!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!+!
(Emily Dickinson, via Biblioklept)
Emily Dickinson Poems Book Cover (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Fright Night (Oil and Cold Wax, 16″x16″)
Fright Night Villanesque
Strip it down bare-boned, meet the beasts head-on
The serotinal thief is cowardly
Fright night’s raging will pale when day is done
The swirly eyes feverish when light is gone
The brake lights, air bags all but memory
Strip it down bare-boned, meet the beast head-on
Sharp fangs glisten, triangles having fun
In sad abandon they blink forever uselessly
Fright night’s raging will pale when day is done
The pulse of light, a gonner, such was man
The scritching sounds of horror legs scurry
Strip them down bare, boned; meet the beast; head on
Dismembered in the day’s light, now there’s none
Just the skid marks on an easel, somewhat sunny
Fright night’s raging will pale when day is done
But lie down and dream deeply, hon
Those leglike lashes come crawling for more fun
Stripped to bare bone, meat- the beast’s head
Fright night’s whimper will pale when life is done
Coup de chapeau au Passé: J’ay perdu ma Tourterelle, translated here…(Lichtenstein too-two-II, of course…tipping the hat is so much better than tipping the cow, no?)
Let the mindpebbles mollyslip
on the smooth sand
do not probe
do not stab at the shark pups through the bars
do not step harshly on the
coral fingers of the skull cave
softly softly catch the sea monkey
don’t go diving in that submarine
its 533 gauge torpedo tubes
have little tolerance
for the clownfish
of inquiry
slide smooth along the seabed’s undulations
embrace the susurrus
of silence
Perplexing
Apparently, today is Take-your-poet-to-work Day…Well, it would be pretty crowded in the studio then. I have been meaning to read some more Pushkin. I have unfortunately not seen the Eugene Onegin opera, but you can listen to it here! Just as delicious, you can listen to the translated poem here, read by the inimitable Stephen Fry. The poem has been translated by various people, including Vladimir Nabokov and Douglas R. Hofstadter (of Gödel, Escher,Bach).
There is a beautiful ink self-portrait of Pushkin on the Wikipedia site:
English: Russian poet Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837) Русский: Русский писатель и поэт Пушкин, Александр Сергеевич (1799-1837), Институт русской литературы, Санкт-Петербург (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
This poem seemed apt:
MON PORTRAIT
Vous me demandez mon portrait,
Mais peint d’après nature :
Mon cher, il sera bientôt fait,
Quoique en miniature.
Je sais un jeune polisson
Encore dans les classes :
Point sot, je le dis sans façon
Et sans fades grimaces.
Onc, il ne fut de babillard,
Ni docteur de Sorbonne
Plus ennuyeux et plus braillard
Que moi-même en personne.
(from Poems by Alexander Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin– January 1888, Cupples and Hurd- Publisher on Google Play)
(Another interesting resource I found, as translated by G.R Ledger: Pushkin’s Poems…)
(h/t to Vintage Printable)
LobTail Regrets
Since changing into a cat
I cannot read anymore
The world has cats
and dogs
Cats that vomit up hairballs
in slime
Dogs that gobble it up
with glee
I wish there were more whales
that vomited verdigris
Is that green-grey?
(green prom dress made with love
to match my eyes
the wrong green
the wrong green
not chromium oxide green
not sap green
not olive green
the colour of seared leprechaun green)
No, Payne’s grey, verdigris
a mix of fine ash and bees wax
with kernels of golden squid beaks
Those whales, how they
spy-hop and make sweet!
I am hungry for
whale vomit
(via The Uffish Thumb)
The Vague Curve
Today’s poem:
A Ballade of Suicide (G.K. Chesterton)
The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours–on the wall–
Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!”
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
To-morrow is the time I get my pay–
My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall–
I see a little cloud all pink and grey–
Perhaps the rector’s mother will not call–
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way–
I never read the works of Juvenal—
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational–
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small–
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
ENVOI
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
Well, okay then, I’ll try a sonnet:
Suicide Sonnet
(Hat Tip to this Cyanide and Happiness)
