The International Year of the Potato (2008) and The Last Gasp of Free Verse Poetry
Sax Piano Bird
If you will play I will kiss your tune lips ’cause anything goes when slinking down your keyboard tickling doleful note doodles plinking your chords caressing pianissimo bopping forte, top a’ ya board, chording love accolades staying for improvisations when cool mistys get hot. I shall be cool
when you transpose the glory keys to high toned harmony that sees me exposed with whistling kisses blown all sax-ified, but that’ll be after a race. Y’ know
it was a mystery that birds of a feather could get the winner’s name from the horse’s mouthwash, but I heard them say
she plays with her pet cockatoo at the piano bar down by the racetrack at the end of the race, and I saw you
The bird said, “Leave a tip” I said, “Baby Needs Shoes to win, place, or show me a new tune”
You nagged the feathers off it to snatch bills out of patrons’ hands
After you played with your pet cockatoo I tipped it into a snifter hoping you’d play with me ’cause I bet on the nag, then I said to the showers
I said To install the clean in a froth of warmth above a soapy love, join me in the shower stall by the steamy wall where flights of fancy are never scrubbed. If you will,
then I, with fragrant soap, will wash in tribute the toe that tested my waters, cleansing the foot feats that two-stepped when I was a mere calf and you were knee high to a love like a soap opera. Sing
in the shower from your diaphragm where no melting soap is barred while I swoosh below your breasts with swirling helicopter hands taking off with haste as whirlybirds land on nipple pads. When you say
taxi to the terminal the refueling hose can dock and the passengers can be served hot blessings, but remember the fifth race is soon, time to place bets by the river on the sailboats, although we could check out the entries swimming in the racing waters
where in trepidation you can put a toe in the water of my soul as I kiss it as I would a child’s boo-boo
offering you a future, a splash of my essence; I breathe your perfume a cherry-flavored love
You undress in my river and I kiss your thigh in baptism before lips
Like a mallard I swim aside, a breast in hand worth two in the bush
All goes swimmingly, as I reminisce first kisses raising my mast, sailing our ship, and now anything goes even past the sunset, in moonlit tunes splashed across the stars
——— ** ——–
When Sap Is Not Milk
A sad maple is she, syrup exploited never allowed to taste her own sweetness
Her leaves could have absorbed the love of the Sun of the passing Prince, had she not played her lute too softly to be heard
Never should such a lonely string, such a flower be cut on a slant, dying, put in a vase for a decorative purpose
Because of such sorrow, never let winter ever come again without a prayer implanted in the bosom of justice
The angels have fallen if they would honor wine more than the dangle of the maiden’s dew, more worthy than any untested virgin in a nunnery who has never cried for love and only knits diversions
She is so worthy of forgiveness as are you, when your morning mourning pancake has God’s rainbow syrup on a reawakening breakfast saved at last for eternal joy
How to Spawn Poetry Like Deviled Eggs With Caviar in 10 Elephant Steps
If you’re going to write poetry, please, for the sake of the human race and for the comfort of literate mammals, or those read to, don’t write about what you know, even if you’re a Rocket Scientist. Nota bene (N.B.), a Rocket Scientist must know higher and higher advanced mathematics, and although there is poetic charm in differential equations, the mythology of the moon will be more poetic for a few more years.
The Hummingbird Sings the π Song
Running in circles in a dream about π I traveled to the hummingbird muse,
she among banana peels and fruit flies, 3 meters from hiding places in elm, mulberry, and willow that she
might indeed feed on flowers after our magic hour.
Her fluttering wings murmured a song for me an answer to a question I hadn’t yet asked.
“How big is π ” I asked.
She stood a moment: convulsed two wings oddly flat and still like outstretched hands
Almost like a fisherman bragging: THIS BIG.
Oh! I said. But that’s four centimeters. TOO BIG.
After a flutter she stood again: THIS BIG.
Um. three centimeters. TOO SMALL.
Well then I’ll flutter a song I call: Too Big Too Small: it starts loud and fades away, and you must tell me when to stop when I’ve shown you what you want.
How will I know?
It’s your dream so you’ll know. Hmmmm.
Hurruph gee I murmur many times though the song is beautiful
It’s fading, and then… Hmm, I say “STOP!”
