take the subway, take
the A-Train, take the shuttle, take the red eye, 
take a walk, take a stroll, take it on the arch,
take it to the streets, take it to the People.

Take me for a sap, take me for a fool, take it
outside, take a punch, take a beating, take
what’s coming to you, take him for every 
penny he’s got, take him out, take
the money and run, take it to Court, 
take the Fifth, take a plea, take it
on the chin, take it like a man.

Take a nap, take a snooze, take
a bath, take a shower, take a powder,
take an aspirin, take a moment or two
to reflect, take comfort, take heart,
take courage, take Communion, take it
as it is, take it as it comes, take it
as it goes, take one day at a time,
take the good with the bad, take 
the bitter with the sweet, take your leave,
take leave of your senses, take a bow.

Take it or leave it.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

My loss, for not having seen #157 until today. There was a seemingly inexhaustible bravura to the procession of detail. I loved it and could well see that, free or not, there was plenty of discipline to it.

But.. what to say about "Imperatives"? Unapologetic, irreverent fun, with a sidewise reminiscence of C. Porter's "Let's Not Talk about Love."

----------


## Silas Thorne

This is on 162. 
Wow, incredible! I'm amazed by the sheer amount of research you must have done to put this one together, and the skill with which you've done it. You 'take it to a whole 'nother level' ! (Did you use that one?) 
I love the narrative in it, or what I see in it. 

But you've put me off 'give' or 'take' forever (or at least for a temporary 'forever') now, I feel like you've killed those words dead.  :Smile:  You probably feel like you want to avoid these words as much as possible now too.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie,

Well they say a little give and take goes a long way  :Wink:  This has to be the ultimate list poem and for me at least, it really works. The rhythm just drives it ever forward. I can imagine you slaving over your keyboard all through the night, fuelled by caffine, and emerging with this magnum opus, proud and twitching, as the sun's first rays penetrated the curtains in the morning. Bravo!  :Biggrin: 

Live long and prosper - H

----------


## ryandyson

This is strange, 'cus I love this poem but I do see a number of problems. I love the theme and the first stanza is great, but a few things.

I'm not sure about "splatters" of thought! How's about "the spinning out of thought in scatter-shot lines"? 
I miss read this at first and thought it said "we see some soul-balm from the sensitive" and was going to say perhaps 'in' the sensitive, but then I realised you said seek, but perhaps this is a bit 'telling rather than showing'. 

"sincere as an infants cry" - a little cleche'd
Not sure about "babble", and maybe reified or ossified rather then rarefied 

"We dread the water, then attempt to wade." bit traditional and cleche'd, could be nuanced somehow, not sure about 'wade' cus it sounds to volitional, 'tread' would be another fit in this whymewise, something like 'but we tread it anyway'. 

I see you tempering your critique here;

"Too swiftly comes the splashback: too mainstream, derivative, colloquial, too trite,or déclassé, or worst of all, ignored."

by putting things in "'s and infering its a backlash rather than you. Why not be barbed and direct? Don't apologise for your self (but use knives my brain insists on making me write).

The last stanza is all in all a bit staid; you've got a real tallent with the poetry but the language is struggling in traditionalisms. I'd say anything that is even slightly cleche'd should be taken with inordinate seriousness. It undermines the whole - but even so something shines through quite brightly.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks for your comments re: #162 "Imperatives."

Prince, thanks for commenting on both #157. Re: #162:
I love Cole Porter, but other than the specific song titles which I-- to use a favorite verb from cable news--"referenced" in the text, the only other song in the back of my mind was the Jackie and Roy classic: 
"You've got to *give* a little/ *Take* a little/ and let your poor heart *break* a little."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81ChxpoZc40

Silas, You're kidding about the "research," right? Unlike many of the other ditties in this thread, this one didn't require any research at all. I wish I had put in "take it to a whole 'nother level," but if I had included every "give and take" cliché I'd still be typing!

and Hawkman, You got it right--the main thing I was going for in this exercise in deconstruction was _rhythm_-- "Who could ask for anything more?" You, like Silas, must've been kidding when you said that I was "slaving over the keyboard all night." Sometimes the other ditties in this thread can take days --weeks even-- to write. But not this one.
(Maybe it shows!)

Thanks again, everybody.

----------


## AuntShecky

Gegenschein

[ _In Memory of My Sister
March 14, 1953-November 17, 2010_ ]

Not opposites but merely counterglow:
from you the shine of charm and healthy looks,
with me, in shadowed corners, hugging books.
We were some pair! The wider sphere would know
us not, our lives in paler lines below
the radar screen. The showy blips and hooks
forgot the folks so humbly stowed in nooks.
We craved a richer, finer meaning, though:
a word of quiet light to justify
true worth. Despite how future arcs may bend
or point to signs that final doom is nigh,
what misplaced bands of pink might signify
won't hasten the old worlds untimely end.
Its just the suns reflection in the sky.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

How quietly and with what great dignity this starts out and maintains that throughout until the heart-wrenching couplet with which it closes

----------


## blank|verse

A fittingly well-crafted Italian-variant sonnet, with the volta a line early and a rather politically combative sestet, which takes the reader from the individual to consider the whole world and its future. The image of the 'sun's reflection' picks up nicely the neologism 'counterglow' of the first line.

Given the subject, a sonnet in couplets would also have been appropriate, like Robert Graves's 'In Her Praise', but this works very effectively and affectingly.

----------


## Hawkman

Oh Auntie, did you know your sister shared her birthday with Michael Kane, Albert Einstein - and me. 

Your exquisitely crafted, dignified tribute is, I am sure, an apposite reflection on memory and loss.

Be well, H

----------


## YesNo

I enjoyed reading _Gegenschein_. 

I particularly liked the alliteration and rhyme in "shine of charm and healthy looks" when paired with "shadowed corners, hugging books".

----------


## Silas Thorne

This is a beautiful poem of loss, a powerful tribute of words. I particularly enjoy your description of the two glows of you and your sister, and of her 'shine', although you seem to describe yourself in somewhat more muted tones.

----------


## hillwalker

How gracious - I loved the subtle way you began with the counterpoint between you and your sister. Then how that contrasted with what you also had in common (things obvious to the pair of you but perhaps hidden from everyone else) -

*our lives in paler lines below
the radar screen*

H

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## AuntShecky

Thanks for all of the heartfelt comments above^. They consoled me more than you'll ever know.

One of Hillwalker's recent poems
http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=57784
has a reference to Garbo, which reminded me of this piece of fluff from my earliest days on the LitNet, so long ago that I couldn't locate the original thread! Anyway, here it is, intended as lyrics for an old-fashioned tune: 

Greta

_Todays stars all come from the same bottle,
These cupcakes will never last.
Though pleasant and droll  
I found my crescent "role" 
in a goddess of the past. . ._ 

I want to be like Greta Garbo--
that would be so cool, so neat,
though all we have in common
are two pairs of giant feet. 
I'd hop the next flight to Stockholm
If I had half the chance.
Maybe I'm not a raving beauty,
but I look okay in pants. 

I'm going Scandinavian
gonna take that Nordic ride.
Just gif me Vhiskey, Bay-bee,
with a little love,
a little love,
a little love on the side. 

Oh, I'll be the mysterious figure
in kerchief and glasses dark
who fans'll spot but never say so
when I stroll through Central Park. 

I really wanna be like Garbo,
all standoffish and aloof,
but instead of Swedish meatball,
I'm a red-blooded American goof. 
Gonna affect a Swedish accent (yah)
With some husky smoke in my voice
'cause sometimes I vant to be alone
but most of the time
most of the time
most of the time I have no choice. 

I'm going Scandinavian
gonna take that Nordic ride.
Just giff me Vhiskey, Bay-bee,
with a little love,
a little love,
a little luff on the side. 

Yah.

----------


## Hawkman

I'm afraid I can't place the appropriate tune to this entertaining piece and I seem to be missing something with the, "crescent role" so I'm not sure what you mean here, but the poem is very amusing. I have a photo of Garbo floating around somewhere, I must dig it out and admire it sometime. Mercifully the screen goddess is sans scarf and glasses, so one may admire her in her prime. I remember her as Queen Christina staring off into space in the bow of a ship while (I think) John Gilbert expired romantically in a cabin. and who can forget that, "Garbo Laughs" in Ninotchka  :Biggrin:  As for being alone, I will never forget Peter Cook and Dudly Moore parrodying that famously misquoted phrase, with Mr. Cook, incongruously dressed in a plastic mack, wig, dark glasses and beret, being driven around london on top of an aromoured car, shouting "I want to be alone", through a loud hailer at startled pedestrians.

Things just ain't what they used to be...  :Devil: 

Best wishes, Auntie. H

----------


## firefangled

Auntie, your sonnet for your sister is a beautiful poem. The most difficult poems to write are often those closest to our hearts about a loved one. There is so much to write, even about one aspect. I appreciate the control and care you put into this. 

Fire

----------


## firefangled

I can't place the tune for your Garbo poem either. You are, however,far more versatile than Garbo, Auntie. 

Love the crescent "role" play on words and the refrain.

----------


## hillwalker

I cannot place the song this parodies, but loved the playfulness of it - particularly the narrator's willingness to go all Nordic.

H

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks for the comments, Guys. No "real" song to be parodied, just any generic, forgettable tune one might hear buried in the soundtrack of a movie from Garbo's era, or a piece of sheet music that, no matter the time signature, always had the words
"fox trot" printed on the left-hand side.

----------


## AuntShecky

This:
http://www.online-literature.com/for...814#post985814

engendered this:


The Moral Life of Downtown

When forceful winds conspire
to blow rickety hopes off course,
we harbor no twinkling illusions
that deadweight can learn to fly.

Still, we search for fatal glitches
within the time-wrought rig
thats stacked against our uppity wish
to launch and leave the ground.

Its good for you
but not for us
to stay.

You expect us to wrap your ears
in angry, popping rhymes.
You glare at those of us with names
that end in z, in your puzzlement
over our arrival, on whether 
we landed in the right way. 

You ogle our Jennifers and Michelles
not out of passion borne,
but from ugly, languid habit
that again and again swells
with life that begs its welcome.

You tilt your head toward Carlos
over there, ask him a silly question
just to hear his answer
with the lilting sounds that make you laugh.

Admit it:
you'd really, really like
us to stay for your amusement
but mostly for the work
that no ones inclined to do.

For we are completely, totally,
one hundred percent _free_
to snip your grass for you,
braise your grub for you,
wipe Grandmas nose for you,
stretched out on the sheets
that our women washed.

You want us, need us
to push your stash for you,
populate your prisons for you.

We'd much prefer to become
active by doing nothing,
each one of us a Cato, aloft in thought.

We own nothing of our own, yet grasp
the fact you'd sooner let us steal
everything you have
except your place.

You want us to stay
stay out of your sight,
stay out of your way.

We'd purely love to snatch
your books and make a clean
break for it
the only escape via air,

which is why we're taking off,
of course, on borrowed wings.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

I get the message all right, but I don't sufficiently see or believe in the messenger.

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Dear Aunty
you add a draconian, victorian, authoritarian dust to this place that turns the arial black to grey. IMHO (circa Bar your equal in sanctimony) 
best wishes
JerryB

----------


## AuntShecky

> Dear Aunty
> you add a draconian, victorian, authoritarian dust to this place that turns the arial black to grey. IMHO (circa Bar your equal in sanctimony) 
> best wishes
> JerryB


Dear Jerry, I would understand your comment better if you would be more specific as to how the observation above relates to the little ditty itself.





> I get the message all right, but I don't sufficiently see or believe in the messenger.


Dear Prince,
The little ditty was intended to be a companion piece to the "serious discussion" thread at the top of this posting.

My verse is was intended to be a companion piece to that essay and project which still inspires me 13 years after I originally read it. 



As to your comment, I have to ask which "messenger" do you mean -- the speaker in my poem or the author of the Harper's essay who created the humanities program for poor people? 

My verse is was intended to be a companion piece to that essay and project which still inspires me 13 years after I originally read it. 

I'm sure you know the anecdote about the thirties era movie mogul who after listening to a pitch for an "important" motion picture about social issues said, "If you want to send a message, use Western Union."

----------


## AuntShecky

. . . . . . .

----------


## hillwalker

A very apt, _political_ poem (how dare you) in the current climate of enforced austerity (over here in blighty anyway).

Presumably our politicians believe cutting funding for education and the Arts is a painless way of saving the tax payers money - those who can afford to read books or visit art galleries will continue to have the expendable income do so - those who rely on government hand-outs would probably get nothing worthwhile from it anyway..... so everyone knows their rightful place in society.

From the perspective of the writer here, one is left to assume that the class divide is as much an issue in the US, and the have-nots know it.

The most telling lines being 

*.....you'd sooner let us steal
everything you have
except your place.*

Of course, over here revolution is fast a-coming. You read it here first.

H

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks, hillwalker, for your comment. The original "serious discussion" posting and especially the companion poem are "political" only in the broad definition created by Thucydides. (I'm only just getting used to spelling that illustrious name!)

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

> As to your comment, I have to ask which "messenger" do you mean -- the speaker in my poem or the author of the Harper's essay who created the humanities program for poor people?


I was referring to the poem itself, where I heartily agreed with the ideological points but thought they'd have registered more forcefully if I'd been presented with even one of these downtrodden people in the round.

----------


## Transmodernism

> I want to say that I disagree with Hawkman's suggestion re altering the order of the 2nd & 3rd stanzas. The openness, the eternal possibility (and mystery?) of that "immaculate blue sky" makes for a splendid ending in my view to this immensely compassionate poem.


Hello AuntShecky! I'm new here and I can't tell you how much I have thoroughly enjoyed reading through your anti-poetry. I absolutely loved your linking of pearl-production to human suffering and how we may fail to bring forth something precious out of it (from number I-can't-remember-which). I also fully agree with PrinceMyshkin in the quote above that "immaculate blue sky" and the sentimates found at the end of #84 seem, to me, to be the best possible ending. It gives it a touch of compassion and humanity--a beautiful ending, rather than a depressing one.

(Sorry that I'm sorta commenting on stuff way back in the thread; I'm still reading through!)

----------


## hillwalker

Hi again Aunty - my opening comment was very much tongue-in-cheek (just in case Admin are watching) :-)

----------


## firefangled

There are so many bells this rings, Auntie. A very apt follow up to the essay on poverty and the humanities. The attitude at the root of exclusion damages us beyond just the poor, but that is many other stories.

I though the poem was perfect in its sarcasm. Though you paralleled the essay well with the content, you never forgot this was a poem with sonics, rhythm and rhyme. I liked nearly all the stanzas, but especially this one:

_You want us to stay
stay out of your sight,
stay out of your way._


In his essay, _Poetry and Selfhood_ in _Democracy and Poetry_, Robert Penn Warren wrote:

_The "made thing" stands as a vital emblem of the integrity of the self, whether the thing is a folk ballad or a high tragedy. But for whom? We never know precisely for whom art is, or on whom, directly or indirectly, it works its effects. But if art turns out to be, in an immediate sense, for only a minority, how can it fortify democracy?_

One by one, let the bells be rung by the bells ringing. Thank you, Auntie.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you again, Prince and Hillwalker, thanks (and welcome!) to Transmodernism, and firefangled, thank you for flattering comment and especially for posting the thoughtful lines from Robert Penn Warren.

The following is partially a response to Prince's comment in #188 about the seemingly multiple P.O.V.s but also because I feel like adding this p.s.:

Beware the writer who sets himself or herself up as the voice of a nation. This includes notion of race, gender, sexual orientation, elective affinity. This is the New Behalfism. Beware behalfies! The New Behalfism demands uplift, accentuates the positive, offers stirring moral instruction. It abhors the tragic sense of life. Seeing literature as inescapably political, it replaces literary values by political ones. It is the murderer of thought. Beware!
--Salman Rushdie 

Oddly enough, that passage appeared in an article in the very same issue of Harper's that featured the essay which sparked the whole debate. I can't dispute Salman Rushdie's admonition, and I daresay that even Earl Shorris would probably agree with him as well. Still, I'm sticking to my stance that the little "Downtown" poem is "political"
only in the broader sense from Thucydides.

The speaker in the poem, "we" is a collective voice-- albeit impetuous, anti-authoritarian, colloquial (maybe prose-y in a couple of places), ironic, and democratic. "We" are not specifically speaking "in behalf" of hyphenated Americans or women or Americans with disabilities or any other group that historically has been marginalized and silenced.

"We are not speaking "for" any distinct oppressed small group but rather a heartbreakingly large group in order to express in down-to-earth terms the most clear-cut dividing line in today's society: the burgeoning and seemingly unbridgeable gap between the Haves and the Have-Nots.

In the poem, the central metaphor of flight was intended to symbolize a possible escape for all of us who are culturally deprived. With few or no opportunities offered, we take it upon ourselves to deracinate their lot from the street by studying the arts and the humanities. We don't literally "snatch the books" but what is written in them. In this way,we empower ourselves, perhaps "govern" ourselves, not unlike the anecdote about the students continuing a spirited yet elegantly civilized discussion after the logic class.

Even though the first person plural voice of the poem is collective, it is crucial to remember that every human being is a unique individual, having the absolute right to maintain an autonomous identity, not merely a microdot on a graph or a part of a number in a statistical table, not just one of thousands constituting "The Poor" which is the term the ruling class often uses to lump us all together.

----------


## qimissung

Very apt. The idea that the arts and humanities are not of vast importance to all people is simply too ludicrous to contemplate.

I like the phrase "surround of force." You have given me something to think about and perhaps write about, AuntShecky.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie, I'm sorry that I've taken so long to get round to commenting.

My first thought is that the first 6 stanzas are unnecessary. They form something of a rambling preamble, and the poem doesn't really get going until S7. It would be tighter and more forceful as a more compact piece, and is still making the same point.

In S8:

For we are completely, totally,
one hundred percent free
to snip your grass for you,
braise your grub for you,
wipe Grandma’s nose for you,*
stretched out on the sheets
that our women washed."

*There is a problem with the expression here because the subordinate clause reads as though we wipe grandma's nose for you while *we* are stretched out on the sheets. I think that to say what I beleive you mean to say it should be:

"wipe grandma's nose for you
while she stretches out on the sheets"

Interestingly there is a debate rageing over here about whether the state should withdraw funding for students on arts and humanities courses in university to save money. They still intend to support science and technology though. It seems that the Arts and Humanities are deemed less vital to the educational wealth of the nation.

Live and be well, H

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you q and Hawkman


> My first thought is that the first 6 stanzas are unnecessary. They form something of a rambling preamble, and the poem doesn't really get going until S7. It would be tighter and more forceful as a more compact piece, and is still making the same point.
> 
> Nah, I need them there, in order to set up the metaphors for flight. For instance, the "rickety rig" refers both to a mechanical object --a dilapidated aircraft -- but also to the established society which perpetuates a system deliberately "rigged" against the disadvantaged part of the population.
> 
> In S8:
> 
> For we are completely, totally,
> one hundred percent free
> to snip your grass for you,
> ...



As always, thanks for your thoughtful criticism.

----------


## AuntShecky

This one originally appeared on the LitNet way, way back when. It has been exhumed and, one would hope, resuscitated. In any case, it's been revised.

No Comment

Nobody expects the likes of me to save
the world or even a piece of it,
or set it afire or light with flair
a Kumbaya flame for peace.

Listen, sometimes a gal
just wants to hang
back and silently swear
at the darkness.

I'm not fuming or consuming
or snoozing or schmoozing
or musing or communing 
with a muse who begs to be excused.

Believe me, once
in a widely-spaced while,
backlit by moonlight 
of a rare azure hue,
it's okay to be blue.

Not benighted in the slightest,
not sighing or denying,
not excited or delighted,
not dying to be fighting,
opening up or closing down
a dialogue, damn it, I'm just
not talking to you.

----------


## Bar22do

It does ring a bell, though distant, Auntie. Sharp and defying! let me be, I don't give a d***! It's ok to be blue, and it is... well revised, I mean, reads smooth to me, it's as if I'm riding your horse!

I simply LOVE

_Listen, sometimes a gal
just wants to hang
back and silently swear
at the darkness._

So good to read you, Dear Auntie. 

Bar

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie,

I really like this one, particularly:

"I'm not fuming or consuming
or snoozing or schmoozing
or musing or communing 
with a muse who begs to be excused."

Great poem.

Live and be well, H

----------


## firefangled

The sound repetition in No Comment has the distinct repercussion of ruminating on a mental sore and not feeling the least bit guilty because this is one of those things the positivist tell us not to do. 

A very healthy poem IMO. I like the implied intrusion and dismissal at the end, as if you sense the reader reading like you intended it for them, when N's intent is to vent, nothing more.

Nice one, Auntie.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

There seems to me to be a disconnect between the defense the narrator makes throughout most of this poem - a defense in response to all the things the world or her social circle expect her to do or be - and that final verse, which appears to be aimed at one single listener, a partner, a friend she's p/o at?

Too bad, because I thoroughly enjoyed the free-wheeling rhyming & ranting throughout that preceded that last verse.

----------


## mpdague

Very well done, I enjoyed the humor and the crafting.

M

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks all for taking the time to respond to #196^^^^.
Here's the next number:


Ill Lumination

In the beginning rare and cloistered bowers
kept Latin words whose worth may bear light still.
Initialing the I with gilt and flowers,
their vision cowled by candles and a quill,
in painful zeal the brothers toiled for years
as cold, stone walls wept moisture, not fake tears.

Now bloggers hunch in basements bent for clicking
up missiles, quickly launched without a fight.
While warm in robes of brighter flannel ticking,
they twist and wring out wrongs from what was right,
inspiring readers lacking guile to run
off seeking sanctuary or a gun- 

causing souls, once hopeful, to sigh and hiss:
Theres never been a darker age than this.

----------


## firefangled

My my, Auntie, this is a deep river to step into with a sonnet so well done. We do live in a time of bad faith. Wonders all around us, but a bit like the water surrounding the Ancient Mariner. 

Ill Lumination, indeed. Reminds me of Bill Moyers's essays on the state of journalism.

Very thought provoking as usual.

----------


## Bar22do

So you master the sonnet in addition to all the other forms you use! And the subject is vivid... True, as well, for with all the excitement about human progress, we live none the less in a fragile age, in which one 'spark' is enough to annihilate the world... and that perhaps has some connection with arts and humanities being relegated to a position of the least importance. 
A great poem, Auntie, thoughtful, concerned, a warning... and as always permeated with your unique mixture of wit, intelligence and culture. 
Be well and congratulations for this new effort. Bar

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie,

I thought S1 beautifully crafted but you lost me a bit in S2. The mention of missiles pulled me up short. Was this intended as a pun on missal? If so, I'm afraid it only works in American, as we Europeans know how to pronounce miss*i*le -  :Devil: 

Despite years of Hollywood's linguistic propoganda, whenever I hear someone say, "Launch the missle" I have a vision of someone thowing a book! Doubtless, this is where the expression "Throw the book at him," comes from.

Still, I did enjoy the poem, especially its closing couplet  :Biggrin: 

Live long and prosper, H

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, firefangled, Bar, and Hawk re #202 above.

Yes, I was thinking of "missal" when I wrote the line, and though I am aware that the British pron. has a long "i" I had totally forgotten it, because if there's ever a pun to go after, Auntie will not ignore it -- sad to say. And Hawk, I was actually thinking of you through the entire writing process. It's said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and while sincerity is not necessarily the hallmark of poesy (which will appear in an upcoming essay, I was trying to emulate your ability to blend the old with the new, for which you have a unique talent in your own work.

That's why this one has both the "old" (the monks) and the "new" (the careless bloggers.) Actually, blogging is already old news, replaced and all but rendered passé by Twitter, Facebook, et al. Both the monks and the bloggers ostensibly withdraw from the "world" but both groups one foot in it-- the former by "keeping learning alive" by preserving the manuscripts for future generations, the latter by sending his messages, missives, "missiles" out into the world. The problem of course is that both cases
there is a chance that among their efforts misinformation can slip through. Not everything posted on the World Wide Web is accurate, and the mistakes are copied again and again until the truth is nowhere to be found. Neither the monks nor the bloggers -more dangerous in my opinion -
really know exactly who will receive the information and how exactly they will react.

Again, thanks for reading and commenting.

----------


## AuntShecky

Here's something loose and colloquial in order to say so long-- and good riddance!-- to 2010.

But before I get sidetracked, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the LitNutters for all their kind words and support this year. Please accept all good wishes as you celebrate the holiday of your choice.

Incidentally, we've just gone through Winter Solstice, marked this year by a rare astronomical event, a total lunar eclipse. Of course, as is always the case with once-in-a-lifetime events in this neck of the woods, we had a cloud cover. Then again, who wants to get up at an ungodly hour of the a.m.? Guess I'll have to wait for the next time the winter solstice and the eclipse coincide--
in 2094.

As an everyday practice, the moon is often "eclipsed" by the sun, but nonetheless has inspired poets and songwriters for centuries. So, without further ado, here is yet another tribute to the Moon, which we like to call

Lucidity in Late December

Couple of winters ago the moon came out
with a bold statement. Oh, I don’t mean
it “talked” talked– what kind of lunatic do you
take me for? But it did invade the sky
the way some mega-celebrity makes an entrance.

Believe me, this was huge, totally out of character
for a celestial body not known for its spunk.
Until this point the moon had never been brazen–
more or less the shy guest at a crowded party,
taking tentative sips of a non-alcoholic brew,
as he hugs the lesser-lit corners of the room,
or hangs out in the kitchen with its overhead
fluorescent tubes flickering for a second
before fully coming on,
I could say that, but it would be an out-and-out lie,
the raving of a pathetic loser
(or something.)

