tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57490596814755388602024-03-12T23:09:03.482-04:00Poets.netAn online journal of literary arts. Reclaiming literature, one post at a time...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger239125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-76997572594726591262014-10-19T14:31:00.001-04:002014-10-19T14:31:49.590-04:00Bicycle Commute (Bim Angst) <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNM4iwasi5_WV7UTPrkhZBTc5IpLBdI_zXazvA_swswOrbwLz9XR1pa5RglZI1r8rK-M59b9PXU01NWhw3gD3YuJiQ-bnTmfSzgeNinSvodufze7VZReY-VEnGaeDtqhdeCG81CquHa7A/s1600/BimAngstRainbow4PNG.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNM4iwasi5_WV7UTPrkhZBTc5IpLBdI_zXazvA_swswOrbwLz9XR1pa5RglZI1r8rK-M59b9PXU01NWhw3gD3YuJiQ-bnTmfSzgeNinSvodufze7VZReY-VEnGaeDtqhdeCG81CquHa7A/s1600/BimAngstRainbow4PNG.png" height="230" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo mash up:<br />Author Bim Angst with her bicycle<br />___________________________</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was the first day.
Not the first day of the bike commute, but the first day of that year’s bike
commute. It was the first day of a renewed but not a new commitment.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Top
ten reasons she liked the bike commute. But today it was a fat tire, not the
sleek little Pinarello she so loved. The asphalt was wet. It has been a month
since she was on a bike. She has been taking care of the man. He is laid up
with both legs in immovable casts and he needs taking care of, which he knows and
allows — not that he has a choice. But which he is seeming quite to like.
Somebody else is doing the taking care of today. When she began the taking care
of him, it mattered to her greatly — surprise surprise — that she be the one to
do all the most very important of the taking care. It mattered to her that he
like she was the main one taking/giving the care.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
today. So, it didn’t really matter which bike on which she did the commute.
Editing will be needed. Wet asphalt, time away, strength in her legs diminished,
who knew what loss in lung capacity. She made the sensible choice.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Order
them ten to one. Whatever is at the bottom of a ten reasons list everybody will
assume is number one anyway. Why is it usually ten? Top ten. Ok. That sounds
nice. Two syllables both starting with hard Ts. Alliteration. Double, equal
accent. Remember to harvest the sage. Not a dactyl. Not a trochee. That was
three. Not an iamb. Something. Doesn’t matter. Look it up anyway.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ten.
Containment. Things aren’t getting out of hand. It will not go on forever, it
will end, maybe shortly. That’s a splice. What was it they said, she read in
some journal, about even very bright people being able to remember/handle a
maximum of seven things at once? She doesn’t let them use the slash words. But
they’re useful. Except when you read out loud. You have to make that chopping
gesture in thin air. Point of view shift.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So
why ten? Why not seven? Top seven reasons. Slow ones can’t cope with even
seven. Three. Sometimes two.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Maybe
don’t number the list. Just start in. By the third (numbering again), everybody
will just get it’s a countdown. They always seem to confuse it’s and its. Who
is this everybody? Not everybody reads. Especially those young people. Does
texting count as reading? Sexting?</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Number
7. Can’t help the numbering. Need order. Need structure. Even if it is imposed
and does not organically take shape. Number 7: Because I live in a beautiful
place. Every place is beautiful. Everywhere has its beauties. It’s a frame of
mind. It’s a bike frame of mind! Bike frame, get it? Road surface doesn’t have
to count, unless it’s good. They always ask her not to count the bad stuff. We
live in a beautiful place.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grit,
potholes, washout, lots of broken glass. Beer bottles. Always beer bottles.
Passing traffic, some bleeping horns right when they come up behind and scare
her the way somebody can make you jump saying <i>boo </i>loud right in your ear
when you don’t know they’re back there. They’re their there. They’re there in
your hair.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Be
fair. 100 pass. Maybe two honk. 98 is a good percentage. 200 pass, maybe one
yells <i>nice ass</i>. Hot old bike chicks agree, honking means <i>you have a
nice ass</i>. Flipping the bird means <i>you have a nice ass</i>. Yelling <i>nice
ass </i>means <i>you have a nice ass</i>. Throwing a can means <i>you have a nice
ass</i>. Getting out there on the bike means. No matter how slow you go. You’re
out there. The kingfisher is out hunting today!</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">5000
pass maybe 1, if that, pulls up revving fast in a white sedan with a license
plate you cannot read with your single distance no bi/trifocal goggles. Zooming
revving up behind, laying hard hard hard on the horn, cruising alongside 30
yards still hard on the horn and then pulls off the horn and yanks hard to the
right right in front to slam on the brakes and see if you smash into his back
bumper and then he can complain you hit him or do you drop and burn sliding on
the side of the road. Peels out. Waves goodbye. Flips the bird. Can you really
hear him laughing? Why is it always a guy?</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Maybe
drivers think tooting the horn is a nice way to let you know they’re back
there. Think that. Be generous. It is a beautiful place. One in maybe 5000,
maybe not even. A lot more assholes when you drive the car. Road rage. Every
stinking day rage. Especially on 422. It makes headlines. Often. People get
arrested waving guns out there. Cara carries a gun on the bike. Yo, as Pat
says, what’s <i>that </i>about?</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
mountains. Never again move out of the mountains even though they’re harder
when you’re on the bike. That which does not kill….Nietzsche. Pretty sure.
There seems to be some capricious shifting going on.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Number
6: Because it makes me feel virtuous. This will not make the list, at least not
this way, but such is what revision is for. One can revise one’s self into
something like intelligence. Vonnegut, right? Credit. And a good heart. Clean
thoughts. Burning calories not fossil fuels: Number 6. Why oh why do I keep
forgetting to bring a snot rag?</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Number
5: Half the day’s exercise is done before work. The other half is pretty much a
given and you can’t crap out without embarrassing yourself now that you’ve
announced you’re commuting by bike. So there. Stronger, better half sticks
childish tongue out at weak, lazy, evil half. This is what is meant, partly, by
commitment. Once you’re in so far, there’s no turning back. Except if you don’t
proclaim intent, ain’t nobody know you didn’t ’ceptns you. Do you like you?
Sometimes. Maybe a little bit most days. Most days. Not all. On the bike
always.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Four
miles, maybe five. Kicking in. Cooking cooking cooking. Booking booking
booking. Number 4: It feels good! Number 1? Good chemical stew. Bathing in
endorphins. Simmering in the marinade. Mixing metaphors. Synapses snapping.
Burning off the toxins. Clarifying the butter. Does clarifying butter get rid
of any of the cholesterol? Something about the brain. Which is connected to the
heart. Real. Figurative. Metaphoric. Metaphysic. Is that a word? Think it and
you alter capabilities.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Number
3: Get rid of cholesterol. Or some such stuff about health. It’s good for you.
Me. Her. The cyclist. Cyclists in general. Anybody. Everybody. The general
public. At least that which reads. Are people who read less obese?</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Number
2. Don’t go there. What will be number 1? Stop those juvenile thoughts. You
can’t skip number 2 and number 1 (even if you leave off the numbering) if
you’re doing a top 10/7 list. What’s Number 3? Jiz? Giz? Comes/cums from gism?
Jism? How is that spelled? Eat a good/better breakfast before you get on the
bike. Everybody loves jiz. But. Butt. Here we go again. If they only knew.
Don’t even think about Top Ten. Two Ts. T.T. Titties. I used <i>titties </i>in
a story! Tits and ass. T&A T&A T&A.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Number
1: It’s good. It’s all good. Can you say that? Will anybody anywhere have any
idea at all what all you mean? Good is relative. (Even if you don’t have good
relatives, or what you think are good relatives. But that’s relative to. Too.)
Come back. Stop circling. Cut through the mall/plaza parking lot and completely
bypass the bottleneck. Right turns. That’s how FedEx does it. It is FedEx,
right? UPS? Look that up. They won that award. For right turns. Get it right,
right/correct, if you’re going to use it. Your going to use it. Feel free to
make mistakes in a draft.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Number
2. Going back behind the Giant where the trucks unload is kind of like looking
at the bowels of the American retail industry. Not deep into the bowels because
then you’d have to get into the packing houses and sweat shops, the places
where they wear white plastic suits and rubber gloves, condoms, where they wear
galoshes because they’re slopping around in blood and guts, ear plugs so they
don’t have to hear the screams, face masks so they don’t sneeze on the meat you
eat. That rhymes. Does rhyme kill it? This is why you eat vegetables. (Evil
twin inside, we know you so dearly love a good grilled steak, but we forgive
you, you’re/your only human.) Try to be humane. Try harder.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Don’t
think on this too deep. Deeply. The language is alive. Adjective. Adverb.
Either okay now depending on how you look at it. No lumpers here. Do they have
big hooks? (Did you read that as boobs or books?) Who unloads the trucks? The
drivers? The stockboys? They’re not all boys anymore. But they are, aren’t
they, still boys in that sense/way. It’s a different culture back here.
Culture. Apply to everything. Like it. But that’s number three. Or number four.
I like it. It makes me feel good. Same thing? Give up what makes you feel bad.
Even if for a very short time it makes you think you feel good. Remember
butter.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Number
1: You get to wear fluorescent green and shocking pink. Petty but true.
Important. That sweet daughter who as a little girl got so very very
angry/indignant when someone else picked out clothes and made her wear them.
Minor but first first first. Even if you don’t put it there. Everybody should
get on a bike. Pedal off this fat. There is no such thing anymore as a
prosperous gut. Nobody under the age of 40 even knows what that means. Sweat.
Smile. Get lean. Smile some more. Do it. Just do it (Nike ad). When you smile,
you change the chemistry in your brain. Say hello. Change the world. Ha. Smell
the neighborhood. Smell your own sweat. Sweet. They confuse that too. Sweet
sweat. Sweat sweet. That’s a command. Listen to the voices. Make conversation.
