Small Talk: Every Litter Bit Counts

To a worm in horseradish, the world is horseradish.—Yiddish proverb

Everything today is propaganda.

Never mix your household cleaners.

China now wants back those pandas.

V. V. Putin’s getting meaner.

(What’s the meanest he could get?)

Won’t go out this morning, since the frigging weather’s wet.

Elmo’s been posting hateful speech again.

Seems like no one’s safe online.

Two billion Muslims'll remember Gaza.

But what the hell could they all do?

Remember to change Croissant’s litter.

And get a box of merlot wine.

Sunday July 19, 2025

Crazy Weather, or, Orpheus in Appalachia

Alberto Savinio [Andrea de Chirico], Orfeo e Euridice (1951). Palazzo Pitti, Galleria d'Arte Moderna, Florence

“It’s this crazy weather we’ve been having:

Falling forward one minute, lying down the next . . .

—John Ashbery, “Crazy Weather,” in Houseboat Days (1977)

Regrets for not mentioning her new dress—

"Orph," she says, "you observe the politesses less

And less these days, I'm sad to say!"

It's true, dear heart, my thoughts were far away.

The love that was is no more so much fun.

Would that it were not so, I fear our couple's run.

The sun shines on; the temperature soars:

"Highs in the high 90s, real feel 101.

A chance of showers in the PM.”

That bumptious weatherperson apothegm:

"On flooded roads, turn back—don’t drown.

Go indoors fast when thunder roars!"

"I shall never want or need," says Ashbery,

"Any other literature than this poetry of mud."

The protest looks back to houseboat days. He

Must mean something more, but what?

Responsibilities should match the words one's got.

A muddy literature bespeaks a storm

And damage far beyond the common norm.

Eury, wearing her best juridical frown

(my lovey-dovey name for her's "Justine"),

Shrugs, looks away, and blows on down.

A bitter outcome, back to Mother then!

A rattler waits upon the path, what's more,

And far below, old Hades knows the score.

Jean-Baptiste Corot, Wounded Eurydice (1868/70). Art Institute of Chicago

And just to note: The name Orpheus is thought to derive from a PIE* root meaning "orphan, servant, slave," while Eurydike might broadly mean something like "just deserts." Their ancient legend, its origins lost in what the French call "the night of time," is a search for the subliminal music of meaning. This poem hints at an Appalachian episode, tossing the bones—words—yet again to see what comes up. It riffs on the dramatic depiction of a latter-day Orpheus and Eurydike by the painter, writer, and musician Alberto Savinio (1891–1952), Giorgio de Chirico's younger brother.

Thanks to the late John Ashbery for the epigraph and the title "Crazy Weather." I must confess, though, to my inability to get what he drew from it: "soft, white, nameless flowers"??

*Proto-Indo-European.

Saturday, July 19, 2025

Poor Peacocks

What’s Russia without Tchaikovsky, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Shostakovich et al.,

France sans Stendhal, Victor Hugo (Helas!), Bizet, and Proust,

Finland minus Sibelius,

Poland with no Chopin,

England, no Shakespeare,

Ireland short Yeats, Wilde, Swift,

Nicaragua sin Rubén Darío?

You get the drift?

America absent Emily Dickinson, Mark Twain, and Louis Armstrong,

Might not feel all that great for long.

Add your own congregation to this list,

With geniuses to extemporize its gist.

Stripped of their plumes, the nations

Are poor peacocks gazing slack-beaked into the rain,

Which drown . . . no, that’s a turkey tale!

Better than fake mythology are reflective names.

Tyrants and politicians'll be forgotten in a while;

Words, art, and music won't go out of style.

Hoi polloi get jiggy in the common way, meanwhile.

Their hopes are hopeless, for their taste is vile.

Thursday, July 17, 2025