In reality, as we all know, the moon’s a latecomer,
the earth’s afterthought, if you will, a second-
string back-up utility outfielder, understudy to the star,
the sun, which this time of year chills out
for a little R & R, keeps a low profile, generously–
make that “begrudgingly”– cuts back on its schedule
to give the little one a chance – _too much_?

All right, let’s be rational here and take
a look at what the moon is really like:

a homebody-
wrinkled like a pair of “no iron” pants
scuffed like those brogans your wife keeps bugging
you to throw out, 
pock-marked like her thirty-year-old soup pot, 
scarred like oak bark blown through
by too many blizzards and bugs, old –
_like me, like me, like me_.

But just the same, a restless, wandering fool.
When it’s not waxing, it’s waning, never making up
its mind, migrating from this side of the sky
to the next. Nothin’s ever good enough. So
once a month it picks up and makes itself scarce;
a creature (if that’s the word) of habit,
yet ever swinging its moods, this volatile
Cancerian, eloquently mute in its immutability,
a mess of contradictions, that one--
_like me, like me, like me._

Okay this will sound nuts, and I hate to say this
but I don’t really know
if I can trust the moon.
It has a tendency to trick me
into doing things a normal person wouldn’t do,
like the time one summer
in the middle of the night when I staggered
across the room and broke
my favorite lamp just to get
a better gander at the fullness
through the window. The damage done,
the moon kept right on shining.
(I’d even say that it was laughing at me,
but I’m not that crazy.)

Then there was _that_ night, about a week
before Epiphany when, stumbling 
around the dark backyard, I couldn’t find
the tiny flashlight hiding somewhere
in the deep and empty pockets of my parka,
as I looked around for my mislaid dreams
and hoped to lose my guilt 
over the failure to “actualize”– what did
that famous shrink call them?– “peak experiences.”
Sweet Jesus! It was cold –- colder
still with the wind, and that’s when

the moon barged straight in,
startling me like a kid on a sleep-over
the split-second a parent pushes open
the door and flips the wall switch.

I glared at the moon which stared back at me,
not like a near-invisible organism squirming 
under the microscope,
not like some soloist in the spotlight
laying down some riffs–
no, just me, standing there shivering
on the icy lawn and speculating,
wondering, mulling, musing, dreaming,
but mostly thinking, as the moon–
I swear! –tried to tell me something.

It’s flat-out insane, I know, hearing things:
“_Shed the sorrow. Stick with the old. Change.
Try something new. Be like me_,” it said.
It said, shooting a lucent cone of itself
across the snow, glistening with the color of cream.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

This is like the winning collegiate football team interspersed with the corps de ballet, all whooping it up together! A glorious conglomeration of all the words you had left over from the early part of 2010 and surely some you borrowed from 2011.

Great fun! Thank you.

----------


## Hawkman

Indeed Auntie, this was a delightful ramble through the canyons of your mind, and what better way to view the scenery than by moonlight! I think this would work up very nicely into a short story.

Live and be well, H

----------


## Bar22do

A pleasurable kaleidoscope of your art "colours" and - a long piece for my morning, Auntie, so this is going to wait for when I can read it at my usually slow tempo... will come back, but wanted you to know I already got a sense of it - fondly Bar

----------


## hillwalker

An amusing read - and filled with so many sly, witty observations.

I noted the change from 'it' to 'he' (L 11) then back to 'it' - which made me pause for thought because I always thought la Luna was a 'she'.

A seasonal delight now that the shortest day is over and done with. Best wishes for 2011.

H

----------


## Bar22do

What a tour de force! Auntie, now I read it again and will go to sleep thoughtful... _shed the sorrow, be like me_ said the moon... hmmm... your moon reminded me of "mine" I had seen (and wrote about, but it's yet a draft) while on the flight, lately, from Jerusalem to Paris, it went with me all the way long! and spoke to me too, though I have to look up the notes to remember the message. Although it didn't really manage to cheer me up, I still think it's outstanding moons can talk, don't you agree? 

My very best to you, Auntie,

Bar

----------


## blank|verse

Well, I don't think you need me or anyone else to tell you about the consistently high quality of the poems you post on this thread, Aunty.

The latest is very chatty and imaginative, if very prosey, and happily reminds us that winter's volta means longer days to come.

'Ill Lumination' draws an excellent comparison and brings 'The Tempest' to mind, with its consideration of how the democratization of language isn't always wholly beneficial.

Enjoyable and accomplished poems, all.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks for all your previous comments.^^^^ 

My next number is a response and/or feminine counterpart to a poem posted by Hawkman way, way back in early August of last year:
http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=54819

Better late than never, I suppose, for this little ditty we like to call



For Bitter and Far Worse


The fresh-faced bride, still clad in strapless white,
blessed the nightwhile holding both her head and fond hopes high,
sweetly shy,so sure her groom would hear, nearing the hall,
Custom’s call.He’d hoist her up, as her veil touched the floor;
even moreto honor ceremony’s threshold mete,
off her feethe did sweep her, but then said of the room: 
“Get a broom.”

Scant time she crossed the bridge from bride to wife,--
what a life!-- worn out from picking up socks and–I swear!--
underwear.A scarce year found her tightly bound in some
kid-dom come,as she came home from a day’s work to another
as Mother.The mister’s ruse of nights out with the boys’
manly joysconcealed a back-up babe, all game and _so_ not shy
standing by.
Where once the lock of wedded bliss felt loose,
now a noosetightly wound itself ‘round her still youthful neck.
What the heck:more quickly than hubby leaping from bed,
fast she spedto Court, whence despair and domestic rot
tied the “Not.”Deadlocked no more, to single bliss set free,
“Good for me!”she crowed, as dames for ages shed their curse,
wed for worse.

----------


## Hawkman

Well Auntie, This certainly deserves a response, and as you cliam it was I who inspired this witty gem as a response to my *Deadlock*, even if it was a while ago, It is only fitting that I should start the ball rolling! Doubtless it is as true as mine, up to a point  :Biggrin:  but it only goes to show that the institution of marriage is the creation of a sick and unreasonable mind, which seeks to impose order upon a human nature which is naturally chaotic. We are mostly but ships in the night who sometimes chart a parallel course for a while. The lucky ones are those who depart from the same port with the same destination and travel in company for the entire voyage. In convoy they risk the U-boats of fate and storms of fortune on equal terms, and celebrate together at journey's end...

There is something familliar about the format of your poem, but I just can't place it for the moment. I hope you will enlighten us at some point.

Great poem Auntie, Live and be well - H

----------


## hillwalker

It's almost like a catechism - with some extremely cutting responses.

It actually reminded me of William Blake's abhorrence of marriage - defined as the paternalistic slavery of womanhood.

H

----------


## Bar22do

Very well put, Auntie! I enjoyed reading your poem, though it presents only one aspect of this very ancient "institution". This is not a place to discuss the actual marriage, but I see what you address here (as I did for Hawk's poem), it illustrates how an empty shell (institution as opposed to choice by true affinity and the power of blessing...) does more evil than good... 
Your poems always give much to think, thanks for this reading! 

With my lasting thought, Bar

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you _so much_ , Bar and Hill for your comments.

I must confess I'm not well-versed in the works of Blake. Coleridge now, I love 'im, but he was one helluva cynic wasn't he?:
"The most happy marriage I can picture or imagine to myself would be the union of a deaf man to a blind woman." 

And to you, Hawkman, this is going to sound like a Golden Globes acceptance speech, w/o, thank goodness, some snarky comment by Ricky Gervais, thanks for the "Bump!" I'm grateful to you for providing the original poem for me to riff on, even though it took months. 

Also thank you also for asking about the stanza form, (ahem) which in a way was also inspired by an allusion to "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came." So I borrowed the stanza form from another work by the same poet:

http://www.online-literature.com/robert-browning/2772/

Oh, and incidentally, that "two ships passing in the
night" reference comes up from time to time in this
particular household, in which case it's the Andrea
Doria and the Stockholm.

To all three of you, thanks again!

----------


## blank|verse

An enjoyable piece, Aunty. There is some clever punning, including the title itself, and the broken-line form works well in reflecting the split in the relationship.

This Browning-inspired form (which I admit I didn't recognise) seems to have rubbed off on the diction and syntax, which is a bit on the archaic side for me (eg. 'whence'; 'fast she sped'; 'to honor ceremonys threshold mete') perhaps needed to meet the demands of the rhyme scheme. And the zeugma seemed a bit showy: 'while holding both her head and fond hopes high'.

This clashes with the presence of more modern day words like 'babe', 'hubby' and the more 'matey' interjections ('and-I swear'; 'and _so_ not shy') and makes the narrator sound on the whole a bit arch and aloof.

There are a few lines where the rhythm falls flat:



> he did sweep her, but then said of the room:
> 
> tightly wound itself round her still youthful neck


but then perhaps these are excusable in what is after all a light-hearted piece.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks for your comments, B/V and kudos to you for recognizing the attempt, if a bit overly-earnest, to include a zeugma, in which one word has the double-duty to refer to two others in the sentence. 

It turns out that the line you cited "while holding both her head and fond hopes high" is a specialized type of zeugma, called a *syllepsis* in which only one of the objects agrees grammatically, or refers in a different sense, as in the famous from "The Rape of the Lock":
_Doth sometimes counsel take--and sometimes tea._

Speaking of rhetorical pairings, recently on another's thread you mentioned hendiadys which refers to two words often coupled to make one meaning: "hue and cry," "life and limb," etc. "Kith and kin" is a hendiadys we don't see often these days, now referring to significant relationships among extended family and close friends. It originally meant a person's household -- family
and lifestock included.

Speaking of archaisms in the little ditty, they were deliberate for the very reason that you mentioned, as a homage to R.B. The modernisms, by contrast, were a nod to the modernity of my other source, Hawkman's original marriage (or anti-marriage) poem. 

One more thing, while I have your ear. I searched "high and low" (another hendiadys) for the name of the kind of foot R.B. uses in his even-numbered lines, which consist of one unstressed syllable in the middle of two stressed syllables.

The answer (I think!) is that the foot is an *amphimacer*,* literally "long at both ends." Of course, we're not supposed to mix the quantitative verse of the Greeks up with the stressed syllables that form the basis of English prosody. Thus, amphimacer, sometimes called "cretic," is relatively rare in English verse, though there it is (I think) in "Love Among the Ruins" and in Blake's "Spring" as well:

_Sound the flute.
Now it's mute.
Birds delight.
Day and night._

(Example courtesy of _The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms_.)


{*Added 1/23/11:}
This line by yours fooly:
_as Mother_
is the opposite of amphimacer, an *amphibrach*, in which there is one stressed syllable between two unstressed syllables: x/x

Thanks again, for taking the time to weigh in with your expertise.

----------


## qimissung

Clever, Auntie! You are good with a pun and a rhyme. Yours and Hawkman's poems make me think of that classic song by Meatloaf, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PN_YjM4V4fc

Yes, that is how old I am.

----------


## firefangled

Auntie, a very clever and enjoyable read. I am curious if you started the poem in this form. It seems so appropriate I can't imagine it as effective another way.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you q. and firefangled for your response to #214^^ ("2/14" --same as the date for St. Valentine's Day, a bit of unexpected irony.)
Now, for my next number:


Ax Not What Your Company Can Do For You

Man, how it hurts to have to be the one
to say, after much time spent on thought
and careful consideration, we've made
the choice to go in a different direction.

We say that after spending time and thought.
We understand how hard it is to hear.
Our choice to go in a different direction
should not for a moment mean you're to blame.

We understand how hard it is to hear
decisions which, alas, affect ones life.
Don't for a moment think that you're to blame
that topic never came up in our plan.

Decisions can, alas, affect a mans life
from careful considerations we've made.
The topic that never came up in our plan
was how much it might hurt to be the one.

----------


## Jassy Melson

deleted by Jassy Melson

----------


## firefangled

What an apropos poem for these days. Excellent pantoum, Auntie.

----------


## 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  :Biggrin:  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.
> 
> ...



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








----

----------


## Hawkman

Ah say, ah say, Lord ha'mercy theyer, Auntie. y'all gone blusey on our donkey! 

Well ah woke up this mornin'
an' Auntie's poem caught my eye!
Ah say ah woke up this mornin'
an' ah saw Auntie's poem stridin' by.
an' if you don' wan' poems in the mornin'
then don' you bother openin' your eyes!

Oh yeah!

Now ah see people in the mornin'
an' they is on to somethin' good.
Yeah, ah see people in the mornin'
an they is doin' what they should;
they soak up culture in the mornin'
from Muddy Auntie's neighbourhood!

Lay it on me, brothers and sisters of the forum...

See y'all, H

----------


## blank|verse

:Smilielol5:  I don't know which I enjoyed more - your original, *Aunty*, or *Hawk's* rather cheeky pastiche!

----------


## AuntShecky

Re: *#240*^^ Thank you, Hawk for the "sincerest form of flattery," and thank you Blank_Verse for liking them both.

Next up:


My Cousins Still Single

The men she likes
like voluptuous women,
women with convex lines coursing,
like fertile rivers swollen with warm
mineral-milk from the mountains
flowing down to sweeten the sea.

They like their gurgling voices
giddily chirping like guileless birds,
yet smart enough to accommodate
whims with cheerful compliance.

The men who like her
like little in particularready to pop
on an available train
snaking toward any place at all,
the uniqueness of some town
left beside the rail.

The lot leave behind a track
of fruitless Saturday nights
with a novel, a cat, nervous
notions of extinction and ennui,
and the sharp mockery
of a clocks constant clicks.

----------


## Hawkman

Well Auntie, the first three lines open the poem with such a strong rhythm I was kind of disappointed when it was dropped. I felt in the unrhymed quatrain of the second stanza the alliteration was a bit too much. The use of the device elswhere in the poem seems less prominent. Maybe it's just the G sound with fewer lines in the stanza making it seem more concentrated.

In the last stanza I'm not convinced by nervous notions on ennui - (can one be nervously bored?) though I accept it in connection with extinction - lol.

There are some great images though, I love: 

"fertile rivers swollen with warm
mineral-milk from the mountains"
&
"the sharp mockery
of a clock’s constant clicks."

I also enjoyed the opening three lines and as I said, I would have liked to see the rhythm expanded throughout the poem, or at least recurring occasionally.

Unususally for your work, my subjective opinion is that maybe this one could benifit from a little revision. Perhaps you too are suffering from the creative malaise which I seem to be feeling... Or then again it could just be my failing that I can't appreciate this one properly.

Live and be well - H

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

This is a marvel and a mystery! There's such richness in the inventions - although they come so effortlessly, it seems, that they should maybe not be called "inventions" and the fun you quite obviously had writing this, hurrying, perhaps, to keep up with your fertile, effervescent mind!

----------


## MyBoy

:Nonod:  :Nonod:  :Nonod:  :Nonod:  :Nonod:  :Nonod: i disagreee

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

> i disagreee


This is in keeping with the only two other responses you've made to other threads. To help you develop a vocabulary, I offer the word "because" to follow "I disagree".

----------


## firefangled

*Zilch, Nada, Bupkes*, Zilch* I enjoyed very much. It reminded me of 'ol Foghorn Leghorn, I thought the absence of a word in places was very effective. 

*My Cousin’s Still Single* Interesting how N describes her through a man's eyes as if to show this is how she defined herself. She is not an individual, but one of a class of women whose features are reduced to geometry and similies. 

This created a distance that persists down to the description of the towns, the trains to anywhere and the odd things left behind. And in the end we are left, like the cousin, in an empty room with the ticking of a clock.

The inventiveness of language is counter-point to what it is portraying, as if to show how facade operates. What a treat for the reader!

----------


## everyadventure

My Cousin's Still Single seemed to start out so hopefully: here she's found a woman who can appreciate her curves, who can love her for who she is... but then it turns out she draws the wrong type of men after all.

And yes, one can definitely be nervously bored. A sort of restless agitation is easy to envision in this scenario. 

Nicely done, Aunt!

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Hawk, firefangled, Prince, and everyadventure for your comments. 
I don't know, Hawk, you may be right about the structure. I knew I wanted to try free verse, but without formal meter, we need substitutes. Hence, an attempt to be conscientious about the line breaks and the parallel imagery. The alliteration was absolutely deliberate, as I was going for really hard consonants, "c" and "k," for
instance.

the nervous notions of extinction (mostly personal extinction but also the species) and ennui (more rarefied than mere boredom -- more like Kierkegaard's "the sickness under death."




> My Cousin's Still Single seemed to start out so hopefully: here she's found a woman who can appreciate her curves, who can love her for who she is... but then it turns out she draws the wrong type of men after all.
> 
> And yes, one can definitely be nervously bored. A sort of restless agitation is easy to envision in this scenario. 
> 
> Nicely done, Aunt!


Thanks, everyadventure, but uh, the first stanza/strophe/section was not intended to describe the subject but instead was a reference to the physical attributes of the subject's _rivals_.

Uh-oh, misunderstood again (similar to lines 7-8 in *#228*)intended to be about searching around for a job, _any_ job which readers took to be "telemarketing." 

All of this tells me that there might be something wrong with my choice of expression, maybe I'm too much in love with subtlety.

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Hello Auntie. I would like to know more about you. TBH I feel unqualified to crtique your poems, you are in a neighbouring field and I am just peering over the hedgerow asking who are you ?

----------


## deryk

These are amazing. I too feel unqualified to offer a critique, because they are so very obviously out my league to respond to. Maybe some day!

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks for the comments re: #243


Ol’ MacDonald

Though the pickings weren't all that slimy
half a century ago, with rare
perspicacity you saw
the creep of the collective brow
inching southward, shifting down.

Still, it wasn't at all difficult to see
quite fairly how the great 
were bullied by the middling,
as if Gresham’s Law diversified
from the deeply rooted realm
of money into the less-worldly world,

not so much driving genius
away as elevating the average
to excellent, squeezing in a place
for non-threatening, lackluster
children at the grownup table.

Out of the wheat-covered prairies
straight-up novels reaped praise
from Bible-leaning folks -- leaving
gospels from an author’s youth
abandoned on the shore 
for some old man and a fish;

believing songs of a chirping lass
as classy as_ Pygmalion_, worshiping
warmth in Rockwell’s secular
apotheosis of the illustrated town;
ennobling Grant Wood’s
barnyard, Wyeth’s emotive hill.

You must take cold-eyed comfort
in the fact you no longer dwell
where the best is worse 
than merely an “enemy of the
good” (as Voltaire said),
but deemed complex
and thus dismissed.

Consider yourself kissed
by Fortune, sparing you
from sitting through 
a Disney-fied _Aida_,
amid a wasteland overrun
with cats, or the Bard
relieved of his depth
by the magic of 3-D, 
or Leonardo chiefly
credited with creating a code,
prosaic prose mistaken for poetry--
proudly presented by, brought 
to you by –well, take my word
you're lucky to have missed it
(wherever you may be.)

Here, “Elitist,” would label you,
as damnable as lice--
though a pretty neat trick
for an individualistic anarchist,
the kind of earthy egalitarian
who could level with a guy!
You'd never find present-day comrades,
their cognate to your Pinot, a _vin ordinaire_;
they depend on languid liquor to rebut
but--unlike Trotsky--without a shot of humor.

Every day we're “challenged”
(as it’s said) to uncover thinkers
who are unafraid to think,
and we hear fewer
and fewer wags whose shtick
is too hip for the room.
Why do I have this unshakable
suspicion that you may have been
The Last Man on Earth
who could get the joke?

----------


## Delta40

Omg! I'm one of the dumb ones here. I really would be the last person on earth to get it Aunty! I guess you don't watch mindless sitcoms either....(praise be to you!)

----------


## deryk

Typo on line 54. Egalitarianism as an opposition to self-critical improvement is the most relevant subject in modern writing, I think (I know 'relevant' is such a dirty word, consider me vulgar).

The allusions were delightful. I laughed while I read it. I'm sure I'll cry later on.

----------


## Hawkman

What a wonderful rant! But I have to wonder at the loss of gratuitous artistry... Let me take an engineering analogy. When Bazelgette built the great steam powered pump houses to expel the effluvia of London's population, he created great baroque palaces in cast iron and gleaming brass. For the age in which he lived, time and labour were much, much cheeper. Go a little further back and great artists required patrons to support and finance their imaginations. Further back still, there was slavery, be it the villain craftsman in thrall to a fudal overlord or some poor sod grafting for the Ceasars. Even education is an expensive luxury, so few from the proletariate are now able to appreciate the mysteries of language and the sage like bards who plied their art in letters. Everything is colloquial and couched for the lowest common denominator to ensure a fast turn around and a quick buck. Erudition is a dirty word because, counter-intuitively, it hinders communication with a general public who don't understand the words! Hey, Ho! I blame Hemingway and LBJ!  :Biggrin:

----------


## deryk

Very well said, but why LBJ (I have my reasons, but I'm wondering what yours are)? I'm curious.

Edit: Never mind, his victimizing proceeded himself well enough.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

An extraordinary rant but a rant all the same, thinly disguised as poetry when it would do better as a reasoned essay, where the strong points you make might not need to be made so artfully.

----------


## Bar22do

Hawk is right, one can't be erudite and communicate these days... and one has to be erudite to get all your poem's references (well, except Pygmalion and da Vinci Code and perhaps Voltaire... ); otherwise - what a rant indeed (I went on too long an apnea while listening to what N was ranting on about!) oh, Auntie!... 
I've only just surfaced, fascinated and speechless. What an effective poem, if you care to judge from my reaction... 
Warmest regards as always, 
Bar

----------


## AuntShecky

I was hoping somebody would catch that the piece was about one of only three famous Americans named Dwight--
the first, nicknamed "Ike," a distinguished WWII generaland former President of the U. S. of A, the second, nicknamed "Doc," a phenomenally brilliant pitcher on the baseball mound and plagued by (in my opinion) a tragic personal life, and the third is *Dwight MacDonald*, noted leftist ("individualistic anarchist"), film critic, editor,
and most notably writers of cultural essays, the most influential of which is "Masscult and Midcult." That's the Dwight, Dwight MacDonald" to whom this poem is dedicated.

Thanks for all of your comments, and I'll comment on the comments anon. Right now the room where Pong 2.0 (the pc) is being used for the purposes for which it is intended, which means I've got to log out and scram (for now.)

----------


## AuntShecky

Here are some replies to your wonderful responses to
#254, an elegy/encomium (without fulfilling any of the criteria of those forms) to Dwight MacDonald. I felt freer about posting it, since Blank_Verse's (admittedly better) piece about Charles Simic.





> Omg! I'm one of the dumb ones here. I really would be the last person on earth to get it Aunty! I guess you don't watch mindless sitcoms either....(praise be to you!)


I thoroughly disagree with your second line and also the third and fourth. I watch sitcoms all the time (or used to.)




> Typo on line 54.


I found line 45 (I think!) but can't find the typo. Would you please be more specific so I can correct the thing?




> What a wonderful rant! But I have to wonder at the loss of gratuitous artistry... Let me take an engineering analogy. When Bazelgette built the great steam powered pump houses to expel the effluvia of London's population, he created great baroque palaces in cast iron and gleaming brass. For the age in which he lived, time and labour were much, much cheeper. Go a little further back and great artists required patrons to support and finance their imaginations. Further back still, there was slavery, be it the villain craftsman in thrall to a fudal overlord or some poor sod grafting for the Ceasars. Even education is an expensive luxury, so few from the proletariate are now able to appreciate the mysteries of language and the sage like bards who plied their art in letters. Everything is colloquial and couched for the lowest common denominator to ensure a fast turn around and a quick buck. Erudition is a dirty word because, counter-intuitively, it hinders communication with a general public who don't understand the words! Hey, Ho! I blame Hemingway and LBJ!


Thanks, Hawk. Dwight MacDonald, who died in 1982, wrote the essay "Masscult and Midcult" in 1960, I believe, and was responding to the culture of the 50s (mostly) rather than that of LBJ. MacDonald admired Hemingway's earlier works, but thought _The Old Man and The Sea_ to be "middle-brow" (there's a reference to that in my piece.




> An extraordinary rant but a rant all the same, thinly disguised as poetry when it would do better as a reasoned essay, where the strong points you make might not need to be made so artfully.


Not a "rant," more akin to Blank_Verse's poem about Charles Simic, even though his posts are superior.

I didn't want to post it as a "reasoned essay," because every time I put prose on the LitNet, everybody gets pissed
off. 

Your philosophical musings are always in the form of verse, aren't they, Prince? I, for one, am really glad that they are. Same with _The Dunciad_ and with _Macflecknoe.[_

Wouldn't it be great if 30 years after our demise somebody wrote a poem about us?

And Bar, you're the one of the most erudite LitNutters I know!

----------


## deryk

> I found line 45 (I think!) but can't find the typo. Would you please be more specific so I can correct the thing?


It's very difficult for one to spot something so minor, once it has already been committed.

*for a individualistic anarchist,*

The indefinite article is incorrect. For a second, I thought it might have been intentional, given the subject, but somehow that didn't strike me as your style.

----------


## AuntShecky

> The indefinite article is incorrect. 
> .


Oh my God-- you're right! I'll fix it right away. Many thanks from your red-faced auntie.

----------


## AuntShecky

Todays Theme Will Be What Being an American Means to Me 

God could have made me 
beautiful or privileged or brilliant,
but instead He made me plain
and poor and just smart
enough to know what
I was missing. He also
made me American, right down
to the soft and gooey, genial core.

All of this comes with the territory
of the good ol U. S. of A.: rugged
and wild at bottom yet always refining,
redefining what is possible-- Hell!
Even the impossible is probable
in the good ol U. S. of A.

We believe, deep down in our spongy,
artery-hardened heart (of hearts) we can
eat anything we want and not get fat, can
own anything we want to have  We can!
because it is our God-given right,
our sacred right (as Americans.)