Cut pollution. Give up cars, have a little fun. Change the world one pedal
stroke at a time. Really. It’s true. It’s all true.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Number
1: It takes more time. Maybe that’s the point. Press the button for the
automatic door.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
the intervening time, she talked to very young people about commas, something
she did that no longer seemed important in the same way it had seemed important
when she first started talking to young people about things like commas, though
now that it didn’t really matter if she did it well it was said she really did
do it pretty well. How many words can you take to say something? But now the
main point was not the commas but the way it pays the bills that pay for the
rest.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And
so today, not yesterday, as she sat down to the computer, she thought she
should have written it yesterday, when it was all there in her head whole and
perfect.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%;">________________________<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%;">BIM ANGST lives with a small pack of big dogs and bicycles
from Saint Clair, PA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%;">“Bicycle Commute” was originally published in <i>Pennsylvania English</i>, issues 33/34,
Spring 2012.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%;">________________________<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 175%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">“Bicycle
Commute,” © 2012 by Bim Angst, has been posted on Poets.net with permission
from the author and may not be reposted or republished without permission.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 175%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 175%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 175%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 175%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-61088926757130581802013-12-31T14:03:00.000-05:002013-12-27T14:04:09.808-05:00 “Auld Lang Syne” (Robert Burns)<center>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/rId95N2teUc" width="400"></iframe></center>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b style="line-height: 150%;">Here is the modern version of “Auld Lang Syne”:</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
Should old
acquaintance be forgot,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
and never brought
to mind?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
Should old
acquaintance be forgot,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
and old lang syne?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
CHORUS:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
For auld lang
syne, my dear,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
for auld lang
syne,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
we’ll take a cup
of kindness yet,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
for auld lang
syne.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
And surely you’ll
buy your pint cup!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
and surely I’ll
buy mine!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
And we’ll take a
cup o’ kindness yet,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
for auld lang
syne.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
CHORUS</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
We two have run
about the slopes,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
and picked the
daisies fine;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
But we’ve
wandered many a weary foot,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
since auld lang
syne.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
CHORUS</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
We two have
paddled in the stream,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
from morning sun
till dine;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
But seas between
us broad have roared</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
since auld lang
syne.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
CHORUS</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
And there’s a
hand, my trusty friend!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
And give us a
hand o’ thine!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
And we’ll take a
right good-will draught,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
for auld lang
syne.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
CHORUS<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
_______________</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<center>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/i4pN0zn16jk" width="400"></iframe></center>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><br /></b>
<b>Here is the original Scottish version of “Auld Lang Syne” (Robert
Burns, 1788):<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
Should auld
acquaintance be forgot,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
and never brought
to mind?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
Should auld
acquaintance be forgot,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
and auld lang
syne?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
CHORUS:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
For auld lang
syne, my jo,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
for auld lang
syne,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
we’ll tak a cup o’
kindness yet,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
for auld lang
syne.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
And surely ye’ll
be your pint-stowp!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
and surely I’ll
be mine!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
And we’ll tak a
cup o’ kindness yet,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
for auld lang
syne.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
CHORUS</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
We twa hae run
about the braes,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
and pu’d the
gowans fine;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
But we’ve wander’d
mony a weary foot,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
sin auld lang
syne.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
CHORUS</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
We twa hae paidl’d
i’ the burn,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
frae morning sun
till dine;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
But seas between
us braid hae roar’d</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
sin auld lang
syne.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
CHORUS</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
And there’s a
hand, my trusty fiere!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
and gie’s a hand
o’ thine!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
And we’ll tak a
right gude-willy waught,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
for auld lang
syne.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .75in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
CHORUS</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-19236934746859774472013-12-17T13:23:00.000-05:002013-12-17T13:23:17.460-05:00A Christmas Story: “In Waiting” (Excerpt With Link to Full Story)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4TS9g_b_uW6kpCNHtAZZTk8eyNQzbX52npCTGgClEXNZePe7Wo3fhSNE0CgoEYAQnvniobPcII7Uc_RdhBfvmiDMCmFJyRsyzlzKEdI0MWUyhhyyLLK77mtkTcIaafcZHs8d1IoXeqA/s1600/NativityTreePregnantWoman3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4TS9g_b_uW6kpCNHtAZZTk8eyNQzbX52npCTGgClEXNZePe7Wo3fhSNE0CgoEYAQnvniobPcII7Uc_RdhBfvmiDMCmFJyRsyzlzKEdI0MWUyhhyyLLK77mtkTcIaafcZHs8d1IoXeqA/s400/NativityTreePregnantWoman3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pregnant Woman: <b><a href="http://www.fda.gov/ScienceResearch/SpecialTopics/WomensHealthResearch/ucm251314.htm">FDA.gov</a></b><br />Background: <b><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Nativity_tree2011.jpg" target="_blank">Jeff Weese (Wikipedia)</a></b><br />____________________</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Say, you’re right. This place could stand a few decorations.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
Maybe a Christmas
tree, some lights strung above the bar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
Next year for
sure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
Don’t know about
a Manger scene, though. Can’t picture competing with Baby Jesus in my own
casino.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
Just had the
Grand Opening last week. Bad timing, I know, but that’s how the chips fell. I
suppose I could’ve waited for the New Year’s crowd, but why not get a jump on
my customer base?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
Another Virgin
Mary, coming up. That’ll be two bucks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
Say, my prices
are cut to the bone as it is. Down at Wally’s, that drink would’ve cost you three
bucks, maybe more. Don’t know how he gets away with it.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
‘Course I’ll
close for Christmas tomorrow. I’d fear for my immortal soul if I was to allow
gambling and carousing in my casino on Christ’s birthday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><a href="http://www.lifeisabrand.com/2013/12/a-christmas-story-in-waiting-jennifer.html" target="_blank">Read the rest of the story here.</a></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
(Disclosure: this story is written by Jennifer Semple Siegel, the webmaster of this site.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-83086942003186623542013-07-12T13:17:00.002-04:002013-07-12T13:17:45.170-04:00Goetry.com -- Poetry on the GoJust got this idea for a simple site, completely mobile friendly, for poetry on the go--no images, just poetry for mobile phones.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure how this can happen...<br />
<br />
Keep watching this space...<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-88140273394550109852013-06-22T11:46:00.000-04:002013-06-22T11:46:47.743-04:00The Life Giving Tree (Robert Owuodihia)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEExLNjNv_4X-VGYWnHPvHA5YrmKMHrTSkopvFJR4pnhAaplYVyj0sFgaT7xe7Hb9B-bURCiI_f9kU3bqpaySTBdNO0yr2Lp1kLpmmqV69z2xpbq_ZemWlidfJMNWwCo6OPNFEWrmkjeM/s1600/GeneralShermanTreeRadialSinister6x6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEExLNjNv_4X-VGYWnHPvHA5YrmKMHrTSkopvFJR4pnhAaplYVyj0sFgaT7xe7Hb9B-bURCiI_f9kU3bqpaySTBdNO0yr2Lp1kLpmmqV69z2xpbq_ZemWlidfJMNWwCo6OPNFEWrmkjeM/s320/GeneralShermanTreeRadialSinister6x6.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Remixed photo, original by Jim Bahn</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">From <b><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:General_Sherman_tree_looking_up.jpg" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a></span></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
_____________________________________________ </div>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
She gives us breath</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
She gives us life</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
She takes us through the strife</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
And protects us here on earth</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
Against global warming</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
Against ice melting</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
Food she gives us</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
Shelter to protect us</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
Clothing to clothe us</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
And medicine to cure us</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
Yet of her immense contributions</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
We do not show her our appreciation</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
A tree we must each grow</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
Before death shall crow</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
For if the last tree dies</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
The last man too dies</blockquote>
</blockquote>
_________________________<br />
<br />
<i>Robert is an 18-year-old Ghanaian and a 2013 graduate from Achimota Senior High School in Ghana. He is a science major who loves literature.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He enjoys writing poems and has written over 80 of them.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He is currently seeking a publisher for his work.</i><div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-22501379838755604912013-05-21T10:34:00.000-04:002013-05-21T17:26:05.313-04:00Excerpt from Betty’s Child: a memoir, by Donald R. Dempsey, and Review: “Saving Benji” (Chapter 12)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsdAKYH7vQoj8h75eOL1QodJRJXg1MdlGWTPN714MdFzkKCkTlftjSy890DM-nyiRXV2d69z87bwJCQtGo7aANZcUKVIRE_vLoXC6kLzoYfPpBtcZ7sYmaGlwqzrfSRCuPkEQDpG9EoU/s1600/BettysChild--MergedPhotos3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsdAKYH7vQoj8h75eOL1QodJRJXg1MdlGWTPN714MdFzkKCkTlftjSy890DM-nyiRXV2d69z87bwJCQtGo7aANZcUKVIRE_vLoXC6kLzoYfPpBtcZ7sYmaGlwqzrfSRCuPkEQDpG9EoU/s320/BettysChild--MergedPhotos3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Donny and Chip. Terry, Donny, and Chip (Donny's lap)<br />
__________________________________________</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .4in; margin-right: .4in; margin-top: 0in;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><i>(Webmaster’s
note: previously, Donny [author] and friends Rupe and Tommy pulled off a
rather ballsy heist of returnable-for-cash soda/pop bottles from a gang of
bikers. After waiting for the heat to subside, the kids are now on their way to
Kroger’s to cash in on their spoils. Donny’s little dog, the ever-faithful
Benji, accompanies the merry band of juvenile thieves. A review of </i><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bettys-Child-ebook/dp/B00BOL69ZO/" target="_blank">Betty's Child: a memoir</a></b><i> [available on Amazon] follows the excerpt.)</i></span></blockquote>
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">____________________________________<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">This was a shitload of
bottles. Rupe was standing guard on the first three carts we’d hauled to the
back of the Kroger, and Tommy and I had barely managed to get the rest of our
treasure in the last two we were trudging along with now. So far we’d dropped three
bottles. Their shattered remains lay in the roads behind us as a testament of
our passage, along with the echoes of Tommy’s vehement cursing. Tommy told us
those broken bottles had our names on them, every time one shattered against
the concrete.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">My Negro
buddy was an extreme penny pincher until he actually had the cash in his
pocket. Tommy would probably be a collector for Candy one day. He could be
persuasive when it came to getting money out of you, whether you owed it to him
or not. He was definitely worse if you owed him. So far, he’d never paid back a
dime he’d ever borrowed from me, but never forgot to get back a single penny on
the rare occasions he had to float me a quick loan. <i>If he’d stay in school,
he could be one hell of a tax guy,</i> I imagined.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Crossing
Second Avenue was tricky, due to traffic and the greater risk of a cop catching
sight of us with stolen—we’d call them <i>borrowed, </i>if we got busted—shopping
carts and more pop bottles than a… Well, than a house full of Harley bikers
could go through in a month. These were more bottles than we’d ever brought in
before, way more. My end of the payback was going to push my stash of hidden
funds to well past fifty bucks. I was practically rich.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I was
glad we’d left Rupe back at the Kroger. Tommy wouldn’t stop riding him about
not going out on our little missions anymore. Rupe had stayed true to his word.
He was done stealing, and Tommy could pound sand. I had to admire Rupe for
standing up. He wasn’t talking back to Tommy, but Rupe wasn’t giving in,
either. He just shook his head and said he was done every time Tommy brought
the subject up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It
wasn’t that Rupe wasn’t getting on my nerves a little, too. He’d kept on
griping about getting the bottles out of his dad’s garage until I’d almost lost
it on him. I’d been for taking them in a little at a time, but Rupe wanted them
all out as soon as possible. He was afraid his dad would find them and figure
out what we’d been doing. Knowing that was possible didn’t make Rupe’s constant
bitching any easier to take.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But
when Tommy had started pushing to exchange the bottles, too, claiming he needed
the money, I gave in. I needed to keep those two apart. Rupe was a coward, but
even he had his limits. I didn’t want him popping off to Tommy, getting
something started that he couldn’t finish, and I couldn’t delay. Tommy was
taking our friend’s decision to cut out as some kind of betrayal, making it a
personal thing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
going to be an interesting school year,</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">
I realized. Tommy kept guys off our backs. It went without saying that he
wouldn’t protect Rupe any longer. In fact, I was pretty sure Tommy would
probably send some grief Rupe’s way, as sore as he was. I would have to do my
best to help my more hapless friend any way I could. <i>How?</i> The last thing
I needed was to relive those dreadful days I’d spent running home after school
every day, dodging enemies, and ducking fights.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
waited for a lull in the traffic and darted off
the curb. “Stay close, boy,” I told Benji, but I didn’t need to remind
him. He kept right on my heels all the way across, with Tommy just behind him.
Some asshole in a long, expensive-looking sedan beeped at us. Tommy flipped him
off and told him where to go, so we were cracking up as we reached the other
side of the road and the nearest parking lot of the Kroger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Benji
was with me because I was afraid to leave him alone after the row with Tony and
Betty. That dude really hated me, and I couldn’t depend on my mother to protect
my dog if her Italian hump buddy decided to be mean to him. It was a rare thing
if she actually stood up for her children, much less a dog. It was making my
life more difficult, constantly worrying about that Dago, but I didn’t have a
good plan for dealing with him. <i>Yet, </i>I promised myself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Thinking
about Tony got me to thinking about my brothers. Dwelling on them made me feel
guilty. I was old enough to take off when shit got hairy, but they weren’t. <i>Maybe
that’s why Terry keeps sneaking down to the apartment playground on his Big
Wheel?</i> I wondered. Could be the kid was learning to avoid Betty already.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
baby was taking all this especially hard, clinging to me more and crying if he
spotted me trying to leave. Lately, he’d taken to sleeping on my mattress
instead of in his own room. The baby was crowding me when I tried to sleep, but
I didn’t mind. Benji complained more than I did, grumbling and huffing during
the night. Sometimes I’d wait until the little guy fell asleep and then carry
him off to his own room, but lately he’d been waking up and coming right back
to bed with me. Just this morning I’d woken up with one of his feet practically
in my mouth and pee from his diaper leaking onto my mattress.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As
we veered around to the rear of the store, the paved lot sloped downward, and
we had to strain to keep the carts from getting away from us. Tommy laughed
when he noticed me struggling, but I was concentrating too hard to say anything
back. He would kill me if I lost control and wasted any more money. <i>Or take
the losses out of your end, </i>I told myself. But I wasn’t sure he’d think of
something like that, or be able to calculate the deductions.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hey,
lay off Rupe, okay?” I asked him as we reached the area where the pavement
evened out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Tommy
snorted. “Fuck Rupe, that daddy he’s so afraid of, <i>and</i> his sexy little
mom. And fuck you, too, you start taking his side and not mine.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m
not taking any side,” I told him. “I’m just trying to keep you two from getting
into it. Just let it go. We’re supposed to be friends.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Fuck
that. Friends don’t cut out on one another.” He wasn’t just annoyed at this
split. Tommy was really pissed off. <i>This is going to get ugly,</i> I
realized. “I’ll tell you something else. We get that money, and we cut it in
half. He wants out, he’s out. You like the kid so much, you give him half your
shit. But it’s a two-way split today, baby.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">That
wasn’t fair. Tommy was just using his irritation over Rupe wanting out to take
money from him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>And from me!</i> I couldn’t think of anything safe to say.