The wings were stretched a smidgen over three centimeters. But how much?
I don’t know, she said. Look and listen to the song. When the music is in your heart you’ll hear it in the silence.
Writing poetry is impossible if you want to be stylish with ambiguity or vagueness. True poetry does not flow out from pen or sword or computer. It is a thing that escapes on the backs of creatures who run wild or sleep on a couch, but is it encapsulated like a virus. No, there is a poetic skin on its matrix of thought that is entangled in emotion, and sometimes the creature is injured and bleeds. It growls and purrs but often bleats from the woolly heart of chaos, bleats on the cold beachhead at dawn, setting patterns in the crystalline sands of time. Mello, it retreats to the meadow, becomes a lamb. Is there a shepherd or a wolf about, or is it a wolf? Behold the blurted poem — record it. But if you must write in blood, write in ketchup, because it tastes better and bleeding out tends to stop a poem. Remember, in greasing the way, French fries are deep fried, shallots are shallow. We mostly have onions. Yes, poetry is impossible. Poetry exudes from the pores like sweat and oil. It stains the fabric of exhibition. So then some items to consider:
1. Don’t read too much recommended poetry. Poetic poisoning can seize you eruditely, taking you, clouded in pristine smoke, to a land of oxymoronic sweet stench, an un-pop literature den of denizens pontificating with lit cigar wands waving towards an unholy upper atmosphere, a heavenly hell with cirrus puffs, those feathery clouds with dandruff flakes.
2. Write from the middle. When you start to write a poem, you’re in the middle of something. You’re going to have to write an introduction so somebody will know why rambling through a forest of ideas doesn’t make birds fall out of the trees from boredom or from being frightened by a crazy person invading their territory. So, when you start a poem from a notion, it’s likely that it’s going to wind up being a pitch in the middle of a game — you’re going to need a new beginning and a new end. By the way, as I started to imply, nature poems usually don’t work out. When I’m tempted to try that stale genre I get my ideas from the horse’s mouth or in this case, from a little bird. [Idiom alert: “from the horse’s mouth,” and “a little bird told me”].
I’ve always wanted to speak to the smaller birds, so I’ve done a lot of weird whistling
Sometimes a little birdie cocks her head and tries to see if I’m a threat or a bird benevolent, but I’m neither a mate nor predator, just a conversationalist
So I whistle something which means “give tomatoes to Owls, like Caesar.”
And she says, “Huh, what? And for a Human you don’t look so bad even though you have no feathers. Why is it that you can’t fly? It’s so easy.”
And I said, “Why is it that you can’t speak and write novels.”
“Well, then,” it said, “have you written one lately?”
And I said, “Um, no…”
And it said in a way that I think it meant kindly that I was a birdbrain.
3. So you have a great idea or theme and you’ve written a line. Now you think the next (or alternate line) must rhyme. Sometimes none of the rhyming words make sense with your theme, and all the synonyms you might try to substitute for the first line don’t really express what you want to say. Despair? Oh, to rhyme is divine, sometimes, if you can keep your original thought, or re-do the whole poem to match the new theme that’s been implied by your quirky synonym choice. I mean, you have a poem about a “pest” and it could be about a guest or an insect or both, but you definitely didn’t intend it to take place in Budapest, or on top of Mount Everest, and a cockroach doesn’t have a “breast.” So you have to decide whether to stay true to your original idea or go with Kafka, or go with God, or go to an inquest for a dead metaphor, or don’t rhyme.
4. Yes, you do have to edit. Put it aside and try to forget about it. Come back using your best method acting skills and pretend you’re another person. This other person should be able to read and understand the poem. If the meaning is obscure, you have a problem. Perhaps you can add an explanatory phrase, or add a dramatic interlude. If you fade back into yourself, you might find yourself saying, “What was I thinking?” Maybe you can answer yourself or look for your scrap notes.
5. Make scrap notes.
6. Develop the proper attitude. I sometimes do OK, but
I Hate Poetry
I claw through words growling to rip the meat, add a soupçon to a consommé, but don’t make me eat my soup in the woods
Like a bear I hate poetry, because it’s senseless to be dense letting forest rangers throw huh words in a campfire.
What would I want with dense description: it makes my soup too thick, and if I burn my tongue, emotions will be hot without corn indigestible.