It means we have to Sacrifice.
We have to devote our entire lives
to the Heaven-sanctified quest--
that holy grueling grail-- to seek
through markets, within dim-
witted schemes, down between
fuzzy cushions of comfy couches
the Mean Green, the dough-
re-mi, the root of every
necessary evil. (We do this,
preferably, legally.)

When we're not upending
every rock, rifling every pocket
in the world for money, we're busy
seeking answers
not any old answer, not necessarily
the right answer, but the answer
we happen to be seeking.
Not sure what it looks like,
or sounds like, or smells like,
we'll know we've found The Answer
when we find the one we like.

Thats my theme
on What Being an American
Means to Me. Whats
the hold-up with my gold 
star and my A?



Here's the much more dignified and definitely less sarcastic
original.

----------


## Hawkman

I loved the idea of holy gruel, definitley spiritual food for thought  :Biggrin:  Good fun this, Auntie! I think you may be a little hard on yourself though - I've put a gold star in the post!

Live and be well. H

----------


## deryk

I cannot punch my way out of this paper bag. As someone who spends too much time inside the U.S. secondary school system, this is nothing but a series of stiff reminders. The recalcitrants and deviants eat the authorities for breakfast and are rewarded in kind for their efforts. We'll be praying to them soon enough. /end hyperbole

Addendum: This poem inspired me to start writing from personal experience once more.

----------


## Bar22do

Well, I'm not American, but think your anti- could apply to many other countries in the world... is it because of globalization... 
best as always, Auntie, Bar

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks, *Hawk, Deryk,* and *Bar*.
The ditty was not really a parody of Langston Hughes's work as it doesn't fulfill the criteria of a parody, i.e. following the form of the original _exactly_. It's not even in the same spirit; except for the penultimate line of his poem, Langston's much greater work is not as cynical and sardonic in tone as this current posting.

For the past couple of decades, high school English classes have included Hughes's poetry in their curricula, wisely so. I do suspect, however, that it has been chosen for the wrong reasons. True, his work can fall under the category of "multi-cultural;" it is also true that adolescents can "relate" to Hughes's subjects. I would prefer that Hughes had been chosen simply because his work is _good_--which it is.

For instance, "Theme for English B" isn't strictly autobiographical. The poem is dated 1951--possibly date of pub. rather than the year he wrote it. Hughes was not a student at the time, though; he had graduated from Lincoln University in 1929. The poem, therefore, is not strictly autobiographical. The details, such as the local NY place names, could be "emotions recollected in tranquillity," in a way. Neverthess, there is absolutely no doubt that the theme of racial inequality which affected Hughes his entire life is handled so intelligently, skillfully, and subtly in his poems, cf. "Mother to Son" --"Life for me ain't been no crystal stair." The mother, not Hughes himself, is the speaker in that poem.

What I love about "Theme for English B" is how it makes gentle fun of a common school assignment, and the clichéd instruction: "Make it come out of you." Even more than that is the willingness of the speaker to meet the "instructor" --a representative of the white establishment- _half-way_:

_But it will be 
a part of you, instructor. 
You are white--- 
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. 
That's American. 
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me. 
Nor do I often want to be a part of you. 
But we are, that's true! 
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--- 
although you're older---and white--- 
and somewhat more free._ 

How about that word "somewhat"? It speaks volumes. Hughes's lines are deceptively simple and straightforward, yet imbedded multi-levels of meaning can be found beyond a literal reading. Every time I read something by Langston Hughes I see something new, similar to the experience I have when reading Robert Frost.

So, *Deryk*-- as you say, you're going to use "personal experience" in your creative writing. In one sense, that's all we can do, but I hope you try to do it in the way as Langston Hughes and Robert Frost. When we say "self-expression," it's always better to emphasize the "expression" over the "self." At least, that's what yours fooly _tries_ to do.

But I don't always succeed.

----------


## deryk

> So, *Deryk*-- as you say, you're going to use "personal experience" in your creative writing. In one sense, that's all we can do, but I hope you try to do it in the way as Langston Hughes and Robert Frost. When we say "self-expression," it's always better to emphasize the "expression" over the "self." At least, that's what yours fooly _tries_ to do.


Undoubtedly. My problem has always been when I try writing from that mode, I end up deconstructing myself into oblivion. So I'm left without either expression or the self but just a shadow of meaning.

----------


## AuntShecky

{Continuing with themes in #253 and #264 (above^^^), this piece owes its title to a dialogue balloon from _One Big Happy_, the daily comic strip created by Rick Detorie.}

_“Staring failure in the face and calling it ‘winning’–- that’s the closest thing we have to an American religion.”_  –Rob Sheffield, _Rolling Stone_ 


“Selfish Steam”

To heaven floats a mist above the flame.
Incense of self expands the boiler’s girth.
The Faithful worship ideals of their worth
and genuflect on mention of their names.
Contrary fact’s been banished from the frame
where good works have vanished (as in their dearth.)
This faith alone rushed, streaming since their birth
and dreaming righteously. Still, tardy fame –-
as curriculum vitae lacks its turn–-
has dammed up aspiration in the lungs.
The puffy aye deflates; the stove’s gone cold.
Now, dismally, baptismal fonts must spurn
the sinless air, full-steaming in the young,
to damn esteem in pots boiled dry and old.

----------


## Delta40

> “Today’s Theme Will Be ‘What Being an American Means to Me’ “
> 
> God could have made me 
> beautiful or privileged or brilliant,
> but instead He made me plain
> and poor and just smart
> enough to know what
> I was missing. He also
> made me American, right down
> ...


The patriotism of Americans, even down to homemade deprecating poems such as this cannot diminish the heart of the light which much of the world wishes to snuff out (No offence intended) This piece makes me want to purchase at least four guns and give them to little children for Thanksgiving...very evocative Aunty. It reminds me a little of Aussie Disaster where I engage in stereotypes. http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=60100

----------


## deryk

"Selfish Steam" was appropriately scalding -rather than scolding. You've dispensed with what I thought were some rather aqueous abstractions, but meticulously melded with the properties of steam-works. Once the mold is complete, I'm left with feelings of an inverted faith, and the pains that follow. Reading this hurt, so given your subject, I'd say you've succeeded. 

It's very interesting how airy this strikes me, and how lofty it is not; I feel as though the distance of the occasion from the objects of the poem is a bit stretched, but that could just be my semi-educated reading, in other words, I'm sure there are allusions I have missed. Either way, it is still an accomplishment.

----------


## Hawkman

Well Auntie, you unleash a Petrarchan sonnet on us but I can't help feeling the form rather obscures the message here.

"Contrary fact’s been banished from the frame
where good works have vanished (as in their dearth.)"

in particular I find awkward. The forced rhyme of dearth with the end rhyme birth in the next line, just feels out of place and tautologous. A dearth is an absence and you've already said vanished. It might have worked if you'd gone on to expand the point in the same sentance, but the full stop pulls it up short.

However, picking through it I detect that you satirise the myth of the self-made, where success may be counted in the number of times an individual may have been declared bankrupt  :Biggrin:  or how the self image is tailored only to admission of success, regardless of those failures swept under the carpet.

I found this one rather heavy going though, but mainly, I think, this is down to the form imposed on it.

Cracking effort though, Auntie.

Live and be well - H

----------


## Bar22do

I don't understand your last very well, Auntie, but your previous, "American" one reminded me of G. Bernard Shaw's word: "An asylum for the sane would be empty in America."  :Smilewinkgrin:  Hope you don't mind... now I'll read your last again and understand a little better perhaps. 
Yours devoted 
Bar

----------


## AuntShecky

Delta, I checked out your Aussie thing and placed a comment there. (Love ya!)

Thank you Bar for giving #271 a look, and thank you as well, Hawk. 

To your conscientious comments I can only say that the piece came to me after reading the line in _Rolling Stone_, which forms the epigraph above the title. I'm guessing a couple of LitNutters are beside themselves over the fact that Old, Old, Old Auntie actually reads _Rolling Stone_.

Anyway, I'm thinking that juxtaposing self-esteem (exploiting the metapor of Rick Detorie's funny phrase "selfish steam") upon religious imagery might --"might" in craftier hands-- make a metaphysical poem. I see by the comments, though, that both conceits have been "yoked by violence" together.

I hate "'splainin'" as Desi used to make Lucy (on "I Love Lucy.") But I will attempt to 'splain the line about "good works." Some religions hold that faith alone is enough to "save" a person; others say you have to do "good works" as well as having faith. They've "vanished" then, because the person who has overweening faith in his own self doesn't bother doing any "good works." And since his inflated "selfish steam" has come without the benefit of corroborating evidence (or achievements to justify his inflated ego) there's a "dearth" of that meaning of "good work" as well.

What's ironic is that the line I'd thought you'd nail me on, Hawkman, was line 12 -- it has ten syllables, but all the stresses fall in the wrong place.(Fixed, 3/31/11.)

Thank you, everybody!

----------


## AuntShecky

For some reason not " 'splainable" to me, yours fooly keeps returning to the same theme, even in the anti-fiction. Cf. "The Worm" 

Same with this next ditty, which is the opposite approach to the last anti-poem ( *#270* in this thread.) Here, as they say, goes nothin':


Wrong on Schedule

I missed the bus. Loathing to wait
for the expected turtle rate,
I saw its fleeting, fuming tail.
In vain I waved, arms in full-flail.
Too soon it came, I came too late.

Called to re-set the doctor date.
No alibi could well relate
the silly, squalid, sorry tale:
“I missed the bus.”

More fuel for kinfolk to berate
ball-dropping, my consistent state.
Unsettling scores, they’re quick to rail
that ev’ry move I make, I fail.
The emblem, thus, of my life’s fate:
I missed the bus.

----------


## everyadventure

"Wrong on Schedule" was a great deal of head-shaking fun. I liked the fuming tail  :Smile: 

In my family, I am dubbed the one who perpetually gets LOST. Sigh.

----------


## blank|verse

This is an enjoyable piece, *Aunty*, written with your trademark sense of humour, somewhat sly and knowing. And I'm probably going into too much detail for what is an essentially light-hearted piece, _but_

It's interesting to see how form and content work in this one. The reader might expect things also to be 'wrong on schedule' but it's quite a tightly written piece. It has 15 lines, maybe instead of the expected 14, and the two short lines break the rhythm, but also act as a refrain which gives the poem structure and holds it together. In short, there is a lot more right with the form of the poem, than wrong - namely the full-rhymed, nicely crafted lines of iambic tetrameter. (Although 'More fuel for kin to berate' is one syllable short; and I think it would have been better to have just bitten the bullet and had 'every' instead of the archaic "ev'ry". I'm sure most people elide the word into two syllables anyway, and, apart from me, who's counting?  :Smile: ) Maybe this is telling us that poetry is where the poet feels she has the control lacking in life?

The elliptical, subject-less line 6 reads oddly in context and rather stops the poem in its tracks as the reader has to work it out. Another concession to the metre, perhaps? And while the metre gives the poem an attractive jauntiness, it does mean there are moments of inverted syntax, something about which never too keen am I. Eg. Why not just 'I waved in vain' instead of 'In vain I waved'; likewise, why not 'It came too soon' instead of 'Too soon it came'? As it is, of course, line 5 is an antistrophe, which is (that word again) an archaic rhetorical device. There is a tension between the archaic tone, language and syntax of the poem, and the 'failure' of the narrator to perform everday tasks, which produces a certain bathos and sympathy, and which is nicely encapsulated in the last two lines:



> The emblem, thus, of my lifes fate:
> I missed the bus.

----------


## Bar22do

I enjoyed this light poetic effort! Have found its form was perfect till our forums' expert *B/V*  :Smile5:  pointed out little irregularities that, nevertheless, seem to fulfill their purpose and work. I too was unprepared for archaisms, but the energy and disarming charm of this poem, as well as my unmentionable identification with its contents (ah ah - but I work on myself) have won me for its cause unconditionally! Thank you *Auntie*.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you Everyadventure,B/V, and Bar for your comments.

A note on the form, if I may. (I'll try not to be too verbose.)

I knew I had a refrain with the opening phrase, so that dictated the form, a rondeau. The formula for the rondeau is: *(R+a)abba aabR aabaR.*

That formula confused the bejeezus out of me, because the source said the rondeau consists of 13 lines, not 15. (Apparently the two lines repeating the refrain aren't counted in the 13.) So rather than maneuver through the proscribed formula, I resorted to copying the form from a pre-existing model, in this case a rondeau by the inexplicably ignored Austin Dobson. (As you can see, "You Bid Me Try" actually "does" what it says.)


The "wrong" in the title alludes, I guess, to the speaker, not the rondeau form. The first pronunciation for "fuel" in my antiquated print dictionary is for two syllables;the second pronunciation lists just one syllable as in "fyool," which is how most Americans pronounce it. (By the way, the word "fire" is just one syllable, but try as I can, it sounds like two when I try to say it.) The line is still has eight syllables, but still lacks a stress. Think I should put "my" in front of "kin"? (But that will make it nine syllables.) 


Thanks again for your feedback.

----------


## Hawkman

Enjoyed this one too, Auntie. Over on this side of the pond though, it would be more common to say, "loth (loath) to wait, and I think it would have scanned better. Not sure I get the turtle reference either.

Live long and prosper - H

----------


## Delta40

What a delightful poem Wrong On Schedule is. I missed the bus is as good as the dog ate my homework!

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Hawk and Delta for reading this and for your comments. Also, thanks to you both for cleaning the cobwebs and dust bunnies off my anti-fiction story, "The Worm." 

I'll probably get stuck with royalty bills from the heirs of the Desilu estate, 'cause here I go with "'splaining" again:

I went with "loathing" as the present participle form of the verb, "loathe," syn. of "hate," which I didn't want to use in addition to the long "a" sound as one of the two rhymes.

Turtles traditionally go slowly, right? As opposed to
hares, racecars, SSTs. (Watch--the news tonight will probably report on a tortoise that can go from zero to 60 in 0.7 seconds.)

Altered the clanging rhythm of l. 9-- it could be 8 syllables if you don't break "fuel" into 2 syllables, 9 syllables if you do. (Either way, it makes me look like a dolt.)

And thank you as well, Delta. Even though the "dog ate my homework" line has become hackneyed, it didn't stop me from using it in a poem from April of Ought Eight. It may have been previously posted, I can't find the link; nevertheless, here 'tis:


Excuses, Excuses


Uh-- on a sleep-over I overslept.
The alarm forgot to bzzt
because the power went out
partying last night

and this a.m. it’s choking
on the short hairs 
of the dog who bit it.

After eating the kids’
homework, the pup regurgitated
facts: 1066, the sum
of the hypotenuse, meiosis.

I missed my ride,
and it doesn't miss me.
The bus broke down
in tears because it came
down with a case of dys-Lexus-ia.

Me, I've got Venus
envy at the wrong time
of month, cramping
my style. My water broke

all over my dry Tortugas.
I had to stop to smell
the peonies. I left
my wallet in my other plants.

I cut you
a check that bounced
while it jogged to the mailbox.
It sprung a hammy 
while tying the string
on its sweatpants.

At the orifice I already gave
a fig that flouted Newton’s Laws.
My pockets are philosophical
but not deep --

they're empty now
of their last seven-fifty,
donated to an orphan in need
of pouring a latté 
into his Florida panhandle.

These quicksilver dollar
sprout wings, right?--
just like the ones suddenly
protruding from my back -–

I'd really, really, 
really love to help you out,
Pal, but right now
I gotta fly.

----------


## Jerrybaldy

I loved your 'being an American' ... Didnt think you had it in you

----------


## deryk

> Wrong on Schedule
> 
> I missed the bus. Loathing to wait
> for the expected turtle rate,
> I saw its fleeting, fuming tail.
> In vain I waved, arms in full-flail.
> Too soon it came, I came too late.
> 
> Called to re-set the doctor date.
> ...


The continuity between subjects is really lovely, it has sort of a "slide-show" effect (with nicely self-contained lines)- which adds to the silliness. I confess the word "emblem" on the same line as "fate" had me searching for some grand parable. I think it's a nice illustration of the distance between failure and scapegoating. I didn't need to place the "grand parable" because this poem is the story of my life.

----------


## AuntShecky

Mandatum

Sure, I remember the man.
He was sitting right there,
on the center stool 
of the bar. Brought in
a bunch of his buddies–must've
been a dozen of ‘em. Like
college kids in total awe
of their professor, they hung
on his every word.

Their fawning flattery he sloughed
off like a ratty old coat. I got
the feeling he was the kind of guy
who'd gladly scratch your back
without expecting a back-scratch
in return, ya know? I bet
he wouldn't even mind washing
some bum’s smelly feet. I swear
if a thug had rushed into my joint
and fired off an Uzi, he'd throw
himself in front of the bullets.
I mean, he split his sandwich
with his friends, kept buying them rounds.

You'd think a guy like that
wouldn't have an enemy in the world,
right? But– “Watch out
“for the ones who hate me,” he says.
“They'll eat you alive. They'll scatter
discord like promiscuous seeds, strangle
you as a vine. They'll pit
each of you against the other, trick
you into betraying me.”

“Oh, no, Chief! Not _us_!” every last
one of them cried. “Oh, yes,” he says,
“One of you will turn me in.” Now here’s
the thing that knocked me out – I swear
on my mother’s grave!–he _shrugged_!
“What are you going to do?” he says.
“It has to be done.”

You'll never believe what 
he told ‘em next: “Love
one another.” That’s it. Pretty 
simple, huh? Maybe not 
as easy as it sounds. I picked
up his empty glass. “Another
one, Sir?” “No,” he says,
“I'm done.”

Tell you one thing, Pal. It'll be
a long time before I forget that night.
Never saw anyone like him before
(or since.)

Damn! It’s dark in here.
Let me open these blinds.
Where’s it written that a gin-mill
has to look like a mausoleum?
Look at it out there, the sky
half-blue, half-gold, the clouds
rolling around like happy lambs;
little green crowns poking out
on the ashy branches of that big
old corner oak; the relics
of snow sliding off the curb
and running like rivers down the street.
What d’ya think? Are we
finally gonna get a spring this year –
or what?

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

How appropriate to the season, and how excellent a choice or series of choices never to have pushed the analogy with JC.

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Jesus Auntie. I bet you are a card to share a beer with.

----------


## Bar22do

Appropriate for the season, of course, but also adorned, as always, with your pitiless wit, humour and rhythm. I enjoyed the last S the most! Thanks! Bar

----------


## Delta40

Excuse my ignorance in writing but isn't that a bunch of prose? Don't mind me Auntry but I get pinged when my poetry turns into a narrative, rather then a set of images. Your poem is just that too. Not that I don't enjoy it. I'm under the impression that prose poetry is a preference rather than a rule breaker.

----------


## deryk

Well, AuntShecky, I have a feeling you have succeeded at one of those rare holiday poems that is not at all a chore at the expense of its syrupy context. 




> and fired off an Uzi, he'd throw


"Heater", "gat", "burner" might make for more appropriate colloquialisms. Uzi has a sort of a comical touch to it though.




> “They'll eat you alive. They'll scatter
> discord like promiscuous seeds, strangle
> you as a vine. They'll pit
> each of you against the other, trick
> you into betraying me.”


I loved this block, it's such a potent quotation. Is it from Shelley's Queen Mab? It reeks of spiritual warfare. 




> "I swear
> on my mother’s grave!"


This line made me laugh hysterically. 




> What d’ya think? Are we
> finally gonna get a spring this year –
> or what?


This is such a sweet poem at its core. As Prince said, you pushed all the right envelopes. What a jovial hoodwink you've created.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

> Well, AuntShecky, I have a feeling you have succeeded at one of those rare holiday poems that is not at all a chore at the expense of its syrupy context. 
> 
> 
> 
> "Heater", "gat", "burner" might make for more appropriate colloquialisms. Uzi has a sort of a comical touch to it though.
> 
> 
> 
> I loved this block, it's such a potent quotation. Is it from Shelley's Queen Mab? It reeks of spiritual warfare. 
> ...


As witty and lively and passionate as Aunty's poem is, this dialogue between you and her poem is an entirely worthy companion piece to it. But then your comments are always well worth reading.

----------


## AuntShecky

> . . . series of choices never to have pushed the analogy with JC.


Uh-oh. (It's exactly what I wanted to push.)




> Jesus Auntie. I bet you are a card to share a beer with.


A "card." That's an epithet most associated with yours fooly-- an unemployment card! Oh, I kid!




> Excuse my ignorance in writing but isn't that a bunch of prose?


Well, I knew that's the risk one takes with colloquial language. I did, however, spend much time in trying to achieve a sense of rhythm in the lines and especially set up an arrangement of line breaks, which is the most prominent way a writer can try to differentiate free verse from prose. I guess as far as you're concerned I've failed. I greatly appreciate your opinion, though, Delta.




> This line made me laugh hysterically.


As well you should, because your fooly resorted to using a cliché. It does, however, sound like something a bartender might say for emphasis.

Thank you Bar for your kind comments and to allof you for commenting on my dramatic monologue from a talkative innkeeper to a inquisitive customer. The title is the root word for "mandate" or "commandment," which in earlier times was expressed as "Maundy." 

I'm grateful to those of you who liked the imagery, but --except for the modern references of Uzi, sandwich and such-- much of it has been borrowed from the original Source.

Here are some of the passages to which my humble lines directly or indirectly allude, in the order in which they appear in the Holy Thursday liturgy, not necessarily in the order in which they appear in the poem:

Is. 61 (via poetic license "green" was substituted for "gold" with the word "crowns," as a modern bartender would probably not use the word "diadems.")

Rev. 1: 5-8
Luke 4: 16-21
Ex. 12: 1-8, 11-14
I Cor. 11: 23-26
John 13
John 15

Again, thanks to all with the hopes that you continue to enjoy your respective springtime celebrations.

----------


## Delta40

I don't have an opinion on critiquing poetry in the same way that you do Aunty since I really do speak from ignorance. I don't think it is a matter of passing or failing here - just me learning.

----------


## qimissung

A faberge, AuntShecky, glittering, exquisite, and beautiful.

----------


## Hawkman

Sorry Auntie, a bit late with my appreciation, but it is very good. The JC analogy was obvious but not rammed down the reader's throat, and I enjoyed the wit and the rhythm.
best, H

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks again, Delta --I'm your fan, and thanks to our newly-minted mod, Ms. q., and to Hawkman.

Just to reiterate, because I feel like it: even though it's difficult, we have to try our best to follow the "mandate":
Love one another.

Up next--
Blank Verse's posting today reminded me of this one from 3 or 4 years ago. I can't remember if I posted it on the LitNet before. If so, here's the encore: 

Gabriels Hounds 

Like rejects from a choir,
they seem to wander
aimlessly, or toddle 
comically in their
geese-y, gawky way,

the racket divining
for holy water 
a drainage pond here,
an impromptu puddle there.

Between the bullet and
the bow they would pray--
if they could--
(both in English and _en Québécois_)

instead of an angry howl,
a gaggle of trumpets
not yet tuned.

Meanwhile missed grace
assumes a guise
of flight, a true
arrow pointing
toward Judgment Day.


NOTE-- 5/7/11:
The source of this comes from Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, edited by Ivor H. Evans, New York: Harper & Row, 1981, p. 461.

Whew!

----------


## blank|verse

*Mandatum* - Err, better late than never?  :Smile:  Apologies for the delayed response to this (formerly) topical allegorical poem!

It reminded me of Immram by Paul Muldoon, the modern master of long, narrative poems. (And a shorter poem called 'The Ferryman's Arms' by Don Paterson.) Muldoon is also a master of form, of course, which is where 'Mandatum' isn't as strong. Like *Delta*, I found this quite prosey - good lines of prose, don't get me wrong, but prose all the same. In your reply to her, you said:



> I did, however, spend much time in trying to achieve a sense of rhythm in the lines and especially set up an arrangement of line breaks, which is the most prominent way a writer can try to differentiate free verse from prose.


I've sensed you're more comfortable with metred poetry and this might go some way to explain that. While line breaks play a part, they are by no means 'the most prominent way' to write in the style.

Free verse works more to voiced stresses - technically called 'isochrony' - rather than artificial metrical stresses. Line breaks play a part by delineating or breaking voiced phrases or clauses and helping create a rhythm that (most often) has a regularity - but a natural regularity, so it can fluctuate, rather than one chained to metre. So I found the rhythm here quite unnatural and jerky. For example, I found a lot of the line breaks odd. This stanza in particular:



> You'll never believe what 
> he told ‘em next: “Love
> one another.” That’s it. Pretty 
> simple, huh? Maybe not 
> as easy as it sounds. I picked
> up his empty glass. “Another
> one, Sir?” “No,” he says,
> “I'm done.”


Why break phrases like 'Love one another'? Or 'Pretty simple, huh?'? Or the phrasal verb 'picked up'? Or 'Another one, Sir?' Breaking the language like this in the context of this dramatic monologue seems incongruous for this working-class, straight-talking character.

There are a couple of other phrasal verbs broken:



> they hung
> on his every word.
> 
> Their fawning flattery he sloughed
> off like a ratty old coat.


Perhaps you have an argument with the first example, that it enacts the 'hanging on' being described; but I'm not so sure about the second.

And I found the final stanza to be uncharacteristically articulate and poetic for this straight-talking bar tender!

But all that's not to take away from the achievement of the _content_ of the poem, which is brilliantly inventive and intelligent.

And thanks also for posting *Gabriel's Hounds* - another enjoyable, cleverly-written piece.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks to all who responded to earlier postings, and esp. to you, Blank Verse. Thanks for the nice references to Paul Muldoon (of whom I've actually heard and read a little before) and to Don Paterson, whom I will learn about with great pleasure. 

