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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Lucy’s Revenge

A few images from the past week, whirlwind that it was, and I suppose this is a bit of an honorarium, a dedication to whom it may concern —

 

A ghastly grin often denotes candor.

Shellacked, a perfect till-drunk:
A laminated mistake.
Past revenge, trained hostile joke:
A polished veneer trickster.

“It’s Canada’s Florida,”
he said. A small size sauna
bath to lap up bittersweet.
His sweat, flesh grudge flooded grand.

Spun out sanded ‘neath a ditch.
She landed him fast disposed.
Flit his eyes glossed never-roar.
Her revenge, tossed, from a pit, into a core.

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Some prose-aic counterbalance from Canada is on the way, but for tonight, here’s one from the Great North:

North Wind and the Sun

Hold onto your bowlers! A coffee's brewin!

 

Callous South’s caffeine bustle
quaking at border quarrel.
Marred by memory once more —

North crossed; confused accusal
with azimuth from compliment.
Turgid, frozen epistle,
beckoned by a befuddled
dismissal.  This denial a —

Duel card house composed of fools,
a greased market appraisal
slicked quick by beverage, hot and
small.  Roiled in tumult, soiled by
pummel-felled matrimony.
Filial material —

Sewn where South went North again
to mend soft strewn mistrust. Gave
boldly coiffed tea, not coffee.
Not sweet, but politely.

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Redford’s ‘Spenders

Stings sung, flat cap, some, like fierce cats
who styled comedic, a gunstock blowback.
Frame job, tick tock, tell tale bra strap —
stuck home, stung-safe, knife in his back.

Jostled chase, winded marm, a downwind jig —
maimed for waiting.  Arms held, her razed
alley-way charms, till pistol breaks,
pivots with silence, finality taming.

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The Dye Divide

Feather-baby steps out, whether or not.
Shifting hips, slips puddled, piled high in shape.
There weighted, a strappy girl to wallow straight,
shifting gait, and dipped headfirst by a paintbrush.

Such fickle hue found in ewe, a strumpet
callowed in paisley. Rippled avowéd strut,
lets vows no rut — to ponder, consider —
pines for divorce ‘fore handed a daisy.

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Ah thundering galump!
Sit we beneath thy flush belly.
Safe from friendly shortened stump,
mildly smiling, are we ready.

My friend bells read well.
To what can you reply?
Tread soft violence in disguise,
but never lofty wonders why.

So galumpous thunder,
eat not tread nor wonder nor
my spectacled companion.

Join us, in-drink in-stead. For
cells berate evenings ate,
and fills thy shoes in dread!

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In 1930 W.H. Auden wrote his own version of an Old English poem called ‘The Wanderer’. It begins with this sentence:

“Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle.”

Now, as far as ‘doom’ goes, Auden was referring to judgment or critical thought.  The poem is believed to concern a lone wandering soldier or sailor, so it’s most likely about reflective thought at that.

It’s an odd image too.  Sounds a bit funny in the American.  A ‘dingle’ is a dell, a valley, a dip between two hills — and if we’re meant to be at sea then it’s probably that spot between the crests of two waves where you’ve just felt a brief reprieve of not being tossed about by the whim of some cantankerous and increasingly arbitrary Norse god.

Thought can be dark and deeper than anything the world throws at us.  Rarely is it reflective of much other than our own fears.  The sizes of the swells are that of our own folklore.

I’d like to think Auden was just telling everybody to calm down.

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Morning’s Catch

Bestowled — his placid star placed against
the graying blazoned azul grapple of
civil Seattle’s war-weary skies.

Upon spider’s prickled strand,
a carefully lowered leaf.

A crimson furnaced beacon
caught in peace, by a thief.

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