Wednesday Is Poetry Day

In keeping with this week's grumpy Valentine's Day theme, i've selected the perfect sonnet from my favorite poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay.

If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
      That you were gone, not to return again—
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
      Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
      And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man—who happened to be you—
      At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud—I could not cry
      Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—
I should but watch the station lights rush by
      With a more careful interest on my face,
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.

Ouch. Edna could be a snarky bitch when she wanted to.

Which was often.

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Valentine's Day Poetry Contest At ASV

Hey poetry contest lovers, Michele is having a V-Day poetry contest. It must follow the "roses are red..." format, and must be addressed from one famous person to another. Sounds like fun.

i'm formulating an entry in my head right now. Hmmm.

Update: Okay, here's mine:

Brittany Spears to Kevin Federline:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Stop fucking around
And help me feed Lacy Loo*

Kevin Federline back to Brittany Spears:

Roses are red
and sometimes they're yellow
I started cheating on you
'Cuz your feet stink like hello
(I mean, they really smello)**

_______________

* Lacy Loo reference explained here.

** stink reference explained here.

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Wednesday Is Poetry Day

It's also Ash Wednesday, so i had no choice but to post an excerpt from T. S. Eliot's long poem of the same name.

i've given up trying to figure out Eliot. i've concluded that it's more about how his art makes you feel. Just like looking at a Kandinsky, or listening to Ornette Coleman. If the message could have been communicated in prose, it would have been. But that was not what the artist intended.

Still i get the vague feeling that Eliot is writing about mortality here, but then the title is a big clue. By mortality, i mean more than just death, but all the limitations of a mortal life. All those things that are so maddeningly finite while we are here on earth: our knowledge, our understanding, and our strength of will.

If you are able to, try reading this thing out loud. For meter and rhyme, it is a fabulous piece of writing.

Ash Wednesday (excerpt)

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

The rest of the poem is similar, although different religious themes are explored, in an equally indecipherable manner. What fascinates me the most is how the rhythm becomes almost hip-hop in places.

Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

      O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice

i swear that sounds like rap. Someone should really put a beat to it.

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KISS This Contest Goodbye

Allright, i guess i've dragged out this suspense bullshit long enough. i told you i had decision-making issues.

The winner of the KISS haiku contest is a poem that, i think, most completely encapsulates the kick-ass, devil-may-care, throw-caution-to-the-wind, damn-the-torpedoes, rock-and-roll-all-nite attitude of that band we all know and love to hate. Or not.

Here's the scene:

It's 7:30 on a humid summer night at the Macon County fair in central Illinois. The livestock awards have been handed out. A small crowd fills the rodeo grandstand, waiting for KISS to arrive. Finally, a half hour late, Gene and the boys take the stage (fucked up already) and rip through a cover of the Pointer Sisters' "I'm So Excited," followed by a medley including "Rock and Roll All Nite," "Lick It Up," "Love Gun," and "Detroit Rock City," which they rename "Decatur Rock City," in honor of the occasion.

Somewhere out in the crowd is a young girl, stringy blonde hair, red gingham sundress, who catches Gene's fancy even though she doesn't appear to be singing along to "Shout It Out Loud" like her parents. He tries, but he can't seem to make eye contact with the girl, so he sends a roadie to invite her backstage after the big encore set, which tonight will include "God of Thunder," "Calling Dr. Love," and Queen's "We Are The Champions."

After the performance, Gene waits by the catering truck, but the girl doesn't show. Chagrined, he heads back to the bus, for the long ride to Sedalia. Hopefully they'll find a Hooters along the way. But then, as if out of a dream, he sees the object of his desire in the parking lot, about to open the rear door of her parents' F-150 crew-cab. He struts over to the truck as fast as his six inch platform shoes will allow and... more...

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KISS Haiku Contest Update

i've narrowed it down to ten finalists in my haiku contest. i wanted to make it nine, but i just can't bring myself to cut one from the list. i think the finalists represent a pretty good mix of the gross haiku, the historical perspective haiku, the anti-KISS haiku, and the haiku with the humorous twist. Here they are:

Tony understands law school and haiku:

Rock and roll all night;
Party ev'ry day - sounds like
Law school's Free Beer Day.

i love Kevin's use of the double entendre here:

it's on video
I saw Annie blow a KISS
hope you've got Quicktime

And this one is just gross, but what else do you expect from the Big Hominid?

ass of Gene Simmons
rudely penetrated by
tongue of Gene Simmons

Tuning Spork says he was trying to introduce meter and rhyme into the contest. i'm not sure he succeded, but i did like this one, which pretty succinctly describes the KISS career cycle:

Paul and Gene in charge;
Ace and Peter hit the road.
Crowds were not as large.