Tommy couldn’t count very well, but he was an expert at the
one-for-you-and-one-for-me dividing of money. My worst fear was that Rupe might
speak up when Tommy informed him of his underhanded scheme. <i>Are you kidding?</i>
I asked myself. I figured that was a pretty stupid concern; Rupe would keep his
mouth shut and get this over with, relieved to let Tommy get one over on him
and be rid of the guy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Rupe
was sitting against the concrete steps as we rattled up, but he stood to greet
us. Benji trotted over and started sniffing at him, and he even let Rupe pet
him without showing his teeth. <i>Maybe he feels sorry for him, too.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ll
go get Freddie,” Rupe announced as we arrived, eager to be away from Tommy and
have this deal done.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah,
you do that,” Tommy grumbled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Rupe
banged on the large metal door until Freddie finally opened it. Freddie was a
middle-aged dude who ran shipping and receiving. He had tufts of hair above
both ears and a missing front tooth.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Freddie was always asking Rupe about his
mom. She shopped at this store, getting the perv revved up about once a week or
so.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“That’s
a load,” Freddie mumbled around his tooth, leaning on the rail and surveying
our goods from the top step.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah,
it is,” I agreed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
wasn’t about to offer anything more. One of the most intricate tricks of the
art of lying was not lying when you didn’t have to. Until he asked where and
how we’d come up with so many bottles, I wasn’t about to tell him. I had a good
story ready for when he did ask.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Freddie
surprised me. “Totaled them up yet?” was his only question.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
always do that,” I reminded him. <i>And you never give us a nickel more than we
bring in, and dock us for chipped bottles,</i> I wanted to say, but didn’t. “You’ve
never trusted us to count them before.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah,
but this is a lot of bottles, and I’ve got a truck to unload.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
pointed at a trailer docked in one of the bays, as if we thought he might be
lying. Freddie thought a moment, scratching at the wisps of hair above his
right ear. I didn’t think he had much longer to be scratching any hair at all.
He looked like Larry from the Three Stooges.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Thinking
about that reminded me of the wisecrack I’d used on Betty, and that reminded me
of my brothers being home without me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“C’mon,
man,” Tommy grumbled. “I got shit to do.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Freddie
ignored him. “Tell you what,” he finally said. “Sort them for me, and I’ll
count them out. Stand all the loose bottles up here divided by size.” He
pointed to the top of the steps. “Put all the full cartons at the bottom of the
steps, also divided by size. And make sure they’re full and not partials. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Bang
on the door when you’re done, and I’ll come add ‘em up.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Shit!”
Tommy cursed as Freddie left, the heavy metal door thudding shut in his wake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Bitching
wasn’t going to get anything done. I told Tommy to start setting aside the
cartons while Rupe tossed me the loose bottles. Rupe and I got into a pretty
cool rhythm. He was flipping them up as I set them down, keeping it challenging
for me. We were grinning and making a game of it. I wasn’t going to drop a
single one. <i>Unless Rupe throws one too fast,</i> I thought, wanting him to
try it. “You clowns drop shit, and it comes out your ass,” Tommy told us. Rupe
ignored him but slowed his pace.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
should have caught on. Later that day, I kicked myself more than once for
missing the clues. There were telltale signs something was up. For one, Freddie
never had us sort anything before. He’d always pushed our carts into the
nearest bay and had a stock boy unload them. For another, there wasn’t a peep
coming out of that trailer he was supposed to be unloading. There was no
forklift banging in and out of it or pallet jack bumping around. In fact, there
weren’t even footsteps echoing off the walls in that trailer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And
the biggest clue of all? “Hey, Rupe?” I called out as the thought occurred to
me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Rupe
was bent over in the last of our carts. We were nearly finished. Tommy was
already done sorting cartons and was sitting on the steps having a smoke. Benji
was sitting close to him, but watching me at my work.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Freddie
didn’t ask about your mom,” I told him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Rupe
tossed me another bottle, and I bobbled it due to my lack of concentration. We
both glanced at Tommy, who thankfully had his back to us. “Good.” Rupe’s
response was curt. We were all tense. “I don’t need that snaggle-toothed freak
worrying about her anyways.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah,
but he always asks about your mom,” I mused.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
we heard the Harleys, and everyone exploded into action. Everyone except me,
that is. A pair of bikes came thundering at us from either side of the back of
the store. Rupe ran right past the ones between us and the way toward home, his
limp barely discernible as he churned for freedom, arms pumping wildly. One of
the bikers spun around and gunned the throttle. Rupe wasn’t going to reach the
street before that dude had him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Tommy
dropped his cigarette and bolted straight across the lot, leapt as high as he
could and grabbed the top of the tall concrete divider between the store and
the backyards of some houses on the other side of the wall. He hooked his foot
on the top of the wall and flipped himself over, leaving behind only a pick
that fell out of his hair before he completely vanished. One of the bikers
roared on toward the street, meaning to head him off and catch him. That dude
might as well have been chasing dandelion fuzz in a tornado.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
stood in place, only moving enough to get my dog to climb the steps and stay
closer to me. One of the bikers stopped right at the base of the stairs,
shutting off his engine and removing his gloves. He looked up at me, but I
stayed calm, thinking things through. I did pretty well under pressure, even
when I was scared. Naturally, I wanted to flee, but where was I going to run? I
wasn’t about to risk my dog getting run over, and they were on bikes while I
was on foot. I decided to stay where I was.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
guy near the steps had a receded hairline with dark curly hair, striking blue
eyes, and a square jaw. He was clean-shaven, which made him look younger than
he probably was. He had a deep scar near the cleft of his chin that only added
to his rugged appeal. He was the kind of guy my mother swooned over but never
figured out how to get noticed by. I thought the guy looked like some kind of
movie star, like Marlon Brando in that biker movie.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
other dude who was still here was big as a grizzly, with bare arms so hairy you
could hardly see the tattoos beneath his fur. He was bearded, but when he
pulled off his German-looking spiked helmet, he was bald as a newborn baby. His
bike was a chopper, with an extended rake attached to the front wheel and a
real high sissy bar off the seat. The big bastard glared at me with open
contempt. He flipped down his kick stand and rocked his bike backward into a
balanced, parked position.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Freddie
cracked open the door and peeked out, but he slammed it shut again when he saw
me on his landing. I heard him turn the lock. Nobody spoke, and it wasn’t long
before one of the dudes came back, hauling Rupe by the back of his shirt. My
friend looked like a kitten being carried by the scruff of the neck. The biker
puttered along, half-carrying Rupe with one strong arm while the kid stumbled,
tears in his eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We
still didn’t say a word. In the distance, the only Harley still running faded
in and out of hearing, but eventually grew loud and constant. I sat down next
to my dog and waited, with my heart pounding and the guy at the base of the
steps still eyeing me. He wasn’t as big as the others, and he didn’t look that
old. He was wearing an army green bandana that he readjusted on his head, and I
was positive I’d seen him before. <i>But where?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Rupe
was still sobbing when the last of the bikers came back empty-handed. He had
shoulder-length, rust-colored hair, and a drooping mustache. He wasn’t wearing
any protective gear on his head or face, and he looked sheepish as he
explained, “I couldn’t catch him. That nigger runs like a nigger.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
it hit me: these guys had noticed they’d been ripped off and warned the nearest
stores to alert them if anyone hauled in a massive amount of bottles. Freddie
must have called them. If I hadn’t been so close to pissing myself, I might
have screamed out loud. <i>You are so stupid! </i>I yelled in my head. I was a
dunce for not recognizing this. Still, there was no reason to drag Rupe down with
me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“He
didn’t do anything,” I told the guy holding Rupe. His parents would flip on
him. All I had to worry about was Betty. <i>And the four bad asses surrounding
you,</i> I reminded myself. “He’s just helping us haul the bottles. You don’t
have any beef with him.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
think we’ll be the ones to say who we have a beef with and who we don’t, you
little asshole,” the bear growled at me, swinging his bulk off the bike and
standing. He wore a jean jacket with the sleeves cut off. Harley Davidson wings
proudly covered the back of his denim vest. His arms were kind of flabby, but
they were bigger around than my legs.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Maybe
your waist.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “You don’t tell anybody
shit.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Easy,
Chick,” the guy nearest me warned.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Sweet
Jesus! The grizzly’s name is Chick!</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">
What kind of shit was that? “I’m just saying, if you’re going to have the fuzz
after you for beating on children, you might as well make sure you’re smacking
around the ones who deserve it,” I offered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
guy holding Rupe started looking around like there might be a cop nearby. “Hey,
I didn’t hit the kid,” he muttered, letting him go. Rupe stumbled back a few
steps, unsure if he should try to run again. “You ain’t hurt, are you, kid?
Nicky, I swear to God, man. I didn’t hit the kid.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Don’t
sweat it,” the guy close to me told him. He tugged his bandana a bit lower on
his forehead and smiled at me. He had an okay smile for a biker. “That was
pretty good, kid.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“That
was the truth. I stole from you, not him,” I said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“So
you fucking admit it!” Chick growled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why
should I believe you, kid?” Nicky asked. “I already know you’re a thief. Why
not assume you’re a liar too?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
shrugged. “I am a liar, but I’m not lying right now. He couldn’t tell you jack
shit about your garage, but I can. I can tell you about the spare bike parts,
the old tires, the can of Jack Daniel’s bottles, the old calendar of naked
chicks”—<i>careful with that chick word, dumbass—</i>“and how the floor near
the back of the building stays a little wet. I can tell you this because <i>I</i>
was in there and <i>he</i> wasn’t. You saw the way his ass ran. You think a kid
as slow as him would climb into a garage with all you dudes just a few feet
away? What chance would he have of getting away? If I’d of took off when you
guys showed up, you wouldn’t have had a chance in hell of catching me. I’m
telling you… I stole your shit, not limpy over there.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“If
you could have got away, why’d you stay?” Nicky asked me, just like I’d hoped
he would.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
pointed at my dog. “I couldn’t climb the wall with him along, and I’m not going
to risk him getting run over by one of you or getting hit by a car trying to
cross these busy streets.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“That’s
not going to matter much when I kick the little fucker to death,” said Chick.
