Ultima Thule, or, How to Talk to the Dead

The mythical island of Thule in the Carta marina of Olaus Magnus (1539)

In the most high and palmy state of Rome,

A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,

The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead

Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.

—Hamlet, act 1, scene 1

Conversing with the dead's an art that's felt.

l wouldn't call it fine! First, ask where they are.

Could it be Heaven? Or in the Kuiper Belt,

with just deserts "gàr'd near Neptune’s car"?

Good guess! But Pluto really doesn't like

them! Cerebral skills piss off or take a hike.

A painful soupçon has to be conceded:

Is Ultima Thule the home from home that's needed?

Soliloquizing spirits squeak and groan.

The interlocutor comes across a stone.

Better to be concurring with a quark

than Arrokoth, rotating in the dark!

How should I put it? Look for a karmic spark.

Curriculum vitae's fading from the bone.

The minor planet Arrokoth, formerly called Ultima Thule.

Note: “Arrokoth” is apparently a Powhatan or Virginia Algonquian word meaning “sky” or “cloud.”

Cave adsum

Alexander the Great in the Battle of Issus Mosaic

In memoriam Peter Morris Green, novelist, classicist, historian (December 22, 1924–September 16, 2024)

“Beware, I’m here,” ici présent.

Read this, traveler, if you want.

Playing with words, as is my wont,

like or detest them, if you don’t,

these fragments strive to entertain,

that's their desire and maker’s aim,

whose friends are dying, one by one—

three gone thus far now this year’s sum.

As yours are, too, I have no doubt,

once in the world, but now without.

I’m quite alone—so are we all.

Illusions vanish; harms befall—

but you the living note these lines,

Looking back at merrier times.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Green_(historian)

Caterwauling

The final kibble that broke the dromedary's back,

The feeble English of this idiot attack:

"Eat Fewer Kittens" is what the sign should order!

But grammar's unchecked down at our southern border,

For party hacks fine words are quite a trial

And political debate no music for a while.

But there's a simple solution—

Unneeded any MAGA revolution.

The Chicago Manual of Style

Should all their cares beguile:

Wond’ring how their pains were eas’d

And disdaining to be pleas’d.

Tip o' the mouse[trap] to John Dryden and Henry Purcell for their song "Music for a While."