Pursuit's final line in this next haiku is hilarious:

Gene thinks he is hot
Long, gross tongue, hideous face
please leave now, old man

The next one, by a man i once called "The Mark Russell of the Blogosphere" (perhaps prematurely), had me ROTFL:

One in my tight pants.
One in my make-up caked mouth.
Which lizard, baby?

And Emily's lone submission is a crowd favorite, not in spite of, but because of its disregard for the rules.

Gene, stick that frickin' tongue of yours
back in your mouth you filthy
damn pig

Tom gained the support of the Maximum World Order's poet laureate with this one:

My wife saw you play
you spit on her with fake blood
I hope it was fake

El Capitan's haiku were all great, but i picked this one because i figured we had to have at least one poem in the finals that didn't bash KISS:

Ted Nugent opened
KISS then took the stage and then
Blew the damn roof off

And i like the message in number ten, also by El Capitan. To me it says: resistance is futile, you will be assimilated by the KISS Army, regardless of how sucky the band is.

Simple loud cock-rock
Cartoon show for teenage boys
Just embrace your youth

The unfortunate thing about contests is that not everyone can win. Honorable mentions should go to D-Rod for his attempt to work Valentine's day into the contest; Ted for making fun of Victor's Joe Don Baker obsession; Victor for actually working the word "autumn" into his haiku without sounding forced; Shelly and Tom for their slightly non-conforming poems, which i'm convinced were intentionally tweaked ("Haku?" ... "Wed-nes-day?"); Derek for making the only stoner reference, however oblique, in a contest about a rock-and-roll band; and Tuning Spork for the haiku that ended with "please hand me a gun" which made me snort liquid.

Any help in deciding a winner is welcome.

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And The Winner Is The Award Goes To

i'm going through the fifty haiku submitted in the haiku contest, and they're all so good, i'm having trouble selecting a winner. i'm considering scrapping my own secretive and arbitrary criteria and substituting the method used by my property professor when he graded last semester's final exams. That is, so far as i can guess, to find a tall stairway, go to the top, throw all the submissions down the stairs and judge them according to where they land.

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Wednesday Is Poetry Day

Action figures have been in the news recently, so i selected this week's poem accordingly. You may recall that Barbie used to go out with a guy named Ken (That was before she started seeing G.I. Joe, of course.) Barbie and Ken were a cute couple, and Ken was a real doll. But they had their struggles, just like any two lovers. i hear they once toyed with the idea of marriage, but as their relationship soured, eventually they had to call it quits. Some say Ken was gay, and i don't know if that is true or not, but the following poem shows that they had other issues too.

Kinky

They decide to exchange heads.
Barbie squeezes the small opening under her chin
over Ken's bulging neck socket. His wide jaw line jostles
atop his girlfriend's body, loosely,
like one of those novelty dogs
destined to gaze from the back windows of cars.
The two dolls chase each other around the orange Country Camper
unsure what they'll do when they're within touching distance.
Ken wants to feel Barbie's toes between his lips,
take off one of her legs and force his whole arm inside her.
With only the vaguest suggestion of genitals,
all the alluring qualities they possess as fashion dolls,
up until now, have done neither of them much good.
But suddenly Barbie is excited looking at her own body
under the weight of Ken's face. He is part circus freak,
part thwarted hermaphrodite. And she is imagining
she is somebody else-- maybe somebody middle class and ordinary,
maybe another teenage model being caught in a scandal.

The night had begun with Barbie getting angry
at finding Ken's blow up doll, folded and stuffed
under the couch. He was defensive and ashamed, especially about
not having the breath to inflate her. But after a round
of pretend-tears, Barbie and Ken vowed to try
to make their relationship work. With their good memories
as sustaining as good food, they listened to late-night radio
talk shows, one featuring Doctor Ruth. When all else fails,
just hold each other, the small sex therapist crooned.
Barbie and Ken, on cue, groped in the dark,
their interchangeable skin glowing, the color of Band-Aids.
Then, they let themselves go-- Soon Barbie was begging Ken
to try on her spandex miniskirt. She showed him how
to pivot as though he was on a runway. Ken begged
to tie Barbie onto his yellow surfboard and spin her
on the kitcen table until she grew dizzy. Anything,
anything, they both said to the other's requests,
their mirrored desires bubbling from the most unlikely places.

