Tags: poetry


Titanium Spork and Dactyllic Ice Cream

Regarding Sunday's QotD: sure enough, somebody did. There was ceviche ice cream (which no, I did not taste, being a vegetarian, but it felt good to know that the aside I tacked onto that quote wasn't wasted).

Home again, very tired and my right wrist hurts very badly for some reason. The entries I tried to send via SMS never got posted, I guess.

Fun weekend. Way too many people that I don't see often enough. (Good that they were there; bad that so many people are in the "don't see often enough" category.) Too many to catch up with everyone. Enjoyed the conversations I did have. Played electric guitar in the pick-up band for contradancing.

Fun contextless quote (I'n not really taking it out of context, as it neither had nor needed one to begin with): "I have a titanium spork." The speaker does, in fact, have a titanium spork.

Later utterance which caused one listener to wind up with drink or food coming out his nose: "You can lick my spork." (Uttered in response to my musing that I didn't know what titanium tasted like. I licked the spork. Now I know. It tastes just similar enough to aluminium that I had to go grab a periodic table to see whether they're in the same column. They are.) There were other great lines that I can't recall at the moment, though I sure hope they come back to me later.

I've decided that ice cream flavours with habernero pepper in them are like dactyllic meter in English poetry: you can't end on them easily, because each foot/spoonfull feels like a lead-in to another line/bite, producing an effect that is very, very tasty, but unending. (Have you ever tried to write a poem in English using nothing but dactyls? It turns into the never-ending jig.) So you have to finish the poem with an iamb or a spondee or something (in English anyhow), and you have to follow the coconut-lime-habernero or amaretto-habernero ice cream with a spoonfull of chocolate coyote or sundae-all-in-one or herb-cream-cheese ice cream (or caramelized onion ice cream, or cucumber sorbet, or ...) for terminal punctuation if you ever want to be able to stop eating.

I think the herb-cream-cheese ice cream was the spondee of ice creams.



A meteor crashes into a moon, sending a spray of stone and dust forth ...

A volcano erupts, tossing lava and pumice and ash yonder ...

Springtime strikes, and surprisingly cohesive tufts of fur fly off my cat.


Foiled Again By My Own Flesh And Neurochemistry

(or: Twenty Five Minutes Of Typing In Lieu Of A Scream)

Poor sleep all week,
Constantly feeling tired / sleepy / dizzy / achy / weak,
Out of sorts and out of synch;
Too many 'to-do's put off "until I feel well enough to cope".

Tired enough to think I had a chance
To find my way to slumber early;
Took my meds, then fought my own damn legs
With TheraCane® and Knobble®, and fingers and toes and stubbornness
And actually managed sleep by one-ish,
Early for me (especially this week) and sorely (so to speak) needed.

Awake again,
No discernable reason
(Maybe a dream),

Naught remains but to blog a complaint,
However whiny,
Because a shriek of frustration, or even a suitable howl
Would frighten the cat and wake the housemate.

I say again
(or rather type, silently):


Work-In-Progress Meme

I just stumbled across a blog-meme with a very short set of instructions:

Post the first paragraph of any of your works in progress.

Okay, I'll bite, though the most-recently-started work-in-progress in my brain is still just snippets of text and melody ... so while "verse" is a better fit than "paragraph" I'm going to wimp out and give just a couple of lines.

Evil is easy, if you want to be lazy
It isn't much effort unless you make it complex...

Note that this is still in the assembling-ideas stage, not even to "first draft" yet, so those lines may or may not actually appear in the finished version. But I'll let y'all know when it's done.


The Weather

When I lean over something,
That thing is suddenly wet.
I guess this reassures me
I'm not dehydrated yet.

A little while ago it felt like I'd stepped in a small puddle. I looked down and saw the sweat-trail of splashes where I'd been walking bent forward. Yowza -- all of that just came through my skin? I think I'll go drink another quart or two to try to stay ahead of the perspiration. I'm not used to perspiring this much when I'm not on stage (and even then, only when I'm playing with The Homespun Ceilidh Band).



Howso' great their clamour, whatso'er their claim,
Suffer not the old King under any name!
He shall mark our goings, question whence we came,
Set his guards about us, as in Freedom's name.

Here is naught unproven--here is naught to learn,
It is written what shall fall if the King return.
He shall take a tribute; toll of all our ware;
He shall change our gold for arms--arms we may not bear.

He shall break his Judges if they cross his word;
He shall rule above the Law calling on the Lord.
He shall peep and mutter; and the night shall bring
Watchers 'neath our windows, lest we mock the King--

Hate and all divisions; hosts of hurrying spies;
Money poured in secret; carrion breeding flies.
Strangers of his counsel, hirelings of his pay,
These shall deal our Justice: sell--deny--delay.
-- from the middle of "The Old Issue", by Rudyard Kipling



polykleitos wrote (and yes, this is how far behind I am on my LJ reading): "When you see this, post something original, in your own words, that isn't a quote from anywhere. Please." Therefore ...

Though no thing be new beneath the sun,
I did not quote these lines from anyone.
If any other hath spoken similarly
I blame it all on synchronicity.

I guess this would also be a good time to post a link to the (intentionally) self-defeating meme someone on my friends list put up, but I've lost track of who it was or which of my myriad open browser windows I might have left it open in. Whoops. And I can't just copy it from memory because the instructions say not to do that, of course. [Edit: found it. I figure linking to it doesn't violate the letter of the instructions, even if it does sort of try to sidle past the intent.]



This frayed grey sack, so tattered and worn
Was once quite full of cat.
Threadbare now, nearly empty,
Holds little more than bones.
But not quite bare, some more remains,
Just enough Attitude,
To demand the attention and affection
That are his due as Cat,
To stubbornly try to deny infirmities,
To acknowledge human touch,
To insist on exploring open car doors,
To complain at nothing much,
And show pleasure at finding a sunbeam
To warm those nearly bare bones.
How long until the sack is empty,
I shall not try to guess.
For this moment, and perhaps the next,
Death stands off to the side,
Knowing all no matter how stubborn
Eventually go to him.
But Roo, the cat, is very stubborn.

Why Dactyls

In private email, Interrobang
Discerned the reason that my words scan
To dactyls although my mother tongue
Is surely built on the iamb plan.

It's just that when still a juvenile,
Exposed to poems of a certain style,
I grew quite fond of the Limerick
Which some call fun and others vile.

The point in which I find irony
Is that the ones that are dear to me
Do set the pattern to start if off
But are not the Limericks they seem to be.

There once was a man from Japan
Whose Limericks never would scan
  When people asked why
  He replied with a sigh
"It's because I always try to cram as many syllables into the last line as I possibly can."
There was a fellow from China
Whose Limericks scan much finah
  His Limericks tend
  To come to an end
Another young gent hailed from Rheemes
With tidier scansion it seems
  She had all the rhymes
  But they're only four lines
There once was a lady from Crewe
Whose Limericks stopped at line two
There once was a man from Verdun
(There's alleged to be a fine Limerick about Nero, but I fear I've never heard it.)
And finally:
There once was a man from St. Bees
Who was stung on the arm by a hornet
  When asked, "Does it hurt?"
  He replied, "No, it doesn't;
I'm just so glad it wasn't a wasp."