[Erik Olson]

Blackout

version i.

What trips my trips have laid, and where, and why,
I have forgotten—last night I drank kooks
Under the table who return like spooks
To haunt my morning: many a bruised barfly
Will sue for damages or testify;
But in my gut there stirs the worst rebukes,
For unremembered dudes who put up dukes
Now take the stand and give the evil eye.

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more friendless than before:
I lost some friends in no time when I won
The drinking game; that summer booze in me
Drove me half mad, that in me drives no more.

version ii.

What lip my lip has hissed, and where, and why,
I know not, nor with whom I did carouse
And fight till morning; filling this courthouse,
These gauzy ghosts in bandages claim I
Blacked out their light last night as well as eye;
A fire stirs my gut, which doubt might douse—
Each unremembered claimant seems a louse,
His case a railroad and his cast a lie.

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more friendless than before:
I lost some friends in no time when I won
The drinking game; that summer booze in me
Drove me half mad, that in me drives no more.
f

[RCL]

# 479.1

After Emily Dickinson, “Because I could not stop for Death – “

Because I would not stop for Death –
One day she kidnapped me –
A Ferrari held the two of us
And lyric poet E.

We straightened curves – no time to waste
But I took time to pray
My modest books – my little frigates –
Would sail for me someday.

We zoomed past parks where Poets strove
Like boxers – in a Ring –
We blasted by Hope’s Feathers School,
Passed seasons up to Spring.

Or maybe – seasons passed by us –
The bone-dry heat was cruel –
E’s slants suggested that I strip –
But I maintained my cool.

We passed a House – its grassy roof
Close to the a Burying Ground –
Its ornate door with pulsing words
Like embers said – To Ground –

Since through that door, we’ve traveled far –
E hints at a Surprise –
So I surmise the red Ferrari
Speeds us to Paradise


https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/...stop-death-479

[Dargan Ware]

William Carlos Williams wanted to tell us about plums, but here is

What William's Wife Wants to Say

Forgive me
my dear

there will be
no Christmas pudding

because
you have eaten the plums

but they are tastier
from the icebox
anyway.

[Graham King]

Originally Posted by Patrick Murtha

To eat or not to eat? Is that your question?
..
And let, in this, my plate my palate please.

WOW, that is astonishingly brilliant!

[David Anthony]

On first looking into Chapman’s Homer

I’d never read Chapman before
and felt like that sky-watcher (Moore);
or those blokes on a peak
who weren’t able to speak,
being gobsmacked by all that they saw.

Adlestrop

I remember Adlestrop,
a place where trains no longer stop.
There is a pub there, and a shop.
Yes, I remember Adlestrop.

[RCL]

A Crime Rhyme

A bigger crime than I recalled.

[RCL]

Arse Poetica

Epics chart a culture’s mind
in sprawls of history and wit—
their redolence rides passing winds.

The lyrics are much smaller songs
leaking just a little wind
perfuming feelings as they’re sung.

Dramatic verse can be perverse,
digest the major characters’ wind,
their offal odors at times a curse.

An Arse Poetica, an art,
releases powerful aromas
as contrails of a horse's fart.

Symbol of a poem’s source,
it's Pegasus, of course of course.

[Jim Hayes]

Song to Celia
After Ben Jonson

Drink to me with thine only eye
I’m trying to focus mine
to take a swig from out my cup
thou cyclopian Valentine.
This thirst that in thy soul doth lie
is slaked with Spanish wine,
I will of Jose’s nectar sup
and fill my glass from thine.

I sent thee late a dainty box,
not as a costly treat,
but bars of soap as feeling they
would help thee wash thy feet.
But thou didst only wash thy socks
and sent them on to me,
since when they grow and smell all day
not of themselves but thee.

Drink to me with thine only eye.
Off weed yer sayin’? Goodbye.

[Michael Cantor]

Hey - welcome back!

[Martin Elster]

Greetings, Jim!

Do Hasty Harm

A voice arose among the melting
crystals on the boughs—
an aged feline that was belting
out great sad meows.
He had good cause for moaning so,
for he could not climb down
to the mucky slush and yellow snow
that overspread the town.

What was he doing on that tree,
not being crow or thrush?
He caroled in a sour key.
I wanted him to hush.
Leaning upon the coppice gate
in the weakening eye of day,
I aimed my shotgun at him straight
and let the pellets spray.

______________________

Parody of “The Darkling Thrush.”
The title is an anagram of Thomas Hardy.

(Appeared in The Spectator.)