By Denise Duhamel, a modern writer who some have called a "feminist poet." Although i don't think she objects to being placed in that pigeonhole, her poetry is often very funny and worthy of a wide audience.

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A Fabulous Prize Will Be Awarded

What could possibly be more absurdly ridiculous than Victor's impromptu Joe Don Baker haiku contest last September? i don't know if that boondoggle can be topped, but i'd like to give it a try.

So today, in a moment of dubious inspiration, i decided that i should hold a haiku contest. Like last time, there will be a prize for the winner. Unlike last time, i will pick a time limit and stick to it.

i think KISS is funny, but it doesn't matter if you despise them, or if you're a lifelong member of of the KISS Army. Hell, half the contestants in the Joe Don Baker contest never even heard of the man. All entries are welcome, and will be judged strictly according to my own secretive and arbitrary criteria.

Please feel free to post your entries here by 10:00 p.m. Pacific Standard Time on Thursday, February 3, 2005. i will then select a winner, who will receive a very nice mystery prize. The rest of you i will see in the boardroom, where somebody will be fired.

Update: Thenk you to everyone who participated. Fifty excellent poems were submitted. Now i must try to decide upon a winner.

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Carnival Of The Poetries Update

Oh my, how could i have missed Kevin's latest haiku offering, on the Star Wars meme. An excerpt:

Princess Leia knows
she can never tell poor Han
that she blew Chewie

If Kevin were a gigantic slow moving furry bearded ram (and i can point to no evidence that he is not), i might be tempted to dub him the Basho of the Bantha.

While you're at it, check out my lastest attempt to augment my referrals.

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Today Is Poetry Wednesday

Emily Dickinson wrote:

Who never lost, are unprepared
A coronet to find;
Who never thirsted, flagons
And cooling tamarind.

Who never climbed the weary league—
Can such a foot explore
The purple territories
On PizarroÂ’s shore?

How many legions overcome?
The emperor will say.
How many colors taken
On Revolution Day?

How many bullets bearest?
The royal scar hast thou?
Angels, write "Promoted"
On this soldierÂ’s brow!

Hang in there, G—

More: Don't miss the Maximum Leader's tribute to Robert Burns!.

Nor should you miss Queenie's Everyday Haiku. An excerpt:

winter skin itching;
unkempt nails claw at the breast
titties is too hot

lol.

And then Venomous Kate, picks up the meme with her own series of haiku:

gray river of dust
flows along edge of carpet
vacuum cleaners suck

And finally, Cameron picks a fight with modernist shibboleths, with his poem about poetry.

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Wednesday Is Poetry Day

Better late than never, but this one is worth the wait. It's by Eighteenth Century English poet, Thomas Gray. Like many a favorite poem, it's about temptation and desire.

On a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes

Â’Twas on a lofty vaseÂ’s side,
Where ChinaÂ’s gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared:
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes—
She saw, and purrÂ’d applause.

Still had she gazed, but Â’midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream:
Their scaly armourÂ’s Tyrian hue
Through richest purple, to the view
BetrayÂ’d a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw
With many an ardent wish
She stretch’d, in vain, to reach the prize—
What female heart can gold despise?
What CatÂ’s averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretchÂ’d, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between—
Malignant Fate sat by and smiled—
The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewÂ’d to every watery God
Some speedy aid to send:—
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirrÂ’d.
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard—
A favourite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived
Know one false step is neÂ’er retrieved,
And be with caution bold:
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
Nor all that glisters, gold!

That was a fun one, wasn't it? Did you catch that not-so-hidden reference to nine lives in the penultimate stanza?

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Wednesday Is Poetry Day

Here's something a little lighter, for this week. Plus it'll fit within two of my rubrics.

A quick google search revealed that Brittany Spears, besides being a fascinating singer/actress/entertainer/essayist/dancer/amateur physicist/skank, is also a poet. Brittany apparently contacted the proprietors of Tastes Like Chicken, and they agreed to publish some of her very own poetry. Here's a sample:

MOMMY, CAN YOU READ ME A BOOK?

