Democracy

Think! What is our decayed Democracy
But special interests, writ large and small?
Its principles project hypocrisy—
Pay for want! Moral philosophy? Mauled

By greed, self-righteousness (but mostly greed).
One wit once observed: “Two things control all
Politics—money’s first [a simple creed],
The second I forgot!” And so the pall

That shrouds elections falls yet again. Each
Interest, to advance its cause, curries
Favor with copious cash—like leeches,
Voracious, sucking the Republic’s blood.

No Philosopher King to cut the knot,
Nor even an Enlightened (mild) Despot.
                                    (10/19/07)

Posted in Greed, Politics

Another Essay On Criticism

      True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
      As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
      ‘Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
      The sound must seem an echo to the sense . . .
                                  Alexander Pope (1709)

This may take awhile, settle in your seats,
But don’t get too comfortable, you’ll need
To focus—no drowsing off! Poetic
Bleats demand an ear attuned, a mind that
Heeds. OK, OK—see what I’ve done? Tricked
You to think you hear end-rhyme where there’s none.

This, of course, creates some other questions—
What’s the point of rhyme? What’s with iambics,
Not to mention anapests, dactyls, and
Trochees? Why, for pity’s sake, end a line
With “and”? Ah, rich poetic mysteries.
The last query is easy—each line of
This poem must have ten syllables! But why,
You might reasonably ask. It’s a rule
Stupid! Poetry’s a language game (like
Crossword puzzles), and a numbers game (like
Sudoku). Of course those rule-determined
Lines that end in “and,” “like,” “of,” are crummy
Lines indeed, despite their orthodoxy.

Well then, what makes a poem a poem? A quest-
ion that perplexed the history of wit—
But look, for a moment, at what I’ve done;
I broke “question” between the “t” and “i”—
Technically incorrect. But now we
Have a “quest,” a weightier load by far.
Are you beginning to get it? Poets
Dazzle you with language—make you hear such
Possibilities that you cannot keep
Yourself from jaw-dropping awe, or, at least
A puzzled bit of head scratching that leaves
You, once again, convinced that poetry
Is not your game—fine! I’ll see you later.

Now comes the new chimera—modern verse.
No more numbers, no more rhymes—evoking
Is the new ideal. Subtler rules take hold.

Sliding silk, warmed by your body’s scent,
Lavish petals bring me to my knees.

OK—what’s evoked? Is she nude or dressed?
And how does scent warm silk?
How are those petals lavish?
And what the devil am I doing on my knees?
(Don’t think gross!) See how evocation works?
Sheesh, you can do anything!

Shit! Explaining poetry is a hope-
less task—I haven’t touched on music yet,
That lyrical encompassing roulette—
How ever did you manage Alex Pope?
                 (10/15/07)

Posted in Poetry (What is it?)

The Faux Deli

It’s a free country, I suppose.
And If you want to call yourself
A New York Style Deli,
You can’t be sued.

But still,
There oughta be a law!

These parvenus
Will never be confused
With The Stage on Seventh,
Or Katz downtown.
Their ill-shaped sandwiches,
(With mayonnaise for chrissake!)
Their lame boiled pastrami—
Worst of all, those limp,
Vinegary, goyishe pickles out of jars!
When, as everybody knows,
The best reason to even bother
To make the trip,
Is to crunch those fine,
Crisp, kosher dills
Half-cured in brine!
                     (10/8/07)

Posted in Bullshit

C’mon! Get real! (Epistle to a Dead Poet)

Not familiar with T. S. Eliot, particularly the opening of “The Waste Land,” (1922)? Skip this.

   For T.S.E. (1888-1965), R.I.P.

Maybe October is the cruelest month,
Not April. What crass beef could poets have
With Spring’s mild life-fomenting mists? Why shun
Those new-bred fragrant lilacs? Why so grave,

So desperate, about that fast dwindling
Supply of dried tubers? The season’s crops
Will soon be in; gottsudanke, that winter
Snow will yield, and summer’s heat will warm us.

For chrissake Tom, get a life! Banking sucks,
(Gawd! A banker-poet!). Nervous collapse
(Predictable, nicht wahr?), a world in flux,
Vivian amuck! Flaming synapses!

But hey, don’t dump it all on Spring! The Fall
Is worse—cold, wet, and bleak, casting a pall
Over every damn thing! Stop reading
All night—life, despite your soulful bleating,

Is not so bad. And, for pity’s sake, stop
Going south in winter. Learn to pardon;
Stop whimpering. Cultivate vital crops
(As that Frog preached) in your own damn garden!

Learning, wit, and pedantry—these you sing.
But the contempt you project—that’s too cold!
We won the war, survived the flu—to bring
Us down because we were a bit debauched

Is just too much! Better to celebrate
Imperfection than shove us through hell’s gate!
And as for those affected, grim shantihs1
Shove ‘em Tom! Try pro just once; trash anti.

                                         (10/4/07)

1 See Yajurveda 17th mantra, 36th Chapter: Om Dhyauh Shanti–ranta–riksha–gwang Shantih Prithivi Shanti—rapa Shanti ro–shadhayah Shantih. Vanas–patayah Shantir–vishve Devah Shantir–Brahm Shantih Sarvagwan Shantih Shanti–rev Shantih Sa Ma Shanti–redhee. Om Shantih Shantih Shantih Om.
[O God! May there be Peace in the Sky and in Space. May there be Peace on land and in the waters. May herbs and vegetation bring us Peace. May all personifications of God bring us Peace. May God bring us Peace. May there be Peace throughout the world. May the Peace be peaceful. May God give me Peace also.]

Posted in Poetry (What is it?), Wisdom

Monday Night Football

We’re old now, just three of us (since Wally
Died). Two hundred forty years sit here—deaf,
Half blind—playing out our brittle folly,
Possessed. Each Monday night the host plays chef

And cobbles up a half-time meal. “Ah, shit!”
Sam cries, dropping a pan, stoking our glee.
We used to vie to serve the best tidbits—
But now buy pre-cooked stuff.1  What frantic need

Propels us? We don’t drink as much, but still
Shout out “Pot’s light!” when kick-off looms. We root
Noisily, though hardly know which teams flail
There in peaceful war, nor do we care—boot

Still prods us. Perhaps we stymie grinning
Death through our delight in sometimes winning.
                      (9/24/07)

1 Except Sam, of course, who clings, furiously, to tradition.

Posted in Aging, Friends, Sports

Baby

    For A.C., D.B.C, and especially Z.O.C.

Listen to Marvin read Baby

I meet my neighbors’ child, Olivia,
From time to time, carried in the harness
Strapped to her father’s chest, oblivious,
Unmoved by all our bleak world’s foul distress.

I’ve never heard her cry, and when she peers
At me, my creviced bearded face, she smiles,
Perceiving there some cosmic joke. No fear
Distorts her ambiance. And she, beguiled

(Not deceived, enchanted rather), clutches
My finger in that tiny, tiny fist,
And laughs, as if the universe were touched—
Confined within her grasp—some tactile grist

To grind within her bright, pure, nascent mind—
Dark knowledge-free—where primal wisdom shines.
                                       (9/23/07)

Posted in Aging, Illusion