To your valid criticism, I will respond, as much as I hate "'splaining" (i.e. "justifying") my choices. _Every_ line break is deliberate, with the notion of enjambment more than natural speech rhythms. I wanted to throw a couple of curve balls -- setting up one possible meaning while switching in the next line to something else, as in "pretty," "picked," (a ref. to the selection of the Apostles), "hung" you can fairly well guess what it refers to, given the occasion, as well as the two-word line "I'm done." 

I already posted the scriptural references for the concluding lines of my ditty, and already 'splained the difficulty of combining such with colloquial speech. Still if the bartender/speaker is "uncharacteristically articulate," perhaps we can say this.

Thanks again! Now to the next one in *Reply # 302*

----------


## Hawkman

Re Gabriel's Hounds. Sorry Auntie, I seem to have overlooked this piece but I bleatedly took a gander at it.  :Smile: . Not sure why Gabriel's hounds though, with the reference to out of tune trumpets, maybe they should be Joshua's  :Biggrin:  And why pointing towards judgement day, traditionally in these isles a goose was for Christmas, at least untill we acquired the Turky habit from our colonial cousins...

LLAP - H

----------


## AuntShecky

DELETE
Sent via PM instead

----------


## AuntShecky

Written from a model. The source of the form for this one will be "revealed" later.

Heaven Scent

Brimstone and its indistinct twin
both reek up through their membranes narrow rift.
The finer worlds aromas thin.
A dream-catcher hung out to drift,
reversed for this rare winds descent,
a censer's swaying lift:a secret cupped balloon thats skyward sent
to snare from mystery the faintest whiff
of unknown mist, now captured down to sniff.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

It's hard for this reader to make sense out of most poetry. Regarding 'Heaven's Scent', it seems as though Hell is trying to sample the aroma of Heaven via balloon and cup. This might be an inane interpretation of a good poem. It's evident that, no matter what one makes of the content, the technique is solid and it's not often that it's done so well.





J

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## deryk

> Written from a model. The source of the form for this one will be "revealed" later.
> 
> Heaven Scent
> 
> Brimstone and its indistinct twin
> both reek up through their membrane’s narrow rift.
> The finer world’s aroma’s thin.
> A dream-catcher hung out to drift,
> reversed for this rare wind’s descent,
> ...


This poem is strikingly elliptical if not cryptic. I loved the negative image of the elemental opening. It immediately brings me to Milton's depictions of the varied gulfs and weird nebula that separate Heaven and Hell -as well as Earth.

I am confessedly completely lost when I arrive at "unknown". You've wrought a very alluring abstraction, but it simply implodes for me at that point. I travel from enticing Ark and incense imagery to tabula rasa in the final lines. This keyhole needs a source! I have searched!

I especially like the thought of you playing with fire on this piece! Very Faustian, AuntShecky!

O won't you share your secrets from those dark materials?

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you Jack and deryk for your "takes" on #302. I have to say that while nothing in the piece disputes your
interpretations, they were not intended. Your observations were part of the intention of an earlier piece, "Scratch," 
(#228.)

Did either of you recognize the form I used for "Heaven Scent"? I "borrowed" the meter and rhyme scheme from a 9-line stanza created way back when, specifically this one.

----------


## AuntShecky

Here are 2 more ditties -- not necessarily "blasts"-- from the past:

Bum

Call this guy a man on the street in every sense.
He lists his address as the corner of Hudson and Broadway,
but mail sent there would reach him just by chance.
Empty soda bottles stashed in the cart with his goods
can earn deposits for his pockets along with the spare change
and random smokes he cadges from workers on their break.

He gets along. Every day he hustles without a break.
We could say hes got a full-time job in a sense.
Why not hang across the street? Who couldnt use a change
of scenery? Find another block, walk a different way,
maybe hitch-hike to the country  that would be good.
Sometimes a guys got to climb out, step up, take a chance.

Head-shakers, tongue-cluckers, heres a treat, another chance
to judge! For social scientists, an in vitro specimen to break.
Ready? Go: hes drunk, on drugs, or in some other way no good.
Perhaps his brain is damaged, schizoid, or just lacks sense.
Maybe hes a vet who came home and lost his way.
Would-be reformers, heres your cause for social change!

Still, he gets along. Hes alive, hes fine, no need to change
his ways to soothe the status quo. No chance
of our joining him, huh? The strata stand, in a way,
parallel: a rung up, better; a rung down, worse. No break
in this ladder. It rarely falls. Were all stuck with the sense
that we cant move up, wont move down, in line with all our goods.

The old line There but for the grace of God is no damned good.
for the limits of sympathy end at temporary change.
For all we know the guys a Ph.D., with more common sensthe crisis team says he needs classes, trainings his only chance.
Give him a shower, give him some soup, but dont give him a break.
Get him a job (at minimum wage), get him out of the way.

Who gave the command that he has to live this way?
Who wrote rule to write off lives, in the guise of doing good?
Who answers this man who begs for just one lucky break?
Those romantic ideals of freedom should change.
This poor slobs not free!Ask the man whos rich by chance:
he gets along, hes doing fine, as far as he can sense.

The ranks could break, or get stacked in a different way
so they make sense  wouldnt that be good?
Instead the structure stands, and change comes by chance.






Ninja Gal

In this world made for us were made to work:
sowing and reaping, building and ripping up our world.
The economy is too refined in our crude and greedy time.
Minions in suits run things, ruin things. They move
invisible money around. Nothing useful, nothing done by hand,
they transfer funds, crunch spreadsheets, manage assets.

Me, Im outside the margin: No income, no job, no assets.
What doesnt bring home bucks and bacon isnt work.
On paper, little value accrues by my own hand.
Sewing and cleaning, cooking and washing make up the world
from which I crave escape, but too confined to move.
It could be a virtual prison, as if Im doing time.

Reality seeks respite in dreams, as one time
I imagined I made a film: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Assets.
Of course, I was an auteur. I shouted Action! to move
the crew to block and grip, light and shoot my lifes work.
Naturally I was the star, the greatest in the world.
In every scene I directed myself and gave myself a hand.

I played a ninja, packing lethal power in my hand
while gracefully leaping into the air, in so-mo or frozen time.
Impossible you say, in a gravity-strung world.
Well, you cant blame a gal for capitalizing on her assets,
no matter how many critics say they dont work
or how my earth-bound feet and fate refuse to move.

Clad in black jammies, cat-like I could move,
with a scarf round my forehead, my serious hand
pointed perpendicular to the sky. Would that work?
Not every movie made is worth the effort and time;
some slice profits open, gutting assets.
The bottom lines the top star in the world.

Im just not cut out for show biz, or maybe any world.
Like going straight to video, I just cant move
up. Im a ninja no income, no job, no assets.
Now, dont go around thinking I exist hand-
to-mouth. Ill remember to check in from time
to time and write if I find work.

Among the assets hidden in the world,
rewards for work might someday move
into my empty hand. Whens Show Time?

----------


## The Ol' Man

Two sestinas - not a very tractable form to work in, ostensibly. I knew #302 was derivative
of Donne, from the very first flash of the structure, I thought "Donne." Very well. I like your palate. 

I am making this addition to my post, now, to thank for renewing my faith in poetry as an art
that is not entirely lost on those who publish their work on the internet - or, if not lost, in some
form affronted, maimed, or otherwise (if such were possible) corrupted. I'd commend in chief
your poem 'selfish stream' (I haven't the time to read them all) for its metrical achievement
in part, but for its altogether good writing. I must say I'm fairly disapproving of your free
verse ventures, or those I've read, and feel you fare much better in structured verse.

O.M.

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## Hawkman

Indeed, a very tricky form, and a lengthy one. You cheated a bit with "Broadway" though  :Biggrin:  I must give one of these a go and see how I get on... I really enjoyed these offerings which have strong rhythm to drive them forward.

Live long and prosper - H

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## IceM

I'm not as well-educated in forms as our other posters, but I will say I enjoyed Ninja Gal especially. The overwhelming sense of futility was apparent, but not too self-pitying to be a turn-off.

What kind of meter did you use, if you don't mind me asking?

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## blank|verse

Well, I tried to overlook my natural aversion to sestinas, *Aunty*, but to little avail.

They're both very accomplished pieces, the first in particular is recognisably your voice and anecdotal narrative style, but - like with all sestinas I read to be fair - I soon get distracted by the end words and feel the poem is going on too long just to satisfy the requirements of the form.

And now you're encouraging *Hawk* as well! Maybe at least he'll invent a 'hawkestina' or something...

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks, LitNutters, for your responses re: *#306.* 

Advice that has come up more than once is that I should stick to metric forms rather than the netless game of free verse. That strikes me funny, because just a few years ago the strict moderator of another poetry-writing site kept telling me that I didn't know squat about metric verse. Since the LitNet seems to be telling me the opposite, maybe I'm in the wrong game. Know anybody who needs a humor writer?

To the current postings:
"Bum" (not necessarily a self-portrait) comes from Ought Eight, and is my first attempt at writing a sestina. The second one, "Ninja Gal" ( a "non-winning" entry in Pendragon's "Form Poetry Contest" here on the LitNet) is from the autumn the same year, during the time of the big financial burn-out, at least part of which some pundits blamed on the mortgage scandal.

Personally, I don't much care for the first one. It's way, way too earnest for its own good as well as polemical. The second one seems a bit more whimsical and doesn't take itself too seriously, a practice that is deadly for a poet.

The form _is_ a complex one, no argument there. Many contemporary poets try their hand at the form, sometimes masterfully, such as "Sestina" by Elizabeth Bishop. I believe the trick to the sestina is choosing six end words that can have multiple meanings. That way the lines won't be as repetitious and provide more leeway with the subject matter.

To anyone who'd like to pursue metric verse, a handbook which I highly recommend is a slim volume, _The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms,_ by Chris Baldick, published in 1990. Here's what that book says about the mighty sestina:

"The form was introduced into English by Sir Philip Sidney in his_ Arcadia_ (1590.) A modern example is W.H. Auden's 'Paysage Moralisé' (1933.) Even more remarkable as a technical feat is A.C. Swinburne's 'The Complaint of Lisa' (1878), a rhyming double sestina with twelve 12-line stanzas and a 6-line _envoi_."

A _double_ sestina! That sounds daunting. I don't mean
writing it, I mean _reading_ it!

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## Delta40

I like Ninja Gal. It's rather political in a satirical way.

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## Bar22do

I'm proverbially late to read poetry here, but found and read your latest two. I'm always scared by poems' length (language problems!) but applied myself to Ninja and found it light and enjoyable. I'm a total ignorant of form and therefore won't critique or praise yours.
But, back from my journey, I shake tiredness with your fine offerings or, rather, take refuge in them not to face the packed up schedule... 
Be well, Dear Auntie, thank you,

Bar

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## AuntShecky

Thank you all for your kind responses re: #306. Here's #314:

Eight Days of Rain

Radio wags have started counting down:
only thirty-two more till the next deluge.
Dryness seems mere memory (like wit.)
Our unsoothed nerves slip when wet
percussion pings this building’s plastic pelt;
sewers drown in sour songs from tinny pipes.
Mornings that once milled dew escape the mower, 
catch the mold. What bent the honeysuckle’s blades

once pink, now brown? The world’s fingertips wrinkle
and crease, as after hours spent in banquet dishpans
or indulging in a too-long soak in the tub.
Condensate descends and splashes all lives,
but some float through with a now-and-then spritz,
while torrents pound the heads of others ceaselessly.
Awash in gray above, sinking into muck beneath our shoes,
we wring our hands and souls like sodden towels.

If our home star should suddenly deign
to show itself, wonder would strike
us with that alien yellow light.
O great Whoever, Herdsman
of gentle flocks grazing the blue;
Lord of the mayflies, midges, stones;
Dominus of clay and loam, fickle winds
and fearless weeds; and --yes, the Source,

swollen with color-free life-milk to nurse the earth:
wean us for a while, rest. 
Then send as many sundrops as you will
to succor goldfinch infants in their nests
and warm the puckered skin of tiny frogs.
Sprinkle sun, dear Father, everywhere
from the faux-rainbow scum-shine on the streets
to the clean leaves of hidden violets in the woods.

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## Delta40

What bent the honeysuckle’s blades 
once pink, now brown? The world’s fingertips wrinkle
and crease, as after hours spent in banquet dishpans
or indulging in a too-long soak in the tub.

This is excellent Aunty!

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## 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  :Biggrin: 

Live and be well - H

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## Bar22do

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

Warm wishes from Bar

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## 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  :Biggrin:  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.
> ...


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

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## 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

----------


## Jack of Hearts

> 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


Hit.

In a lot of ways, this is what this reader fears. Maybe his poetry/prose doesn't get better. Maybe making it through college isn't enough. Maybe it all ends sadly spoiled or maybe it never was the promise we'd thought it'd be.

Thanks for being terrifying.





J

----------


## IceM

> 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.
> 
> ...


The first stanza does a beautiful job of setting up a contrast, whether intended or unintended, of the spectacular versus the unnoticed, as developed in stanza four. Shipwrecks receive much more attention, yet a plant's failure to "germinate" is much more complex. I loved the contrast.

The poem as a lament (not that it would be anything else to this reader) is excellent. I resonated with this poem, as while the subject of our laments may be different, the sentiment is captured wonderfully.

Thank you for sharing.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, *IceM*, *JerryB* for your nice comments, and *Hawkman* and *Jack of Hearts*, I don't know how you both did it, but your responses seem to echo quite closely what I was thinking, but not explicitly stating, in #328. I wrote it before the proverbial you-know-what hit the fan couple weeks ago, but the premonitions were uncanny.

In case anyone is interested, the "New England sage" is, of course, Emerson, and the specific piece of music reference in the fifth stanza is here.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

Sorry that I overlooked this when it was first posted. It was written with your heart's blood, wasn't it? One feels that all the way through. Would that writing it had brought some comfort to you.

----------


## Bar22do

Oh there is a new offering in this thread. I am evidently late to read it. And it's late at night, too. So I'll keep it for my tomorrow's treat and these lines are only to say I'll return. If in this hard time you manage to write, I bow low before you, dear Auntie.

----------


## AuntShecky

A very lively thread in the Poetry Games and Contests
forum reminded me of a little ditty from Ought Eight, inspired by a famous American painting, reproduced posters of which hung in many a dorm room a number of decades ago.

In any event, here she is, a retitled retread which we like to call


Ekphrasis

I serve consolation by the cup,
and if both towering urns run dry,
there are plenty more grounds
waitin’ in the hopper.

Easy there, Skip--
she’s taken,
I told myself.
The twin triangles
of my crazy lid
like a dunce cap worn all wrong
can’t stand up
to the mystery of the fedora.

The dame with her hair
smoldering like a torch,
her dummy-upped guy,
and the lonely eagle 
near the end
of the counter
wonder what they'll have.

With our backs turned
from the empty street
we've already decided 
to ignore the empty stools.

----------


## Doralace

You give a very special life to the painting! Your allusion, through the conversation of outside observers, to the painting's young woman's beauty is great and, altogether, I was able to actually see the scene before I went to look it up on the web. For, I must confess, I didn't know Jo Hopper (well, generally, I know very little, I'm afraid). Thank you for sharing your knowledge and letting me discover the painter and his art.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

Your wonderfully painted poem reminds me of the fine film "Fat City" based on Leonard Gardner's novel. The final frame is rivetting when Stacey Keach whirls around on a bar-stool and stares blank-eyed at the rest of the customers or at us or at his future - a truly Hooperesque moment.

----------


## Bar22do

Your « overheard » and poetically related outside whispers inspire new life to this famous painting! Your originality never tires, Dear Auntie.
Your excellent poem brought to my mind another example of ekphrasis, by an Israeli painter, Marcel Chetrit who created a series of impressive paintings inspired by B. Britten’s War Requiem, some of which are available on You Tubes http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZqEo7JA38U and another fragment right after this.
A stimulating subject, ekphrasis, and I think you'd like to read about musical ekphrasis, please look at 
http://www-personal.umich.edu/~siglind/ekphr.htm
Hope you're doing fine, Auntie, warm thoughts, Bar

----------


## Delta40

Excellent! You captured the mood of the pic and left me in doubt I'm the dude watching that couple....

Lovely writing Aunty

----------


## qimissung

I like your little allusion to the painter's name, Aunty, and overall, a lovely, mysterious piece, as the painting, itself.

----------


## AuntShecky

(First new one in over half a year.)





Volt

The worlds wires have split; theyre all disarranged.
The cold has cracked the lines, too stiff to mend,
with darkness casting shades where no shades blend.
The sun, so dim and limited in range,
has lost its erstwhile warmth to powers strange
enough to lure the day toward early end.
The light lies low and lies to souls of men
that puny hopes are powerless to change.

A good conductor turns, accepts the charge
to zap us with a bolt a sudden surge
of energy, electrified, on fire.
This tiny cosmic corner then grows large
as solstice, yule, and year connect and merge
to spark the clarity of bright desire.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

God, this is beautiful! One can feel the joy you must have felt in composing it. And the discipline of your structure is submerged beneath the seemingly effortless flow of thought.

----------


## Bar22do

Your first in half a year, and another *jewel in your lyrical Crown*, Auntie! 
It reminds me that as of tomorrow sunlight will be more generous every day, just like the Hanuka candles we light for eight days (as of today): one more each evening.
But it's also this extraordinary moment of gathering energies that Christmas and New Year bring with them...

You achieved a wonderful Sonnet here, on the Italian scheme, one that can successfully compete with a Milton's or Millay..!

Amongst your never ending errands, your art and sunny nature did theirs and brought into being the fulfilement of your "bright desire" and a contagious optymism for us the readers. 

Visit here more often, Dear Auntie, and I wish you a beautiful, enlightened Year 2012!!!

Bar

----------


## Bar22do

Your first in half a year, and another *jewel in your lyrical Crown*, Auntie! 

It reminds me that as of tomorrow sunlight will be more generous every day, just like the Hanuka candles we light for eight days: one more each evening.
But it's also this extraordinary moment of gathering energies that Christmas and New Year bring with them...

You achieved a wonderful Sonnet here, on the Italian scheme, one that can successfully compete with a Milton's or a Millay's..!

Amongst your never ending errands, your art and sunny nature did theirs and brought into being the fulfilement of your "bright desire" and a contagious optimism for us the readers. 

Visit here more often, Dear Auntie, and I wish you a beautiful, enlightened Year 2012!!!

Bar

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie. With regard to Ekphrasis, I'm fairly sure I commented before, but if I didn't I certainly should have. I love this poem as much as I love the picture. It flows so well and it's brushstrokes are as mticulous as the artists. 

I like your latest offering too. It has such good pace and rhythm and is an appropriate offering for the end of the year. one thing I might suggest though that you replace *that* (S1 L8) with *whose*. As it is the hopes seem to be free floating and I feel that if they belonged to the afore mentioned men it would make marginally more sense.

A lovely sonnet though, with an echo of Grey's Ellergy in luring the day "toward an early end."

Thoroughly enjoyed. Thank you


Live and be well - H

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Prince, Bar, and Hawkman for your kind responses to this thing.
It's a mere extended metaphor, "violently yoking" two "disparate" concepts together, the contemporary modern energy grid with ancient rituals revolving around the Winter Soltice. Chose the Italianate form in an attempt to get the _volta_, along with a conscious effort to use hard consonants found in the languages of Northern Europe. Those Latin roots have a way of sneaking in, though, as well as one from the Greek--_kosmos_.

Again, I'm grateful for the three of you for sharing your critical expertise and please accept my warmest wishes of the season.

Auntie

----------


## AuntShecky

Deleting History

Amid stony suspicion
and core-deep fear
neo-Luddites fail to grasp
the brazenness of cyber magic
flouting the laws of physics.

How delightfully unnatural
for somebody to occupy two spaces
at once: mind and senses in Manchester
while cozily posed-still here!--
on a basement chair in Sheboygan.

Any tracks, like elongated footprints
in the snow, will follow the hot demand
to disappear _pfft!_ - as if theyd never
planted themselves anywhere before.

Likewise that mysterious term Restore
can cast a spell poised to hearken
to an earlier date. Time
Travel sans a wormhole or a rocket,
but retro just the same.

Oh, if only to re-set this little life!
If only to blank up the platform
for a miraculous restart,
escaping the bio fallacies,
every eggy-faced bêtise,
the ego slammed by a thousand
invitations lost in the mail
and opportunities which failed to load,
the cache of gold that shunned this fool
it took for Kryptonite or virus-borne Plague.

What if this oddly alchemic mix
of silicon, algorithms, and wire
could squelch Joyces nightmare,
to wake up from the bad dream
copying files every blessed day?

Who wouldnt want to witness
such a liberating End,
solidly free of cataclysm
as it opens up a future
with hopelessness scrubbed clean?

With just one click,
watch the green segments

race across the narrow box
going, going --

----------


## Hawkman

An original New Year poem Auntie  :Biggrin:  Ah, that miracle of absolution, Cntrl> Alt, Delete! thus may one pass through the beaded gates of silicone heaven shriven and pure , unencumbered by regret or the burden of our sins - lol Trouble is, one throws out the baby with the bathwater. The more advanced the computer, or the older one gets, there just so much more to back up!

Live and be well - H

----------


## Bar22do

I have read and re-read your poem Auntie and some of it still remains a bit cryptic to me (perhaps only to me.. - like:

"escaping the bio fallacies,
every eggy-faced bêtise," 

or S3???)

though I did get the sigh towards the end, as you would expect it, I believe. 

This stanza spoke to me beautifully: 


What if this oddly alchemic mix
of silicon, algorithms, and wire
could squelch Joyces nightmare,
to wake up from the bad dream
copying files every blessed day?

It is always challenging and rewarding to read you Auntie, it forces one to ponder your personal questioning which reflects something of the universal and which we can't, as you masterly do, put it into words.

Thank you a lot and - a happy new year to your and around you! 

Bar

----------


## Jerrybaldy

I enjoy a good cryptic crossword Auntie ( BTW I have never asked why Auntie and not Aunty?) (Or maybe thats an angloamerican thing, with your fawcetts and your drapes etc).Anyway, I digress, you are an artiste Ms Shecky (could i ask your age and your marital status?) (ungentlemanly I know, but you have read my stuff) I enjoy reading you, for I know from my time here that I am in the company of a craftswoman and like others I greatly enjoy your analysis when you choose to comment. You have also taken a laid back approach when I have choosen to take the piss and for these reasons I have grown to appreciate your prescence here. Shall we get a room? lol. Hold on, back to the poem, I got the delete to trash type references, but overall sooooo cryptic I could be blowing sand from egyptian scribblings. There is nothing wrong in that, I for one enjoy reading something I know I will never decipher as when you write it I know it has a meaning I am just not getting. More power to your elbow Auntie and please, pretty please answer my questions. 
best wishes
jerryB

----------


## AuntShecky

Thinking & Talking


Think about a woodland pool
beneath leaves gone or green or bronzed.
Talk about how sun, air, and water 
all blend to nurture lifes beginnings.

Think of nourishing bits and sweets
captured hard. Then talk about
whats left to savor
beyond chewy clouds of bread.

Hearthstone reliefs and lights;
a touch of warm, familiar flesh 
both firm and soft, both to and from
our mirrored selves, full-grown or small: 
think and talk about all these.

Think about corporeal cuts
and a stiffness in the soul.
Talk about buoyant breath
and liberated pain.

Think & talk, talk & think,
think, think & talk some more.

Though some may declaim
against the limits of thought,
and damn endless speech,
its cheapness and its glare,
preferring baseless feelings
and free-floating affects
without cause or cure
while prizing the mindless noise
of Action! above all--

keep thinking, keep talking.

For each cottage comfort
and showy manse, every ill
that ever met repair, and all
machinery and lore running
round the earth,

think & talk & talk & think
think & think & think about how
anything & everything begins:

thinking & talking,
talking & thinking.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie. 

There's a lot to like in here, particularly Stanzas 3,4, 6 and 9. S 1 has a few punctuation problems: Line 2 needs a comma after 'leaves', as it reads awkardly as is, and line 3 doesn't need a comma after 'and'.

I find the refrain:

"Think & talk, talk & think,
think, think & talk some more."

over stated in the think department. I feel sure that by cutting the first think in the second line of this it would improve the flow somewhat. Same goes for penultimate verse.

As for the poem itself, the overall reflective tone has a delightful dreaminess, but also an edge. This contrast works well, I feel. As I said, lots to like.

Live and be well - H

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

Aunty! dear Aunty! Except for the intelligence and feeling that runs through this, I would hardly recognize that it was by you! There's something somewhat more free about it, more uncaring about the strictures of rhyme or rhythm...

It's wonderful, so thoughtful, so... confiding.

----------


## Delta40

I loved S2 Aunty and after reading some of ramblings in a certain sophisticated thread, I was particularly taken by this poem. I love the urging nature of this piece and snatches of thought.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you Prince, Hawk, and dear Delta for weighing in on this thing.


As a way of 'splainin': I see how an appositive situation might occur in l.2; however, I deliberately left out the comma, maybe to keep open a possible ambiguous shading for "leaves," which then fades with the little series that follows, a participle accompanied by two adjectives already separated by an "or"; hence, no comma needed.

As to the repetition of "think"-- fully intended to have more weight, in a quantitative way, to establish its supremacy over "talk." Yes, both form a partnership, but not 50/50, more like 40/60 or 25/75. Though the product may appear to some as desultory, I did try to be diligent about the word choice, and to my fractured mind, at least, can justify the presence of every single one. For instance, there was a reason for "corporeal" rather than "corporal" that has nothing to do with the extra syllable. Same with "machinery" and "lore" (rather than learning or wisdom or law, the latter pronounced similarly to "lore" in this here neck o' th' woods.