That was my biggest fear, that they’d come at me and Benji would bite. I didn’t
want them to hurt my dog. Chick tapped a chain he had wrapped around the back
of his seat. “Or bash his head in with this.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“So
you stole all this by yourself?” Nicky asked me. I didn’t answer. “I asked you
a question, kid,” he said, his tone not mean but serious. I didn’t want to
throw Tommy under the bus, but Rupe’s ass was on the line. I shook my head. “The
black kid help you?” I nodded. He’d said black kid and not nigger. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I took that
as a good sign. “Anybody else?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah,
a guy named Mike Collins who lives over on Sunset,” I threw in. <i>And I hope
one of you break his legs.</i> God, I was good at this.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nicky
rubbed at a leather wristband, musing. I could see some kind of Japanese symbol
burned into the leather, and maybe a name. But he eventually said, “Go on, kid,
scram.” My buddy stared at him like he’d told him to strip and dance a tango
instead of leave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Rupe
looked to me, and I nodded. “Go on, I’ll be all right.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And
I would be. If Nicky was letting Rupe go, he’d bought my story, and would buy
more. Nicky was in charge, and he wasn’t stupid. If he was letting Rupe go, he
wasn’t going to hurt me. Rupe had seen them, and would be a witness if anything
serious went down. After a last glance at me, Rupe trotted off, looking back
more than once before he went around the corner and I lost sight of him. I was
hoping he was smart enough not to go after any cops.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nicky
<i>was</i> smart. A lot smarter than I’d first thought. “You probably think you’re
going to get off free and clear, huh, kid?” Nicky asked. <i>Well, yeah, but you
weren’t supposed to know that.</i> “I got news for you, boy.” <i>Oh shit.</i> “Just
‘cause I let your friend slide doesn’t mean you got away with shit. I’ve seen
you around, and I’m going to introduce you to an underage friend of mine in the
not-too-distant future.” Nicky smiled again, and this time there was nothing
nice about it. “Think about that on your way home.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“And
I’m still going to kick your fucking dog,” promised Chick.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh
shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Nicky pushed
his bike back a little and waved his arm in an invitation for me to leave. “Be
seeing ya, kid,” he told me. And there was that smile again. “Real soon.” <i>Think
think think think.</i> Chick moved closer to the stairs, moving into position
to possibly hurt my dog. He had big boots with metal studs and leather straps.
It was crunch time. <i>Either start crying or say something,</i> I told myself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Come
on, kid, get moving,” Nicky said soberly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“How
about a deal?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
got nothing to deal with, kid,” Nicky returned. “We’ve got the bottles, and we’re
going to get the money for them—and you’re going to get an ass-whipping.” Nicky
leaned out a bit and spit on the Kroger’s pavement. “End of story.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“We
don’t know you from Adam, boy,” added Chick. “Now come on down here.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
I remembered something.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Your
friend Harry knows my mother.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“How
does your mom know Harry?” Nicky asked, taking the bait.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“He
took her to some picnic you guys had out at the fairgrounds just before school
let out,” I explained. <i>Keep them talking. Get them involved in your
problems,</i> I heard Betty telling me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">They
all laughed. One of the guys sitting back said, “If she was with Harry she must
be a real winner. Dirty Harry only fucks porkers.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nicky
wasn’t laughing as hard as the others. “You sure your mom was with Harry, kid?
Harry isn’t exactly a mom kind of guy.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Harry’s
not even a guy, he’s more dog than man,” the other biker said. They all laughed
again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
remembered Harry fairly clearly. He had a gut and bad pock marks on his cheeks
and neck, with a bulbous nose full of more craters than the moon. He wasn’t an
easy dude to look at, and he’d scared the living shit out of my brothers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“She’s
screwed around with way worse than him,” I informed them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“What’s
your mom’s name, kid?” Nicky asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Betty.”
Just saying it made me feel dirty. I knew they would remember her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hey,
yeah,” Nicky said, snapping his fingers. “She was with that tub you were
wrestling around with, Chick. What was her name?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nicky
kept struggling to remember, so I filled him in: “Ruby.” Saying her name was
worse than uttering Betty’s, but at least I wasn’t related to <i>her.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah!
Ruby!” the redhead crowed. They were losing it now, and Chick dropped his head,
chagrined.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I didn’t know if I was helping myself or writing my own death
warrant. “You were with her in the back of that little pickup and the camper
broke loose!” Even Chick cracked a grin. “You got to remember her!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
fucking remember!” Chick yelled at him, and that had them all laughing
hysterically.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nicky
wiped tears from his eyes. Behind me, Freddie poked his head out again, but
shut and locked the door after a quick look-see.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
guess that’s a little something, kid. You got a fucked-up mother. But why
should I listen to your deal?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Because
you helped me out this summer, and the Chinese believe you’re responsible for
someone when you save them,” I explained, almost hating myself for using Tony’s
line.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
helped you out? When?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">My
goose was cooked if my memory had failed me. “You were jogging by when I was in
a fight.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Your buddy wiped my face and told me to keep my dukes up.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nicky
opened his mouth slightly and nodded. “I remember. But that wasn’t a fight,
kid. You got blasted, and I didn’t save you from anything.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
helped me,” I pleaded.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nicky
shook his head. “Not enough. Got anything else?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">This
was my last hope. I glanced at Nicky’s forearm. He had an Army tattoo very
similar to my stepdad’s. “You were in Nam. So was my dad. Well, not my dad, but
my brothers’ dad. My stepdad.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“How
do you know I was in Nam?” I had his attention now. I had everyone’s attention.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Your
tattoo.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Your
dad had a tattoo like this?” He held out his arm and touched his ink.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Not
exactly.” I explained the differences as best I could.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Airborne,”
Chick pronounced, and Nicky nodded.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“What
happened to your dad?” Nicky asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“His
helicopter got shot down, and they sent him home with multiple shrapnel wounds.
He had a medal shaped like a purple heart, and he was nominated for a star of
some kind, but I don’t know if he ever got it.” All of that was true. I could
tell my story fit what they knew about my stepdad’s tattoo. “I have a picture
and a letter he wrote me. I’ll show you if you want.” That was true, too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Where’s
your dad now, kid?” Nicky asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“He
split.” I swallowed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Terrance
had been good to me. I had memories of Christmas with lots of toys, of playing
with him and wrestling on the bed when he’d wake me up in the morning. But
those good times had been long ago and were hard to recall.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“He
was hooked on drugs when he came back, and my mother had been fucking around a
lot. They couldn’t work it out. He split.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nicky
was rubbing that wrist band again. He got off his bike and stooped down,
snapping his fingers and motioning for Benji to come down. I nearly shit myself
when my dog scrambled down the concrete steps and let a stranger rub on him. “You
a good mutt?” he asked my dog.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
<i>were</i> in Nam, right?” I asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“We
all were,” Chick told me. His voice had changed. It wasn’t quite as gruff. “You
don’t ride with us unless you were in country.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Okay,
kid, we’ll listen to your deal, but no promises,” Nicky said, rubbing behind my
dog’s ears.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Great, they’ll kill me and keep my dog. </i>“That much we owe,
but for your dad, not your stealing little ass.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
was taking anything I could get. “I was thinking I could pay you back. If you
give me a break, that is.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“And
how would you do that?” asked Nicky.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
could come by once a month and haul your bottles here, only instead of keeping
the money, I’ll bring it back to you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Like
we could trust you,” Chick muttered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Test
me. Count the bottles if you want. I ever short you and you can still have my
ass whipped.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Your
ass already <i>is</i> whipped, junior,” Chick promised.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hold
on, Chick, I kind of like that proposition. In a way, we’d be doing our part to
raise the kid right. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">You know, teaching him something.” Nicky gave me the grin
I’d seen earlier, the smile that had given me hope. “Only it’ll be every two
weeks, kid. And you don’t miss. And you do it alone.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
bring a nigger around our place again, and <i>I’ll</i> whip your ass, fuzz or
no,” the redhead who’d let Rupe go told me. There was that black-and-white
thing again. Maybe Tommy was right, and there was more going down against
blacks than I was aware of.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Easy,
Monroe,” Nicky said. “You do this alone, kid. You understand?” I nodded. “This
is between you and us. Nobody else is involved, or else we end our deal and see
what happens after. You in with that?” Oh, I was in. I was most definitely in.
I nodded again, trying to stay cool and not let them see how relieved I was. “Good.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“What’s
your name, kid?” Nicky asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
almost lied but thought better of it. I was skating on ice that started melting
an hour ago. “Donny.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Well,
Donny, I’m going to give you a free piece of advice.” He pulled his gloves back
on. Benji realized the petting session was over and hopped up a couple of steps
closer to me. “You seem like a smart kid, so take this for what you will. When
you steal from the Kroger, they have to call the police.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">They have to follow
the law. Follow rules.” He let me soak that up, watching me closely. “But when
you steal from the street, there’s a whole different set of laws to be leery
of.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“The
law of the jungle,” Chick chimed in, like we were in school and he was proud to
know the answer to a teacher’s question.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nicky
laughed. “He’s right. You steal from somebody, or step on them any old way, and
you better know what they’re capable of.” His face hardened. “What they’re
willing to do in return.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
nodded because he looked like he wanted some kind of response from me. “Okay,”
I said. “And thanks for giving me a break.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
threw a leg over his bike, getting saddled up to leave. “Donny, the next time I
go to court, you’re pleading my case. Stay in school and think hard on being a
lawyer. You’re already a thief, so the transition should be pretty smooth.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
was thinking that I’d pulled off one of the greatest escapes in the history of
mankind when Chick said, “I’m still going to slap you one and kick your dog.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
wasn’t sure if he meant it or not. I looked to Nicky, and he only shrugged. “Sorry,
kid. He’s too big for me to tell what to do.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Lay
off, Chick,” Monroe urged. “Let the kid and his dog go home.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
need to shut up before I wipe my ass with a wad of that red hair,” Chick
warned.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Sorry,
buddy,” Monroe told me, sighing. “Like Nicky said, he’s just too big to fuck
around with.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Part
of me was sure Chick was only messing with me, trying to give me a good scare. <i>You
hope.</i> But another part was truly terrified that he was going to hurt my
dog. “I thought we had a deal,” I said directly to Chick.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Only
for the bottles, boy,” he said. “I still owe you for sneaking around my place.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Just
take your medicine, kid. It won’t be that bad,” the biker whose name I’d yet to
learn said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Take it easy, Chick. They’re both kind of small. You might kill
one of them.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Okay,
now I was pretty sure they were fucking with me. I held up my fingers and made
the play gun out of my hand. “Hey, Chick, can you do this?” I asked him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
scowled at me. God, I was praying this wasn’t a huge mistake. “Why the fuck
would I want to?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Please,
just do it. Trust me, you’ll like this. If you don’t, you can hit me twice as
much as you were going to.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Go
on, tough guy,” Monroe urged.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“What
are you afraid of?” the other guy asked. “Go on. Do it.” Nicky was watching me
as Chick hesitantly obliged. “Now point your gun at the dog,” I instructed.
