Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poets Burning for Recognition

A forest

Of white ashes smoldering

After an inferno.

Moderator’s comments: A case of A Burnt-Out Case hot on the heels of “You can’t see the forest for the trees?” How original, Cinquor! You must be glowing with satisfaction whereas my ashen face is turning green with envy.

Departures

Photograph taken in winter about twenty years ago with my ancient Miranda. A five-minute drive uphill and due west from my village of Remmatia, Chrisova, or Chrisotopos ("Golden Place")--its modern name--is a collection of approximately 20 houses, half of which have been abandoned by their owners who have departed for Athens and other more metaphorical worlds, as has this old woman lugging who knows what into the waiting fog. 

The small, black dirigible getting ready to crash into the bare mulberry tree is a memento left behind by the somewhat careless photographer who developed the picture and who has also taken off for a more perfect world.

Flash in the Pan

The poet’s promising

Day-to-day idiom was now clearly within sight,

But before he could bat an eyelash,

He saw it clubbed to death by vengeful creatures

More adept at flying by night.

Tree House

“Houses, you know, grow stubborn easily, when you strip them bare.”

—George Seferis, from “Thrush”

Not your usual idea

Of a child’s elevated playhouse
Full of youthful abandon,

But this

Abandoned, low-lying roofless

Shell of decaying stone walls

Inhabited by stubborn runaway

Brambles and wild olive trees

Rooted firmly to the earth.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on The Poentabulator

Moderator’s comments: I don’t know how or why our boy Cinquor jumped onto the poetry bandwagon to begin with, but the guy who sent me this video swears that Cinquor is the distinguished looking gentleman in the white coat making his video debut waxing poetically some forty years ago about a nebulous sounding contraption known as the Entabulator. If this is indeed true, and I see no reason to doubt it, as my informer is not a poet and thus incapable of imagining such a thing happening, we can now clearly see why Cinquor’s overriding poetic concern—adopted by so many vapid rapid versifiers over the past half-century—has been and will always be “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.” Mesmerizing, to say the least.