Thanks again, though, for the constructive, thoughtful criticism which I do appreciate greatly.

----------


## Bar22do

I have just savoured it all, dear Auntie, I read it as an ardent/urgent appeal for communication between us humans... I'm also reminded of how Word was at the beginning and how, once uttered, it became World! 

Love to read you always, dear Auntie!!! Thank you for your inspiring words! 

Good thoughts from Bar

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Hello Auntie Fawcett Majors. I read this in two opposing ways both of which are probably wrong. I read it first as a percieved uselessness of thinking and thinking and talking doomed by inevitability (that may well just be me .. lol) and secondly as somebody giving advice (maybe a kindly aunty) to think more and to take time to do so. 

Had me thinking so thought I would talk to you about it  :Biggrin: 
cheers
JerryB

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Bar and Jerry. Bar you came very close to one of the intended aims of this thing. Jerry your second interpret. aligns with that of yours fooly.

PS -- "Fawcett Majors" ? "Tis not the double-surname of the long-maned actress? I was flattered until I remembered that a couple of years she went to the other realm, the Great
Vault of Syndicated Action TV Shows in the Sky.

----------


## AuntShecky

Bye Lines


It seems I'll never smoke enough
to spark success. I need a puff
of what it takes to write this stuff:

epics with a Nibelung ring,
bacchant bachelors on a fling,
well-tooned penguins who dance and sing;

chicks lit up by some guys bright eye,
the worldly wiles of a novel spy,
a twisty whodunit? (Not I.)

Sharp how-tos for investment tools,
show biz tell-alls, cable news fools,
vampires, zombies,* teen wizards, ghouls:

none quite fits my creative quirk.
Guess I'm just the wrong type of jerk,
not cut out for this line of work.






* Except for "Zombies on Ice"

----------


## BookBeauty

Your latest -- What a fun, humourous and spunky poem, AuntShecky!  :Biggrin: 

And prior to your latest-- I'm going to take time to read these.

----------


## Delta40

lol. Can you be the wrong kind of jerk? That line really had me laughing Aunty. 

Nice and witty
with a pinch of self pity

 :Grouphug:

----------


## Haunted

Auntie there's so much delight in reading this. I confess I can't read long poems, but the short ones I find in your trove is nothing short of amazing. Add me to your list of "jerks", I can't do any of those either  :Biggrin:

----------


## smerdyakov

Neat poem Auntie.

(*Delta* - love the group-hug graphic. It kicks @ss!  :Grouphug:  :Grouphug:   :Smilewinkgrin: )

 :Grouphug:

----------


## Hawkman

I sincerely hope that the title "'Bye Lines" is not prophetic. You aren't thinking of departing the boards are you Auntie? That would be a crime against humanity! As a characteristically self-deprecating statement of bewilderment at the tastes of the masses, it is delivered with your trademark irony and a cheek fully occupied by tongue, at least, I hope so. If I'd been writing this poem I think I'd have gone for a more regular rhythm, but there's nothing wrong with the way you have presented it.

I thoroughly enjoyed it. I sincerely hope it won't be the last time I enjoy one of your offerings.

Live and be well - H

----------


## Bar22do

Dear Auntie, are you fed up with us all here and want to take a vacation? Please do not.. 
Your poem is more than tongue in cheek, it reads beautifully but feels threatening a bit and makes one feel a very concerned a jerk... 
Anyhow, applause for this, plus for your honesty! 
And my usual best to you!!! But no, not "Bye Lines"!


Bar

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks for the nice responses to the last little "ditty" #360. The subject was a kind of invective against the types of writers whose scripts become Hollywood blockbusters and whose products populate the Best Seller List. Thanks, Delta, for getting the joke about the "wrong kind of jerk" as I had misgivings that noone would "get it."

Unless somebody persuades me to the contrary, I have no plans to leave my fellow LitNutters (for now.) Meanwhile, please don't ever take _anything_  I say too literally. And don't judge a crook by her cover. Oh, I kid.

Re: the fractured meter in the triads or "triplets." Unless I miscounted, each of the lines has 4 stresses; the first stanza is roughly iambic but many other lines start with a "headless iamb" (such as you might find in the opening lines of many pop songs.) 

It never occurred to write my triplets in trimeter and had to go with a lengthier line. Even with an extra foot (in mouth), it was difficult to cram everything in. You should have seen earlier drafts that had mouthfuls like "Nibelungenian" and "bacchanalian" in them. The lines varied so much in length that I was very nearly trespassing on Ogden Nash's territory. The difference being, of course, that his stuff was great and this thing is doggerel.

Woof!

----------


## AuntShecky

The increase in the number of commercials promoting fish sandwiches at fast food joints reminds me that once again Lent is almost here. (Great! Just what we need--more deprivation!) As a matter of fact, Bigggus's verses today are on "Pancake Day." So tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Hence, the following irreverent reverence:


_Heaven for the climate and Hell for the company.
Mark Twain_ 


The Defined Comedy


_Inferno_

The searing red and orange of fires
most starkly stake this doom as fact,
but stoke with doubt the truth of hell.
Realitys always in black-
and-white, and fantasy, pastel.



_Purgatorio_ 

Where sin belatedly atones,
where souls can scrub and scour and groom,
will not be found on maps divine,
but earthly sites: a waiting room,
a call on hold, an unemployment line.



_Paradiso_  

Even here nothings perfect.
The meals are bland; theres peeling paint.
Admission comes with a heavy price.
Yet no one hears a sole complaint.
Thats why they call it paradise.

----------


## Delta40

lol Aunty. What sharp wit you have. I tried to pick a favourite but I like them all. Great finishing lines but also nice descriptors. They're very atmospheric too. One can imagine reeling these off in a bar after one too many to an appreciative audience!

----------


## Buh4Bee

Very funny, and as usual, much enjoyed.

----------


## YesNo

Nice view of purgatory as an unemployment line. 

I agree: With all that colorful fire, hell must be more pastel-fantasy than reality.

----------


## DieterM

Hey Auntie, Purgatorio really did it for me – I was giggling all alone here in the office! And what to say about Paradise being a place where no one complains? I should've known it - France is definitely NOT Paradise, then! Truly brilliant!

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you--Delta,Buh4Bee, YesNo (both of you), and Dieter--for responding to this latest ditty. According to conventional wisdom it's not quite cricket to comment on one's own work. On the other hand, I'm itching to clarify a couple of matters concerning this particular piece, and it's my thread, so what the heck:

Poets aren't supposed to be afraid of "offending" anyone, a point which the notorious "Railing at Greatness" thread tries to hammer home with a sledge hammer. It would bother me personally, though, if anyone thought I harbored animosity toward religion, which I don't. Along with others whose hearts break at the thought of evil wrought in the name of "religion," I'm against that, as well as disdaining those who maintain the self-righteous posture of having all the answers. At the same time I'm completely behind the comforting aspects of religion. If that constitutes a cognitive disconnect, so be it. (Anybody who wants to challenge me on this, please feel free to do so, but in a *separate thread*.)

Back to commenting on my own verse. This one's not to be construed as a parody of Dante, because parodies exactly imitate the _form_ of the original, which we all know is in terza rima, and which this ditty definitely is not. Not only that, one line of the tetrameter of "Defined Comedy" has an extra foot (in-mouth.) But a couple of the commentators liked the "unemployment line" schtick, so I'll leave it. (In a rationalizing "stretch" I suppose I could say that the lengthier line underscores the long wait in the actual queue.)

"Inferno"-- The "searing" reds and oranges of hellfire aren't really the same as soft watercolors or candy colored "pastels" by my definition. When I was a kid, I couldn't quite wrap my little mind around the idea of Hell, because I wondered how a "soul" rather than a actual body with a nervous system, could actual experience being burned (even eternally.) Decades later I somehow came to the conclusion that hell could exist, but not in earthly terms and could only be imagined in terms of metaphor. Hence, hell is neither fish nor fowl, not quite "reality" (as we know it) and not really "fantasy" because it's possible that Hell _could_ exist on some plane presently unknown to you and me.

"Purgatorio"-- Historians (a tribe of which I'm not a member) hear the word "Purgatory" and automatically think of a certain medieval practice perpetuated by the Church to drum up revenue. For a given price, members of the Faithful would be offered an opportunity to purchase "indulgences" -- a way to knock a given number of years off his inevitable sentence in Purgatory, sort of like an insurance policy. The centuries-old scam was just one of the abuses leading to the Protestant Reformation. But it's the older, more orthodox concept of Purgatory that my little verse plays with--the escape clause by which a person can shave off his bid in Purgatory through atonement and suffering here on earth (while, as the good old Gospel song tells us," there's still time, Brother.") The time off for good behavior relates to the various degrees of suffering, from intense pain to moderate discomfort to minor inconveniences, such as being stuck on hold, and--it is to be hoped--substitute teaching.

"Paradiso" Speaking of being presumptuous, who do I think I am to speculate what Heaven is like? ( It's kind of fun though.) When I wrote "Even there, nothing's perfect," of course, I didn't mean God. In Stanley Elkin's brilliant comic novel, _The Living End_, God gets bent out of shape to hear His heaven compared to a "theme park." (Pastels again?) Hence, this little ditty's metaphor of a slightly rundown resort, with the perq that certainly compensates for any imperfection in the facilities.

Thanks again for reading the poem, as well as this admittedly self-indulgent comment.

----------


## firefangled

I liked the sarcasm in these. As a kid I went to a catholic school and I never was satisfied with the criteria for getting into these places. As kids we always wondered what could a child do to get into hell, but there was always a way it seemed.

Nice poem Auntie

----------


## AuntShecky

[February 29, 2012-- Please note this is a *revised* version of a piece originally appearing in this space a few days ago. Although it's best to wait until one can revisit a work so she can look at it with a fresher, more objective eye, I decided to go ahead and fix it right away before another reader suffers through its original dreadfulness.]


Refuse

For just a little while let’s lay
the old realities aside.
Those cramping have-tos, shoulds, and musts
are nags who never were much use,
like dusty “practical” presents 
or grab-bag gifts we meant to throw
away. We thought it best to keep 
the parts that make us act with sense,
befitting the role of mature
adults. All of that’s debris!

Why not pretend we’re like the kid
who sees a party as a chore
but cries when it’s time to go home?

Instead some staid, sad ritual
stepped in to crumple up and stuff
our wistful sparks in plastic bags
and roughly dumped them all outside.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

I find stanzas 2 & 3 a bit stiff, mannered, especially after the full-tilt authority of the first stanza and the felicity of it.

----------


## AuntShecky

> I find stanzas 2 & 3 a bit stiff, mannered, especially after the full-tilt authority of the first stanza and the felicity of it.



_I knew_ there was something wrong with it, but hadn't the foggiest notion of how to fix the damn thing. Thanks to this reply and your PM on the matter, and to the other LitNutter who came to my aid, I was able to work on it (for hours!) last night so I can revise it today.

Here's the revised version

http://www.online-literature.com/for...02#post1119102

See? Yours reply is a fine and thoroughly useful example of constructive criticism which other LitNutters would do well to follow!

I really appreciate it, Prince!

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

Wow! I think the whole of it works so much better now - and I was going to mention the possible pun intended in the title, which one can read as a verb in the imperative sense or as a noun; and I believe seeing those two possibilities fits the poem well.

----------


## Jerrybaldy

FREE the Wistful Sparks!!!!! The campaign starts here, let them out there plastic bags, let them flutter like fireflies lighting our miserable adult existence. I know where to find them, they were dumped out side.

"What do we want?"

"Free our sparks!!"

"When do we want them let out of there plastic bags, probably some really cheap arse chain store bags, and set free to flutter like fireflies returning childlike simplicity to our dour existence ?"

"Errrmmm. Now. "

Give me a S
give me a P 

etc etc  :Biggrin: .
Loved it Auntie Fawcett

----------


## Bar22do

These:




> Why not pretend were like the kid
> who sees a party as a chore
> but cries when its time to go home?


are my preferred lines here, Dear Auntie, though I loved the "revolutionary", ie ironic at least tone that permeates all the poem! 

Thanks a lot, your offerings always surprise with the exactness of what they spy on and reach!

----------


## AuntShecky

Just for the hell of it, I'm reposting these two from way back in 07, when I was just a tiny LitNutter, still wet behind the jeers.


On the Nose

(by a nose)

Its plain as myself
on this face that I
am always sticking myself
into other peoples business
when I'm not stuck in a book,
or stuck up in the air
or looking down myself.
If not stuffed up,
I'm running,
though even when I smell sweet
(or sweetly)
a nose is a nose is a nose,
so I guess the
only thing left to do is
to cut off myself 
to spite my face,
for as everybody knows
no nose is good nose.



------

"Chick Sal Sand"



Note how
in the dankest digs

someone remembers 
to water the plants 
struggling through
lack of light.


Its helpful to catch
the briefest spark of humanity:
the pedestrians grinning shrug
when the Don't Walk
sign won't change;

the abbreviated
lunch order scribbled
on a little green pad.


*
AuntShecky
"A louse in the locks of literature."*

----------


## Hawkman

Well I like, "On the Nose" for its wit and good humour, but I'm missing something in the title of the second offering. Not sure why you put a stanza break after the opening two lines and the last three don't seem to relate to anything which has gone before. My feeling is that the last satnza either needs extending or cutting. As a two stanza poem I think it would be stronger.

Anyway, Thanks for giving us the opportunity to peek at your back catalogue.

Live and be well - H

----------


## Bar22do

Well, Cyrano would have stuck his nose into your nose business for sure had he been younger! for his nose was his life business... and indeed, what a strange whim of evolution, nose...
I like your nose poem very much.
And as for the second, it's another amazing poem, elliptic, its surreal meaning(s) floating in the urban air for one to ponder as one is bound by a street sign to the pavement.
No end to your creativity, Dear Auntie, and you say it was at the very beginning...!

----------


## Haunted

*a nose is a nose is a nose
*
Now that's hysterical. Tiny LitNutter...maybe, but one can spot a budding rose (is a budding rose is a budding rose) of a poet here without a doubt. 


The second one is full of ironies. Watering plants even when dank; don't walk sign suggests it's being walked on; and Chick Sal Sand...the abbreviated for Chicken Salad Sandwich? The scribbled note is discarded, littered, the final insult to the poor plants.

----------


## Jerrybaldy

I particularly like the second one which reads as very PrinceMYshkin-like to me. Its brilliant disparate observation.... or is it ? Hugely enjoyable, if you were wet behind the jeers there is no sign.

----------


## AuntShecky

*If Its Friday, This Must be Egypt* 

Near an obelisk 
a slinky odalisque basked,
til a basilisk snuck by,

with its wings tucked and linked
and its breaths putrid stink,
and that lethal look in its eye.

With considerable risk,
she gave its scales a quick frisk,
donning a mask so she wouldnt die.

Then, after dancing to a disk,
clicking tunes hot and brisk,
they supped on crocodile bisque

and a slab of gooseberry pie.

----------


## Hawkman

Wonderfully trippy wordplay and a very conscientious skivvy! Obviously very well trained  :Biggrin:  A very witty and enjoyable read. More please!!!

Live and be well - H

----------


## Jack of Hearts

#386- Haha, nicely done Auntie.







J

----------


## tailor STATELY

Lol, loved the gooseberry pie (it's been years).

"Odalisque" was a nice touch; googled.

I noted "bisque" breaks the form you chose to work, followed by "pie" tongue and cheekily placed in the "off" line (interesting); or perhaps a form I'm not acquainted with. Quite fun>

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks, Hawk and Jack and Tailor STATELY:




> I noted "bisque" breaks the form you chose to work, followed by "pie" tongue and cheekily placed in the "off" line (interesting); or perhaps a form I'm not acquainted with.


Good catch! You're right, it breaks with the form as it adds an extra line.
But what the hey. Not an established form, just something cooked up from
the cobwebby recesses of yer auntie's brain.

Thanks for the comment. Good to see ya back on the LitNet again.

----------


## AuntShecky

An old one from 2007, probably written long before that:

Thirteen Ways Of Looking At Wallace Stevens 

I
Five bucks says
you don't get him
the first time.

II
There was a jockey
with the same last name.
Every time I bet on him
he lost, and every time
I bet against him,
he won.

III
You know, there are several
different kinds of blackbirds.
One species has a broad red
racing stripe on each wing.
The others don't.

IV
I really dread doing it,
but I guess I'd better
start looking into getting
some kind of insurance.

V
Whats the big deal with
the glass of water and that jar
in Tennessee? I thought
down south they were 
big on bourbon.

VI
Things as they are
are never quite as good
as we want em to be
and never quite as bad
as we think.

VII
You don't see many women
wearing peignoirs these days.
Then again, you can find
a load of complacency
in a pair of sweatpants.

VIII
What kind of ice-cream
would you order if you were
an emperor?

IX
On MTV tonite:
The Man With The
Blue Guitar
(Unplugged.)

X
Why can't I be
the comedian?
Oh, please let me.
Pick me.
Clip me.

XI
I can, oh I can,
I can quote the man:
It is possible, possible,
possible.

XII
Oh, hell, hes just
so good. Let me quote him
again: we keep coming back
and coming back
to the real.

XIII
I'd say more,
but its Sunday
and time for 
my bath.

Oh, and by the way
you owe me five bucks.

----------


## Bar22do

An Auntie, An Attorney and A Blackbird are now ONE!!!!

Though to think of it, *Auntie*, there would be countless ways of looking at your amazing personality!

Kudos for this fantastic offering. Spanking good, really! A blackbird must have possessed your soul (just as it did Wallace's then) as you started to conspire to bring this one about!

----------


## AuntShecky

March 14

In Memory of My Sister
(March 14, 1953-November 17, 2010)

It used to be auspicious, this day
before the Ides. It was all about
you, turning trouble into triumph
with those sardonic quips of yours, 
that quick laugh, sincerely and freely born
from some place way down deep. Love landed
on you unsummoned, like a bird
gently settling on your shoulder. Life
hit you hard, so you smacked it straight and strong,
like wind gusting through leafless branches.

Remember how the pussy willows
once charmed you so? Theyre already here,
and just the other day I saw four
fat robins hopping on the yellow grass.

But my heart still thinks its winter.
The room is dark when Im nudged awake
by unsettling thoughts of those who have gone:
the people I liked and the ones I loved,
those whom you knew and those you didnt.

Just like the blanket I grasp for warmth,
theres comfort in the platitudes
we secretly hope, deep down, are true:
that there exists a place where you still
live, with no struggle nor snagging strings,
but where soft and bright mornings come attached
to a brand-new birthday without end,
where you in joy and glory thrive
among all of those whom you love,
the ones I know and the ones I dont.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

"Treacly," my Aunt Fanny! Although, to switch metaphors, I did experience a bit of whiplash in response to the images in the last line of the first stanza: the _wind gusting through leafless branches_ seemed so discordant with all the lively, vital images that had preceded it, and when did it suddenly turn autumn or winter?

But the last line of all is one that one can and wants to dwell on: on the surface it's regret for not having had the opportnunity to know more of your sister's life, but there's also a hint of reproach in it, that you didn't have the opportunity to express all your love for her, just as you didn't get to know all whom she loved and you might have come to love.

----------


## YesNo

I liked the last line acknowledging that there is something you did not know about your sister.

----------


## Bar22do

What a beautiful tribute to your sister, Dear Auntie. 
We need hope. Perhaps what is in our minds creates our REAL afterlife experience just like it does while we're over here...

----------


## Hawkman

I loved this poem the first time I saw it Auntie, and time has not diminished its impact. 

Live and be well - H

----------


## Jerrybaldy

There is a great warmth to this. You would not want to get this wrong and you didnt. You are in reminiscent mood at the moment it seems. Pussy willows and fat robins. Beautiful.

----------


## Delta40

What a lovely poem for your sister. The warmth and comfort of the blanket and the attachment to memories make this especially sweet Auntie but as Prince says the final lines in the last stanza beautifully wrap up the tranquil lines already penned.

----------


## Haunted

Auntie, your description of your sister comes alive in the first stanza, you remember her as though it was yesterday. The sincerity and grief you feel is so touching:

*But my heart still thinks its winter.
The room is dark when Im nudged awake
by unsettling thoughts of those who have gone:
the people I liked and the ones I loved,
those whom you knew and those you didnt.*

My deepest sympathy for your loss, I feel privileged that you shared this with us.

----------


## AuntShecky

A belated thanks to my fellow LitNutters re *#381*, *# 386*,* #391,* and *#393.* Oh, and Happy First Day of Spring tomorrah.

Turtle

Hail, fellow agoraphobe,
my soul-mate of the marsh.
If dangers hover, duck and cover
gainst creatures cruel and harsh.

Surviving with a shell game to snatch
stray marks of fly or flea,
ambivalently napping, seldom snapping.
Slow-moving? Deliberately.

Versatile reptile with mobile digs,
at home wherever you kneel.
Cursed be the scoop that plunges you in soup
as prelude to some mocking meal.

Voiceless, unlike the mourning birds
biblically cooing the waning of the flood.
Let those namesakes fly, I only speak of thy
Benediction of the mud.

 1998

----------


## Bar22do

Dear Auntie, turtles are my beloved creatures! they symbolize eternity too and ah! how terrible some would heedlessly throw them into boiling water to make a soup...
Here too it's the beginning of spring, turtles show up everywhere, so many will perish on the roads... 

Have plenty of green in your eyes and flowers' scent in your nostrils, be well and thank you so much for this poem.

----------


## Haunted

Enjoyed this very much Auntie. I pretended I didn't see the turtle soup  :Biggrin: . The dark humor is weaved in quite, um, deliciously. Oh I can't believe I said it!

I have small orange turtles here but the one that made an impression was on the beach on Hilton Head Island. The poor thing was probably dead. It was huge, flipped over like a Hummer.

----------


## AuntShecky

Nothing posted in this thread since March! My, how time flies when you ain't havin' fun!

The following is the first piece of personal "poetry" I've written since the 30/30 thread. It was originally intended for the "Favorite Places" poetry contest, but for reasons beyond my control, I missed the deadline, even though I'd finished writing it in time. Two weeks ago today, I sat down to type and post it, only to find that Pong 2.0 would not power up for me. Just like a defiant child, it wouldn't put its boots on! Not even after I threatened it with jumper cables. Back to its natural parents it went. Another device has temporarily stepped in, again borrowed but this time from a different relative. He, like the generous person who lent me the first one, doesn't know what he's in for. Oh, I kid, I kid! (Mostly.)


Preferences

In Octobers midst to stand
on the arch of a rustic bridge,
cresting above a slow-moving stream,
beneath some birches yellow flags
surrendering to the lazuli on high; 

OR -

just past the crepuscular moment
when a wide window reflects
the moon upon that creeks clean glaze -
in an accommodating chair
fronting a carefree fire -
enhanced by a book, a useful light,
and  - perhaps  - a sleeping setter
reclined on a braided rug; 

OR -

when a verdant burst wakes up the world,
the chance to plant ones feet on the spongy earth
beside that now-exuberant brook --
unvexed by buzzing pests, though curious creatures
might come around, uncoaxed, to sniff
the new radii of mellow mallows
and the amiable points of anemones;

BUT  -

while pledging summer riches to prior claims,
fate has failed to shine her favor here,
assigning instead the option of default,
proving, after all, the optimal choice:
any time and any place with you.

----------


## Delta40

I'm going to have to look up crepuscular. That was like a thesaurus of the first moment Auntie which just got better and better until rounded off with the final stanza and (penultimate line?) which is a spectacular reminder in all of nature's beauty. You've made my morning before I even open the blinds!

----------


## Hawkman

There is the melancholy of endings and things to be left behind permeating these pieces. I feel as though I've just read the script of a eulogy for happiness, recited at its graveside and left pinned to its headstone. Tragically eloquent and deeply affecting.

I've perused them several times. Wonderful writing Auntie, though I might suggest a comma in L1 after midst.

Best to you as always,

live and be well - H

----------


## qimissung

First you made me laugh (13 Ways of Looking at Wallace Stevens), and then you broke my heart (you know which one).

Thanks a lot, Auntie.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, fellow Lit-Nutters, for your comments re: #404. Here's a quick one on the same theme:


Immobile Phantom

Everybody has to be someplace,
even when there is nowhere to go,
devil-dumped on an unknown isle,
a guard-less Gitmo, a cage of space.
Even when there is no place to go,
realitys hot  - and colder than snow.
An unguarded Gitmo, a spaceless cage
needs sunlight the same time as rain,
while reality burns more coldly than snow.
Fuzzy and vague as an angels face
and in need of sun as much as rain,
I cannot move, but I cant remain.
Fuzzily vague, like an angels face 
an unknown devil held on an isle,
I cannot move, and I cant remain, but
everybodys got to be someplace.

----------


## DocHeart

Even though I read often, I rarely comment on your poetry, dear Aunt. I admire your work and occasionally amuse myself by trying to guess which well-known poet is hidden behind our dear Aunt's persona. I don't feel I have anything important to contribute here, nothing that the others haven't already said. So if I replied more often, I'd just be singing praises all the time.

Thank you kindly for sharing.

Regards,
DH

----------


## firefangled

After I read your poem, Auntie, I couldn't help but think of Juliet when she says (I looked this up to be exact) to Romeo: "O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,/That monthly changes in her circled orb,/Lest that thy love prove likewise variable."

Though seasons and places may have their own intrinsic charm, the beauty of being with someone dear to us adds the wonderful thread of consistency, no matter where we find ourselves.

Beautiful poem, Auntie. For me it had a matter-of-fact tone that gave it much more strength than to ladden it with more emotional language.

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Well, I had to google Gitmo, is it a well known word Stateside? 

I love the repitition and more so the tinkering each time. The opening line, tinkered, then re-appearing at the end.