Mommy, will you please read me this book?
It made no sense to me when I gave it a look
It's confusing and weird and it is very scary
I can't make out what it is saying to me... ah, Barry
Oh. I was trying to read a book of stamps.
Never mind.

That's beautiful. i think it, like, really gives us an insight into the close relationship between Brittany and her mom.

Go here to read some even better poems by Brittany.

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Carnival Of The Poetries

Shakespeare I ain't (a rebellion against talented writing) by Ginger of Candied Ginger, complete with mysterious picture.

Celebrate the King's birthday with The Thing About Elvis Movies by gcotharn of The End Zone.

Scorebard of Humbug comments on the recent blockbuster baseball moves with I Read the News Today, Oh Boy.

Blog O'DOB lyricizes the CBS fiasco in Joe Lockhart to Barnes to Mapes.

And from a blogger whose every post is like poetry anyway, Tony Pierce, we have "no one home but the stove and thats fixin to go out." Cool.

Anyone know of some others?

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Wednesday Is Poetry Day

Still thinking about the tsunami, the victims, the incomprehensible destruction. So many missing. So many broken lives.

These are the words of Bob Dylan.

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

i found this one difficult to get through, it's so powerful. Though A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall is from 1963, it seems as if it might have been written today.

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Wednesday Is Poetry Day

Here is a poem by a third grader in Tempe Arizona named Michelle, who happens to be a very gifted poet. This poem, written in January 2004 is a fine example.

The Tsunami

I silently aim
towards the land where I'll pour
I send myself to the city
Here comes the crash that I hate
I brush the sand
I cover and say goodbye
to the homes, buildings and cars

I sink back in the ocean
and offer thanks to the earthquake

Michelle introduces her poems by saying: "These are the poems I have been making. I hope you like them. I am in the third grade. My poems don't rhyme."

How sweet. Honey, don't worry about the rhymes. i think they're wonderful. Keep writing, Michelle.

P.S. Another sad note: i just heard that Jerry Orbach passed away. So weird that i just wrote that poem about him. i didn't even know he was sick until i read Matt's comment.

Dawn Summers (guest posting at Alarming News) has a personal remembrance.

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Poetry Wednesday

The most poetic Bible translation is, i think, the New International Version. I don't know anything about its accuracy, but the NIV sure has beautiful rhythm.

Here's Isaiah, chapter 40. Read it as if it were a poem, listen to the meter, and you'll see what i mean. Feel the beauty and power in these words of prophesy, whose fulfillment we Christians celebrate this-coming Saturday.

Comfort, comfort my people,
says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and proclaim to her
that her hard service has been completed,
that her sin has been paid for,
that she has received from the Lord's hand
double for all her sins.

A voice of one calling:
"In the desert prepare
the way for the Lord;
make straight in the wilderness
a highway for our God.
Every valley shall be raised up,
every mountain and hill made low;
the rough ground shall become level,
the rugged places a plain.
And the glory of the Lord will be revealed,
and all mankind together will see it.
For the mouth of the Lord has spoken."

A voice says, "Cry out."
And I said, "What shall I cry?"

"All men are like grass,
and all their glory is like the flowers of the field.
The grass withers and the flowers fall,
because the breath of the Lord blows on them.
Surely the people are grass.
The grass withers and the flowers fall,
but the word of our God stands forever."

You who bring good tidings to Zion,
go up on a high mountain.
You who bring good tidings to Jerusalem,
lift up your voice with a shout,
lift it up, do not be afraid;
say to the towns of Judah,
"Here is your God!"
See, the Sovereign Lord comes with power,
and his arm rules for him.
See, his reward is with him,
and his recompense accompanies him.
He tends his flock like a shepherd:
He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart;
he gently leads those that have young.

Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand,
or with the breadth of his hand marked off the heavens?
Who has held the dust of the earth in a basket,
or weighed the mountains on the scales
and the hills in a balance?
Who has understood the mind of the Lord ,
or instructed him as his counselor?
Whom did the Lord consult to enlighten him,
and who taught him the right way?
Who was it that taught him knowledge
or showed him the path of understanding?