Don’t make me eat in the woods. My kingdom for a kitchen table.
Can I just have my Parmesan cheese, nutty and fine, not looking for patterns in the wallpaper, equations for space travel, ’cause I can stare beyond the stars some other time after I’ve had my soup with a spoon that need not be silver like the moon, a simple spoon, only
large enough not to stew me, not vaporize ineffables like vegetables
7. You may find it odd that you’re struggling to write a poem when everyone else is doing it easily. After all, a herd of sheep can arrange themselves in the form of a poem, and any boy can guard them from the wolves of criticism. You have probably been taught the Aesop fable, “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.” Actually, something over the years has been lost in translation. It originally was called, “The Boy Who Cried Run-on Sentence.” Well, not every very long sentence, embellished with care, is improper, and such a complex sentence, running naked through the streets like Archimedes, can be used to trigger thoughts for a poem. A main clause just needs a subject and a verb. Dependent clauses run wild. Put them together. It’s not always true that sentences are runaways. These sentences, gracefully elaborated, embellished with the sounds of glorious triumph, with cacophonous instruments of drunken loquacious musicians strung out on their heart strings, like birds and cats who are mine, playing around with joyful noise, making every trill a wave to glory, oceanic, are not runaways, being ensconced in dreams, and pray tell, if I may continue, the words of the angels are infinite and concise like love that sings forever charming and as elaborate as is a sentence to joy, many times re-phrased, re-claused like a Santa Clause whose mythology endures way beyond his run away sleigh, bells of grace reverberating with every sentence pronounced by judges and supplicants gracefully joined in symphony, in sympathy, in empathy, and joined on every path to any pathy even daffy, because the complex can be simply wonderful like you all who indulge the marathon run into oblivion with a billion words and who pause to hear my running word.
Sentences, gracefully elaborated, embellished with the sounds of glorious triumph, with cacophonous instruments of drunken loquacious musicians strung out on their heart strings,
like birds and cats who are mine, playing around with joyful noise, gracefully making every trill a wave to glory, oceanic, are not runaways, being ensconced in dreams, and pray tell, if I may continue,
the words of the angels are infinite and concise like love that sings forever charming as elaborate as is a sentence to joy, many times re-phrased, re-claused like a Santa Clause whose mythology endures way beyond his run away sleigh, bells of grace reverberating with every sentence pronounced by judges and supplicants gracefully joined in symphony, in sympathy, in empathy, joined on every path to any pathy even daffy, because the complex can be simply wonderful like you all who indulge the marathon run into oblivion with a billion words and who pause to hear my running word.
May I write a poem that is like a story or fable?
It’s like the children’s game, “Mother, May I,” and you need to get permission from Big Brother or Sister, a Union Leader, the Main Stream Media or Academia, or permission from a proper Party Leader or Intelligence Service like in George Orwell’s “1984” in order to express an unapproved opinion, and even with permission, you’ll probably be erased.
However, just because everyone is playing a children’s game, that doesn’t mean you have to. Besides, in colloquial English, most people don’t distinguish between “may” and “can.” Anyway, if you are physically able, go ahead and write a “narrative poem.” However, you don’t have to model it after the “Iliad and the Odyssey,” unless you’re writing in Greek. It’s not traditional but you can do it in free verse until it’s squashed or shadow banned.
Consequently, a fable milieu can be attempted while trying to be a witness to truth. Sarcasm and satire are handy tools to use while you’re searching for an alternate witness protection program where you can get a new identity. You would need plausible deniability to write something like this:
The Depravity of a Union Teacher
Depravity would be seen as unforeseen consequences: a union of travesty gravity and dirt
The botanist had had a child in school. Had sad time off; there’d be time too for the funeral soon. There would be
blood in the kitchen, a kind of spilled wine in the garden for teachers of the vineyard who demanded more whine privilege than little giggling girls like her Randi used to be, but the Union
had demanded masked smiles until doom, more rules for tiny children in a classroom.
The botanist had more time off from work for the funeral.
Walking in a hellish haze the botanist felt nauseous along the way from the smell of her daughter’s favorite flowers
far afield she wandered drifting in a fog, in a random eternal pattern to reach the ceremony of the grave; had a thought (Randi’s vision made her cry)
She was startled by a reporter. Blurted: “yes, I am certain that the teacher is an idiot.