A cage of space, a spaceless cage. 

Immediately resonant is ' I cannot move, but I cant remain / I cannot move, and I cant remain.

This may be following a poetic structure that I really should know. I don't know. But I know it is my favourite Auntie production to date. 
JerryB

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks Lit-Nutters for your comments re: #408.

The structure is a "Pantoum" which is a good form to use for "practice." As the poetry columnist for the Writer's Digest wrote long ago, writing lines for a pantoum is similar to a piano student practicing scales. I choose the form for this topic because its prescribed repetition carries a circular effect, i.e., it ends up exactly where it starts.

Once you have the pattern for a pantoum, it's not difficult to write, provided that you haven't skipped a line or two (which of course happened to me in the first couple of go-arounds.) It doesn't necessarily have to be metered or have end rhyme-- just the prescribed pattern is enough.

So the whole thing is a metaphor of being stuck --an inability to move while simultaneously being unable to stay where one is. Hence the senseless burning snow, and the other images--you should excuse the last two syllables of the expression-- as "oxymoron."

Another term for the idea behind the double-edged cliché-- a rock and a hard place-- is "syzygy" -- a word that's as hard to spell as it is to pronounce.

"Gitmo" is an abbreviation for Guantanamo, a prison on the isle of Cuba, where once there, it's nigh impossible to leave. (I wasn't intending any political comment in the piece, just looking for a synonym for Devil's Island.)

Once again, I've 'splained too much. Thanks again for the feedback.

Auntie

----------


## Bar22do

*Auntie*, your 408 is a clean staccato in my ears, intentionally cold. Its enclosing form only adds to the anguish of someone in an impossible life situation. On a much smaller scale, it refers me to my own present condition. The form you chose to express the subject fits perfectly. But well, you're often just simply perfect. Plus, we ALWAYS learn so much from you. Thanks for your generous sharing, Auntie.

----------


## AuntShecky

The Way It Used to Be

Winter is reliable  -
it doesnt fool around,
doesnt offer youthful promises
to be swiftly snatched away,
never teases us with thoughts
of newness, plenty, life.

Thats the old dependable
season for you. It covers
the sky with a dusky shroud,
and when it deigns
to grant a glimpse of sun,
the light is steely, strong:

neither a soft caress 
nor a blazing blast.
The mat it lays 
upon hardened earth
will crunch one day
and slosh the next,

or diabolically deny
traction, yet still step up
the gravity. Its not defiance,
for winter stands
on its own solid ground:
what it wants is what you get.

----------


## Hawkman

Nice poem Auntie, but I'd be inclined to tweak and trim it a little. The last line of S1 has poor rhythm so you might try:

"newness, life or plenty."

You might consider adjusting the line break in S2:

"and when it deigns to grant
a glimpse of sun,"

S3 I'd be inclined to drop "hardened" as it's superflous in the face of "crunch... or slosh..."

In the last verse I'm not keen on, "step up the gravity" because it doesn't  :Biggrin: 

try:

"or, diabolically, 
deny traction. 
Its not defiance,
for winter stands
on its own solid ground:
what it wants is what you get."

I like the poem though, a reflective take on winter  :Smile: 

Live and be well - H

----------


## firefangled

Aunty, I have tried to reconcile the tense of the title (past) with the tense of the poem (present). I read this as a sutle comment on climate change (that winters are not like they used to be), but then why the present tense?

That aside, I enjoyed the poetic description, particularly S4 and getting stuck in snow (which rapidly turns to slush from the heat of spinning tires and, yes, gravity pulls the car deeper and deeper in the mud, which ends up on those trying to help push. That would have been a nice addition to this description.

Love the last line, the futility of trying to pretend everything is as usual (getting to work on time for one), when winter has full control over one's life using many of its devices. 

Then of course we stop by woods and our view of winter changes to that of Mary Oliver, even as we are reminded of Frost and his little (quite observant) horse.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Hawkman and firefangled for your comments. "Step up" -- to quicken or to increase the power of, intended as word play, the other meaning of "step."

It is possible to read the thing as a comment on climate change. Or not. The title comes from what young folks might hear from an old-timer, among whose ranks yours truly might belong much sooner than later. (To tell the truth, I recall that the winters of yesterday were really much more brutal than they seem in recent years.) 

This particular "anti-poem" itself comes from cynicism and perversity, against the sentimentality of softly falling snow, sleigh bells, and the like, but most of all it was an attempt to fulfill a challenge (by yours fooly) to write about winter without the usual suspects: snow, ice, cold, wind, etc.

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Like your take on the harshness of winter as a metaphor for a lament of lost youth/ the way we were, the grass was greener..........? acceptance perhaps. Nostalgia ain't what it used to be. Reminds me of a Pink Floyd lyric ' hanging on in quiet desperation is the english way'. Now that's a fine line. And your poem also has many.

----------


## Bar22do

Always love your verse and this one particularly for all the reasons you mentioned yourself. "what it wants is what you get" is absolutely great.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you JB and Bar for your comments. The ditty was going for irony -- the opening line that "tells" too much contradicts (intentionally) the final line, "what it wants is what you get," so winter is not really "reliable" at all. 

That's my last word on what has turned out to be a fairly lame piece of banality. 

Now you know why there hasn't been much verse-posting from yours fooly since August! Maybe I peaked here:

http://www.online-literature.com/for...ems-in-30-Days


Gee, I've been on the LitNut for hours! What's his name must be wondering where his supper is. And if that's not enough reason to log off, the ad on top of the page says "Click here to view your arrest record now!"

*
"We keep coming back and coming back to the real.” -- Wallace Stevens*

----------


## 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  :Biggrin:  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  :Wink:  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”)_

----------


## Hawkman

I don't beleive this was translated by McGonnagall, there aren't enough execrable rhymes... It's a fun read though, even if it is, perhaps, just a teensy bit prosaic. Maybe the Martian lyricism has been lost in translation  :Wink: 

Live and be well - H

----------


## Delta40

I don't get the joke about mcgonagall. This is no where near his style at all.

----------


## hack

This is marvelous.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Hawkman, for your comments re #433 and #435^^^
And thanks, all of you, for weighing in on the Martian thingie, originally posted about a year ago in the 30/30 thread for National Poetry Month, at which time this particular piece generated nothing in the way of a response. I guess one could say "Better late than never." 

The impetus of so-called "Martian" poetry comes from a pressing need in contemporary poetry to see the world through an entirely new lens. The idea is to present the subject as "unfamiliar," a theme masterfully explored by poets such as Diane Wakoski, as well as those mentioned in the Wikipedia link. What more convenient way to present an object as unfamiliar than to look at it as if the writer were a Martian? (Not at all to imply that yours fooly's writing is in any way "out of this world.")

The piece, purporting "translated" by Prof. McG, is allegedly a classroom exercise written by a student in the Red Planet's counterpart to middle school.

RE: The question of Prof. McGonagall, the chairman of the department of Martian Language and Literature at the upstate campuse of Downstate University at Hogwash (DUH.): that particular institution of higher learning has been strapped, financially speaking; hence the inability to pay for top-notch talent. (The highest paid staff member is of course the athletic director. It's an open question of whether he earns his keep, with the Hogwash Boars this season going 0-9.) Prof. McG, while an earnest scholar, is no Mark Van Doren. The only joke is an "inside" one, I guess, in that the surname is the same as an allegedly bad poet. Perhaps the Professor's namesake, the unappreciated bard, is one of his ancestors, a distant
relative on his father's side. Then again, maybe it's just a coincidence.

Speaking of which, it is definitely a coincidence that Opening Day coincides with April Fool's Day. You may undoubtedly think the following is a little of both:


Opening Day

The seasons fresh: a level field;
the spotless record holds a shield
against what ruthless fate may yield.

The new slates clean for groups of nine,
though numbers slide and sink in time,
as water reaching its own line.

While clouds of doubt are pitched away,
the sun sits high and cheers today.
Our trust runs sacred: _Let us play_.

----------


## Delta40

Aha. We were all thinking of the worst poet in the world...many apologies, even if he is a distant ancestor!

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you,Delta. 

In addition to the "triplets" in #439^^^there are two more on the same topic. While the season is still fresh, here are the two parodies posted back in the 30/30 thread from this time last year in reply #58. (If you scroll up that April 2012 thread to the posting April 16, you'll also see the posting inspired by the sestina by Diane W. if you are interested):

http://www.online-literature.com/for...=1#post1134096

----------


## AuntShecky

This revised version closes out the last of a group of three jazz-themed poems written in April 2008, but never before appearing on the LitNet, maybe fortunately so. (The other two are in separate threads.) 

It takes a long time to revise a poem; one should probably wait for a period of time to elapse in order to see it with fresh eyes, even if it takes as long as half a decade.

The title comes from the opening line of the old, old song, "Let's Face The Music (And Dance), but other than that lifted lyric, that's it for references to Irving Berlin (at least in this particular thing.) 



“There May Be Trouble Ahead”


“The saxophone of melody” 
blows hot, blows cold, 
as young hands deftly dribble keys.
The alto runs a scale, puts down
a triad or two, and segues 
into “Caravan.”

What if Rashawn should one day 
leave his instrument at home? 
Would false assumptions,
with undertones untrue,
blow his innocence away?

Why should he tote around old bags?
All he wants to do is blow his horn.

In this reverberant land
some of us still bleat
overheated hymns from Hell
drowning out the soft desert’s cry
and strangling the blues. 

Noise overfloods and undermines
the tunes, rejoicing, reflecting,
as heat might flash upon tin.
Heads filled with historic sand 
keep feet moving, moving on

in caravans against discordant dust 
kicked up by gritty winds.
Godspeed to nomads 
who seek cooling springs
of sun-sparkled harmony.

----------


## Hawkman

Hello Auntie. I surprised myself while reading this, and the surprise came from my personal association with your word choices in the opening stanza. Whilst I understand perfectly what you were conveying in terms of the depiction of playing music, and although you are quite correct in your use of 'keys' when describing the things one fingers on a sax (or any blown instrument that has them) the image which springs to my mind is of piano keys, which caused some confusion to my internal image associated with your words. I can only assume that this was because the first instrument that I encountered was a piano, as early as the age of two. My mother always had a piano in the house, though when I was very young we had two. I don't think she played it in the last 20 years of her life, though. I remember after she died I lifted the lid to see if it was in tune and I depressed a key. It snapped off in a puff of microscopic dust; the instrument was absolutely riddled with woodworm. Your last verse reminded me. The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that I had a positively gothic upbringing.  :Biggrin: 

The second minor issue is with your use of dribble. Apart from a rather unpleasant image of drooling, culturally, on this side of the pond, the word, when not associated with wetness, conjures up the picture of a soccer player dribbling a ball. I spose this isn't entirely inappropriate in context, except that if he uses his fingers then it's 'hand ball!' Lol.

On a technical note I do have a relevant issue with the conclusion of the final verse. Harmony is a very weak word with which to conclude the poem. The three syllables forming a dactyl allow the two weak stresses to diminish the impact. Whereas this might be perfectly acceptable in a piece of music it doesn't really work in the written word. A stronger beat is necessary to close the tale. You might try:

"who, in sparkled harmony
seek cooling springs."

But it's only a suggestion and I accept that my opinion is entirely subjective. I'd prefer sparkling, but it doesn't work with cooling.

Anyway, an enjoyable read.

Live and be well - H

----------


## AuntShecky

"Dribble" is the word, associated w. basketball -- going up and down the keys like going up and down the court. "Harmony" has a double-meaning, both intended here to contradict "discordant." Again, I've said way too much.

Your comments are always appreciated, Hawkman.

----------


## AuntShecky

This next number is fresh off the keyboard and offers in a "slanted" way a sop to those who loathe end rhyme. (There's an eye rhyme as well.)

The Window-Washer

To wipe square glass encased in steel
means dangling by a single belt
some fifty-seven stories steep.
The comic hard-hat’s tipped to bolt–
a useless tenant, like The Rich,
who hang where softer winds have blown,
a penthouse just beyond his reach:
a short way up, a long way down.

----------


## Hawkman

With a little modification in tense this would make a fine epitaph  :Biggrin: 

Live and be well - H

----------


## AuntShecky

> With a little modification in tense this would make a fine epitaph 
> 
> H


Not meant to be, though. More like leaving the poor workin stiff "suspended." 
Thanks for reading this. You're the only one who graces my work with replies and I appreciate it greatly.

Auntie

----------


## AuntShecky

1.
Foggity, Hoggity,
Limbaugh, on radio,
Rush-es where patriots
oft fear to tread.

Liberals: tongues wagging
Ultraconservative
paranoid listeners:
rocks in their heads.


2.
Parsily, Farcily,
Simon and Garfunkel,
songwriting troubadours,
dabbling in rhyme.

Absent of irony,
sentimentality
wore out their wholesomeness,
stuck in their time.

3.
Hippity, Hypety,
Phineas T. Barnum
schlepping his circus to
parts near and far.

Faking zoology
incontrovertibly
showed to the world just what
monkeys we are.

4.
Hartily, tartily,
Sisters Kardashian,
plastered on tabloid sheets,
talent unknown.

Hawking reality,
pseudocelebrity
blasted its horn brashly:
Cultures last groan.



Double Dactyl

----------


## Grit

> 1.
> Foggity, Hoggity,
> Limbaugh, on radio,
> Rush-es where patriots
> oft fear to tread.
> 
> Liberals shudder.
> Ultraconservative
> paranoid listeners:
> rocks in their heads.


I like the rhyme scheme for this one and the last line made me style. Well done. 




> 2.
> Parsily, Farcily,
> Simon and Garfunkel,
> songwriting troubadours,
> dabbling in rhyme.
> 
> Absent of irony,
> sentimentality
> wore out their wholesomeness,
> stuck in their time.


I really like this one, but it's hard for me to pin point why. I suspect it's the second stanza. The first is kind of silly and had me smiling. For some reason, the second strikes me as more serious, and kind of sad. Time stops for no man, no matter how his hair looks. 




> 3.
> Hippity, Hypety,
> Phineas T. Barnum
> schlepping his circus to
> parts near and far.
> 
> Faking zoology
> incontrovertibly
> showed to the world just what
> monkeys we are.


This is clever, and I'm seeing a pattern in these here with the first lines. Sounds like witch talk from Wiz of Oz. 




> 4.
> Hartily, tartily,
> Sisters Kardashian,
> plastered on tabloid pages,
> talent unknown.
> 
> Hawking “reality,”
> pseudocelebrity
> blasted its horn brashly:
> Culture’s last groan.


I couldn't agree more. Why is it that today all you need to be famous is absolutely no shame? I think the brash horn line suits the hole culture quite well.

----------


## Grit

> This next number is fresh off the keyboard and offers in a "slanted" way a sop to those who loathe end rhyme. (There's an eye rhyme as well.)
> 
> The Window-Washer
> 
> To wipe square glass encased in steel
> means dangling by a single belt
> some fifty-seven stories steep.
> The comic hard-hat’s tipped to bolt–
> a useless tenant, like The Rich,
> ...


This is awesome work. It really put me in mind of the poor bastard who has to get up on a scaffold and wash those massive windows. The last line has depth to it.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you for reading these, Grit. The nonsense double dactyls introducing each verse are prescribed by the rules. (Click "Double dactyl" in brown-colored font in the original posting for an explanation of the form.)

----------


## Hawkman

> 1.
> 
> Foggity, Hoggity,
> Limbaugh, on radio,
> Rush-es where patriots
> oft fear to tread.
> 
> Liberals: tongues wagging
> Ultraconservative
> ...


I'm afraid I had to look this chap up on Google. He sounds like a bit of a twit, a bit like Jeremy Clarkson over here, but Clarkson doesn't subject us to his wilder opinions on a daily basis, and anyway, is obviously being ironically humorous. I don't get that impression about Limbaugh, from what I've read. Why have you split rushes with a hyphen? Not sure about 'oft' either as to my ear fear counts as bi syllabic. "Liberals: tongues wagging" doesn't fit the metre whereas, "liberals: wagging tongues," would.




> 2.
> Parsily, Farcily,
> Simon and Garfunkel,
> songwriting troubadours,
> dabbling in rhyme.
> 
> Absent of irony,
> sentimentality
> wore out their wholesomeness,
> stuck in their time.


Poor old Simon and Garfunkle! Is this the voice of a disillusioned ex-hippie? 'Tis a jaundiced view for sure  :Biggrin: 




> 3.
> Hippity, Hypety,
> Phineas T. Barnum
> schlepping his circus to
> parts near and far.
> 
> Faking zoology
> incontrovertibly
> showed to the world just what
> monkeys we are.


Can't argue with that.




> 4.
> Hartily, tartily,
> Sisters Kardashian,
> plastered on tabloid pages,
> talent unknown.
> 
> Hawking reality,
> pseudocelebrity
> blasted its horn brashly:
> Cultures last groan.


again I have issues with the metre. The addition of the s on pages adds a syllable and upsets it. "blasted its horn brashly" doesn't work either. Try: "Horn blasting brashly, it's"

Thanks for the entertainment.

Live and be well - H

----------


## AuntShecky

Hyphenated "Rush-es" to underscore his first name. Makes me think of "rush to judgement."

Lines 4 and 8 in each double dactyl are supposed to rhyme. Also, the two stressed syllables are supposed to come in the form of dactyl-spondee.

To my (tin) ear "Liberals: tongue wagging" sounds more like a double dactyl (/xx /xx) than "WAGging TONGUES" (iamb + stressed syllable.)

Likewise, "Blasted its horn brashly": /xx /xx (double dactyl)

This morning on my handwritten draft I noticed the extra syllable in "pages." Will fix.

Thanks, Hawk.

----------


## AuntShecky

Perhaps there is a definite reason for G.K. Chesterton's observation, cited earlier today in a LitNutter's thread:
http://www.online-literature.com/for...s-about-cheese.
The following is from 1998, during a phase when yours fooly was so infatuated by enjambment that all the punctuation fled in disgust.


Making A Toasted Cheese Sandwich


When you have nothing
the philosophers tell you
to be happy with
the little you have
take delight in the simple things
philosophers say

Well, I have a slice of cheese
and two slices of bread
what could be simpler
or cheaper
than that

I'd prefer wheat bread
healthy whole grain
with a hearty bite
and some Swiss
neutral like the country
and therefore harmless
though subtly nutty
and not as pully
as mozza-pizza 
but snappy enough
to melt into what
product researchers call
"mouth-feel"

What I have
is a square
of store-brand synthetic
processed stuff
that's tasteless
and bland
and therefore one
hundred per cent
American

imposed between a pair
of machine-cut sponges
to pop into
the toaster-oven

That's right I'm making
this the old-fashioned way
not like the greasy-spoon staple
drowned in margarine
and slapped on the same griddle
that burned burgers
through three shifts

(while listed on the ripped plastic menu
as "grill" cheese)

Nor would I be crazy
enough to consider
the wacky Heloise-style
hint of wrapping it in foil
and cooking it at the same time
as doing the ironing
(nobody irons anymore)

and besides -- what about the crumbs
escaping from the Reynolds' Wrap armor
and mixing with the
inadvertently-washed Kleenex
in the pockets
of your pants

No, when it comes to
toasting cheese sandwiches
I'm a purist though not a true
vegan, having been known
to consume your occasional fish
the communal omelet
and of course
cheese

So I'm standing guard
in front of the countertop appliance
that's like an abandoned wife
whose husband left her for
a younger, flashier microwave
and I'm watching the coil
turn red
in embarrassment or anger

You'd think I were some snooty
chef from the Cordon Bleu
fussing over a feast
for some fastidious dignitary
the way this social-climbing sandwich
has commanded my attention

But you've got to watch
you've got to know
the precise moment
when to flip

or one side burns
and the other side stays pale
and the cheese, inside,
doesn't even warm up,
let alone melt

and you can bet
somebody will complain
about the crumbs
on the floor

you've got to watch

Though I'd much prefer
to look out the window
and see the sky stretch
and change into its evening wear
that isn't quite basic black
and definitely not blue

and into the brush to catch
a glimpse of furry beings
sniffing the twilight air
while hustling for a meal
they can afford
to be curious and brave
now that it's dusk

and the sportsmen have all
gone home or to a diner
for a quick beer
and a burned burger
there are no hunters left

except for Orion
amid the sharp and witty stars
and the Moon
rumored to be made of green cheese
playing Toastmaster to the night
and raising a shimmering glass
that spills a silver spotlight
over the dance floor of the field

which in the cold morning
will melt into bits
of glittering confetti
these frosty crumbs
of moonlight in the grass

with the Cosmos taking its
simple delight
in the things it has
both little and big
though when you're talking
about the Universe
and its timeless banquet
size doesn't matter

while I'm inside 
in the kitchen 

toasting cheese

----------


## tailor STATELY

lol

Noteworthy: [quote]"there are no hunters left

except for Orion"

Ta ! _(short for tarradiddle)_,
tailor STATELY

----------


## AuntShecky

[QUOTE=tailor STATELY;1223883]lol

Noteworthy: 


> "there are no hunters left
> 
> except for Orion"
> 
> Ta ! _(short for tarradiddle)_,
> 
> 
> tailor STATELY


Yep. He's the Gaelic constellation. ("O'Ryan.")

----------


## Hawkman

Well, Auntie: even warmed up and re-served it's a witty and amusing rant, but is it "poetry"? It's damned good Prose because its a witty and amusing rant, but does it actually qualify as prose poetry? 

Not sure about this bit:

"and slapped on the same griddle
that burned burgers
through three shifts
and listed on the ripped plastic menu"

as it reads as if the grill is listed on ripped plastic menu, rather than the burger. Too many un-demarcated subordinate clauses perhaps... the insertion of an 'is' before _listed_ would sort this, I think. 

Overall, the piece comes over as a monologue infused with amusing digressions. I could imagine someone like Alan Bennett coming up with this as one of his "Talking Heads", although He was more quintessentially English in tone, and, rather than burgers, would probably have mentioned scones and jam.

here's a taste http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGCg3ARv14U

if you hit this page you should find other examples, though unfortunately not the one I was thinking of, but there are some shorts read by Bennett himself, which adds to the flavour.

Hope you enjoy them, and I did rather enjoy your offering btw, whether it's poetry or not!  :Biggrin: 

Live and be well- H

----------


## AuntShecky

> but is it "poetry"?


No more or less than (m)any of the other pieces posted on the Personal Poetry forums, your fine verse excepted of course. On the one hand, I hear my fellow LitNutters bemoaning meter and rhyme, while others complain about free verse, which Frost famously likened to "playing tennis without a net." Guess yer ol' Auntie can please none of the people--none of the time!




> does it actually qualify as prose poetry?


Beats me. Aside from the "fish nor fowl" characterization, I'm not sure I know what it is.




> as it reads as if the grill is listed on ripped plastic menu, rather than the burger.


You got me on this one, from the gal who's always harping about "misplaced modifiers." The line, wallowing in its error for a decade and a half, has been
edited.

Thanks for weighing in on this one, Hawk.

----------


## AuntShecky

Your fellow LitNutter has spent the better part of the afternoon reviewing this thread, for reasons unknown (other than a particularly virulent masochistic streak.) The experience was one long exhausting cringe, my already-furrowed mug reddening at the sight of "every eggy-faced bêtise" (#348, above.) On a much more "positive" note, yours fooly is --and will forever be--grateful for the many thoughtful and thoroughly helpful comments throughout this thread, which shall-- the poetry gods willing-- continue as long as the little verses strain to make their appearance and "Pong 2.1"-- the plucky little PC--holds on.

In the meantime, though, your indulgence is begged as this author attempts to revise and re-post earlier offerings from time to time, though from the looks of many of these would take another lifetime, years perhaps better spent in devotion to _Finnegans Wake_ (as the author of that cryptic novel advised. ) 

Concerning revision, the conventional wisdom is to wait a certain length of time after the first version in order to approach the piece with "fresh" eyes.
Here, then, is a slightly revised version of #108, which originally appeared on 7/9/10:

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


Hermit Crab

Two times dumb luck named her wrong.
Not quite a solo fixture stuck in salty sand,
she could do better among large social groups
swirling in tide pools streaked with sun.
Genus, species, identity--already cracked apart
before science deemed her class of crab not “true,”
(though crustaceous, to be sure.) Not doomed
like that fabled Dutchman, wandering the sea,
yet just as unmoored and marooned,
now scours round for a fitting carapace,
in which to squat: abandoned digs
vacated by whelks and periwinkles.

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

not fish nor fowl, not swimming, nor floating,
with trepidation treading modern times. 
A voyage to a century twice past
might chart a map 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,
the plangent sea-song in her ear.
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 fruit – an empty shell.

----------


## Haunted

I admire how you craft the parallel. The melancholia is not lost on me. These lines touched me particularly:

I washed ashore with nothing; just the same
Ill leave. Oh, for a harbor, safe against
the perils of povertys rough surf. 

It's really a great poem, Auntie.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie.
There’s a lot to like in this poem: the analogy of the hermit crab is a fun one and there is a kind of mournful, tongue-in-cheekiness to the poem which is amusing. But there are also things in here which don’t quite work, at least for me. I’m not keen on that opening line.

“Two times dumb luck named her wrong.”
For a start, “two times” sounds like a multiplication table. “Twice” would have been much better here, and “named her wrong” may be idiomatic, I suppose, but it isn’t elegant. Neither do I like the opening line terminating in a full stop. The opening statement, as it were, is too bold, too stark and stops the poem, so that the reader has to “start again at line two, which incidentally changes the subject from the misnaming of the beast to where it lives and goes on for three lines before returning to the theme of classification at line 5. More logically this should flow directly from line one. The aside, (though crustaceous to be sure) obviously included for humorous effect doesn’t actually touch my funny-bone, it just stalls the flow. It feels to me like unnecessary exposition.

