Sunday, July 31, 2011
Yeah, I know the visual quality’s bad but after all, the sequence is called Aural! However, do not despair— if you open another window
here, you’ll be able to see the poet’s actual words, while his voice mellifluously takes you down an imaginary stream of oral emissions.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
It’s easy. Let’s say you find yourself hungry enough to eat a horse in the charming seaside village of Marathoupoli on the Ionian coast of Messenias, so you decide to bogue at a leisurely gait up and down the promenade looking for something to eat and you come across this inviting(!) menu board. Entering the establishment and not seeing any aproned squids frying elegant pieces of chopped chintz lampshade, nor any succulent sarcodines surreptitiously lying low beyond the reach of your pseudopodal taste sensors, you choose to go for the piglet that has somehow miraculously escaped from a fate worse than death and is now—lo and behold—glaring at you (probably feeling piggy arrogant and haughty) from a vantage point high on top of a red-hot oven! Before you can make your move however, the well-oiled porker accidently slips from the oven straight down into a waiting pot and finally surrenders to his fate, becoming a roast etc. Too flabbergasted by all the surreal gastronomic goings on, you finally resign yourself to settling for something more commonplace—today’s plate, for example—and eat your heart out.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
"The Fascination of Difficult Questions"
Because I have spent my life
Struggling with insurmountable difficulties—
Women’s sexual hang-ups, straggling girdles,
My own rattling knock-knees—
Will I be able?
Because I have met riddles threatening to ruin me—
How to pour out ketchup or how to spell it,
The getting rid of prune pits and gum gracefully—
Will I succeed?
And because I have seen nightmares
Flying at me in daydreams—
Yeats riding sidesaddle,
Beating a dead and falling horse—
Shall I now say t. s. and eat another peach?
Moderator’s comments: A reader (whom I suspect is writing under a pseudonym) recently sent me the above poem together with the following note:
Dear Mr. Vazambam:
I have been following with great interest your posts dedicated to the so-called Apophthegmata of Huuklyeand Cinquor, not because I’m a fan of his work—far from it—deep down I’ve always had the gut feeling he’s a sham and fake and over the past three months I’ve been trying to dig up enough evidence to support these accusations. I think what I’ve unearthed so far is damning enough evidence to reveal him as purveyor of base metals and plagiarist par excellence. Take the above poem, for example. It claims to be his first published work, appearing in the early 70s in one of the most prestigious poetry magazines of its day—Poetry Northwest. Even a cursory examination shows that it has all the necessary conceits befitting a mainstream poem of its period—wit, irony, puns, overblown literary metaphors, a slight dose of male chauvinism, snide allusions to Yeats’ masculinity and Eliot’s bowel movements, rhetorical questions up the bung hole, etc.—in short, just the prescription needed to fit this particular editor’s bill. This is all fine and well but the riddle remains—is this poem really Cinquor’s?
The table of contents states that it is indeed written by one Huuklyeand Cinquor, but when the reader goes to the contributors’ notes, he is duly informed that Cinquor was a graduate student at the University of Washington when this particular poem was published; however, an extensive search of the files of the Registrar’s Office conducted by yours truly shows that there is no record of anybody named Huuklyeand Cinquor ever having attended the University of Washington!
I shall be presenting more evidence supporting my claims re Mr. Cinquor in due time. In the meanwhile, I remain
I.M. Sully-Maculate Zaengmac
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
If I remember correctly, the last poem
You wrote was about writing a poem;
Your next one should be about forgetting it.
Moderator’s comments: I suspect few people read I. A. Richards anymore but he was the latest rage in literary criticism throughout the first half of the previous century and it seems that Cinquor is paying homage to him with this little poem. Not to belittle Richards' many talents but I don’t think he possessed that rapier wit we see Cinquor wielding with so much admirable dispensation here, to wit and to the point: Did Richards ever say anything so downright good and practical?
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Though it’s a far cry
As soon as I see snow,
I know that early bird
Of a mourning dove has stopped by
Our wobbly TV aerial again,
And is going on and on, talking
On his pedestal to anybody
Who is somebody about anything—
Even something as pedestrian
As the time of day.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
You remember Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion, right? Well, here is Vazambam’s The Poet Delusion—five poems in which the poet deludes himself and misleads his hapless followers by pretending to have rescued the lost art of divine poetic bathos from the primordial depths of sludge it had so easily fallen into.
Monday, July 11, 2011
The writer is a dying man who is trying to speak.
And all this time I thought
I was coeval, talking
To my immortal soul.
Moderator's comments: Well, Cinquor, I don’t have to remind you
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Watch as two intrepid, middle-aged bikers--Vassilis Zambaras and George Tsiros--break the law and create history in the process by being the first to execute a record-breaking bicycle trip on a portion of the still-yet-to-be-opened new superhighway cutting through the heart of Messenias; this sequence shows them on their trail-blazing journey from the village of Oichalia to the Meligalas-Katsarou interchange--just before they were asked by two security guards to cut short their law-breaking escapade. The video is accompanied by commentaries in both Greek and English.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
—after a comment by William Michaelian
It must be,
It can’t have sprung
That has nothing
To do with those
Who live forever within
The space of a single,
It has to be
More than that.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Simon and Art
For the sad-eyed crooner that was
Surface of the water
Before the turtle that spied him
From the depths shot up to snap
Him in two, for lack
Of your more heartrending
Drawn-out rendition, this abridged
One will have to do.