Chick made a face, but slowly did as I’d asked. Benji saw him and stood
expectantly, tail wagging. <i>Come on, old buddy. Save my ass.</i> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Now say
bang.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Chick
didn’t follow instructions very well. Instead of bang, he made a noise like a
shotgun going off, jerking his hand like his fingers had a recoil he could
barely control. Still, Benji fell over right on cue, like he’d been laid to
waste. The hair covering his eyes even made it look even better, since they
could hardly see that the dog was still watching Chick.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Our
act cracked them up, and as menacing as Chick tried to appear, he kind of
looked like a little kid when his fat head was split by one of the biggest
grins I’d ever seen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">____________________________________<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Th9Xd4CmlYSzeFvrQZbhcKPeasZnyD2TYniABmkitMLZCRR5fbtqnJ_dX5S1dJD47y7Z6GJfq7GW02XxuBv67N6xADuEij9nNGBdpGPv-6V7SYhr5jyGcxA-Qb8WMqN5PSaJc8i6YCg/s1600/Betty's+Child+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Th9Xd4CmlYSzeFvrQZbhcKPeasZnyD2TYniABmkitMLZCRR5fbtqnJ_dX5S1dJD47y7Z6GJfq7GW02XxuBv67N6xADuEij9nNGBdpGPv-6V7SYhr5jyGcxA-Qb8WMqN5PSaJc8i6YCg/s1600/Betty's+Child+cover.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bettys-Child-ebook/dp/B00BOL69ZO/" target="_blank"><b>Available on Amazon</b></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bettys-Child-ebook/dp/B00BOL69ZO/" target="_blank"><b>Betty’s Child: a memoir</b></a></span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> (available on Amazon) is copyright © 2013 by Donald R. Dempsey. All rights
reserved. No part of this post may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or
any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written
permission of the author and publisher.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">This excerpt has been posted
with the permission of the author and his publisher.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">First Dream of Things
edition, February 2013</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Published by Dream of Things,
Downers Grove, Illinois USA<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">DreamOfThings.com<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Originally published by
Donald R. Dempsey in 2009.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">____________________________________<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Review of <i>Betty’s Child: a memoir</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>Highly Recommended! Five
stars.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
just finished reading this book, and I’m speechless in the face of this
terrific writer. Donald Dempsey opens an artery and spills his childhood trauma
onto the page. It is a delicate dance between detail and emotion when one
writes a memoir about childhood abuse, and Dempsey dances like a pro.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">While
Dempsey offers some graphic detail, it is accompanied by the emotion felt by
12-year-old Donny—no gratuitous BS. Every detail is absolutely necessary for
the progression of his life during this time.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Readers
will be shocked by Betty (the author’s mother) and her atrocious behavior, and,
yet, there seems to be a part of Donny/Donald who loved and still loves her. At
best, his mother was a neglectful parent, at worst an abusive mother who
invited abusive men into her life, and, yet, the author offers glimpses of her
humanity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Never
have I read such a wonderful characterization of an animal (the author’s dog
Benji) in which the animal was not the main focus of the book (like in </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Marley
& Me</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">). Dempsey also creates rich characterizations of his brothers
Terry and Chip (who were only six and three at the time).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Never
have I experienced such seesaw emotions when reading a memoir: horror,
laughter, and sadness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">This
book may not be for everyone; if one is seeking a fast, action packed
narrative, this isn’t it. It’s long (438 pages), with lots of interior pain and
emotion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">This
book DESERVES to be a best seller, and I have a feeling that the literary
community will be hearing from Donny/Donald Dempsey again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">____________________________________</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-85374173049885117352013-05-14T23:57:00.004-04:002013-05-14T23:57:52.832-04:00Poetry in Space: David Bowie's "Space Oddity," Performed on the Space Station, by Astronaut Chris Hadfield<center>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/KaOC9danxNo" width="560"></iframe></center>
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I don't often embed viral videos, but I just love this one so much.</center>
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I wish I had a poem in me to respond to this amazing video,</center>
<center>
but I'm just dried up in the poetry department.</center>
<center>
If a reader has poem to share about this video,</center>
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please email it to me, and I'll consider posting it here.</center>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-82984704991049672442013-05-11T23:41:00.000-04:002013-05-11T23:41:03.603-04:00Happy Mother's Day! Song: On May Morning (John Milton, 1608-1674)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_TLrhPVxCGsSLz-DlkdPGZTmbhRv9-ZEeFAqtrdxA-tIh1ZpHdxC0U8i78rq0GYB92pEx0H1RE932dhWScDOfcKrRKqLrARH-O60DSNSD49yvWhy8S25kNK3pSPbyBMyDYtigr5fFvQ/s1600/CharlesWBartletHawaiianMotheandChild1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" mwa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_TLrhPVxCGsSLz-DlkdPGZTmbhRv9-ZEeFAqtrdxA-tIh1ZpHdxC0U8i78rq0GYB92pEx0H1RE932dhWScDOfcKrRKqLrARH-O60DSNSD49yvWhy8S25kNK3pSPbyBMyDYtigr5fFvQ/s320/CharlesWBartletHawaiianMotheandChild1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>Hawaiian Mother and Child</em>,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">watercolor and pastel on art board,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">by Charles W. Bartlett, c. 1920</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">___________________________</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
Now the bright morning-star, Day’s harbinger,<br />
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her<br />
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws<br />
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.<br />
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire<br />
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!<br />
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;<br />
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.<br />
Thus we salute thee with our early song,<br />
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.<br />
_____________________________ <br />
<br />
1632-1633 <div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-3088279636712145362013-04-22T14:47:00.001-04:002013-04-22T14:58:07.897-04:00The Cloud (Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792-1822)--Happy Earth Day!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4_eWEMnONU1ej7zsjdzpPPzUGVDPpynMMQhDtbPUS4IW1bbY6KxcM7vBGi1DeJsFffhv7VwevqQUyI2LE3myOQR3oy52DMCvPR-2CJSs9kMWrtklpSiOxwirtfesV5AHjtN3XjZxA3A/s1600/Earth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dua="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4_eWEMnONU1ej7zsjdzpPPzUGVDPpynMMQhDtbPUS4IW1bbY6KxcM7vBGi1DeJsFffhv7VwevqQUyI2LE3myOQR3oy52DMCvPR-2CJSs9kMWrtklpSiOxwirtfesV5AHjtN3XjZxA3A/s320/Earth.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<u><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: NASA</span></u></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,<br />From the seas and the streams;<br />I bear light shade for the leaves when laid<br />In their noonday dreams.<br />From my wings are shaken the dews that waken<br />The sweet buds every one,<br />When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,<br />As she dances about the sun.<br />I wield the flail of the lashing hail,<br />And whiten the green plains under,<br />And then again I dissolve it in rain,<br />And laugh as I pass in thunder.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I sift the snow on the mountains below,<br />And their great pines groan aghast;<br />And all the night 'tis my pillow white,<br />While I sleep in the arms of the blast.<br />Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,<br />Lightning, my pilot, sits;<br />In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,<br />It struggles and howls at fits;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,<br />This pilot is guiding me,<br />Lured by the love of the genii that move<br />In the depths of the purple sea;<br />Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,<br />Over the lakes and the plains,<br />Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,<br />The Spirit he loves remains;<br />And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,<br />Whilst he is dissolving in rains.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.25in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,<br />And his burning plumes outspread,<br />Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,<br />When the morning star shines dead;<br />As on the jag of a mountain crag,<br />Which an earthquake rocks and swings,<br />An eagle alit one moment may sit<br />In the light of its golden wings.<br />And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,<br />Its ardors of rest and of love,</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And the crimson pall of eve may fall<br />From the depth of Heaven above,</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,<br />As still as a brooding dove.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">That orbed maiden with white fire laden,<br />Whom mortals call the Moon,<br />Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,<br />By the midnight breezes strewn;<br />And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,<br />Which only the angels hear,<br />May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,<br />The stars peep behind her and peer;<br />And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,<br />Like a swarm of golden bees,<br />When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,<br />Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,<br />Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,<br />Are each paved with the moon and these.</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,<br />And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;<br />The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim<br />When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.<br />From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,<br />Over a torrent sea,<br />Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,--<br />The mountains its columns be.<br />The triumphal arch through which I march<br />With hurricane, fire, and snow,<br />When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,<br />Is the million-colored bow;<br />The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,<br />While the moist Earth was laughing below.</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I am the daughter of Earth and Water,<br />And the nursling of the Sky;<br />I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;<br />I change, but I cannot die.<br />For after the rain when with never a stain<br />The pavilion of Heaven is bare,<br />And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams<br />Build up the blue dome of air,<br />I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,<br />And out of the caverns of rain,<br />Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,<br />I arise and unbuild it again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 13pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">_____________________</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 13pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Happy Birthday, Jerry! </span></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-91504948157255706232013-04-21T23:40:00.002-04:002013-04-21T23:40:32.535-04:00A Story for a Child (Bayard Taylor, 1825 - 1878)<div align="center" class="printables" style="margin: auto 0in; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9PfPsatzVbfnoXJXhfHfrKZL5HoEicUQeegAWM0CYWBshY4fKftzlZYV5ShJKaNA1w_qgovJNdMVyba8eo4WkRUYyP4gkjdTOXWhW9Iotd1WKK3Uhjw_Oe8S81OB1LXPJoEOs0FTVtc/s1600/RedHairChild.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dua="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9PfPsatzVbfnoXJXhfHfrKZL5HoEicUQeegAWM0CYWBshY4fKftzlZYV5ShJKaNA1w_qgovJNdMVyba8eo4WkRUYyP4gkjdTOXWhW9Iotd1WKK3Uhjw_Oe8S81OB1LXPJoEOs0FTVtc/s320/RedHairChild.jpg" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I</span></div>
<div class="printables" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Little one, come to my knee!<br />Hark, how the rain is pouring<br />Over the roof, in the pitch-black night,<br />And the wind in the woods a-roaring!</span></div>
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<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">II</span></div>
<div class="printables" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Hush, my darling, and listen,<br />Then pay for the story with kisses;<br />Father was lost in the pitch-black night,<br />In just such a storm as this is!</span></div>
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<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">III</span></div>
<div class="printables" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">High up on the lonely mountains,<br />Where the wild men watched and waited;<br />Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush,<br />And I on my path belated.</span></div>
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<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">IV</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The rain and the night together<br />Came down and the wind came after,<br />Bending the props of the pine-tree roof,<br />And snapping many a rafter.</span></div>
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<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">V</span></div>
<div class="printables" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I crept along in the darkness,<br />Stunned, and bruised, and blinded, -<br />Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs,<br />And a sheltering rock behind it.</span></div>
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<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">VI</span></div>
<div class="printables" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There, from the blowing and raining,<br />Crouching, I sought to hide me:<br />Something rustled, two green eyes shone,<br />And a wolf lay down beside me.</span><br />
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">VII</span></div>
<div class="printables" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Little one, be not frightened;<br />I and the wolf together,<br />Side by side, through the long, long night,<br />Hid from the awful weather.</span><br />
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">VIII</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">His wet fur pressed against me;<br />Each of us warmed the other;<br />Each of us felt, in the stormy dark,<br />That beast and man was brother.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">IX</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And when the falling forest<br />No longer crashed in warning,<br />Each of us went from our hiding-place<br />Forth in the wild, wet morning.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">X</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Darling, kiss me payment!<br />Hark, how the wind is roaring;<br />Father's house is a better place<br />When the stormy rain is pouring!</span></div>
<div class="printables" style="margin: auto 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">________________</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;"><em>The Political Works of Bayard Taylor</em>,<strong> </strong></span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1883.</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-21064155221253916002013-04-18T03:45:00.000-04:002013-04-18T03:45:01.140-04:00The Highwayman (Alfred Noyes, 1880-1958)<center>
