I went ahead and reposted--it should work now. Let me know if it doesn't. Anonymous, I'll repost your comments below.
DISCLOSURE1.Annie Proulx, expert at depictingObtuse obnoxiousness in the male,(She went to high school here in Portland),Had an old man answer his daughter-in-law’sEventual call to supper: “ReadyAs a dog with two dicks!” But I cribbedThe saga of the Innocent Bride, Tricia,From a Turkish novel by O.Z. Livaneli(Equal if not superior, in my viewTo Orhan Pomuk, but who cares?Who reads?) called BLISS, in which2.A cousin sets forth to assassinate the nieceRaped (defiled, they'd say) by her uncle,His father, the narrative a level-headedAnd relentless scrutiny of fanaticFundamentalist stupidity saddledWith the burdens of mere humanity,Girlhood (she was fourteen)And intuitive masculinist cruelty.Is anonymous smut a remedy, promotingImmersion in the kindly wildsIn the human comedy? It sure beats3.Murderous puritanic hypocrisy.Pan, that filthy can-chewing goat, chasedNymphs into trees, but never raped them.That was accomplished by Apollo.Be sure to vote in today’s electionAnd give the PassamaquoddiesThe right to play the stock marketAnd calculate their actuarial advantagesOver muddling American pocketbooksAnd wallets. Quit regulating vagaries of viceOut of fear and cosseted sentimentality.[With regards to installment three,I don't see nothing, Tricia.You better muzzle that clawfootTub! She's licking that littleDino baby too clean!]
MORE DISCLOSUREWeary to the bone is a metonymy,A hyperbole for bored uncertainty,Itself a dither, a psychological maskThat probably hides a faint,Inchoate, but constant and infantileCraving for pleasure and its lessMaterial corollary, maternal approval:In plain words, mother me,Play with me, and adore me!I promise I won’t indulge anymoreIn anonymous smut and the ribaldryI love, the roar which emergesFrom earth and the heart’s core(A triumph of truth, a tautology!),My face suddenly un-convulsedIn a cunt’s fat smile and laughter,A gladness that wipes awayVillages of tenderness and grace,Centuries of delicate eleganceAnd enlightened politenessAnd humility, truth a pandemoniumContemptuous of triumph and stability.
Tricia! That's perfect. But I knewYour Grandpa was a cannibal!All Grandpas are cannibals,Which is why in every photograph from Atlanta,Elyse is wiggling like mad to get away!Oh my, so proud of being awful!My Grandpa loved to rub his freezing, Unshaven toothbrush of a cheekAgainst my soft warm one, smellingGenerally of whiskey, coffee, coal ashesAnd his freshly starched shirt, Home from making sure his furnacesWere lit so the "neighbors" (socialist parlanceFor tenants)had hot water, and so the phoneDidn't start ringing off the hookAnd my grandmother, in her tiny galley Of kitchen--in his cut-out cast-off shoesDue to gout and bunions--didn't start clucking In Russian (her children, my father and uncles, Knew Yiddish) as if an aggravated hen.I say Grandpa and grandmother, But this was Bobie and Zadie Rosen,And I, sadly enough, am simplyGrandpa, not one of them.
Bobie and Zadie--how extremely alluring!
FAMILY TREEAlluring?! Me? Them? Terrible Max,And poor little Sarah? That’s not the point Of being a smut-juggler, Tricia, nor a cannibal, But I was wondering, do the Irish, With the passage of generations and the famine Behind them, use Worcestershire SauceOn their bathwater marinated clumps of hair,Or just in the case of the English? Or was that, Tricia, another coy and inverted Delilah-like ploy? Barkus is willing, but Samson is vulnerable,And a fool for women, un-alluring ugliness of mouth And demeanor notwithstanding. Should have seen me At the pool arranging for stroke-coaching With Jasmina, “Jazzy” as she'd prefer we say,With a butt on her that would have made both Rand And McNally equally dizzy. My goals Were strength and speed, I told her, being weak, Slow and in need. Jazzy, blonde as a sunrise On the north pole, was undaunted, and didn’t disclose Her last name, but her blue eyes twinkled And she waved farewell as I departed the pool, And chirped at me sweetly, “Don't forget To sign up for your stroke instruction!” Always helpful, and never a case Of carrying coal to Newcastle. King Solomon,Thought Yeats, grew wise from talkingTo his wives. Everything Anonymous does is an appealFor female education. Thanks, anyhow, For commenting on my comment. It’s getting dark out here, and cold.
Education, you say! But where, precisely, is your education deficient?
Ah, Tricia--Look in your mirror!Tell me you neverConsider yourselfAn infinite Learning curveWith soft shoulders,Porcelain at higherElevations, And in winter.
An addendum: remember Stevens’Cheeky concern for the ocean’sVerbosity, the indifferenceTo us of infinity, of which there’s none,It being the domain of Satan, all Flight interim, even For an albatross, but it’s flight,So I ask you again, whatIs the modernist idiomAnd a Tricia’s alternative(Atrocious, by the way,Is my favorite wordIn the mouth of a woman,Better than prisms and prunes),But according to your starsAnd residual innermost sextant,What is the compass of truth and desire’sMagnetic north, the empirical VQR (reinvigorated, I hear, by cashAnd the senescence of Gregory Orr),Or the glittering abyssBehind the ice cream cakesOf Hostess Trish and the emperorOf pleasure’s ignis fatuus,Which inspires and lubricates So much invention? Last I sawGlenoway was extolling Paul Muldoon, that jolly ass,Along with that alp of toweringTedium, Tom Sleigh. But suddenly,In the gap between Gog and Magog,The opening of the lips to allAnd actual granite rocks on the plainsOf Galilee, close enoughTo glare at each other, I seeThat there’s no answer to a questionCreated from words and reality,No answer to a realityCreated by a question.
