Moderator’s comments: The apotheosis of the absurd in only eleven words; however, what remains of my frazzled logic impels me to peg the odds at 99-1 that prior to writing this “exercise in futility,” Cinquor envisaged the specter of the great Archimedes (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archimedes) uttering his famous last words “Do not disturb my circles” just before an enraged, mathematically ignorant Roman soldier “put him in a pine box” for what he thought was insubordination when, in reality, all the good mathematician had in mind was to continue his line of thought undisturbed, outside the box!
More than likely, The perfect poem is never Going to be there when You need it, even if You’ve just cut your veins And are waiting patiently For divine inspiration to save you From a fate worse than death.
The next time you sit down to write Something mind-blowing right
Off the top of your head, Take what’s left
Of your brains with you.
Moderator’s comments: What a relief! Our resident gadfly had been out of sight and out of mind so long that I was ready to abandon all hope of ever hearing from him again, so you can understand how elated I was when I received another one of his delicious little gems. With this one in particular, without his resorting to overblown poetic hyperbole, we can see how Huuk has hit the proverbial nail on the head once more and demonstrated how futile it is to have your artistic cake and eat it too—unless the poet in question has enough smarts left over to return to his senses before he suffers irreversible damage to his powerful albeit very misguided “inspirational” ego by overshooting it.
“the fingers on the rim, as the poet put it.” —George Seferis, Mythistorema #2*
The wild fig tree that has put down roots Deep in its depths and taken over The well’s mouth tells us no more Wishing here—the ropes have broken And the grooves on its lip serve
To remind us those lines of maidens Who pulled up pail after pail of water Year after year have long since departed, And where once there was nubile skittery, Domesticated stony silence is all we hear.
*The “poet” referred to is Dionysios Solomos,
and the phrase cited is from his prose work,
The Woman of Zakynthos, Chap.I.
All this murderous Business of people going about Their daily business of killing People unlike themselves, What power under The heavens will rise up To wipe this enterprise off The face of the earth And make it human again?
Yesterday you were firm As a brooding hen, not Budging an inch from your future Capital, come what may. Well, I’ve got news for you, you Fly-by-night mogul—the god Almighty inch is still here today, Plus the budgie in its gilded cage. Before the cock crows anew, While your lovey-dovey precious Nest egg’s flying the coop and stool Pigeons coo, I bet swiftly you’ll be Roosting in a chintzy cuckoo’s nest a blue Moon away, you cheesy yahoo you.
The secret of my success? Too bad A run of bad luck means I’m going To take that with me but I can Leave you this much, Einstein— I didn’t get this far in life By counting the number Of steps I took backwards.
If we had dared Say we were happy when Such days as these Came and went and we Just kept on hoping Everything would go On being the same, Who would have believed Us and how much Of what we had said Would we have changed?
After a long day spent Asking never-ending questions To see if I’m deserving Of my state, now in the darkening Twilight, the slightest wind-swept Brush of burnished gray-brown hair Cross her steady unassuming gaze Reminds me it’s best I let the light, That incredible uplifting light of hers That never seems to end, Sweep my every doubt away, Leaving me alone to cherish my fate.
Here, Under a now brilliant Clear cold blue Winter sky that just Two hours ago Dumped a foot Of blinding snow in And around its hollow Shell, I find myself Wondering how
It is this magnificent Still standing tall Two-storey centenarian Stone derelict no longer With a roof to its name Still shamelessly refuses To lie there in shambles And take its monumental History down With it.