</center>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIUObycdn67r6kbFkW0OxapiJUvP5w_yfRauEN-WdW-3dvwZDp8B176rDQymjJMtNYbCYpLDNcUsILal7BmQ0IV_sK3rgH8zeffNEm3I5WhckoeEHL8sX2uLxl5cwVKxUBiZRo_3f7B2w/s1600/AlfredNoyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dua="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIUObycdn67r6kbFkW0OxapiJUvP5w_yfRauEN-WdW-3dvwZDp8B176rDQymjJMtNYbCYpLDNcUsILal7BmQ0IV_sK3rgH8zeffNEm3I5WhckoeEHL8sX2uLxl5cwVKxUBiZRo_3f7B2w/s320/AlfredNoyes.jpg" width="236" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<center>
PART ONE</center>
<br />
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,<br />
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,<br />
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,<br />
And the highwayman came riding—<br />
Riding—riding—<br />
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.<br />
<br />
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,<br />
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;<br />
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!<br />
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,<br />
His pistol butts a-twinkle,<br />
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.<br />
<br />
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,<br />
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;<br />
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there<br />
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,<br />
Bess, the landlord's daughter,<br />
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.<br />
<br />
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked<br />
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;<br />
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,<br />
But he loved the landlord's daughter,<br />
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,<br />
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say<br />
<br />
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,<br />
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;<br />
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,<br />
Then look for me by moonlight,<br />
Watch for me by moonlight,<br />
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."<br />
<br />
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,<br />
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand<br />
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;<br />
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,<br />
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)<br />
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.<br />
<br />
<center>
PART TWO</center>
<br />
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;<br />
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,<br />
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,<br />
A red-coat troop came marching—<br />
Marching—marching—<br />
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.<br />
<br />
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,<br />
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;<br />
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!<br />
There was death at every window;<br />
And hell at one dark window;<br />
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.<br />
<br />
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;<br />
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!<br />
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.<br />
She heard the dead man say—<br />
<i>Look for me by moonlight;<br />Watch for me by moonlight;<br />I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!</i><br />
<br />
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!<br />
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!<br />
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,<br />
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,<br />
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,<br />
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!<br />
<br />
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!<br />
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,<br />
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;<br />
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;<br />
Blank and bare in the moonlight;<br />
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.<br />
<br />
<i>Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!</i> Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;<br />
<i>Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot</i>, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?<br />
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,<br />
The highwayman came riding,<br />
Riding, riding!<br />
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!<br />
<i>Tlot-tlot</i>, in the frosty silence! <i>Tlot-tlot</i>, in the echoing night!<br />
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!<br />
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,<br />
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,<br />
Her musket shattered the moonlight,<br />
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.<br />
<br />
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood<br />
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!<br />
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear<br />
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,<br />
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,<br />
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.<br />
<br />
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,<br />
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!<br />
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,<br />
When they shot him down on the highway,<br />
Down like a dog on the highway,<br />
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.<br />
<br />
<i>And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,<br />When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,<br />When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,<br />A highwayman comes riding—<br />Riding—riding—<br />A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.<br /><br />Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;<br />He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;<br />He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there<br />But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,<br />Bess, the landlord's daughter,<br />Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.</i><br />
<br />
<em>_______________________________</em><br />
<br />
Alfred Noyes, 1906<br />
<br />
Alfred Noyes.<i> Collected Poems, Vol 1</i>. Frederick A. Stokes, New York, 1913.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-6213000660606795442013-04-17T13:09:00.004-04:002013-04-17T14:20:49.583-04:00All Things Bright and Beautiful (Cecil Frances Alexander, 1818-1895)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWLoyAcM1dA_z3OTtwH37Ql237ZjmpgdjW_hAIW6izMZbqbVnZ8F7aSA0DgTMiIXuZfWgIsEJ9Vvo6D3mkKsdYou4FNmaboNWtLWHmUpk-3vPNgPtdFi6V-P1bNO_Szhswjmpm4VuPmg/s1600/AllThingsBrightAndBeautiful17April2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dua="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWLoyAcM1dA_z3OTtwH37Ql237ZjmpgdjW_hAIW6izMZbqbVnZ8F7aSA0DgTMiIXuZfWgIsEJ9Vvo6D3mkKsdYou4FNmaboNWtLWHmUpk-3vPNgPtdFi6V-P1bNO_Szhswjmpm4VuPmg/s320/AllThingsBrightAndBeautiful17April2013.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<em>All things bright and beautiful,</em><br />
<em>All creatures great and small,</em><br />
<em>All things wise and wonderful,</em><br />
<em>The Lord God made them all.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>Each little flower that opens,<br />
Each little bird that sings,<br />
He made their glowing colours,<br />
He made their tiny wings.<br />
<br />
<i>All things bright and beautiful,<br />All creatures great and small,<br />All things wise and wonderful,<br />The Lord God made them all.</i><br />
<br />
"The rich man in his castle,<br />
The poor man at his gate;<br />
He made them High and lowly<br />
He ordered their estate."<br />
<br />
<i>All things bright and beautiful,<br />All creatures great and small,<br />All things wise and wonderful,<br />The Lord God made them all.</i><br />
<br />
The purple headed mountain,<br />
The river running by,<br />
The sunset and the morning,<br />
That brightens up the sky; <br />
<br />
<i>All things bright and beautiful,<br />All creatures great and small,<br />All things wise and wonderful,<br />The Lord God made them all.</i><br />
<br />
The cold wind in the winter,<br />
The pleasant summer sun,<br />
The ripe fruits in the garden, <br />
He made them every one:<br />
<br />
<i>All things bright and beautiful,<br />All creatures great and small,<br />All things wise and wonderful,<br />The Lord God made them all.</i><br />
<br />
The tall trees in the greenwood,<br />
The meadows where we play,<br />
The rushes by the water,<br />
We gather every day; <br />
<br />
<i>All things bright and beautiful,<br />All creatures great and small,<br />All things wise and wonderful,<br />The Lord God made them all.</i><br />
<br />
He gave us eyes to see them,<br />
And lips that we might tell,<br />
How great is God Almighty,<br />
Who has made all things well.<br />
<br />
<i>All things bright and beautiful,<br />All creatures great and small,<br />All things wise and wonderful,</i><br />
<em>The Lord God made them all.</em><br />
<br />
<em>__________________________</em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The past few days have been horrendous--the Boston Marathon bombings and ricin incidents have shocked and dismayed us.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I thought we could use a little sentimentality.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-31777470739810896462013-04-16T19:29:00.001-04:002013-04-17T18:21:10.911-04:00Fake Memoirs About Childhood Sexual Abuse (Complete with Graphic Details)<center>
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<br />
<br />
I'm all for Indie books, but, the thing is, it is true that such books are not vetted for content.<br />
<br />
So one can expect uneven quality. I can accept that; it's fairly easy to wade through Amazon's "Look Inside" feature and book reviews; most of the the time, I am not disappointed by what I select for my reading pleasure.<br />
<br />
In fact, I have discovered some gems, wonderful books that make me wonder where the New York agents, editors, and publishers are hiding.<br />
<br />
And one of my worst reads was a traditional publication that had been praised by <i>Time Magazine</i>; it was awful, poorly written and edited, disorganized, and egocentric (the writer was supposed to be telling someone else's story but kept inserting herself in the narrative), but that's another issue...<br />
<br />
Still, for the most part, traditional publishers vet their books and weed out the truly awful. Most of them would not want to be associated with books depicting graphic details of sexual assaults against children when such gritty details are the main focus of the memoir. <br />
<br />
Traditional editors seem to ask their memoirists to walk a fine line between detailed descriptions and moderation. Also, bonafide memoirs about childhood sexual abuse also offer some insight into how the abuse has impacted the adult writer's life. While some descriptions may be graphic, the memoir as a whole is not.<br />
<br />
Moreover, it's the psychological and physical impact of the sexual abuse that's important--detailed descriptions in a memoir are less so.<br />
<br />
Many Indie memoirs seem to walk this fine line just fine.<br />
<br />
But there are some evil (at worst) and misguided (at best) opportunists out there who are writing "Fake Sexual Abuse Memoirs," filled with ugly details and few or no insights.<br />
<br />
I got snookered by one of these rotten books.<br />
<br />
Believing it was a real memoir, I downloaded it and read it, hoping that the author would eventually offer some insights, but that never happened. It offered page after page of "events" but no real understanding of them.<br />
<br />
I was going to post my Amazon review of the specific book here, but I have no wish to give this asshat any more publicity. Still, I would like to offer some tips for avoiding and dealing with such books:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
1. The author adds a "warning," such as: "Adult language and graphic content. Not suitable for children." Not all books with this kind of label are fake memoirs, but it could be a sign that you might be downloading one of these graphic books. I suspect that such warnings <em>could</em> be a "code" by and for pedophiles.<br />
<br />
2. Don't be fooled by stellar reviews; these books often have 4 and 5 star ratings. I suspect that some of these may have been posted by child predators, others by clueless and/or immature readers. You would do well to read the 1-3 star reviews as well and really consider what they are saying. In fact, you should do this for <i>any</i> book you are considering purchasing.<br />
<br />
3. Read ALL of the "Inside the Book" feature before buying and downloading. If the sample doesn't offer some insights and/or ring true, then it's unlikely the rest of the book will.<br />
<br />
4. Read the book description. However, in my case, that would not have helped because the description itself was deceptive, promising some insights into the signs of child sexual abuse, when, in fact, it did not.<br />
<br />
5. If you have snagged one of these dogs, don't be afraid to write a negative review for it.<br />
<br />
6. Don't be afraid to return such books to Amazon, even if you have finished the book. I usually don't return books that I have read to the end, but this should be an exception, so back it went. From my drop-down menu, I gave my reason: "offensive content." As readers, we don't have to support these types of writers.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
7. ADDED (17 April 2013): These fake memoir writers tend to write under fake names and take special care to cover their tracks. An alias in of itself is not necessarily a definitive sign of a fake memoir--there are many valid reasons to write a memoir under another name--but when added to other hinky details (numbers 1-4), it's a red flag.</blockquote>
I'm not sure what Amazon can do about such books; they seem to be hiding in plain sight, disguised as memoirs about childhood sexual abuse, but Amazon does not vet Indie books and they are not likely to start doing so. <br />
<br />
So it's <em>caveat emptor</em>!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-13779495447919409212013-04-13T19:12:00.001-04:002013-04-13T19:12:06.649-04:00Books Available on Kindle and in Paperback<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt; mso-outline-level: 1; text-align: center;">
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Garamond','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Are You </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Garamond','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">EVER<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Going to be Thin? (and other stories),</i> 2nd edition<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Garamond','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">“Kindle and Fire”: A Short Story<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Garamond','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">Memoir Madness: Driven to Involuntary Commitment<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Garamond','serif'; font-size: 14pt;">The Trash Can of L.A.: A Reality Play</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Garamond','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Garamond','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">For more info, please email:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-79276283585934400612013-03-11T17:32:00.003-04:002013-03-11T17:32:48.866-04:00So You Think You're A Poet (Marcus Bales)<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>Apollinaire</em>, Gedicht aus den Calligrammes</span>.</div>
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__________________________</div>
<br />
So you think you’re a poet: you’re handsome enough<br />
that your photograph gives you that look;<br />
some publisher prints your unedited stuff<br />
and calls it a postmodern book.<br />
<br />
You dress for success in new prosperous clothes<br />
and you flirt with the straights and the gays;<br />
you read out your craftless expressions of prose<br />
for the meager amount that it pays.<br />
<br />
But free verse is not about poems at all –<br />
it’s fronts, masquerades, and facades:<br />
they print up whatever you happen to scrawl,<br />
and the audience always applauds.<br />
<br />
The audience always applauds, but those claps<br />
aren’t judging poetic details;<br />