“You want to know? You know… My little Randi darling flower spirit was precocious ‘once upon a time’ before a teacher tore her petals off”
This Mom was a little nauseous smelling her daughter’s favorite flowers as she walked in a daze remembering
far afield she wandered in a trance yet jolted by the voice persisting; replied:
“Yes, I’m sure it was suicide. You want to know? You know… my child vomited in her mask, and the teacher wouldn’t… (you know) she came home; said school was fine — the usual kid denial, and the counselor said don’t worry
“Yes, you know the story — report it.”
Far afield she wandered in a trance yet jolted by the voice persisting; replied “the nurse said it was nothing”
she smelled the flowers
The reporter fell backwards when she vomited on him, and she enabled his fall over the unmasked cliff with prejudice.
Startled, she turned around to walk home, so as to smell the corpse flower, and to join her daughter with a plunge of a kitchen knife into her own heart.
Actually, as poetry, if you examine it, you’ll find some partial internal rhymes such as here:
Walking in a hellish haze the botanist felt nauseous along the way from the smell of her daughter’s favorite flowers
and the “el” sound in “felt” and “smell.” Also, if you read it out loud, you’ll hear some rhythm patterns.
More On Sentences
9. Oh NO, not that! Writing clear but wild sentences can set you free from too much abstraction and vagueness like this sentence has had.
Unfortunately, most native speakers of English were first taught grammar when they were 12, 13, or 14-years-old. For many, those were very bad years and they were much too young to understand grammar. The saving grace, of course, was that since they were already fluent in the language, they had an instinctual grasp of grammar, usually knowing what “sounded right” or “sounded wrong.” However, knowing how to deliberately construct a wild and proper sentence can be helpful in forming elements of a poem. Therefore, you should obtain a college-level English style book to refer to (by the way, English is not Latin so you can end a sentence with “to”, contrary to conventional ‘wisdom’).
While ruminating about the closing of the Grammarland Park where dangling participles grow on trees like money does, pay special attention to subordinate clauses.* One doesn’t always have to abandon sentence structure for the sake of poetic licentiousness, oblivious to mindless rhymes, clueless and obscure, splayed in a littered meadow. No. As they say, “A well placed thought is often dreamed away while driving a car.” Think a moment then.
Keep in mind, the poetic vehicle doesn’t always have to veer off a mountain road, off a cliff, doesn’t always need to crash into a ravine to gorge on swallowed tears. Indeed no.
Are you not the Poet-in-chief, commander of the alter-ego subordinates? But do pay special attention to the actors and their lines. Let them have their coffee breaks and line breaks, if necessary.
After you have chosen your main idea, connectives signal place, time, cause, or qualify the independent clause. The independent clause can stand alone as a complete sentence — the subordinate clauses (dependent clauses) can not. However, sometimes it’s such a common and subtle subordination that it’s barely noticed. Sometimes the word “that” can be omitted and is understood: He thought the fun would last forever [that omitted]. In poetry, the word “that” can be clumsy and upset an iambic rhythm. But there are more elaborate subordinations to chew on while spitting out “that”.
Setting the standards, the falling sun castigates the moods, those theses like statues the Muses make, when the day is long, and when the sun’s insidious shadows of fatigue and grief grow in length. But perhaps there is more to life than subordinating conjunctions and adverbs: when, as if, so that, until, since, although, because. Because of this, driving while drunk on chaotic subordination can be dangerous without strategic repeats. More on this later (dropping fragments with love).
Driving home a point, however, the poetic vehicle may on a dreary day be stuck in a rut. The car can be broken down near a New Orleans wake, or broken down in Memphis, or in some unknown slum. Worse than the car, even a person can be “broken down” as an extension of the car.