The Flying Dutchman is a fun image, but unmoored and marooned doesn’t really work for me, although I do see what you were getting at, but it would work better if this flowed from the beach and rock pools bit:

Twice misnamed by luck and man, her genus,
class and species cracked apart, long before
science deemed her class of crab not “true.”
Not quite a solo fixture stuck in salty sand,
she could do better among large social groups
swirling in tide pools streaked with sun. 
Not doomed like that fabled Dutchman, 
wandering the sea, the hermit is marooned,
and scours round for a fitting carapace,
in which to squat: abandoned digs
vacated by whelks and periwinkles.

The second verse has better structure, although I’m not sure that:
“that gritty pearl! –-but not the hardest wave
to ride.”

Does that much for the flow. Presented as it is, “that gritty pearl” reads as another aside with the subsequent bit about the wave being another aside tacked on the end. Again, I do see what you’re getting at, but I’m not sure that it’s expressed very well: Cancer or homelessness? I know which I’d prefer! The only other problem in this verse is in the last line; not sure what whistles have to do with anything, so I’d be inclined to drop it.

The first line of S3 might be better by omitting one of the “ings” try:

“not fish nor fowl, neither swimming nor afloat,”

I’m not quite sure where “a voyage to a century twice past” takes us either. I guess what you are saying is that life was easier 200 years ago. I’m not sure I’d agree. Oh, and boasting Frogs, what have you got against the French?  :Wink:  

“At times she’d greet the children passing by
the weathered windowsill where she had set –
to cool for future gifts – an empty shell.”

This image is a little confusing and I can’t quite get the sense of it. I know to what it should refer but the “empty shell cooling on a windowsill” (for some reason) makes me think of apple pies, although as it’s empty I guess it’s just the pastry. But, “for future gifts” has me thinking of a classical cornucopia.

The trouble is, that having introduced the hermit crab seeking temporary digs, we are left wondering whether the empty shell is a previous abode, or, having brought them up, some kind of poem without meaning. I feel there needs to be a little more focus in the conclusion and a decision made about the nature of the metaphor. It almost feels the poem was rushed to a conclusion; “an empty shell” is certainly a good way to wind the poem up, but it just doesn’t sit quite well enough with what immediately precedes it. 

Generally though, the poem has good rhythm and is sprinkled with fitting and inventive imagery and was a fun read.

Live and be well - H

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Haunted and Hawkman for reading the previous posting and offering such thoughtful responses. I truly appreciate them, and promise to give your suggestions serious consideration.

This next number is making its debut, after fermenting for three weeks or so:

Power Outage

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
That shock of sound

too loud for a leftover
crack from the Fourth,
this unnatural thunder.

Out of meadow-locked mansions
across the asphalt divide
the tee-shirted squires streamed,

their eyes blinking with wonder,
arms raised in inquiry,
if not surrender.

Couple of hours later
(by our still-counting clocks)
rumbling equipment charged ahead.

Inside a human crow’s-nest
cranked up by a metal crane,
glinting in the brass ball of the sun,

a hard-hatted crewman stretched
and poked the problematic pole.
Exploding like a pod,

something split open, spilling
acrid, yellow powder
upon the road below.

Another blast! The foreman
signaled over to our window:
everyone’s okay.

Our second-hand microwave whistled;
the refrigerator continued to hum,
as the ball games segued

into _Sixty Minutes_, Sunday
prime time. Overhead
the ceiling light beamed

with no gloating in the glow
of the temporary switch
from disparity, transformed.

The inconvenienced haves 
waited in the day’s vestigial heat
and interior darkness,

while the work went on all night,
lit by the headlights of company trucks
beneath the flickering stars.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie. There are a couple of places in here where the syntax feels awkward, if not actually inverted. I daresay you could claim idiomatic usage, but it seems inconsistent. 

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
That shock of sound

too loud for a leftover
crack from the Fourth,
this unnatural thunder."

The use of *that* _and_ *this* is jarring, and the punctuation feels wrong.
it could be written thusly:

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
That shock of sound,

too loud for a leftover
crack from the Fourth;
an unnatural thunder."

or perhaps

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
Some unnatural thunder,

a shock of sound; 
too loud for a crack
left over from the Fourth."

Again, probably idiomatic, but jarring to _my_ ear:

"Couple of hours later"

I keep looking for an indefinite article at the start of the line. I'd prefer; "Two hours later" here, and I'm not sure that the parentheses are strictly warranted in the next line either.

I'm sure this is intentional:

"a hard-hatted crewman stretched
and poked the problematic pole.
Exploding like a pod,"

but every time I read this (and I've read it several times) I skip the full stop after pole. Quite an amusing image that.  :Devil: 

I have trouble with the sense of this verse:

"with no gloating in the glow
of the temporary switch
from disparity, transformed."

Are you commenting on the news programme (or more likely) saying that the voice of the poem, usually a 'have not' in the great divide, is now surprisingly a have, whereas the usual 'haves' have been deprived. This would make sense in context, since the explosion of the transformer doesn't seem to have affected the author's household, but the use of 'from' in the last line confuses this. If 'to' were used it would make sense. Thus, in the next line, "The inconvenienced haves" now temporarily deprived of power, wait in darkness.

Overall it reminds me of one of Edmund Crispin's tales (I think it's Glimpses of the Moon) set in some rural habitat, where the habitual fizzing of "The Pizzer," a pylon or power pole, means the locals live in perpetual expectation of its imminent detonation.

Anyway, it's an entertaining tale, Auntie.

Live and be well - H

----------


## blank|verse

I'll have to come back to 'Hermit Crab' later, as it's certainly an ambitious poem, but I find I'm in agreement with some of Hawk's concerns, as well as having a few of my own. I'll try and post a more detailed response soon.

As for 'Power Outage', it just reads like prose, or a monologue. It's a decent enough narrative, and I didn't have a problem with the idiomatic voice, but it just feels like a simple recounting of an event that happened, and is lacking in any poetic magic. It's not bad, but I don't feel I want to read it again, which isn't a good sign. Perhaps some of us have come to expect more?

----------


## wordwaymike

The Puzzle and the Pity

We cannot see the ciphers, such a stretch 
of forest, dense with senseless reason, and
no rhyme. A murky stream from a source unknown
churns deep beneath our unschooled reckoning.
*************************
I really liked the way you came charging out the gate on this one. The murkiness of origins has always weighed heavily upon my attempts to understand the "now" that I/all inhabit.
Good stuff!

*******************************************
O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:

Robert Burns (old Gallic)

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Blank_Verse and Hawkman for offering comments on this latest number which I had labored over. The form of "Power Outage" was the result of a conscious attempt to mimic (or make a parody of) the kind of poems that used to be published in the Sunday paper. As selected by Ted Kooser, a former U.S. poet laureate, the majority of the reprints seemed to deal with slices of American life, especially (to my observation) middle-class, suburban life.

The poems were all short with short lines, sometimes resembling broken-up lines of prose (though yours fooly did try to inject somewhat less literal elements into this piece.) Although a great many of the Sunday poems were little gems, there was --again, to my way of thinking -- a certain similarity about them, giving the unsettling impression that they could have been composed by the same person. 

Certainly there was never, ever anything the least bit offensive "edgy" about any of the them, let alone taking the risk of invoking a litany of the saints in the opening lines, not that the ejaculation here is all that irreverent, but an honest,instantaneous reaction. In line with such non-"family fare" is the "brass ball" metaphor, referring not only to the sun but to the worker who poked the pole. For intestinal fortitude,that guy ranks right up there with Joe Kittinger (Google him.) His nickname must be "B.B." if you catch my drift.

The metaphor introduced in the title was meant to suggest the kind of "power outage" that lasts a lifetime. The third stanza describes the houses ("homes") affected by the blackout-- if "middle-class," then the highest echelon thereof, with imposing football field size lawns fronting each ("meadow-locked.") 

Mentioning of the television programs, the microwave, the ceiling light, etc. was a roundabout way (i.e. non-prosaic,non-linear way) of showing that the electricity in the speaker's household stayed on, while the much-better-off neighbors (the "haves") had lost theirs. Despite the temptation to do so, there was no "gloating," but the irony of having the tables turned (for once) was striking.

Now I'm starting to feel sorry for the folks. The incident which was the impetus of this piece occurred on the Sunday following the Fourth of July, a holiday marked by loud fireworks; it happened again last Friday evening, and once more at 4 am (EDT) today. As laypersons we assumed that the explosions and subsequent power outages were caused by a "blown transformer," but we have it on excellent authority (a retiree who did this line of work for several decades) that it wasn't the transformer (though I'm keeping "transform" in my poem.)

Not fifteen feet away from where I sit the power company is preparing to run underground wires as I type this. The vibrations from the excavator are making the screen on my monitor bow in at the middle. But that's not nearly as distressing as it must be for those who have a fancy freezer full of top-of-the-line groceries melting away (though some have back-up generators.)

----------


## AuntShecky

Still another attempt at--I don't know what it is. I'm pretty sure it ain't that elusive "free verse"

Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda

If only that frothy nag had come in,
or that high fly ball had never been caught;
vindication from a last-chance foul shot, 
or redemption from a penalty kick.

Now, say thered been a better choice of road,
a fast track less bumpy, less litter-strewn
what if Id stood out, surpassing the pack,
consoled by its scraps and third-place tickets?

The folktales ending stands pat and pretty
were I to wind up coupled with a prince,
along with the sum that comes with his name.

The prime catch would willfully bet it all
on this sparse corpus suddenly made _convex_,
with newly lustrous hair and star-flecked eyes.

----------


## Hawkman

I guess it's formalized free verse! Irregular 10 syllable lines with the odd line of blank verse thrown in  :Biggrin:  Makes it rather an uneven read though...

Live and be well - H

----------


## AuntShecky

> I guess it's formalized free verse! Irregular 10 syllable lines with the odd line of blank verse thrown in  Makes it rather an uneven read though...


That's it! The poetry realm's first "hybrid"!
Must do something about "lustrous" coming so soon after "lush," though. (OK-- it's fixed.)

Thanks for reading and commenting.

----------


## Haunted

_Power Outage_ — I like the casualness of it. Full of irony — "*the tee-shirted squires*", the powerful that becomes powerless in an instant, where the have-nots finding themselves having more than the haves. And how is anyone going to survive without a ballgame and Sixty Minutes on a Sunday? (For me it would be Person of Interest, I would go out of my mind.) And what drama: 
*Another blast! The foreman
signaled over to our window:
everyone’s okay.*

_Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda_ — a bit cryptic at times to my peabrain but the summer fun and fantasy is all intact. 

All in all, two enjoyable treats!

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Shoulda woulda coulda. I enjoyed. Took a couple of reads as it should. Then it felt like possible pasts and fleeting moments that could have changed everything and regret perhaps of not following a dream. You are convex in my mind auntie. X

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, Haunted and JerryB-- 
You hit the nail on the head re: "Power Outage," Haunted, but the reaction it engendered goaded yours fooly into atarting that thread about free verse, a genre in which both you and JB are masters. 
The "shoulda, woulda,coulda" was a result of trying to channel the world-view of Delmore Schwartz, especially his "True-Blue American."

----------


## blank|verse

The latest poem shares its title with a Beverley Knight song, so things are off to a shaky start! Ignoring that, the rest of the poem is intelligently written, with some nice wordplay and recurrent imagery, wringing some wry humour out of a well-worn theme.

However, the argument of the second stanza loses me somewhat. Someone who stood out, surpassing the pack sounds like a winner (in contrast to the loser of the first stanza); I dont see why they would be consoled by its scraps and third-place tickets, it seems contradictory. Or are you saying the fast track would be to a different mind-set, where winning was less important? Either way, it seems unclear.

The prime catch is a nice touch, picking up the catch of the first stanza (perhaps it would be better if the first catch were dropped, to reflect the change of fortunes). Line 9 should read would stand rather than stands; and the words corpus and convex read oddly in context, they dont seem like they belong in this poem.

And, even given the comedic tone of the poem, I wonder if a male poet would get away with objectifying a woman, as the prince does here by betting it all on making her look more attractive? (Although the prince is also objectified as a prime catch.) It strikes a misogynistic tone that makes for an uncomfortable ending.

As for the form, all the lines are iambic pentameter, either 10 or 11 syllables; its 14 lines, broken into an octave and sestet with a volta at line 9; so Id say this is a blank verse sonnet.

Even if you were writing free verse lines that use iambic pentameter as a guide and have predominantly four- or five-stress lines (even with occasional shorter lines), this would mean youre writing free blank verse, a variation of free verse associated firstly with T.S. Eliot, but which can also be identified in the poetry of Wallace Stevens, Hart Crane, Auden, and more recently Id add Heaney, Andrew Motion and Don Paterson to that list, among many others, Im sure.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you very much, Blank_Verse, especially your final paragraph. 

Beverley Knight is a new one on me. I will check her him? out on YouTube, or whatever site is free of charge.

L. * "consoled. . ." is an appositive, modifying "pack." 

I'd say all of your criticisms are valid. As I said in another thread, yours fooly highly respects your opinion.

----------


## AuntShecky

Aspirations

Outside the back window
the flash of a feathery thing 
couldn’t be the bluebird of happiness --
probably some upstart jay
oblivious of the coming coldness, free
from worry over the real possibility
somebody will forget to fill the feeder.

Still, way down deep gnaws a whim
that at times I’d rather be like him.


You know, as long as I
am flying in the face of reality, 
sanity, all those “-ties” that tie
us down, why can’t I swing
for those unattainable fences,
find the egg in a golden nest?

_Take a deep breath._

For instance sniffing the whole
earth in a geranium, getting
all greenhouse-y like Roethke
or Heaney, putting
loamy, sod-y words
into other-worldly pots.

_Inhale._

I really want to grab you
by the roots and shake 
you up until you wilt
from laughter. You sit--
I’ll do stand-up, 
like Hicks and Hedberg,
except they’re both dead.

_Exhale._

----------


## Hawkman

Sadly, I have no knowledge of Hicks & Hedberg but I could always substitute them in my mind with Peter Cook and Dudley Moor - sic transit gloria mundi.

I really enjoyed this one Auntie. I still respire, aspire and I'm filled with ire at all the missed swings  :Biggrin:  Oh, and when did blue get bifurcated, you know, happiness and sorrow both represented by the same colour:

Oh I woke up this morning
I was feelin' kind o' blue
Oh I woke up this morning
I knew my happiness was through
That blue-bird who's so happy -
he's gone - just upped and flew

Oh yeah....

Live and be well - H

----------


## prendrelemick

> 1.
> Foggity, Hoggity,
> Limbaugh, on radio,
> Rush-es where patriots
> oft fear to tread.
> 
> Liberals: tongues wagging
> Ultraconservative
> paranoid listeners:
> ...


I've just found these. So simple, so clever.

----------


## Gilliatt Gurgle

> Aspirations
> 
> Outside the back window
> the flash of a feathery thing 
> couldnt be the bluebird of happiness --
> probably some upstart jay
> oblivious of the coming cold, free
> from worry over the real possibility
> somebody will forget to fill the feeder.
> ...


Nice.
Raucous Jays, keeping the feeder full especially during winter, trying to keep the Squirrels out of the feeder - a day in my life.
Clearly there is more to it than your opening lines, but they struck home for me.

----------


## AuntShecky

September 15, 1963*
The shy quartet prepared to praise
the Source of life in a modest way.
Across a mouth a hand was raised
to stanch a laugh in Church, that day.

The mirror shone back youthful skin.
More hands flew up, clamped tight, remained
still. Above the shattered porcelain
and glass- some colorless, some stained-

in rubble hung the silenced bell,
like faith too patiently expressed
with justice absent in its knell:
the sense of utter senselessness.

If any hope from it derives,
old wounds cry out for true suture,
demanding from four stolen lives
deprived of futures: the future.

*

For the historical significance of the date click this link to a newspaper article.







A Millimeter to the Left

The old habit hates to budge
from its familiar, thus comfortable, perch
and seldom sees the point
of changing its baseline position.
The quo protects its status;
compensation stays unsought.

Stuck on melancholy,
the needle might shimmy
when blue clarity
overcomes an autumnal sky
or a sudden shimmer of moonlight
splashes the kitchen floor.

----------


## Hawkman

Well I've finally got around to giving these a serious look - sorry for the delay but I've had a rather busy week. The first of the two offerings did require me to follow the link for the exposition. About the only thing I remember about 1963 are the winter and Dallas, but the date was wrong for the latter.

The most powerful stanza is the second. I was particularly impressed with your use of enjambment here in the transition from L2 to L3. That single word, still, is very effective. The first three verses work very well - in fact I'm inclined to suggest that the poem should be confined to three. The comment on senselessness at the end of S3 is probably sufficient comment. The last stanza is over egging the pudding, I feel. Compared with the three which precede it, it's a bit clunky in execution. The suture, futures, future doesn't really work and the syntactical inversion - placing derives at the end of the first line - come across as a bit laboured.

The second poem I rather enjoyed, although one line does trouble me slightly. At the end of S1 you say, "compensation stays unsought." Given the preceding lines, which seem to dwell on the comfortable, the familiar as the norm, why would one require "compensation"? Diversion, perhaps, but I feel compensation isn't really the right word. Love the second stanza.

Enjoyed reading both.

Live and be well - H

----------


## DieterM

You wanted me to be brutal, something I have difficulty being. I'm a people-pleaser, so please bear with me ;-)
Well, I'm not really sure about the first poem. I've first read it without checking the historical background, wanting to let the words and rythm soak in. And to be honest, is it the rhyme or what, there was something that disturbed me. I wasn't really able to understand, I thought you were talking about a bell that hadn't remained silent for whatever obscure reason. Of course, I understood better once I had followed the link beneath.
I agree with Hawk re. the last stanza that you could easily drop without changing the meaning. I really didn't like the suture-future-thing; it disrupted the rythmical flow of the rest. Where I disagree with Hawk is the line break in st2 because it, too, disrupts the rythm rather aggressively (and doesn't match the words "remained still" – I don't know if I'm expressing myself so as to be understood).

All in all, I preferred the second poem, especially the second stanza with its really great and inspiring images.

----------


## prendrelemick

> Perhaps there is a definite reason for G.K. Chesterton's observation, cited earlier today in a LitNutter's thread:
> http://www.online-literature.com/for...s-about-cheese.
> The following is from 1998, during a phase when yours fooly was so infatuated by enjambment that all the punctuation fled in disgust.
> 
> 
> Making A Toasted Cheese Sandwich
> 
> 
> When you have nothing
> ...


So disappointing - not the poem, I liked that- I mean unmelted cheese in your toasted sandwich Soo...

Put two slices on the rack,
The bottom slice down side up,
The top, up side down,
Cheese up the bottom of the top,
Put under the grill till the cheese bubbles,
And the bottom of the bottom browns,
Then put the bottom onto the top, 
( Put the top of the bottom (which is on the bottom remember) to the cheese on the bottom of the top,) 
Turn them over, so the top of the top is on the top,
Grill till brown,
Butter the top.

Simple really.

----------


## AuntShecky

Leaf Peeping

As on a pilgrimage, in faith we came
to gape, not pray. We gasped at artistry
of star-and-finger shapes upon each tree,
all streaked and stained with russet, bronze, and flame.
Soon suffering for art, we quickly blamed
the smarting pain on necks craned constantly,
ignoring cricks in soulful inquiry,
not straying off trails always marked the same.
But seasons change, and change sometimes means death.
Another tree witnessed a different fall;
it’s by not knowing that a human grieves.
While vibrant hues tinge our collective breath,
we could keep looking, searching, asking all,
in case we don’t find answers in the leaves.




_I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man._ –-Chuang Tse

Choreography

Do I like baseball
because it reminds
me of ballet – -
or do I like ballet
because it looks 
just like baseball?

----------


## AuntShecky

Even though the previous anti-poetry post sank like a stone (_i.e_. gathered moss), here comes another. It was directly inspired by another LitNutter's thread questioning whether a college education is worth all the trouble and dough. 

Though disturbing, the problem isn't really new. Emil's thread made me a recall a song which dates way, way back to the 1970s. I think I first heard it on the old Mike Douglas show. If I recall correctly, Harry Nillson sang it, but after considerable time doing online searches I found that the ditty originated with Steve Goodman. When you listen to it and hear a reference to extremely- former Pres. Ford, you'll realize how far back the issue goes. It still exists, so many decades later!_Every_ kind of unemployment is heart-breaking, but the state of being "overeducated and unemployed" brings a special kind of humiliation. 

Why is it that many college grads, if they can find work at all, can only find jobs for which they are overqualified? Maybe it’s because of automation–-no more openings for elevator operators. 

“Training is everything. A cauliflower ain’t nothin’ but a cabbage with a college education."
–_Puddin’head Wilson_

Educating Waiters

On shoes all buffed to a blinding shine,
worn heels still trail slightly desiccated ivy
from Cornell, Bucknell, Drexel, Tulane, 
the customary stance is attentively erect,
though the position necessarily requires
an obsequious bow. It’s all up here,
like a valedictorian’s address,
the obligatory script:
“Hi, I’m Brandon, Aiden, Conor, Flynn,
and I’ll be your server this evening.”

That’s all the intro management sanctions–
no expounding on the marketing plan
behind the à la carte’s hidden tiers, the design
of classical font on top-quality vellum,
sheepskin for gourmands. Same goes
for table botany: how paper buds evolved
in _Physalis alkekengi_, or why pigmentation 
in a calendula will thrive in season.

Proffer the wine list, but hands off the history 
of Gascony and the Hundred Years War, 
the coveted cases purloined in WW II;
ditto the etymology, including Shakespearean
allusions to Sherris sack.
The diktat likewise to clam up
about the chemical process of molecular 
gastronomy in layman’s terms: 
the nearly-magical nitrogen immersion 
transforming a blue point or a Brussels sprout
into a gelatinous jewel that mystifies the tongue.

Ixnay on the comments re:
the sociological-economic-political implications
of taking the Lady’s order first, or the latest
psychological research data about
post-traumatic check syndrome, _e.g._
which dominant alpha male in a group
will pounce for the discreet leather folder.
Above all, the server is forbidden
to flaunt post-graduate expertise
by offering to calculate the gratuity 
instantly in his head.



 “It’s a sorry situation that you can’t avoid/ When you’re overeducated and unemployed.”
--Steve Goodman

----------


## Jerrybaldy

Unemployed and over educated? This must be you dear Auntie. Think I may be employed and under educated. I feel under educated to enjoy some of your postings. I very much enjoyed my trip with you to the politics of fine dining though.
You are eclectic in your taste to enjoy anything I write. I can taste a strong seasoning of cynicism in your poem however so maybe that is our tender thread. Write me something guttural  :Smile:  x

----------


## DieterM

I really liked "Tea Peeping", surely because it's so very much novemberish outside right now… especially the lines 
"While vibrant hues tinge our collective breath,
we could keep looking, searching, asking all,
in case we don’t find answers in the leaves."
give room for thought. Thought I'd bump this one up – it deserves to be bumped anyway.

Not so fond of "Choreography" but only because, personnally, I don't do sports (neither as an activity nor as something you'd watch on telly) and I've been to a ballet representation once and have nearly fallen asleep… ;-)

----------


## DocHeart

Every time I decide to treat myself to spending some time in this thread I feel nothing but sheer admiration for how accomplished your poetry is. You *are* a published and well-known poet who's just trolling us, aren't you?  :Smile: 

Thanks for sharing.

DH

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you, JerryB, Dieter, and Doc.




> You *are* a published and well-known poet who's just trolling us, aren't you? 
> 
> 
> DH


From your mouth to God's ear -- or from your device to His (or Her) panoramic screen.

----------


## AuntShecky

A widely-circulated factoid about the great poet Auden reports that he never stopped revising his works, even years after they were published and anthologized. Whether or not you are a compulsive tinkerer, it really is a good practice, sometimes, to take a poem hot off the press (or word processing file)and put it aside. Then after a time --days, weeks, even months--resurrect it for revising. The idea is to look at it with fresh eyes.

This next ditty is a revision of a (much) earlier effort, and, man, did it ever require rewriting! I first wrote the thing when I was young and foolish. Now I am just. . . young.

And I'm pretty sure that sufficient time has elapsed since --*1987!*


Snail Explodes; Birthday Ruined
(Actual headline in the Sunday paper.)

After the toast, a little whine
squeaks the brewing trouble:
in full-burst when entrees arrive
all garlicky and a-bubble.

The shells are steaming-- miffed!
The evenings gone awry.
A sore gastropod makes a crack
and pops the diner in the eye.

Anarchist snail! Eschewing both
invertebrate God and Bible,
it bows to neither fetes nor fates
and leaves the restaurant liable.

Ill never order escargot again!
quoth the birthday girl, still seething.
Somewhere in the south of France rest
molluscan kin, more easily breathing.

----------


## DieterM

How nice that you kept the "young"-label whereas I mostly think all there's left for me is "and" ;-) 

Very funny, anyway; but: I somehow stumbled over "garlicky", and my first thought was "all garlick and a-bubble" would perhaps let the line flow better. But that's just a thought, and one has to have a quibble, otherwise one would have to admit that one thinks this is very nicely done ;-)

----------


## prendrelemick

> [COLOR="#008080"]Even though the previous anti-poetry post sank like a stone (_i.e_. gathered moss),




I feel guilty now, I liked your tree peeping, but, rather than saying something inane, said nothing .

----------


## AuntShecky

It's so rare to have a sunny and mild day in November, as we're currently enjoying in this neck o' the woods that yours fooly is loath to ruin it with ponderous and heavy stuff; hence a pair of light ones for this gorgeous Saturday.


Assessment

I made a _faux pas_ and a flub
when I declined to join the club:
that girly-girly coterie.
There must be something wrong with me.