performance is different from writing -- perhaps<br />
you’re not good at poems, but sales.<br />
<br />
It turns out the living’s in getting a job<br />
to lecture kids younger than you:<br />
to teach them to join in the free versing mob<br />
then lecture yet younger kids, too.<br />
<br />
You blurb and you lobby to win one good prize <br />
so your books won’t remain on the shelf<br />
while caressing your pupils with only your eyes --<br />
and keep your old hands to yourself.<br />
<br />
You’ve got to keep track of whose student is whose<br />
as you blurb and you blurb and you blurb<br />
it takes only one fragile ego to bruise<br />
and your hunger is kicked to the curb.<br />
<br />
The prizes are out there, so don’t relax yet<br />
lobby and blurb for that call --<br />
keep prosing and posing, and never forget<br />
the poems don’t matter at all.<br />
<br />
So you think you’re a poet, still handsome enough<br />
that your photograph still has a look;<br />
and publishers still print unedited stuff,<br />
but now the prize makes it a book.<br />
<br />
_________________________________<br />
<br />
Not much is known about Marcus Bales, except he lives and works in Cleveland, Ohio, and his poems have not been published in <em>The New Yorker</em> or <em>The Atlantic</em>.<br />
<br />
Poem is copyright and all rights reserved by Marcus Bales and has been published with permission.</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-47622189797461743222012-07-15T18:15:00.008-04:002012-07-15T18:49:59.190-04:00Sordid Scene (Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, a.k.a. as the Earl of Lytton, 1831-1891)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjro0FXdP6U4yFq_B_ggXxqPD-ZbNDzRw5N9Y7QoYCMFl2EYruckd8wSDX0bFAdaqfB1hENg0qKDb8gb8eK7JmRBpXtG0ckbNp2xAGE7seTKTZaCY-JK529pw0W4yJyeOXMNoigmWxQPCc/s1600/PoliceEyes2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 169px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjro0FXdP6U4yFq_B_ggXxqPD-ZbNDzRw5N9Y7QoYCMFl2EYruckd8wSDX0bFAdaqfB1hENg0qKDb8gb8eK7JmRBpXtG0ckbNp2xAGE7seTKTZaCY-JK529pw0W4yJyeOXMNoigmWxQPCc/s400/PoliceEyes2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5765531367742982002" /></a><br /><blockquote><blockquote>Pale<br />Thro' the thick vagueness of the vaprous night,<br />From the dark alley, with a clouded light,<br />Two rheumy, melancholy lampions flare.<br />They are the eyes of the Police.<br />In there,<br />Down the dark archway, thro' the greasy door,<br />Passionately pushing past the three or four<br />Complacent constables that cluster'd round<br />A costermonger*, in gutter found<br />Incapably, but combatively, drunk,<br />The woman hurried. Thro' the doorway slunk<br />A peaky pinch'd-up child with frighten'd face,<br />Important witness in some murder case<br />About to come before the magistrate<br />To-morrow.<br />Misery.</blockquote></blockquote>_______________________<br /><br /><em>*Costermonger = seller of fruit on the street</em><br /><br />Note: Is it any wonder that a contest involving purple prose is named in the good Earl's honor?<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-80014678282333797552012-05-08T15:25:00.006-04:002012-05-08T15:46:10.965-04:00The Chimney Sweeper (William Blake, 1757-1827)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIkSVaWduoZ4TMoKSIgZyGYGgQ-FC5ES4CKXLiZ1GTRDla77azOV-PBvyR-y0Zf2v8pQzFGCTiLiI2bYZe56go9btZ5lj-nY3J9LIXf73AJBuM-lxjRpzEim3Lr8v22hpv0wwbYIGdA4/s1600/SongsOfInnocenceWilliamBlake2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIkSVaWduoZ4TMoKSIgZyGYGgQ-FC5ES4CKXLiZ1GTRDla77azOV-PBvyR-y0Zf2v8pQzFGCTiLiI2bYZe56go9btZ5lj-nY3J9LIXf73AJBuM-lxjRpzEim3Lr8v22hpv0wwbYIGdA4/s400/SongsOfInnocenceWilliamBlake2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5740250193725019922" /></a><blockquote>When my mother died I was very young, <br />And my father sold me while yet my tongue <br />Could scarcely cry "'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!" <br />So your chimneys I sweep and in soot I sleep. <br /><br />There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head <br />That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved, so I said, <br />"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare, <br />You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair." <br /><br />And so he was quiet, and that very night, <br />As Tom was a-sleeping he had such a sight! <br />That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, <br />Were all of them locked up in coffins of black; <br /><br />And by came an Angel who had a bright key, <br />And he opened the coffins and set them all free; <br />Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run, <br />And wash in a river and shine in the Sun. <br /><br />Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, <br />They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind. <br />And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy, <br />He'd have God for his father & never want joy. <br /><br />And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark <br />And got with our bags and our brushes to work. <br />Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm; <br />So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.<br /><br />_________________________<blockquote>From <em>Songs of Innocence</em>, 1789</blockquote></blockquote><div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
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Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
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When thoughts<br />Of the last bitter hour come like a blight<br />Over thy spirit, and sad images<br />Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,<br />And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,<br />Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart--<br />Go forth under the open sky, and list<br />To Nature's teachings, while from all around--<br />Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--<br />Comes a still voice:--Yet a few days, and thee<br />The all-beholding sun shall see no more<br />In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,<br />Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,<br />Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist<br />Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim<br />Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;<br />And, lost each human trace, surrendering up<br />Thine individual being, shalt thou go<br />To mix forever with the elements;<br />To be a brother to the insensible rock,<br />And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain<br />Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak<br />Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.<br />Yet not to thy eternal resting place<br />Shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst thou wish<br />Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down<br />With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,<br />The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,<br />Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,<br />All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills,<br />Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales<br />Stretching in pensive quietness between;<br />The venerable woods; rivers that move<br />In majesty, and the complaining brooks,<br />That make the meadows green, and, poured round all,<br />Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste--<br />Are but the solemn decorations all<br />Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,<br />The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,<br />Are shining on the sad abodes of death,<br />Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread<br />The globe are but a handful to the tribes<br />That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings<br />Of morning--pierce the Barcan wilerness,<br />Or lost thyself in the continuous woods<br />Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,<br />Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there!<br />And millions in those solitudes, since first<br />The flight of years began, have laid them down<br />In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone!<br />So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw<br />In silence from the living, and no friend<br />Take note of thy departure? All that breathe<br />Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh<br />When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care<br />Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase<br />His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave<br />Their mirth and their employments, and shall come<br />And make their bed with thee. As the long train<br />Of ages glides away, the sons of men--<br />The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes<br />In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,<br />The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--<br />Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side,<br />By those who in their turn shall follow them.<br />So live, that when thy summons comes to join<br />The innumerable caravan which moves<br />To that mysterious realm, where each shall take<br />His chamber in the silent halls of death,<br />Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,<br />Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed<br />By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave<br />Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch<br />About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.<br />________________________________ <br /><blockquote>1814 </blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-51426360818734873802011-11-29T13:46:00.006-05:002011-11-29T14:17:13.504-05:00There Was a Crooked Man (Anonymous)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtkAWHd6wSaQMtlP8APWpFpTIYvq5s0GhW_D0NpFuRoNMgsWw17g6JxQrNcSmD6qDuWP8lR8aYBKjYn45en1dQJFHPL5RZ5IFRRcAPb11kry7BSoO1XzgAz6M-LKqh0c-2VXKcMGP4QQ/s1600/CrookedManDouble2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 345px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtkAWHd6wSaQMtlP8APWpFpTIYvq5s0GhW_D0NpFuRoNMgsWw17g6JxQrNcSmD6qDuWP8lR8aYBKjYn45en1dQJFHPL5RZ5IFRRcAPb11kry7BSoO1XzgAz6M-LKqh0c-2VXKcMGP4QQ/s400/CrookedManDouble2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680498426888020306" /></a><br /><center>There was a crooked man,<br />and he went a crooked mile,<br />He found a crooked sixpence<br />against a crooked stile:<br />He bought a crooked cat,<br />which caught a crooked mouse,<br />And they all lived together<br />in a little crooked house.</center><div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-82696850007118807212011-11-29T09:58:00.000-05:002011-11-29T14:27:17.730-05:00Forum Thread: In 2111, What 2011 Poets Will Our Academic Descendants be Reading and Assigning?<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vFmX_AelEuE/SFKufkaalTI/AAAAAAAAA7c/fec2ZN2wJm8/s1600-h/statue+2+Glowing+edges.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211419576194733362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vFmX_AelEuE/SFKufkaalTI/AAAAAAAAA7c/fec2ZN2wJm8/s400/statue+2+Glowing+edges.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;"><strong>Bump.</strong></span></div><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff0000;">This post originally appeared on this site on April 9, 2008, when Poets.net was still very young. I believe this question is worthy of another look.</span></strong><br /><br /><em>As Bugzita on </em><a href="http://foetry.com/forum/index.php?topic=883.msg10919#msg10919"><strong><span style="color:#000099;"><em>Foetry</em></span></strong></a><em> (Reply #34, November 28, 2006), I posted the following:</em><br /><br />Quite frankly, most poetry published today would not pass "The Uncle Lyle Test." My Uncle Lyle is an ordinary Joe who likes to read, which I did not know until he read my first book (which sort of passed the test, but not entirely--oh, well).<br /><br />Say what you will about bestsellers, but they are bestsellers because they pass the test imposed by the Uncle Lyles of the reading world. Now if your work is so rarified that it leaves most readers scratching their heads, that's fine, and there's something to be said for creating work that excludes all but a few insiders--academia does it all the time. That's a choice, and I respect that.<br /><br />But I have a problem when these rarified poets start whining and moaning because no one wants read or buy their books. So some of them resort to dishonest methods to drum up bogus awards, which, from what I can see, are based less on quality of work and more on how well-connected they are. So everyone sets up a "press," and poets publish each other's poetry, no matter the quality: "Wink, Wink." To those not in the know, it all looks very respectable.<br /><br />The problem is: the published work itself becomes insular and not all that interesting to the average reader. And because most readers are average in terms of intellect and tastes, the rarified poets' books sell, perhaps, one or two hundred copies, sold to other poets. Of course there are always exceptions, but, unfortunately, this insularity seems to be the norm.<br /><br />And you wonder why poetry no longer matters? :?:<br /><br />Bugz<br /><br /><em>So, then, in 2008 (2011), as Jennifer, I pose the following questions for your consideration and opinion:</em><br /><em></em><br /><strong><span style="color:#006600;"><em>In 2111, what 2011 poets will be considered as literary representatives of our era, their works published in</em> The Norton Anthology<em> (2111 edition) and assigned by our academic descendants to school children and college students? If you wish, support your supposition with details.</em></span></strong><br /><em><strong><span style="color:#006600;"></span></strong></em><br /><strong><span style="color:#006600;"><em>Conversely, what 2011 poets will slide into obscurity? If you wish, support your supposition with details.</em><br /></span></strong><br /><a href="http://www.poets.net/2008/03/thread-is-poetry-dead-discussion.html"><strong><span style="color:#000099;">Related thread: "Is Poetry Dead?"</span></strong></a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-53483101414607806402011-11-29T01:54:00.001-05:002011-11-29T14:34:07.573-05:00Forum Thread: Is Poetry Dead? (Discussion)<em>From time to time, I will move up threads that seem to be relevant in the moment. New users jump onto Poets.net every day, and, perhaps, have missed some of the earlier threads.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>This thread was originally posted on March 31, at 9:50 PM, when Poets.net was just a week old.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Dana Gioia, in the May 1991 issue of <span style="color:#006600;"><strong>The Atlantic Monthly</strong></span>, wrote the still-controversial essay "Can Poetry Matter?"<br /><br />Some relevant excerpts from Gioia's essay: </em><br /><br />____________________________<br /><br />American poetry now belongs to a subculture. No longer part of the mainstream of artistic and intellectual life, it has become the specialized occupation of a relatively small and isolated group. Little of the frenetic activity it generates ever reaches outside that closed group. As a class poets are not without cultural status. Like priests in a town of agnostics, they still command a certain residual prestige. But as individual artists they are almost invisible.<br /><br />...<br /><br />Why, for example, does poetry mix so seldom with music, dance, or theater? At most readings the program consists of verse only—and usually only verse by that night's author. Forty years ago, when Dylan Thomas read, he spent half the program reciting other poets' work. Hardly a self-effacing man, he was nevertheless humble before his art. Today most readings are celebrations less of poetry than of the author's ego. No wonder the audience for such events usually consists entirely of poets, would-be poets, and friends of the author.<br /><br />...<br /><br />A clubby feeling also typifies most recent anthologies of contemporary poetry. Although these collections represent themselves as trustworthy guides to the best new poetry, they are not compiled for readers outside the academy.<br /><br />...<br /><br />Once poets began moving into universities, they abandoned the working-class heterogeneity of Greenwich Village and North Beach for the professional homogeneity of academia.<br /><br />...<br /><br />In 1940, with the notable exception of Robert Frost, few poets were working in colleges unless, like Mark Van Doren and Yvor Winters, they taught traditional academic subjects. The only creative-writing program was an experiment begun a few years earlier at the University of Iowa.<br /><br />...