You shouldn't trouble yourself about my definition of anything, probably, being as how I am an uneducated eccentric. Or are you perhaps wondering about the particulars of my own highly-hidden poetic idiom? HINT: Tons of exclamation points, sometimes as many as two in a single poem.P.S. Genoways, not Glenoway!
Listen here, Miss Sharp As A NeedleAnd evasive as Marianne Moore--An orange, according to Francis Ponge,Resembles a sponge, in that both Get aggressively squeezed,Yet where one effortlessly yields its juiceAnd recovers, the other never does--Was fascinated by the factThat her name meant black (I'm talking About Irish politics), henceHer fascination with the name Melancthon,Which means melancholy person. PhilipMelancthon was an associate of Martin Luther,And thought to be the last person knownTo the suffer the actual acquaintanceOf Dr. Johannes Faustus before consumedBy the smoke of myth and ideological Convenience, he whose science enabled himTo trade his soul, above all, for oneOf Helen of Troy's boiled kisses. HelenMeans fire and Greek, of course--and IWho know all this, barely graduated college,Would have been swallowed by Viet Nam if notFor four desultory professors--none of them friends--Late at turning in their grades, failuresIn my case, and an irate lady registrarWho blindly gave me four B's. For most of my lifeI couldn't read most things, nor understand, And suddenly my panicked ego relaxedInto a colander happily draining the pastaThat passes for poetry and an educated intelligenceAnd my brain filled with starlight, lovelyThough worth nothing on Ebay. MeanwhileWhat enormous fun, to write you poem after poem(Spaghetti, macaroni) on the nonce, and IHave learned so much, because you are imaginary.[The other colander head I know was Don Quixote,And I love the fact that after losing an armAt Lepanto and languishing in an Austrian pokey,Cervantes made a come-back by forcing himselfTo write bleakly and politely. AnyhowI have to briefly contribute to a reading tomorrow At the Maine Historical Society for Longfellow's 200th Birthday--and so, notable but anonymous,I wrote a poem for the occasion, The Lonesome Albatross,I'll share if you'd like, a riff on the soulBeing lonely flies, so germane to that extent,And after 35 years, I've rediscovered Bob Dylan, whose my age, and other germane things,Though he's more dignified. "Lay Lady Lay"Always embarrassed me because it came from him.]Okay, Hostess T., C'est mois, i.e., me.
I agree with you, I am imaginary, and it is enormous fun. I wrote an albatross poem when I was nine, but I don't remember much of it, so I would be pleased to hear yours.
HIAWATHA’S TOMB 1.Go to the crossroads, Ferocity, and you too,Luck, Cunning and Greed–-or is it Need?–-For the nexus of poetry and celebrity, And for Hiawatha’s tomb. Behold a juke joint,A public arena, and a little, overgrown Cemetery-–not so little, really.Remember the billions of ambitionsStillborn or thwarted from lack of your help,Or too much sincerity and humility,Our myriad mute and naive Miltons,Our hungry sheep who look up, up,But are not fed! Well, the grass 2.Is under your chins, muttons.Nibble what you can before it growsOut of an eyeball and over your nose.Fame and its graveyard lie at the intersectionOf Violent Hope and Imperfection,Right behind the old Cultural MulchAnd Recycling Station, new onesCropping up all over, places shunned, Of course, by monastic academic Idealists and historical associations,But Longfellow’s popular Indian poem,Written to delight the Indian’s conquerors 3.Soon as the Indians were hamstrung Or extirpated, is right there, where Lycidas Picked up an electric guitar and imagined Himself Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Mick JaggerOr some other chameleon of our immortalProtean angst and the soul’s pandemonium,Incessantly sad, glad or neutral, circlingEach of our lives like an albatrossThat alights on an atoll and calls it love,But finding itself growing lonely again,Marks it in memory with a whitish, in-flight plop, Plans to return sometime for dinner, maybe 4.A goodnight kiss, or more, but to locate Those impediments to breath, that darkness Which imitates light, freaks of noise Called words, nuances of grief and grandeurCalled song, Lycidas’s albatross must rise above The moribund comforts and tasksOf domesticity. It must flap its filthy, Lice-infested wings–-the idiot windWill blow-dry clean or paralyze like dopeThose poison bugs awhile–-and off it flies!Blood on its beak and talons, nothing in its head But hunger, nothing in its heart but desire. 5.So there. Go ahead and boo. Go ahead And prefer the tenderer ratio of a flight From polite endeavor to delicate expectationAs if blowing spiritual promises at each other, Marking their passage back and forth In air by an elegant, gently descending feather. Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s poetry. I don’t think so, and don’t like it. I think it lies. Luck, Cunning, Ferocity and Greed, they areOur horsemen of the apocalypse, the violence Which takes what it thinks we need, trampling Everything else underfoot forever.[Tricia, I got one night's sleep and one more dayTo pluck some hope out of this misery! Let us pray!]http://www.mainehistory.org/programs_forum.shtml
Good luck! Mow them down with your erudition.
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