Broken down in Sugar Ditch waiting for a scholarship I was wheeling like lightning struck me down…
Notice the word “waiting”. Participles can be very useful subordinators. They are one of my favorites, but it would be useful to research all of these: (1) Participles, (2) adjectives-with-phrase, (3) appositives, (4) relatives understood, and (5) absolutes. Write a poem, heavy with metaphors, light with joy , if it’s to be under the spell of “heavy” and “light,” two adjectives, or do something else:
…I seem to fish by my taciturn stream barren of fin splashes every stone unturned by crab or fish or by intellect avoiding worms, appearing to wait for solutions floating like dead fish, but my rod is wound up…
But there’s a thing about buying a poetic license unlike buying a fishing license. Words can be left out for the sake of rhythm and rhyme if the meaning is still truly an edible fish — at least a rod and line with hook if not bait. In an “appositive”, the words “who is” or “which is” are omitted and understood. “John who is a scoundrel” becomes “John the scoundrel.” “A heart which is frozen in time cannot love now” becomes “A heart, frozen in time, cannot love now.”
Write a Coherent Complex Sentence Before Breaking Out Into Poetry
10. Actually, there are never 10 easy steps to anything. There are always a thousand. But as they say, “The journey of a thousand faux pas begins with the first trip.”
Well, after all that, one can write in the style of simple sentences especially if one is not writing as one’s complex self. I find it interesting that Jannat grew up in a liberal Western world when Kabul Afghanistan was free, expected to get her College degree, and then lost everything when Kabul fell. She is one who wrote a poem (I was thinking of “Romeo & Juliet,” written here in the voice of Juliet, now “Jannat” […oh, and note the appositives: Rafiq, my friend, my love… Rafiq, my sun, my dove…]):
Rafiq and Jannat1
Rafiq, my friend, my love, plays are forbidden but you will write this modest girl the words for a secret blush on cheeks.
Music is forbidden but you will dance with me if shame evaporates like sweet sweat in mourning’s dew.
Refiq, my sun, my dove: a morning will come when love is due.
Yea verily I insist! Ask: why dance amidst the mists?
Begone archaic ways, nuanced rhetorical nits; yes wait for mysterious replies. I insist
you inhere the day, for a bird sings and it is you; a bird is forbidden so it flies
I breathe in joy from the sky and it is you, blue Rafiq
Hush, I am learning spelling, oh Rafiq
invoke my name, Jannat, and you will have my paradise shared
Why? Because I am washing watermelon seeds and not eating them.
I am as fertile as a pomegranate but my juice is forbidden though it’s sweet and tart like you.
Write my name on a fig leaf, and soon I will come and kiss it.
But yet rain inheres the clouds and salt inheres the tears
Spell me. Play me.
Cast me in a play like a spell.
Quick. Send your Aunt to inspect me. I will hide my face, and I will make myself ugly and obedient. She will report that I am suitable.
I want to be a star for you. I wonder if Bollywood is too far. At 4 a.m. I study my physics book and I know about drama…
Launch us a rocket to the stars and find me the “Twilight Zone” video
But yet rain inheres the clouds and salt inheres the tears, the bombs burst in fields
Let me hide us like a benign subtlety in the divine flower of my youth
But flower arranging is a perfume of lies for a girl; obligations for women,
But yet rain inheres the clouds and salt inheres the tears, and bombs burst in fields so soldiers might plunder
I want to be a star for you. I wonder if Bollywood is too far or the North Star too dear.
Rafiq, cast a spell for me. My father has lost his job.
He is too weak from belief and I fear
the bombs in the field. Storms approach our high mud wall.
Father is insane, and he will sell me.
Rafiq, are you real?
you inhere the day, for a bird sings and it is you; I breathe in a deadly mist, I listen
* Sheridan Baker, The Complete Stylist (New York, Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1966), pp. 99 – 111.
Poetry can allude to books or movies or wars, but it’s a quandary to consider how much the casual reader can know (it’s a running joke in science and math that when one doesn’t want to have to explain an assumption or premise to say, “… as is obvious to the casual observer.” Oh geez, I see now trying to find that expression that I remember it wrong, and they even have an acronym for it: IOTTMCO [Intuitively Obvious To the Most Casual Observer] ).” So, anyway, I’ve been looking through the poetry archives and notice a few poems I wrote alluding to “The Blog That Would Destroy the World.* ” Some seem obscure to me now but one of them I think can stand alone. Spoiler alert: I’m going to give a chapter excerpt to show where it came from, but if you want to have an unbiased opinion about whether the poem can stand alone, you can skip it.