Surely the nations are like a drop in a bucket;
they are regarded as dust on the scales;
he weighs the islands as though they were fine dust.
Lebanon is not sufficient for altar fires,
nor its animals enough for burnt offerings.
Before him all the nations are as nothing;
they are regarded by him as worthless
and less than nothing.

To whom, then, will you compare God?
What image will you compare him to?
As for an idol, a craftsman casts it,
and a goldsmith overlays it with gold
and fashions silver chains for it.
A man too poor to present such an offering
selects wood that will not rot.
He looks for a skilled craftsman
to set up an idol that will not topple.

Do you not know?
Have you not heard?
Has it not been told you from the beginning?
Have you not understood since the earth was founded?
He sits enthroned above the circle of the earth,
and its people are like grasshoppers.
He stretches out the heavens like a canopy,
and spreads them out like a tent to live in.
He brings princes to naught
and reduces the rulers of this world to nothing.
No sooner are they planted,
no sooner are they sown,
no sooner do they take root in the ground,
than he blows on them and they wither,
and a whirlwind sweeps them away like chaff.

"To whom will you compare me?
Or who is my equal?" says the Holy One.
Lift your eyes and look to the heavens:
Who created all these?
He who brings out the starry host one by one,
and calls them each by name.
Because of his great power and mighty strength,
not one of them is missing.

Why do you say, O Jacob,
and complain, O Israel,
"My way is hidden from the Lord;
my cause is disregarded by my God?"
Do you not know?
Have you not heard?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He will not grow tired or weary,
and his understanding no one can fathom.
He gives strength to the weary
and increases the power of the weak.
Even youths grow tired and weary,
and young men stumble and fall;
but those who hope in the Lord
will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.

Much as i love the poetry of the NIV, i can't read Isaiah 40 and not hear in my head the music of Händel's Messiah Oratorio, set to the King James translation.

O thou that tellest good
tidings to Zion,
get thee up into the high mountain.
O thou that tellest good
tidings to Jerusalem,
lift up
thy voice
with strength;
lift it up,
be not afraid;
say unto the cities of Judah,
behold your God!
behold your God!
behold your God!

Arise,
shine,
for thy light is come,
the glory of the Lord
is risen upon thee.

Amen.

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Should i Apologize For Missing Poetry Day, Or For Writing This Poem?

Finding good poems to post is hard. i need to feel inspired, and i wasn't yesterday. But you're in luck. To make it up to you, i decided to dash off an annika original. Yes, i wrote a poem. It loosely follows the Elizabethan sonnet format. Took me about five minutes too, but hey. Here you go: more...

Posted by: annika at 08:56 PM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
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Wednesday Is Poetry Day

Okay this one is for the guys. Since most guys seem to like Bukowski and i haven't posted anything by him yet.

You know his story. Born in Germany, lived in San Pedro, brutally funny poet and story writer, drunk, total mysogynist, the polar opposite of PC.

Long before Dr. Laura came up with the idea for her book, The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands, Charles Bukowski knew the score:

She Said

what are you doing with all those paper
napkins in your car?
we dont have napkins like
that
how come your car radio is
always turned to some
rock and roll station? do you drive around with
some
young thing?

you're
dripping tangerine
juice on the floor.
whenever you go into
the kitchen
this towel gets
wet and dirty,
why is that?

when you let my
bathwater run
you never
clean the
tub first.

why don't you
put your toothbrush
back
in the rack?

you should always
dry your razor

sometimes
I think
you hate
my cat.

Martha says
you were
downstairs
sitting with her
and you
had your
pants off.

you shouldn't wear
those
$100 shoes in
the garden

and you don't keep
track
of what you
plant out there

that's
dumb

you must always
set the cat's bowl back
in
the same place.

don't
bake fish
in a frying
pan...

I never saw
anybody
harder on the
brakes of their
car
than you.

let's go
to a
movie.

listen what's
wrong with you?
you act
depressed.

More: i found this poem on a Bon Jovi fan site. Does anybody know if Bon Jovi set this to music? That would be odd in the extreme.

Posted by: annika at 09:12 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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Wednesday Is Poetry Day

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. i will probably not be posting this weekend, as i will be at my parents' house, helping to cook, eating, drinking and watching football.

i'll leave you with a very nice holiday poem about the historical Thanksgiving, by 19th Century American poet, Hezekiah Butterworth.

The Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor

"Praise ye the Lord!" The psalm to-day
  Still rises on our ears,
Borne from the hills of Boston Bay
  Through five times fifty years,
When Winthrop's fleet from Yarmouth crept
  Out to the open main,
And through the widening waters swept,
  In April sun and rain.
    "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
      The leader shouted, "pray;"
    And prayer arose from all the ships
      As faded Yarmouth Bay.

They passed the Scilly Isles that day,
  And May-days came, and June,
And thrice upon the ocean lay
  The full orb of the moon.
And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,
  Ere England sunk from view,
While yet the rippling Solent lay
  In April skies of blue,
    "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
      Each morn was shouted, "pray;"
    And prayer arose from all the ships,
      As first in Yarmouth Bay;

Blew warm the breeze o'er Western seas,
  Through Maytime morns, and June,
Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,
  Low 'neath the summer moon;
And as Cape Ann arose to view,
  And Norman's Woe they passed,
The wood-doves came the white mists through,
  And circled round each mast.
    "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
      Then called the leader, "pray;"
    And prayer arose from all the ships,
      As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Above the sea the hill-tops fair—
  God's towers—began to rise,
And odors rare breathe through the air,
  Like balms of Paradise.
Through burning skies the ospreys flew,
  And near the pine-cooled shores
Danced airy boat and thin canoe,
  To flash of sunlit oars.
    "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
      The leader shouted, "pray!"
    Then prayer arose, and all the ships
      Sailed into Boston Bay.

The white wings folded, anchors down,
  The sea-worn fleet in line,
Fair rose the hills where Boston town
  Should rise from clouds of pine;
Fair was the harbor, summit-walled,
  And placid lay the sea.
"Praise ye the Lord," the leader called;
  "Praise ye the Lord," spake he.
    "Give thanks to God with fervent lips,
      Give thanks to God to-day,"
    The anthem rose from all the ships,
      Safe moored in Boston Bay.

  "Praise ye the Lord!" Primeval woods
  First heard the ancient song,
And summer hills and solitudes
  The echoes rolled along.
The Red Cross flag of England blew
  Above the fleet that day,
While Shawmut's triple peaks in view
  In amber hazes lay.
    "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
      Praise ye the Lord to-day,"
    The anthem rose from all the ships
      Safe moored in Boston Bay.

The Arabella leads the song—
  The Mayflower sings below,
That erst the Pilgrims bore along
  The Plymouth reefs of snow.
Oh! never be that psalm forgot
  That rose o'er Boston Bay,
When Winthrop sang, and Endicott,
  And Saltonstall, that day:
    "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
      Praise ye the Lord to-day;"
    And praise arose from all the ships,
      Like prayers in Yarmouth Bay.

That psalm our fathers sang we sing,
  That psalm of peace and wars,
While o'er our heads unfolds its wing
  The flag of forty stars.
And while the nation finds a tongue
  For nobler gifts to pray,
'T will ever sing the song they sung
  That first Thanksgiving Day:
    "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
      Praise ye the Lord to-day;"
    So rose the song from all the ships,
      Safe moored in Boston Bay.

Our fathers' prayers have changed to psalms,
  As David's treasures old
Turned, on the Temple's giant arms,
  To lily-work of gold.
Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide,
  Ho! ships of Boston Bay,
Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide
  To this Thanksgiving Day!
    We pray to God with fervent lips,
      We praise the Lord to-day,
    As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,
      But psalms from Boston Bay.

i'll be back Sunday. Enjoy your turkey!

Posted by: annika at 12:02 AM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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Clinton Limericking

In honor of the opening of Clinton's Little Rock library, i'd like to reprint a few stanzas from a dirty limerick by Cameron of Way Off Bass.

. . .

While Bill on the podium dropped trou,
Making sounds like an amorous cow,
A fat intern walked by
Catching ClintonÂ’s glazed eye;
“I’m the piglet, and there goes my sow!”

So the Horn Dog rolled off of the stage
(For his belt did his ankles engage).
As he crawled on the floor,
Up came Al “Mad Dog” Gore,
And the stick up his ass he called Rage.

. . .

Cameron's site is full of political and topical poetry, if you like that kind of stuff. i'd nominate him as the Mark Russell of the blogosphere, except nobody knows or cares who Mark Russell is, since nobody watches PBS anymore.

Posted by: annika at 07:48 AM | Comments (20) | Add Comment
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