I hate the Mall, much as a male,
wont salivate over a sale,
nor lust for gems marked womanly.
There must be something wrong with me.

To fix my face and hair unnerves,
but I dont curse my lack of curves.
My shapes as straight as straight can be.
There must be something wrong with me.

Make no mistake! Id love a guy,
but wont play coy to catch his eye.
Ill only flirt with irony.
I guess theres something wrong with me.
Oh yes, theres something wrong with me.

----

On the Lake Road

Though all the leaves 
have already blown,
the pears hang on,
ripe for a strong wind
or a passing deer.

----------


## prendrelemick

Ahh a single rhyming in couples.

Flirting with irony is mostly lost on we chaps - the irony part that is.

----------


## AuntShecky

The previous posting was a little lighter than this next number. (For yours fooly's latest bit of humor -- intentional, that is--click this reply in the Anti-humor Thread., post #84.) Meanwhile into a slightly more somber realm we go:

Reconciliation



_ 
More logs will be thrown on the fire
without adding fuel to the flames.
Tamp down the latent gas and ire.
 Try to recall the children’s names._

It was not difficult 
coming here. 
Some obligations
are easier to meet
than others. Paying
attention to the Mass
on TV: does that count?

Watching The Parade
from a well-cushioned couch
is not The Real Thing,
not at all the same
as craning my neck
above a crowded curb,
while the icy wind
burns my face
and invades my bones
as the brass-blare
tickles my inner ear,
and the drumbeat burrows
deep into my heart.


_
Repeat the anecdotes and jokes.
Hold up your end of the chatter.
No lectures on the drinks and smokes,
nor fights about What Really Matters._


I’m thankful for inclusion
among this company gathered
for a revved-up meal. Sufficiency seems
like abundance, an overflowing
cornucopia spilling out the fruits
of a half-forgotten past.

It’s good to get out for the day,
away from the forever-so-humble digs
with the old, familiar plywood panels,
the plaster crumbs, and the gaps
letting in scores of unwanted things.

The porous walls reek of unsettled sounds
from the good-looking couple on the floor above,
up and at it all night
with the shouts and the squabbling,
the rumbling and the thuds.
They’re much too young to battle this much.


“What have they got to fight about?”
complains the busybody from 3-G.
She has a late-model car and a live-in beau.
Also, curiosity. So many questions!
But I’m not really sure she knows my name.

The tight-lipped guy who lives downstairs–-
the one who thinks he can play bass guitar- -
resents it when I try to say hello.
Once he yanked the pudgy arm
of his friendly, joint-custody son
and tugged the toddler back inside.

_
 
Of all the wild wars waged against a Noun,
The War on Poverty was first, Number One.
Fighting the good fight, oppressed, broke, and down,
we fought a War on Poverty. And Poverty won.

For ever I have scaled the “Ladder
of Opportunity,” on call,
each time slipping, getting madder.
The thud, always. Always, a fall.
(Which never really surprised me at all.)_

All of us love to say
we hate personal drama,
although we seek it
like a drug.

Somehow we have to make peace,
patch up the past,
tacitly come to terms

with a universe that would
just as soon turn its back
on us as smack us down
with a what’s-it-to-me shrug.

Yet here we are
in this shared world

where nutmeg smells
as good to a pauper
as it does to a CEO,

where little fingers
sketch turkeys that look
like peacocks, the colors
of their fanned-out feathers
primal and bold,

where the unexpected
sight of soft snow
upon dead leaves
can catch one’s breath,
puffing out like a ghost
in the chilly night air.


_ Offer help with the greasy chore;
rinse that glass dry-flecked with foam.
Don’t linger too long at the door.
Just say your good-night and go home._
Go home.

----------


## AuntShecky

Did anyone catch the Thanksgiving connection w. #494 above?^^^

----------


## Haunted

Yes yes yes! I read this I think Friday but didn't leave a comment as I was in a rush. But I'm surprised no one else commented yet. That's what I found really disheartening with the state of Litnet poetry section. Other than the usual suspects that we hear from, there are just too many folks who post their stuff and solicit comments, but they *never* offer any themselves. In this cold hard world of one-way street, we still got each other Auntie!

Nice use of cynicism here. That's about the size of it  we go through the motion on these holidays, we even have a script for each occasion. I think the ital'd notes-to-self reads brilliantly. Some of the subtleties might be lost to those in other countries who don't celebrate Thanksgiving, but for us, well, from sharing a meal with people we have had a history, getting past all the baggage or maybe not, to smelling the nutmeg and tasting the turkey, it's all here. A lot of nice touches, including the visual of children stretching the bird. Lovely ending, cold breath puffing like a ghost. There is so much to love, like a full and fulfilling Thanksgiving dinner, minus the drama. Great job.

----------


## prendrelemick

Yes, I guessed at Thanksgiving. But never mind that. This is a seriously good poem, probably one of the best I've seen on here. Each little vignette seems stright from life, each one separate and connected, then a story, a character, an attitude emerges. I found it totally engrossing. 

The only moment that jarred was your "forever-so-humble" pun, which is so typically AuntShecky that it broke the mood for a second and pulled me out of the story. But never mind that, good stuff.

----------


## AuntShecky

Yours fooly was getting a bit discouraged and disheartened, but _thanks_ to Haunted and Prendrelemick I feel much better now.

----------


## Carol58175817

I Thought of You, Joan K was a beautiful poem consisting of mixed emotions. It would certainly move whoever received that poem as a letter. An indescribable feeling flowed through me as I read the poem - something more than just bittersweet. You are a beautiful poet and never forget to write!

----------


## Haunted

I must also add that the two featherweights are really heavyweights — where self deprecation and irony conspires into a great poem. 

And it's just so pretty "on the Lake Road" like I'm there...

----------


## AuntShecky

Premature Ejaculations***

The solstice hasn’t yet arrived,
but already the sun is slouching,
skulking in a low spot in the sky.
It’s far too soon
to think of Spring.

Yet the trees and fields,
donned in wintry finery,
proclaim white as the new color,
and from the roof some rhythmic drops
drip down to mark a sprightly melody,

as the boisterous jays
go crazy for black oil
sunflower seeds, like dope.

For miles around
almost everything sings
and dances beneath
bubbles of glee,
as if celebrating
the life to come.



***



> [from _Webster’s New World Dictionary_] :
> *ejaculation* n. 1. A sudden ejection of fluid, esp. of semen, from the body.
> 2. A sudden vehement utterance; exclamation
> 3. R.C.Ch. Any very brief, private prayer

----------


## dara.cv

"A murky stream from a source unknown
churns deep beneath our unschooled reckoning"


This sums up so much in one line. The natural flow of poetry from the unknowing urge/source, its murkiness since not quite filtered through schooling. Ah! i love it!

oops, I thought this was going to reply where I intended for it to. Well, I dont think I can delete this can I? Is there a way to post on previous poems without being placed at the end of the thread? It was for your first post on this thread the "Puzzle and Pity" poem.

Might as well comment on the next one here too.

An Exhortation Forbidding Suicide


"Yet lacking me, the world won't wet its sleeve
with weeping. Dogs will wag their tails,
and songs of birds will hold their tones.
Skies will stay blue against white points of sails,
while stems won't cease to bend where winds have blown.
The world would stay, if I left it alone."

This reminded me when a friend committed suicide. I was left so completely devastated and yet the world seemed unchanged. It was a difficult realization, I felt that somehow people and things should have been different, but they were only different for me. You invoked within me that memory here.

----------


## dara.cv

OMG! I think this is my favorite poem I have every read on here! Within it's light-hearten rhythm you bring an enormously strong binding to humanity. This is the truth of all religions, in one poem combined. I can't tout enough this has made my heart a thousand times more joyous than any hymn at church. this should be the hymn of humanity, we are all from the same wood and everybody is good!




> Everybody’s Everybody
> 
> Everybody’s every color,
> a multi-grain cake of yeast.
> Everyone’s a hundred percent Jewish,
> and a Moslem facing east.
> 
> Everybody’s an Asian
> speaking Swahili in the rain.
> ...

----------


## dara.cv

I would agree to some extent this describes the human condition, but then again I guess it depends on what your goals were. Grabbing for fortune,success, or fame even if reached doesnt gain that cure to , that inward question to the purpose of it all. Maybe god's goal wasnt perfection, just experience and the desire to return. SOOOOO BEAUTIFUL! thank you AuntieShecky, i am loving this collection, add me to your fan club  :Smile:  




> _“The whole earth is our hospital”
> –T. S. Eliot_
> 
> Condition: Human
> 
> 
> From first gasp to final sigh
> we claim we owe everything to the Divine,
> the source of all existence, in Whom
> ...

----------


## dara.cv

Reading all this wonderful poetry, I would feel so sad if you had ever felt this way. Each poem is a testament to your talent. I hope that spring brought you your well deserved plenty. 


"This strange myopia of mine
weakens my view in prisms of ways.
It strains my eyes when hours shine,
with its focus on the darkest days."

- yes, that narrow shortsighted view of only our faults, well put.





> The following, which attempts to channel the spirit of "April Inventory" by W.D. Snodgrass and "The Reckoning" by Richard Wilbur -- with maybe a passing nod to the great Frank Loesser, as an entry in a recent LitNet poetry contest, is re-posted here for comments:
> 
> Hindsight 
> 
> This strange myopia of mine
> weakens my view in prisms of ways.
> It strains my eyes when hours shine,
> with its focus on the darkest days.
> I can't see my way clear enough to shake
> ...

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks for your comments. ^^^^
The following is the current, most recent post in the thread:



Premature Ejaculations***

The solstice hasnt yet arrived,
but already the sun is slouching,
skulking in a low spot in the sky.
Its far too soon
to think of Spring.

Yet the trees and fields,
donned in wintry finery,
proclaim white as the new color,
and from the roof some rhythmic drops
drip down to mark a sprightly melody,

as the boisterous jays
go crazy for black oil
sunflower seeds, like dope.

For miles around
almost everything sings
and dances beneath
bubbles of glee,
as if celebrating
the life to come.



***



> [from Websters New World Dictionary] :
> ejaculation n. 1. A sudden ejection of fluid, esp. of semen, from the body.
> 2. A sudden vehement utterance; exclamation
> 3. R.C.Ch. Any very brief, private prayer

----------


## Delta40

I loved this! Witty title too aunty - gives a positive spin to the term. Lovely imagery as I travel to work on a hot summers morn...

----------


## AuntShecky

> I loved this! Witty title too aunty - gives a positive spin to the term. Lovely imagery as I travel to work on a hot summers morn...


Thanks, Delta! Enjoy your summer sun. I like Winter, but I don't have to drive in it. (See today's anti-humor post.) A big snowstorm (a foot plus) along with another storm yesterday. Maybe too much of a good thing.

----------


## AuntShecky

Starting Point

It may have been the day
winter storms got names,
though weve known snow 
and coldness
and ice, always;

or when art became
a tawdry trinket,
thinner ware for sale,
like common cans of corn,
when musical comedies
lost their comedy and music.

Or when money tended
to favor the already-monied,
gaining more respect than God
and making poverty a sin;

when a mantle of guilt
hung around scrawny shoulders
shivering beneath
a garland of grief,

and the Sabbath became
a synonym for despair.

It may have been the dawn
of consciousness-
and with it, pain
in the reality of lack,
lack of power,
lack of usefulness,
lack of grace

amid the awareness
that the self which most
would purely love to shed
is the only thing we have.

But probably in the moment
of that infinitesimal spark
of nothing
into something
into everything.

----------


## Haunted

This is so well crafted Auntie. Cans of corn could tie in better with musical comedies. Each great on its own but the juxtaposition not quite as smooth as the rest. It feels so symbolic considering it's the new year. Heck, even the snow is real!

----------


## prendrelemick

Nice! Both of them. The Premature joculation one I enjoyed, I do like a bit of nature in poetry. The Starting Point was more difficult because I couldn't find the subject amidst all that keen-eyed poetical/political commentry. This is probably a good thing - making me think a bit for a change.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thank you for your comments, Haunted and Pren. 

I had misgivings about the New Year piece, as it turned out a little more abstract as well as slightly more pessimistic than I'd intended. It's a "no-no" to 'splain the meaning of one's poems, but I'll tell you what I was thinking when I wrote it: (1) Thomas Pynchon's favorite concept, "entrophy," AKA "the heat death of the universe." The first stanza/"strophe"/verse paragraph alludes to that, and (2) The deathbed line by Billy Pilgrim's mother: "How did I get so old?"

----------


## Jerrybaldy

I really enjoyed "premature ejaculations", Auntie. I like it when you become accessible to mere mortals  :Tongue:  x

----------


## AuntShecky

This next one previously disgraced the virtual pages of the LitNet way back in late January of Ought Eight. The only place it belonged was in the "Write a Really Bad Poem" thread, which didn't exist five years ago.

Upon retrieving it, I found that the ditty was in dire need of a make-over. The local "Planet Fitness" was packed, and anyway, it would probably slip off all the exercise machines. So I took the wretched thing out into the alley and slapped it silly.


Hogging Ground

How mean is Winter, a miser with light!
Hope comes in drips, as with a desert rain.
So furry folklore finds itself in doubt.
Pink streaks glimpsed through a dimly frosted pane:
predictions alleged Spring might come again.
In march the strangers, creatures seldom seen:
fair possibilities for things of green,
blue skies, brightness, perhaps love popping out.
The next day’s winds waged another bout
to freeze – - or melt – - the optimism of one
made a fool by the February sun.

----------


## YesNo

This is how I feel about our current winter around Chicago. Nice phrase, "furry folklore".

----------


## prendrelemick

Loved That first line . 

I have but one gripe "Hope comes in drips" is so clever and perfect, it made me smile and imagine a melting icicle. but the "as with desert rain" spoils its perfection, it hi-jacks the imagery somehow. I think it is too definite and too unrelated to the rest of the piece. But that's just me.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks, Yes/No and Pre*n*drelemick, for your comments on the last one^.

Now it's time for some DDs:

I.
Woolity-Bullity.
Theodore Roosevelt,
Trust-busting President,
cut to the quick.

Strongman domestically,
Geopolitical:
vowed with diplomacy,
soft voice, big stick.

II.
Oility-Foility.
Winnipeg, Canada.
Transcontinental pipe
blasted the map,

threatening resources.
Environmentalists
chastise the townspeople,
wealth in their laps.



III.
Shovity-Glovity.
Saltalamacchia
swings with free agency,
catcher of fame.

Iron-clad contract signed--
superlegality 
wears a new uniform
squeezing his name.


And finally, unless your d.o.b. predates 1960 or so, you probably wont get this one:

IV.
Bangstery-Gangstery.
Edward G. Robinson,
actor in crime filmdom,
shot foes down flat.

Gained immortality
under-respectfully.
Mimicry quoted his
You dirty rat.





http://environmentaldefence.ca/artic...ipeline-safety

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

----------


## prendrelemick

I love these even more because I can't do them. Bangstery Gangstery is spot on for Edward G. (I'm 1958) 

I think so much depends on that first nonsense line, if you get it apt and sounding right (which you do) it sets the rest up.

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks, Prendrelemick. Double dactyls are tricky for several reasons, but the "nonsense" opening line is sort of a freebie. A majority of the pre-existing double dactyls begins with the same line: "Higgety-Piggety."

In addition to trying to think up double dactyl phrases (that scan appropriately!), a real challenge comes in line 6 -- this has to be a single double dactyl word _that has never been used before in a double dactyl._ Since, I'm not sure that I've read every double dactyl poem that's out there, so I have doubts that "geopolitical" in the Teddy Roosevelt one is a debut appearance in a DD.

And there may be one other goof in this batch. Remembering the comedians doing impressions on "The Ed Sullivan Show" (subject of references with the Beatles 50th Anniversary this week), I recalled the phrase "You dirty rat!" as a famous quoted line by Edward G. But memories can play tricks on you. Though it may be apocryphal , the epithet's provenance was another gangster, played by an entirely different Hollywood star. But the name "James Cagney" isn't a double dactyl. 

Looks like this one belongs on the cutting room floor.

----------


## prendrelemick

I seem to remember, YOu dirty rat, you killed my brudder.

Well thanks for adding an extra complication to those DDs

----------


## AuntShecky

Hey! Has your love-life lost its glow?
Then head on down to Love-to-Go.®

We’ve got the hottest deals around
for hugs and kisses by the pound.

You can’t beat our price – do the math!
Just one mile off the Primrose Path.

We ask nothing and we don’t pry.
Our lips are sealed (but not too dry.)

We’ll tie you up but never down.
Your secret’s the best-kept in town.

Stop waiting for Cupid’s quiver.
Don’t forget – we can deliver!

Pick up fast love that’s freshly-grown
before it walks out on its own.

For love as pure as last year’s snow
come see us here at Love-to-Go!®


Remember to Ask About Our Valentine's Special!


(I hope the heirs of Mr. Cole "Love for Sale" Porter don't sue me!)

----------


## AuntShecky

Two Short and Simple Takes on _Genesis_

I.

Im grateful for this good, green earth
and thrilled when dismal skies turn blue,
but not sure how God made us all
or why He even wanted to.


II.

God had His reasons to create
this world of warmth, cool water, air.
No need to make it beautiful 
except to let us know Hes there.

----------


## AuntShecky

Late-Night Agenda

_And so to bed._ Samuel Pepys

Remains of supper congeal in the sink.
The movie reeked and left no lasting mark.
All news girls make the same fake sound, I think:
a squeaking puppy mimicking a bark.

A brief consideration of a brush,
toothpaste, a quick glance at a few pages.
New Boswells arent exactly in a rush
to bore the world with my lifes dull stages.

The days full failures stare me in the face,
attempting to spur consciousness of sin,
as room temps fluctuate around this space:
the cold outside, the loneliness within.

Next, missing dear losses stolen outright
by Death, stalking the ones it left behind,
and I dont doubt it has me in its sight.
Oh, how free-floating care can vex the mind!

No nocturne to be sung, no lambs to leap,
no soothing female voice that softly streams
a tale to sail me safely off to sleep,
once more to chase perfection in stark dreams.

----------


## Haunted

> Hey! Has your love-life lost its glow?
> Then head on down to Love-to-Go.®
> 
> Weve got the hottest deals around
> for hugs and kisses by the pound.
> 
> You cant beat our price  do the math!
> Just one mile off the Primrose Path.
> 
> ...


Not Superbowl ad, but definitely late night infomercial material. An abundance to love here Auntie. Be back later for the other offerings!

----------


## Jerrybaldy

I swear I commented on this ... some body is wiping my replies! I loved Late-Night Agenda. The depressing details and the poignant memories of a mother to close. Heartfelt and real.

----------


## prendrelemick

Don't know whether to laugh or cry, so did both! Well done.

----------


## Haunted

Baacck! 

Enjoyed the wittiness in _Now it's time for your catechism lesson_. To read _Late-Night Agenda_ right after marks a sad turn. Really touching.

----------


## AuntShecky

Some Oldies and a Newie

Yours fooly is in the mood for a little nonsense today, undoubtedly making LitNutters ask, “That’s _new_?”) 

In any event, I’ve dredged up a couple of parodies which first appeared in the “Thirty Poems in Thirty Days” thread from two years ago. 




Here’s the original from Dodgson’s _Sylvie and Bruno_--





> He thought he saw a rattlesnake
> That questioned him in Greek;
> He looked again and found it was
> The middle of next week.
> “The one thing I regret,” he said,
> “Is that it cannot speak.”


--followed by my pale imitations:

He thought he saw new luggage
with handles and matching locks.
He looked again and found it was
a croc with monkey pox. 
“Next trip,” he said, “I’ll have to use
a trash bag and a box.”

---------

He thought he saw a dragon
lashing a damsel to a rack.
He looked again and found it was
a tattoo on her back.
He tried to help her out, until
his laser jumped the track.

- - - - - - -

He thought he saw a topless bar:
lascivious, loud, uncouth.
He looked again and found it was
a place without a roof.
When it rains, the joint provides
Umbrellas for each booth.


Now for the debut of the following, which, while not a direct parody, is a homage to radio commentator Charles Osgood. Occasionally he’d treat his listeners with his colloquial light verse about the American scene. Yours fooly will be the first to admit that this doggerel isn’t nearly as witty and wise as Mr. Osgood’s offerings.

But see if you can guess the verse form.

Don’t Ask (And I Won’t Tell)

Unless you mean it, do not ask how I
am doing while expecting no reply.
Who truly cares if others are okay?
A polite greeting’s all one has to say.

Don’t fret –- I’ll still think you’re a nice guy,
acknowledging an acquaintance passing by
with the quick courtesy of a genial “Hi.”
Skip the inquiry on how I am today,
unless you mean it.
You don’t want answers and don’t want to stay.
We both want to continue on our way.
If I look a bit off, please don’t ask why --
unless you mean it.
http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=68342

----------


## prendrelemick

No idea about the verse form or who Charles Osgood is but the theme is universal. 

As usual I like your nonsense stuff. I'm a nonsense fan.

----------


## Hawkman

Hi Auntie,

There are some tiny flaws in the scansion of the three shorts, but they don't really detract from one's enjoyment of the verses.

As for Don't Ask - well, that's rather good! a delightful comment on the insincerity of greetings. Still, the insincerity is perhaps preferable to that other kind of greeting that tells you how awful you look! There was an old music hall song about a chap who, though feeling generally in the pink, was greeted by a succession of his acquaintances who told him how poorly he was looking. Sorry, but I can't remember the artist or the whole song, but it was rather funny, I can remember that...  :Biggrin:  Always a pleasure to peruse an Auntiegram  :Wink: 

Live and be we'll - H

PS I remembered! http://monologues.co.uk/You_Do_Look_Queer.htm

----------


## Haunted

The croc series is a lot of fun, nothing "pale" at all. I always enjoy a croc or gator joke. The dragon piece is breathtaking. But the third one is a bit of a challenge to me. Mind shedding some filtered light through the umbrella?  :Biggrin: 

Charles Osgood is unfamiliar to me. Without any comparison I'd say this definitely stands on its own. I must admit I'm guilty of that. So how you doing Auntie?  :Devil:  (expecting a reply for this one)

----------


## AuntShecky

Thanks everybody!

Prendrelemick:

This wasn't a direct parody of one of Osgood's verses, per se, but I wanted to emulate his lighthearted spirit and wry perspective of the American scene.
Here are some links to Charles Osgood's verses. I think they're charming:
Charles Osgood –“My POSSLQ”
http://2000clicks.com/graeme/LangPoetryFunnyPOSSLQ.htm

“Pretty Good”
http://holyjoe.org/poetry/osgood1.htm

“The Responsibility Poem”
http://theradicaluprise.wordpress.co...harles-osgood/

Hawk:
I thought there was something wrong! I'll try to fix the meter, but do you happen to know what form frames Lewis Carroll's ditty? (There are several similar verses in the novel, which can be found right here on the LitNet site.)

The rondeau above wants to be a diatribe against banality, in banal terms, I'm afraid. But did you ever hear a couple of old-timers chewing the fat? They try to top each other as to whose aches and pains are worse.It's not a conversation, it's an exchange of symptoms.

Haunted:
Thanks for reading these and your always-welcome comments. The last of the three nonsense ditties refers to a "topless bar," which disappointed the "he" in the verse who was expecting maybe a bunch of exotic dancers underdressed from the waist up. But the "topless" bar was described that way because it lacked a roof. Hence, the umbrellas go up during inclement weather. (You know a joke's no good when it has to be explained. Aw well, back to the old drawin' board.)

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## Hawkman

Hi Auntie. Well, The Mad Gardener's Song is written in simple iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter and is essentially a ballade form with six lines instead of four. There are nine verses in the original, although they aren't presented all together in one go. I don't think it can really be called heptameter verse because of the line breaks and rhyme scheme, but I have seen it described as such.

Live and be well - H

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## AuntShecky

> Hi Auntie. Well, The Mad Gardener's Song is written in simple iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter and is essentially a ballade form with six lines instead of four. There are nine verses in the original, although they aren't presented all together in one go. I don't think it can really be called heptameter verse because of the line breaks and rhyme scheme, but I have seen it described as such.
> 
> Live and be well - H


Thank you for the above. _Sylvie and Bruno_ is in my increasingly humble opinion Carroll/Dodgson's greatest work. I'm going to try re-post my "take" on that hilarious novel in the "Write a Book Review Section." It originally appeared in the "Thirty Poems for Thirty Days" thread on April 27, 2012.

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## AuntShecky

> It's like judging between a tree, a bowl of soup and a sunset.


(You meant “among.”)


Mixed Reviews

Long noodle strands hang off the yew.
A cloudy chowder ends the day.
The sun has deemed the ash as dew,
while minestrone shouts “Okay!”

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## Haunted

> Haunted:
> Thanks for reading these and your always-welcome comments. The last of the three nonsense ditties refers to a "topless bar," which disappointed the "he" in the verse who was expecting maybe a bunch of exotic dancers underdressed from the waist up. But the "topless" bar was described that way because it lacked a roof. Hence, the umbrellas go up during inclement weather. (You know a joke's no good when it has to be explained. Aw well, back to the old drawin' board.)


Nononono it's not you, it's me! It's a clever piece, and I thought that might be what you meant, but I was looking for the neon sign that says topless bar, to connect the dots for me. So that's my only suggestion. I kept wondering what made him think it's a topless bar in the first place. I thought the umbrella was quite intriguing, I kept thinking "bottomless"….





> Mixed Reviews
> 
> Long noodle strands hang off the yew.
> A cloudy chowder ends the day.
> The sun has deemed the ash as dew,
> while minestrone shouts “Okay!”


Great description, simple but vivid. Definitely a "soup" day. Makes me hungry!

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