After I was given the honorary title “Kvizee” (Royal Magic Poet), I rode in a limousine with Her Majesty to visit a wheat farm before heading back to the Palace (Kmpamew)
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Driving Back to the Kmpamew
by Douglas Gilbert A Gavicte is like a “Chief-of-staff” or a senior advisor. Aipnijtku is a military rank like “lieutenant”. Entry 215: It should have been a relaxing ride but assassins were waiting to attack.
In the morning at the Cottage, Zawmb’yee was all excited, because at the last moment she had invited Naztko to come to the Kmpamew with her for a visit. She was going to ask Naztko to be her Gavicte to replace Gavicte Yenkoi who she no longer trusts — she was sure she’d get a unanimous vote by the Grand Council to appoint him. This way, the two palaces would work together. We had gone in a convoy destined for the Kmpamew. There’s a new secret tunnel that could get us there. But along the way we were going to visit a wheat farm.
The Jicnie packed up all our things in the first car that we usually take, and Naztko would be in one of the back-up cars. He said he’d talk to us at the farm. He told us that we should enjoy the ride and he’d talk to us then. Zawmb’yee and I got all comfortable in the back of the limousine, and off we went. We passed through the forest on a road that meandered past stands of London Planetree, Black Locust, Black Cherry, and Pin Oak trees, with gentle brooks and creeks speaking in ripples. But we passed them by gracefully around gentle curves and while in the forest were never up a creek, and we brooked no wild things at all like would be done in a forest of dreams. In an hour we came into a clearing of meadows and of farm land on a straight road. The clouds had run away and the sun illuminated clearly every blade of grass, every speck in the road. Zawmb’yee said, “What a perfect day,” and she looked out on both sides. She pulled down the divider so she could look out the front. “Good morning,” she called out to the driver, “Aipnijtku Yathyaz, how are you?” Yathyaz said, “I’m fine Your Majesty. Isn’t it a great day?”
“Yes, Aipnijtku Yathyaz, it’s a very clear day — um excellent visibility for driving…”
“Yes,” said Zawmb’yee.
I turned towards Zawmb’yee and said, “What’s that about?”
“Something needs his urgent attention so he asked permission to abruptly end the conversation,” Zawmb’yee whispered to me.
The driver was looking around in all directions. “Tpa!” he shouted.
“What’s that?” I whispered to Zawmb’yee.
“He’s telling the car’s sensors to send out as much data as it can,” whispered Zawmb’yee.
Zawmb’yee looked out the front windshield, “What’s that?”
“Up ahead, it looks like a porcupine crossing the road.. except that… um”
“It’s moving robotically and oh-geez-hell-Kievifwa. Watch out!”
What looked like sharp quills or spikes shot out of the creature like missiles and punctured the tires. The car spun out of control, and there were big explosions. The doors of the car were blown off and we were thrown out onto the road. I landed on my knee, Zawmb’yee on her side. Twenty men appeared out of a field of Sunflowers and grabbed Zawmb’yee.
“Let go,” she screamed, “you vgnamo. Help Yathyaz! Help let go, let go!”
Yathyaz tried to help, but they knocked him down. Zawmb’yee continued to scream and kick. They dragged and carried Zawmb’yee one hundred feet down the road, tied her to a fence, gagged her, and pulled out knives. I limped after them as fast as I could go but kept falling and I was still too far away to help her when they started shouting. The back-up cars had been hit with explosions too. “Kill her,” I heard the tall one say. “Righteous tyranny of the Gods can NOT be malice. Let the least of us wound, the greatest stab her through the heart and the fearful give the coup de grâce.”
“Halt!” I screamed.
They gathered in a circle and continued speaking faster, louder. A frenzied one: “Zawmb’yee would fawn to the Council. She would banish our sister Zusoiti who champions the Gods, this Fevepo impostor usurper; she would kneel before the Council and not before the Gods. She, our inferior, would deny Zusoiti her enfranchisement with the Gods who’d paint her with the light of Love and make her Star brighter than the day of this puny planet’s sun. Hasten us all lest we’d be interfered with in our noble cause to stab out the usurper. Draw now the blood of the false High Priestess, each of you in turn with your knife, stab out this blotch… You, Sazrgk, Begin!” I crawled closer, picked up rocks to throw. “Sazrgk no! You of the least do not now promote yourself to fiend. Let them have their honors. Sazrgk, take your mercy and go…” Sazrgk stabbed her in the shoulder. I screamed the ancient kinesis: “T’ukmpuxogt!” I became splattered in red screams drowning in oceans of slaughter that pulled me out of my mind with a fury that engulfed the sun and made it set in vomit. The sunflowers were decapitated by exploding shards of skull, and the headless bodies were strewn across the highway and onto the hoods of the back-up cars.
