Showing posts with the label Poems

Anatomy Class (by Jerry Siegel)

(To My Freshmen, with Apologies to Northrop Frye) Ah. There it is: A still-living poem. Some critic or teacher must have Done this to it. Put it on the table, boys. Gently, now. Check for vitality, Analyze the theme, Examine its metaphors, Lay bare the quivering imagery And expose the throbbing Thought. Let’s see that history. Two hundred years old? No wonder it seems in Rough shape. As you can see, the relevance is clearly herniated. Diction? Grossly inefficient. Impossibly high allusion level. There! Between the varicose values. Just as I suspected! A great mass of dense meaning Complicated by a massively conscious rhythm. There’s nothing to be done about it. Hopeless – Not a chance of reconstructing this one Into useful lyrics Or a slogan. Close it up And send it off To the anthology. ____________________ (A found poem, written sometime in the mid-1970’s, by a young professor)

Hjalmar’s Saga (a poem by Jerry Siegel)

Photo by Richard Bartz* Wikipedia ________________ “A forest bird never wants a cage.” – Henrik Ibsen __________________ Jerry, my husband, wrote this poem many years ago. “Hjalmar’s Saga” carries very special personal meaning for me, but it is also very accessible on a surface level, which is why I am sharing it on this blog. This is the poem’s first publication. __________________ Indeed, Henrik, you’ve made your point about Zoology. The male wild duck survives When in captivity, grows fat, appears Content, remains quite placid, resting in boxes Or on pillows. Paired with suitable tame stock He may, with proper fostering, be induced To nest, to mutter happy quacks, to father Ducklings captive from the shell. He will, Of course, not fly, but rather waddle, box To nest and back in endless circuits, like Some feathered friar, lost in thought. He never Knows passion, wit, or blue horizons – curls Restive, his family close, and sleeps m

I am a Total Blockzilla and Proud of It!!! And a Thieving Poet, Too!!!

Image is for sale at Go Daddy ________________ Call me Blockzilla. This blog is moderated, which means I get to decide whether or not to accept your comment before your comment is ever published. If you visit my blog and post spam and dodgy links, I will reject your comment. For starters, I want to protect bona fide visitors from being tempted to click on your suspicious links. Your lame “comments” are easy to spot: your text proves that you have never even read the post but are just hitting and spamming random blogs. Oh, and then there are the funky-looking links for such products as male enhancement drugs, hinky software, malware sites, yada, yada, yada. Although I have deleted any possibility for your comments (with links) to see the light of day, I still have copies of your comments, so I have decided to use your text for what is called a “found poem.” How cool is that? While I have rearranged your text into poetic lines, I have retained your atrocio

“Foofoo coffe,” a Found Poem, by Rhia

Sticky note with message from Rhia _________________________   The other day, when I was tidying up the living room, I found a stack of sticky notes (neon green, no less), with little messages written on them. This was definitely the hand of Rhia, my granddaughter, probably bored one day and wanting to be a bit snarky and revealing. She was 8 at the time. I decided to create a “found poem” from them – complete with creative spelling (words in parenthesis were on the obverse): Foofoo Coffe But I Don’t Want to Do my homework. (Wineing) take a brake ha!! ha!! ha!! ha!! :) ha!! :) ha!! (tickaling) aaaaaaa Stop it!! (Mad) Yay School !!!!!!!! :) :) :) :) (happy) Yhan yhan Can I go Brush your teeth (tiera tiered) I don’t know what to Do (Bord) yay Sho school !!!!!!!!!!!!!! :) :) I could do it I could tickle you :) grampaw does not Love or like foofoo coffe

"De Calf!" A Goofy Poem (for Rhia)

I am spending a perfectly goofy day with Rhia, my granddaughter, drawing pictures (Rhia) and writing goofy poems (me). Rhia noticed this "De Calf" magnet notepad on our refrig, something that has been there forever and largely unnoticed, but credit a kid for noticing details like that--always seeing things in a new way. So we have been playing around with drawings (see for some of her drawings from the past two days) and poems on it. I wrote this silly piece of fluff (Pictured in image above) for Rhia: There was a little calf Who loved to swim in decaf, The hotter and sweeter The better, sometimes With cream, Sometimes not, But always diving in With a toothy grin. Sometimes it's just good to have a frivolous day with someone you love.

Thought for the Day--May 16, 2011: Fat Lady Fantasy (a poem)

Oh, Lord, I’m just another fat lady. What song would You want me to sing? I’ll sing my song all over this place, praise Thee! I’ll mix the blues with a symphony of paisley. Tell me, Lord, what colors may I bring? Oh, Lord, I’m just another fat lady. Tell me, Lord, You think I’m red hot crazy? Please bestow me with rainbow pitch, no strings. I’ll sing my song all over this place, praise Thee! I promise, Lord, to bend lines into curves--maybe Not today, but surely tomorrow when the sun rings. Oh, Lord, I’m just another fat lady. My palette sings epics: russets of woe and malady. But, Lord, my kaleidoscope spills bloodstone tidings. I’ll paint my song all over this place, praise Thee! Strip from me some slivers of red--now maybe You know what happens when I, the fat lady, sings Naked before all. No, I’m not just another fat lady. Yes, I sing: ruby rocks, alla cappella --praise me! _________________________________________ "Fat Lady Fantasy," copyright 1994, by Jennifer Sem

52. Song of Myself (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering. I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yaws over the roofs of the world. The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk. I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you. End ________________________________ From Leaves of Grass , 1855 or thereabouts (Whitman published a lot of editions of this book).