<br /><br />Reviewers fifty years ago were by today's standards extraordinarily tough. They said exactly what they thought, even about their most influential contemporaries. Listen, for example, to Randall Jarrell's description of a book by the famous anthologist Oscar Williams: it "gave the impression of having been written on a typewriter by a typewriter."...[Reviewers'] praise mattered, because readers knew it did not come lightly.<br /><br />...<br /><br />...no art faces more towering obstacles than poetry. Given the decline of literacy, the proliferation of other media, the crisis in humanities education, the collapse of critical standards, and the sheer weight of past failures, how can poets possibly succeed in being heard?<br /><br />...<br /><br /><em>[Closing paragraph:]</em><br /><br />It is time to experiment, time to leave the well-ordered but stuffy classroom, time to restore a <strong><span style="color:#990000;">vulgar vitality</span></strong> to poetry and unleash the energy now trapped in the subculture. There is nothing to lose. Society has already told us that poetry is dead. Let's build a funeral pyre out of the desiccated conventions piled around us and watch the ancient, spangle-feathered, unkillable phoenix rise from the ashes.<br /><br />____________________________<br /><br /><em>I have posted some highly relevant passages from Gioia's article, but this essay is well worth reading in its entirety.<br /><br />Gioia also offers "six modest proposals" for how "poetry could again become a part of American public culture," good advice for 2011, but you can read that for yourself (link below).</em><br /><br /><em>From </em><a href="http://www.danagioia.net/essays/ecpm.htm"><strong><span style="color:#000099;"><em>Can Poetry Matter</em></span></strong></a><em>?</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-47402182668069415822011-11-26T15:25:00.004-05:002011-11-26T15:48:02.233-05:00Announcement--Reviving Some Forum ThreadsReaders may have noticed the General Forum Threads and Book Review Threads at the top of this page; for the time being, I have decided to revive some old Poets.net blogger threads.<br /><br />I'll be the first to admit that a Blogger forum does not offer an ideal platform for spontaneity; it has its technical limitations--for example, if you want to edit or delete your comments, you cannot, and you cannot start threads or post articles, unless you have been invited and been accepted as a member of this blog.<br /><br />However, after my experience on the last version of the Poets.net forum, I have become somewhat skittish about reviving it on a standard forum platform. As some readers may know, it was a nightmare, one that I do not wish to repeat (trolls, creeps, spammers, porners, etc.), so I thought I would try using Blogger again, which now offers a lot of cool widgets and templates. And as I have become much more adept with the Blogger format, the threads should be be fairly easy to navigate. <br /><br />Admin is still very much dedicated to freedom of expression in the literary arts, believing that opposing views ought to be heard; however, in the end, as admin/owner, I decide what is appropriate for posting.<br /><br />Having said this, I tend not to have a twitchy finger when it comes to the delete button. I don't mind controversy and disagreement among commentators, but I do expect two things: basically staying on topic and being respectful of others.<br /><br />What will be deleted from this site:<blockquote><blockquote>--Comments with outside links.<blockquote>Sorry, but I have no way of knowing where that link will take readers.</blockquote>--Off topic comments<br /><br />--Advertising and general spam<br /><br />--Hate speech<br /><br />--Name calling<br /><br />--Bad language<br /><br />--Accusations (false and/or unproven)<br /><br />--Pornography</blockquote></blockquote>One final item:<blockquote><blockquote>You must be signed into your blogger/gmail account in order to post a comment on this blog.</blockquote></blockquote>Happy commenting!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-64306059237896489212011-11-26T05:38:00.001-05:002011-11-26T14:57:38.659-05:00Forum Thread: "My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went" (Anonymous Folk Poetry)<blockquote>[<em>Note: this thread was originally posted in April 2008, but I thought it was worth a bump up to 2011</em>.]</blockquote>I'm going to crawl out on a limb here and make a case for why <em>most</em> modern academic poetry will not endure beyond this generation.<br /><br />This morning, a traditional folk poem was published in our morning paper (<em>York Daily Record</em>, 10 April 2008, 6A) as part of "Save Those Clippings," by Richard Bowers, a column on aging and how older people seem to collect clippings and other stuff throughout their lives; the author even mentioned Emily Dickinson's penchant for collecting things: "After her death they found volumes of scraps with thoughts (her own and others) that were like seeds from which grew her marvelous poems."<br /><br />Bowers suggested that his readership pour themselves a cup of coffee, sit back, relax, and read the following traditional/folk poem on aging:<blockquote><blockquote><strong><span style="color:#006600;">How do I know my youth is all spent?<br /><br />Well, my Get-up-go has Got-up-and-went.<br /><br />But in spite of it all, I'm able to grin,<br /><br />When I think of where my "Get Up" has been.<br /><br />Old age is golden, I think I've heard it said.<br /><br />But sometimes I wonder as I crawl into bed,<br /><br />With my ears in a drawer, my teeth in a cup,<br /><br />And my eyes on the table until I wake up,<br /><br />'Ere' sleep dims my vision, I say to myself,<br /><br />"Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?"<br /><br />And I'm happy to say, as I close my door--<br /><br />"My friends are the same, perhaps even more."<br /><br />[</span></strong><strong><span style="color:#006600;"><em>But nations are warring and business is vexed<br /><br />So I'll stick around to see what happens next.</em>]<br /><br />When I was young, my slippers were red,<br /><br />I could kick up my heels right over my head.<br /><br />When I grew older, my slippers were blue,<br /><br />But still I could dance the whole [<em>night</em>] day through.<br /><br />But I am old, my slippers are black,<br /><br />I walk [<em>huff</em>] to the store and [<em>I</em>] puff my way back.<br /><br />[</span></strong><strong><span style="color:#006600;"><em>But never you laugh, I don't mind at all<br /><br />I'd rather be huffing than not puff at all</em>]<br /><br />The reason I know my youth is all spent,<br /><br />"My Get Up and Go has Got Up and Went."<br /><br />But I really don't mind when I think with a grin<br /><br />Of all the grand places my "Get Up" has been.<br /><br />Since I have retired from life's competition,<br /><br />I accommodate myself with complete submission.<br /><br />So, I get up each morning and dust off my wits,<br /><br />Open the paper and read the obits,<br /><br />If my name is missing, I know I'm not dead,<br /><br />And I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed.</span></strong></blockquote></blockquote>[<em>Bracketed words were added by Pete Seeger for a song of the same title.</em>]<br /><br />This poem, published in a market of about 350,000 people, probably received more views on one day than any published modern chapbook in its entire life cycle.<br /><br />Now why is that?<br /><br />"My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went" is certainly not "great" poetry; it doesn't play with language, doesn't stun with great metaphors and imagery, doesn't pretend to be the unknown poet's grand opus.<br /><br />It's just a poem that focuses on the human condition and in a way that the Uncle Lyles of middle America can understand and enjoy. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" does the same thing, but in a way that does not reach everyone.<br /><br />Now I love Prufrock, but I must admit it has taken me several readings to get there, and I still don't understand everything in that poem. But I'm an academic, and I'm expected to engage in a poetic struggle with Prufrock and his problems. But the average poetry aficionado can just get up and leave. And does. And will continue to do so. Now T.S. Eliot's work will endure, simply because the academy says it will by continuing to publish his poems in anthologies and imposing it on college freshmen. Perhaps Eliot's work endures because he was the first to wrestle with language in that long meandering manner, with vivid metaphors and similes, so he gets a pass for getting there first, just as e.e. cummings has been forgiven for all the imitative lower case "i" poems that have dogged his work.<br /><br />But here's the deal: once my students move on from Prufrock, most of them will forget him or only remember him as that strange old guy with the thinning hair, talking of bugs struggling on pins, yellow fog rubbing its back, crabs, peaches, women coming and going and speaking of Michelangelo.<br /><br />Now back to "My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went." I remember this poem from my childhood. Being raised by grandparents, I was privy to aging issues from a very young age. For amusement, my grandmother often dragged me to funerals of distant acquaintances and even strangers just because they were "from the parish." My grandmother loved this poem and knew it practically by heart. Of course, I'd roll my eyes and wished I could hang with younger people, but guess what? In an odd way, this poem has stuck with me. When I read it in this morning's paper, it struck a chord and brought back a past that no longer exists.<br /><br />I can read a <em>New Yorker</em> poem by a famous poet, and five minutes later, it's gone. No footprint at all. And it doesn't even matter if the poem is a linguistic masterpiece or just an exercise by a tired well-known poet. Something always seems to be missing.<br /><br />So, today, on the way to a conference, I tried to figured out why most people feel so removed and even alienated from modern poetry, which is often well crafted and even deeply personal.<br /><br />I decided that "My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went" would be a good poem to deconstruct, to figure out why this simple poem has endured among the masses, even touching folk singer Pete Seeger enough to write a melody for it. I came up with these reasons:<br /><br />1. The poem rhymes. Readers love to read and listen to rhyme. Back in the day when most people couldn't read, rhymed poems were easy to memorize and pass down to the next generation. Also, there is something about poetic patterns that is appealing and comforting.<br /><br />2. The theme is universal, easily accessible to all readers. Even as a kid, when I was rolling my eyes, I understood, at least on one level, what aging meant to my grandparents, and this poem "explained" it in a way that I could understand. Modern poetry tends to be so overly personal, almost to the point of being obtuse to most readers except for the poet's inner circle. This navel-gazing trend became popular with Sylvia Plath's works ("Daddy," "Edge," and "Ariel"); her poetry (which I love, by the way) practically requires an accompanying compendium of her life. But "My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went" requires no bio, cultural, or historical background.<br /><br />3. The poem offers humor. Readers love to laugh and tend to shy away from works that are too dark. Modern poetry tends to offer too little humor, not even dark humor.<br /><br />4. It's sentimental and smarmy. People love poems that make them cry and remember back when--nothing like a good tear jerker to get your day started. I really noticed this in Macedonia, at parties where the rakjia flowed, the hankies and guitars came out, and the sad songs about lost love and lost nations were sung and wailed. These people were intellectuals, too, but they weren't ashamed of their beloved folk songs and poems.<br /><br />5. The poem is predictable in its rhyme, diction, structure, and, yes, cliches. Poetry that allows the reader to remain in his/her comfort zone is going to stick with him/her emotionally, even intellectuals.<br /><br />6. The poem tells a story, the narrative about the slippers (red, blue, and black) ties the story together and actually depicts the aging process, using the slippers as a sort of extended metaphor.<br /><br />7. The poem is generally upbeat in tone and actually has a warped happy ending: I'm not listed in the obits today, so all is well with the world. Wow! Why not go out and celebrate with breakfast at Denny's? It's a glorious day to be alive and not a good day to die! What's not to like about that?<br /><br />8. The poem is timeless, no tedious references to popular culture that will fade within a few years and require extensive footnoting. Its meaning will be as accessible in 2108 as it is today.<br /><br />9. The poem is slightly ribald ("Of all the grand places my 'Get Up' has been"), but not so much that grandpa couldn't read the poem to his granddaughter. The double <em>entendre</em> allows the elders a "wink, wink" moment as the kiddies have fun with the rhyme and wordplay. Hell, you could read this poem in <em>church</em>.<br /><br />10. The poem is simple--one does not need pages of literary criticism to decode meaning--it's all right there on the surface. Yet the poem doesn't speak down to the readers; its language is simple, yet descriptive enough to paint a glad-to-be-alive moment in the speaker's life.<br /><br />It would be so easy to sneer at a poem like "My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went," but in an odd way, this poem has and will continue to endure because it deals with a very common aspect of the human condition: aging. Anyone who is fortunate enough to get older will face the very issues the poem covers. For more of intellectual exercise, one might read Stanley Kunitz's "Touch Me," which covers some of the same themes, albeit on a higher level--although with some multiple readings this is still an accessible poem.<br /><br />"My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went" will continue to appear on the pages of daily newspapers (whether it's a print version delivered at one's door or appears on a computer screen), whereas most modern poems with all their sophisticated LangPo techniques will fall into obscurity, buried in old dusty and unread books.<br /><br />One last note: Robert Frost's work endures and will continue to endure because of its layered nuances. We all know that "The Mending Wall" is not just about a fence between two neighbors, nor is "The Road Not Taken" just about a walk in the woods and trying to figure what literal direction to take. Yet a young or less astute reader may very well enjoy those poems on a surface level.<br /><br />Thus, Frost offers the best that a poet can offer: popular enjoyment and intellectual appeal.<br /><br />What are your thoughts?<div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5749059681475538860.post-70857666527675916202011-11-15T16:26:00.003-05:002011-11-15T18:32:09.644-05:00Prospice (Robert Browning, 1812-1889)<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7zgJoEat14w/TsL2MsJs7zI/AAAAAAAAEUI/CNpgf28tKug/s1600/Girl10.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 326px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7zgJoEat14w/TsL2MsJs7zI/AAAAAAAAEUI/CNpgf28tKug/s400/Girl10.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675369178310962994" /></a><blockquote><blockquote><br />Fear death? -- to feel the fog in my throat, <br />The mist in my face, <br />When the snows begin, and the blasts denote <br />I am nearing the place, <br />The power of the night, the press of the storm, <br />The post of the foe; <br />Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, <br />Yet the strong man must go: <br />For the journey is done and the summit attained, <br />And the barriers fall, <br />Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, <br />The reward of it all. <br />I was ever a fighter, so -- one fight more, <br />The best and the last! <br />I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, <br />And bade me creep past. <br />No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers <br />The heroes of old, <br />Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears <br />Of pain, darkness and cold. <br />For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, <br />The black minute's at end, <br />And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, <br />Shall dwindle, shall blend, <br />Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, <br />Then a light, then thy breast, <br />O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, <br />And with God be the rest! </blockquote></blockquote><div class="blogger-post-footer">Poetics forum for the disenfranchised poet and writer.
Urgently needed: anti-establishment and edgy ideas and,
yes, poetry. Even if I don't like you, I will listen.
NOW up and running!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0