Zawmb’yee Saved From Death
Thus was the High Priestess saved from death, but I had been covered in blood and pieces of flesh. I had felt weak and dizzy. As I was crawling towards Zawmb’yee, Aipnijtku Yathyaz finally came running up the road. I couldn’t go any farther.
“Kvizee Doug,” he said, “are you all right?”
“I could do with a shower…Just a scraped knee, but Zawmb’yee has been stabbed.”
“Argh. Lie here, I’ll get to Her.”
THE POEM DERIVED
The Knives On the Table
We’d gone in a convoy,
the doors of her car were blown off
An evil twenty swarmed out
from fields of Sunflowers tall
They tied Her Sacredness to a fence
gagged her that She’d not reproach them:
their scabbards empty of their treachery
Such evil drawn out
upon the dastardly ceremony
that hides a scoundrel from a conscience
“Kill her,” I heard the tall one bade.
“Righteous tyranny of the Gods
“can not be malice when obeyed
“Let the least of us wound,
“the greatest stab Her in the heart,
“the fearful give the coup de grâce.
Villains, villains, I shouted.
Halt at once this vileness,
these sneezed speeches
a phlegm of your diseased souls
A frenzied one spoke:
would fawn to the Council
and not to the Gods
She would banish our Sister
who champions the Gods
This impostor usurper
who takes the crown
would deny our true Priestess
her enfranchisement with the Gods
Let the Gods rightly
paint our true Priestess in
the light of Their Love, and
make her star brighter than
the day of this puny planet’s sun.
Hasten us all
lest we’d be interfered with
in our noble cause to
stab out the usurper
Draw now the blood of Her Falseness,
each of you in turn do act:
stab out this blotch
But I crawled closer,
picked up rocks to throw
Sazrgk no! You of the least
do not now promote yourself to fiend
Let them have their honors.
Sazrgk, if you’d save your soul
take your mercy and go
But Sazrgk stabbed her in the shoulder.
’tis true: of weakness cold-hearted, he
did indeed plunge his dagger.
I screamed the ancient kinesis:
I became splattered in red screams
drowning in oceans of slaughter that
pulled me out of my mind with
a fury that engulfed the sun, and
made it set in vomit
By T’ukmpuxogt bold
the sunflowers were decapitated
in exploding shards of skull, and
headless bodies were
strewn across the road.
Thus I protect my Love
the only true Priestess.
*Douglas Gilbert, ebook: The Blog That Would Destroy the World,(Amazon: ASIN : B08L1CR3Z4 ), 2016, CHAPTER NINETEEN, Entry 215, ISBN 978-1-329-90425-5
by Douglas Gilbert Loving enough for her to stay in a war zone can get her killed. Sometimes she stays too long when leaving is best. Flowers are ugly when they serve no purpose.
War is like a Great Horned Owl. Not wise. Not kind.
Tragic things happen in love and war.
Why Did You Plant Flowers
Why did you not go
when I told you
the tanks are coming.
Why did you go
into the garden, when
I told you there are
I wanted to send you away
but I was too weak when
you wanted to stay with me
and I said hide, but
you wanted to plant.
Why did you not go
when I told you
the tanks are coming.
Why did you go
into the garden
where there is no rain
and a bomb
fell on you.
Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN : B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019, ISBN 978-0-359-90524-9
by Douglas Gilbert Deep, deep. Cheap deep. Somebody’s beem telling boys that girls like poems. Secret: mostly it’s a pun-moan except as a gesture from someone they already like, and like a classic line, and classic manipulation, those boys are like stinging insects hiding on a flower. That boy’s “all hat and no cattle.”
What about cute Nature? Revelations: bees who sting are not charming; about the prettiness of birds: Great Horned Owls break the spine of a fox and eat it alive. Plus, once in a while (once upon a time): Sharks, wolves, lions, and other creatures who have publicists extolling their virtues, actually do attack or eat people.
