Sailing to Pissantium

With apologies to W. B. Yeats (1865–1939)

This is no timeshare for cold fish!

An agèd poet's but a meager dish,

a folder of poor verses, if you wish,

whose author loves your work—but praising must confess

while talking up your talent, nonetheless,

they'd like another chance to second-guess.

There is no school for poetry but life,

which has its moments, though it's mostly strife,

so I have sailed the seven skies and come

to the great Republic of Pissantium

where blatant frauds adorn the pissant walls

and no good art—well, nothing really bad! befalls.

From chicken factories and plastic-shrouded seas,

fish, flesh, or fowl's consumèd all day long.

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies,

whether you want them or not, is served with fries.

Perched upon an arch to serenade

the guys and gals of great Pissantium

with what is past, passing, yet to come

though they be homeless, on the bum,

we keep the boozy plutocrats awake,

and cheer the little couple on the cake.

Note: Just as Buzántion (Latin Byzantium, subsequently Constantinople/Istanbul) is the Greek diminutive of Búzas, the name of the original Megaran colony there, linguists point out, Pissántion (Latin Pissantium) is clearly the diminutive form of Pissant.

Against Perfection

"He has observ'd the Golden Rule

Till he's become the Golden Fool."

—Blake

If, once in the sequence of our life,

the instinct soul starts keeping time, it's key—

the rest is just vocabulary

when spirit takes tomorrow for a wife,

in place of Lady Trouble and Strife,

supplanting thus snare drum and fife;

beyond the perfect, fate may flout

the tools of time, concealing doubt:

Apple watch, sundial's gnomon,

if not clepsydra’s dripping spout.

Far-off—no hapax legomenon—

there's also doleful Gaia's song.

How in a sonnet of fourteen lines

bring down to earth the welkin's rhymes?

Elephant clepsydra, or water clock, in Al-Jazari's "Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices" (1315)

Note: "hapax legomenon," Greek ἅπαξ λεγόμενον = something said only once.

September 29, 2024

Tutti-frutti

The brain is layered like a tutti-frutti cake,

So science tells us in a recent take.

I sometimes wonder what that news is worth

Given that down here on Earth

More things are dreamed up by neurology

Than can be proven by pathology.

The issue, perhaps, is between the cherry and pistachio bits:

Which is the nicer?? And which better fits??

But when it comes to poets,

The favored bits are few;

Most of them just hedge their bets

And write what Meemaw knew—

Or any handy slab of prose

That no one notices or knows.

September 27, 2024