An original composition, by Fly Guy. Freak y'all, into the beat y'all.

A hat tip to some blonde chick.

Posted by: Victor at 06:06 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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Reading a Sharon Olds poem is like drinking a very fine brandy. It'll go down like pink lemonaide, then knock you on your butt when you don't expect it. I once mentioned Sharon Olds to a poet friend, and she remarked Ms. Olds, "...doesn't waste a word." Nope, not a bit, even when most of them are given to her. In The Father, Ms. Olds learned something new about her father.

His Stillness

The doctor said to my father, “You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That’s what I’m telling you now.” My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes. I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out. He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man. The doctor said,
“There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you.” My father said,
“Thank you.” And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him. This was my father.
He had known he was mortal. I had feared they would have to
tie him down. I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept quiet to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still. I had not
known him. My father had dignity. At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.

Posted by: Victor at 01:00 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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My first exposure to Shakespeare was in the soundtrack to Hair when I was but a wee lad. The liner notes to one song said it was, "...absolutely beautiful. It was written by Shakespeare," if I recall correctly and at the time I thought it was just poetic license, that Misters Rado, Ragni, and MacDermot were comparing their work to Shakespeare. Boy, was I surprised when I found out they weren't kidding.

Of course, they farted around with the Bard's words, splitting Hamlet's speech and putting the last half first. Can't quite figure out why, but they did and it's fucked me up ever since. Whenever I see it performed, I think the speech is backwards.

I still think it's a beautiful speech, even if it does take place as Hamlet is deep into (faking) his madness. And while it technically may be prose, it reads as poetry.

What a Piece of Work is Man (Hamlet, Act II, Scene II)

...I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my
mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so
heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth,
seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the
air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical
roof fretted with golden fire,—why, it appears no other thing
to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a
piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in
faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in
action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the
beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what
is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor woman
neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

(On a related note, the British Library has put it's collection of Shakespeare on line...or, as the Library puts it, "On this site you will find the British LibraryÂ’s 93 copies of the 21 plays by William Shakespeare printed in quarto before the theatres were closed in 1642." Cool, eh? You can find them here.)

Posted by: Victor at 12:07 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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The Rattlesnake and Scorpion

by Ruth Yoshiko Okimoto

Said the Scorpion to the Rattlesnake,
"What manner of commotion is happening here?
The sawing of lumber and pounding of nails,
      black tarpaper falls and covers my trail.
Tall fence posts pierce deep into the ground
      securing chainlink fences and barbed wire from town."

Said the Rattlesnake to the Scorpion,
"Indeed, huge pipes obstruct and crisscross my path,
      and loud swishing noises disturb my sleep.
Why, I went foraging for food and found
      my favorite hunting ground vanished today
      and more will dwindle, I've heard them say."

Said the Scorpion to the Rattlesnake,
"And worse even yet, small human fingers foolishly grab
      my sisters, brothers, cousins, and all,
      and drown them in jars filled with alcohol."
"How foolish, indeed," replied the Rattlesnake,
      "Don't they know of your sting, my venomous bite?"

Said the Scorpion to the Rattlesnake,
"What kind of human would dare intrude into our sacred place?
We've lived on this land for centuries, I'm told,
      so, why do they come here to ravage and destroy?
We've lived in peace, both you and I,
      with no intent to hurt or annoy."

Said the Rattlesnake to the Scorpion,
"Some humans, I'm told, regard those who differ in skin
      or thought with what they call 'justifiable' hate."
"As you know," continued the Rattlesnake,
      "humans are the most dangerous animal of all;
      they kill with lethal weapons ten feet tall."

Asked the Scorpion of the Rattlesnake,
"So what do you think they are building here,
      in the midst of our desert home?"
Answered the Rattlesnake with a somber voice,
"It's something menacing, and I fear
      portend of dangers yet unclear."

Posted by: annika at 03:42 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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This is a slightly unusual poem by Ogden Nash. Not because it's humorous; most of Nash's poetry was humorous. No, what I find unusual about it is it seems to be a mish-mash of styles. Note how the last five lines are *almost* a limerick (the rhyming scheme is off a bit-ABCCB). I suspect, though, that was accidental.

But that's not important; what I think is important is he's right about what that something about a martini is.

Tanqueray, in my case.

A Drink With Something In It

There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth--
I think that perhaps it's the gin.

Posted by: Victor at 11:11 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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