A tsunami of love makes waves
I have found one ripple in the ocean that
catches my focus, and
something stays in my eye
like a whirlpool in the tea cup
where I saw a vision of you once
and a prophesy.
I stare unfocused into this dark
sea patch of blue water imagining
you in a silver spiral
and in my mind I travel
through its tunnel, until
I reach into your mind, and
I seem to have captured the
chosen ripple of the sea
where clearly I see you.
I release a thought to you
for the wave to carry, and
under it forms a tsunami of love.
When it arrives
it will drown you
for a moment
but you will laugh
until a boat can bring you
the rest of me.
Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN : B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019, ISBN 978-0-359-90524-9
by Douglas Gilbert Deep, deep. Cheap deep. Somebody’s beem telling boys that girls like poems. Secret: mostly it’s a pun-moan except as a gesture from someone they already like, and like a classic line, and classic manipulation, those boys are like stinging insects hiding on a flower. That boy’s “all hat and no cattle.” What about cute Nature? Revelations: bees who sting are not charming; about the prettiness of birds: Great Horned Owls break the spine of a fox and eat it alive. Plus, once in a while (once upon a time): Sharks, wolves, lions, and other creatures who have publicists extolling their virtues, actually do attack or eat people.
Sharing a business or common interests can be tricky. Buttercup Babe
Visiting America, I met her in a field of renoncules that locals call butter cups
She’s my darling Buttercup a compatriot
She wanted to offer me a partnership in her business and to share business.
But much ado about love in the dew and then onward afield ’til
we were back for a romp under and around the Arc de Triomphe to play like tourists and then marched to her home, palace of the cuisinière at the bakery de l’Étoile near Paris.
We homed in on her nest over the bakery with zest, and she was hot because the spice of the day made for joy and frolic at home
We chilled with a wine she recommended for the night and a tête-à-tête with an intimacy
and as our voices modulated to a purr we unrolled a cloth like a sheet of dough and my Buttercup melted in the bed.
We kneaded in layers of joy to be crisp and flaky like a croissant
In the morning, I left early to buy butter and I had wondered: what is a croissant if to do it is not to have it?
I came back uncertain.
I proposed: My darling Buttercup, let me keep this butter, have the bakery, and I will make you a croissant with love.
Well, she said: You want the butter and the money from the butter and le cul de la crémière… So you my love, must bring me a buttercup of the field and I will peer into your eyes until I decide if you’re flaky enough to cook. — Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN : B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019, ISBN 978-0-359-90524-9
by Douglas Gilbert Deep, deep. Cheap deep. Somebody’s been telling boys that girls like poems. Secret: mostly it’s a pun-moan except as a gesture from someone they already like, and like a classic line, and classic manipulation, those boys are like stinging insects hiding on a flower. That boy’s “all hat and no cattle.” What about cute Nature? Revelations: bees who sting are not charming; about the prettiness of birds: Great Horned Owls break the spine of a fox and eat it alive. Plus, once in a while (once upon a time): Sharks, wolves, lions, and other creatures who have publicists extolling their virtues, actually do attack or eat people.
Free Verse Versus Classic
Free verse poetry has its flaws but it generally is more forgiving and giving than any of the rigid classic forms. Here are two, one free and one slave to stifling formality:
I imagine you drifting in thoughts on the bus by the window with a mystery package
Hear me honk see me as the bird that flaps a clap applauding your reverie
On your way, squealing with the wheeling of the bus I am the squeaky brakes squawking to see you; I am the roar of the engine
Wake up. Don’t miss your stop don’t drop your precious package
Arrive soon, because I can’t wait to open you up to ride with me
The Lip of Music
The romp of love beguiles, a playful horse my heart a rider gripping spirit’s trip, a bit of banter falls from saddled lips. A candor canters, musical in source a clip-clop hoofing it, my fruit is tossed. Her lust like cantaloupes so sweetly quipped yet love’s a cherry deeply red of lip outspoken rips in bound’ries’ gorgeous loss
I know you love me mole and mountain bluff. I show my cards, won’t raise to bluff a love. It’s real this deal of sharing zeal, a bliss. No gamble oneness riding thought enough to join two souls, a coup by doves who fly with coos to play the music’s kiss