NB: Hopefully, this poem should need no gloss, but as we're dealing with languages here--and very difficult ones at that--I'd just like to add that when a Greek comes up against something written or said that he/she does not understand, the phrase used is "It's all Chinese to me."
I want to thank Annie Wyndham for her latest blog entry; I’m grateful she took the time to not only say some nice things about my poetry but also to write some of her own in the process. Annie spent some time in Northern Greece quite a few years back and she retains an avid interest in anything Greek—especially the music—so it was doubly satisfying to see her include a rare (but nothing-to-rave-about) video of a not-so-successful “whirling-dervish-of-a-poet” tripping the not-so-light fantastic to the rhythms of a classic rembetiko song! My turn to say in the language that’s still close to her heart— “Ευχαριστώ, Αννούλα, για την αγάπη σου”.
See the unsavory pol trying to hide His habit of pigging out on pheasant Under glass instead of tripe—still Under the circumstances, one has to agree One cannot be too conservative; you see The down-and-out still have this nose For bullshit that’s downright cruel And can smell when someone’s stuffing His craw on pâté de foie gras while serving The chawbacons back on the farm Liberal helpings of hogwash and gruel.
Will the candidates poised For undying posthumous fame ever stop
Feeding entries into their infernal Recycling machines?
Moderator’s comments: I have no idea, Huuk, but I can venture a wild guess: As soon as a fire-breathing, flying white horse powered by an insatiable lust for the likes of hubris-driven, never-say-die flamboyant and fiery poetry hacks arrives on the scene?
Sheets of lightning vault across A leaden sky on the dome rain Thunders down under the terrible Eye of the Pantocrator the huddled Faithful trampled underneath the crypt Remains sealed no one asks why.
“Poetry is a revelation in words by means of the words.” —Wallace Stevens
MC: (through a bullhorn, bucolically)
All right, you noble riders of the purple page, kindly listen up— Would the next round of supplicants willing and able To step out of line and sacrifice everything Save their skins please start jockeying For positions to reveal themselves?
This lovesick ravenous crone Impresses Her horny claws firmly In the soft mud Of our mind, tears At our bleeding Mushy heart, Snatches us away Like a harpy all the while Droning raucously sweet Nothings in our ear.
You’ll find that buoyant Voice you’re looking for bobbing
Right here near the surface, not Sinking at the end
Of one last desperate line.
Moderator’s comments: Cinquor twitching like a catastomid on the end of a gaffe(sic)—this guy doesn’t know Trout Fishing in America from The Compleat Angler. Why he presumes to be such an authority on the murky current state of American poetry is anybody’s guess, but there’s a strong possibility it might have something to do with his piscine-sounding name.
poet’s] entire body promises to satisfy our every whim and fancy
we wait for his creative juices to start flowing once that first course
This fare is a bookworm’s
Easily digested, my friend—
If so, why then
At the end the taste
Of gritty grubs ruminating
On tips of tumescent tongues?
*Blurb by one Randall Cann
Standall on back cover of the Complete
Poetical Works of X.S. Wasserbildj-Vandersluis, publisher unspecified.
comments: I don’t know about you guys but I’ve just about had
my fill of Cinquor’s tasteless and tiresome efforts. The next time he sends me
something like this, I’m going to return it to him with the following instructions
(in block letters) on the envelope:DROP
DEAD, WRITE LATER.
Now that one last dude has shot His wad of nickels into the belly of the beast And cleared out just before closing time, in comes That upstairs Greek immigrant tenement urchin who starts Biting the dust under the row of abandoned pinball machines.
He knows if he hangs in there and keeps A sharp eye out for any strays, the understanding Irish lady of the saloon will once again look The other way and let him pocket One more buffalo head or two, surely
A good day’s killing for the likes Of the both of them.