Of Mice and Manes

Of Mice and Manes

The lioness looked anxious;

she still had her cub spots.

She was grooming herself

with a long pink tongue.

The older maned one, clearly aroused

in the long grass beside her.

Slyly, she evaded his desires

by padding in circles,

aided by the human interference

of our four-wheeled drive.

When he roared in frustration,

and stormed the game vehicle;

we all gasped in consternation:

Irresponsible guide! complained

one kaki-clad tourist,

visibly excited.

Why did she egg him on?

asked a pith-helmeted lady.

#InMice I mumbled

as we trundled on.

credit: JdVP

FILO Villanelle

The Sucréd and the Proe Fyn

No added vanilla.

h/t The Waste Land

Today’s challenge:write a poem that incorporates at least one of the following: (1) the villanelle form, (2) lines taken from an outside text, and/or (3) phrases that oppose each other in some way. 

Credit: JdVP

Filo Villanelle

Mixing memory and desire

Wilts the unfurling flower

Like a drought spell in the spring

I brush melted butter

Between sheer dough sheets of filo

I’m layering memory and desire

Slide it into the hot oven’s maw

Its element, desert sun shining down

Like a drought spell falling over spring

Scents of cranberry and brie bubble

The leaves now fall-crisp

Parcels of memory and desire

The mouth waters, the senses explode

Slide out the juxtaposed creation

Like a drought spell fell in spring

Small bites of savory and sweet

Mixing memory and desire

Spring leaves after the drought.

Fright Night Villanesque

Fright Night
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?)


Susurrus (SussieRus)

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

Un Petit Peu de Pushkin


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-...
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:


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 PushkinAleksandr 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…)



LobTail Regrets

(h/t to Vintage Printable)
(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)

Morbid Spiritoïdy

The Vague Curve
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.

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
Suicide Sonnet

(Hat Tip to this Cyanide and Happiness)