51. Song of Myself (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

The past and present wilt - I have fill'd them, emptied them. And proceed to fill my next fold of the future. Listener up there! what have you to confide to me? Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening, (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.) Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.) I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab. Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper? Who wishes to walk with me? Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late? More: Song of Myself ________________________________ From Leaves of Grass , 1855 or thereabouts (Whitman published a lot of editions of this book).

50. Song of Myself (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

There is that in me - I do not know what it is - but I know it is in me. Wrench'd and sweaty - calm and cool then my body becomes, I sleep - I sleep long. I do not know it - it is without name - it is a word unsaid, It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol. Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on, To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me. Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines! I plead for my brothers and sisters. Do you see O my brothers and sisters? It is not chaos or death - it is form, union, plan - it is eternal life - it is Happiness. More: Song of Myself ________________________________ From Leaves of Grass , 1855 or thereabouts (Whitman published a lot of editions of this book).

Thought for the Day, April 6, 2011: "After Apple-Picking" (Robert Frost, 1874-1963)

My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-pic

Got 0? The Apple and "Improv"

Photo by Abhijit Tembhekar from Mumbai, India ________________________ I'm beginning my series of "Got 0?" articles with the versatile apple. If you love apples, then embarking upon a lifestyle change can be easier and certainly much more satisfying with this 0 points food in your arsenal. The Apple must surely be a worldwide favorite, given its great number of varieties. If you hang out in the produce aisle of the grocery store, you will notice more space devoted to the apple than any other fruit or vegetable. Varieties of apples with concise descriptions While the above list seems fairly comprehensive, I did not see a recent discovery that I made. About a month ago, an unusual variety called "Jazz" caught my eye. At $2.49 a pound, I wasn't about to fill a bag full of them, but I was game to try one ($1.54!!!). This variety not only looked different, but it also smelled unlike the other varieties, more like a perfumy honey. Being an avid Jazz fan, I also l

49. Song of Myself (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me. To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes, I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting, I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors, And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape. And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons. And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.) I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven, O suns - O grass of graves - O perpetual transfers and promotions, If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing? Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Toss, sparkles of day and dusk - toss on the black stems that decay in the muck, Toss to the mo

48. Song of Myself (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

I have said that the soul is not more than the body, And I have said that the body is not more than the soul, And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is, And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud, And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth, And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all times, And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero, And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe, And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes. And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God, For I who am curious about each am not curious about God, (No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.) I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least, Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful t

47. Song of Myself (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

I am the teacher of athletes, He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own, He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher. The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power, but in his own right, Wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear, Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak, Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel cuts, First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song or play on the banjo, Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox over all latherers, And those well-tann'd to those that keep out of the sun. I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me? I follow you whoever you are from the present hour, My words itch at your ears till you understand them. I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat, (It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue

46. Song of Myself (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured. I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!) My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods, No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair, I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange, But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll, My left hand hooking you round the waist, My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road. Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself. It is not far, it is within reach, Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know, Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land. Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth, Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go. If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip, And in due time you shall rep

45. Song of Myself (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

O span of youth! ever-push'd elasticity! O manhood, balanced, florid and full. My lovers suffocate me, Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin, Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me at night, Crying by day, Ahoy! from the rocks of the river, swinging and chirping over my head, Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush, Lighting on every moment of my life, Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses, Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them to be mine. Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days! Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows after and out of itself, And the dark hush promulges as much as any. I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of the farther systems. Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, Outward and outward and forever outward. My sun has

44. Song of Myself (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

It is time to explain myself - let us stand up. What is known I strip away, I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown. The clock indicates the moment - but what does eternity indicate? We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them. Births have brought us richness and variety, And other births will bring us richness and variety. I do not call one greater and one smaller, That which fills its period and place is equal to any. Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister? I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me, All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation, (What have I to do with lamentation?) I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things to be. My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs, On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps, All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mou

43. Song of Myself (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)

I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over, My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths, Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern, Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years, Waiting responses from oracles, honoring the gods, saluting the sun, Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in the circle of obis, Helping the llama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols, Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession, rapt and austere in the woods a gymnosophist, Drinking mead from the skull-cap, to Shastas and Vedas admirant, minding the Koran, Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife, beating the serpent-skin drum, Accepting the Gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing assuredly that he is divine, To the mass kneeling or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting patiently in a pew, Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waitin

Memoir Madness: Driven to Involuntary Commitment