W.E.

(from High School, c. 2005)

I could never see how good poetry can be lessened by fun rhyming.
So let me tell you, the pamphlet I found, had just impeccable timing.
For as I removed the twelfth case of periwinkle-lavender bright paint,
I came across a fiercely passionate statement quite quaint.
I had just been searching for a word to rhyme with ‘lurching.’

“To the world,” it said, “the OLD times are dead!
“The search for clever rhyming is like orally mime-ing—
“It doesn’t really exist, though in its search fanatics persist.
“It willn’t be missed; it should be perpetually dissed.
“Rathan* be kissed, it should find a swift fist.
“‘Get the jist!’ I say, as I shake a fierce fist.
“Annoyance is hissed when the word that is to be rhymed is the very same word as the word it is to be rhymed with, and obviously comes from a rhyming dictionary or phonetic sounds list.
“Cease the coercing and endless rehearsing
“Mimes are not amusing, and I fear to hear THEIR musing.

“The way to write doth harshly spite—I’m letting you all know, just, please, let it be so!—those poets who write completely for show.
“So that is why W.E., the Wrongly-written-poems-finder of Earth, decree,
“That,
“‘Hereby, henceforth, from now on, until W.E. say, forever,
“Whosoever elopes upon ridiculously extrapolated tangents that adulterate the integrity of the original subject matter of the poem being written must his writing utensils hurl away and his dominant hand dissever!’”

I thought, ‘How ironic. Rhyming really is moronic.
‘Why, it is something perverse!’
For I’d then discernèd from W.E. so learnèd,
That poetry is poetry as long as it’s in verse!

But, soft and anon, hearken, W.E. went on
To give me the reason for this plea against treason
The treason of manipulating
By going completely out of the way to ensure that a poem sounds clever just because a line ends with a sound similar to that of the ending sound of the last word of the previous poetic line, exempli gratia, in this case a word that rhymes with manipulating, such as ‘stipulating.’

“This will surely preclude further rhyming so crude,
“So, all ye pretenders, ye false, phonetic benders,
“W.E. [and I] do utterly suppress those with poor poetic finesse,
“And so promote true poetry.
“Start writing poems according to the NEW rules…just let it flow…it doesn’t matter if it makes sense…neither does trigonometry!”

Thus, I’m convinced that the truth W.E. evinced.
So, I, the undersigner, of bad poetry am another underminer!
Beware and take heed, ye writers false indeed!
And be not hypocriticizers!
For I, myself, retain that right and claim my place as a citizen in the world of literary rectifiers!



* rathan=contraction of “rather + than”

L’amour d’un Poisson

for Timor
I’ve never had a ‘betta’ friend
written my senior year of high school



“Hey, Bob. How’s it goin’?”
“It goes real good. How’re you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good.”
Bob was a happy person. The halls of his school were full of friends, and he never had a day without feeling he had become a better friend, a better student, and a better person. He walked calmly and carefully wherever he went. His clothes fit, and so did he. Bob liked who he was. But he had not always. Going back a pair of Groundhog Days, Bob was different.
“Bob, you are a loser.”
“Who are you to tell me so?” Bob would ask aloud, but inwardly, he agreed.
Taunts filled his ears. “The only thing Bob ever does at night / Is mope and moan and hug his pillow tight,” the somewhat-cleverly cruel Honors English teacher proudly recited in attempt to teach iambic pentameter. Bob was the school joke. Walking through the halls was like being a piece of bread on an island inhabited only by seagulls.
“What book are you reading, Bob?”
“Can you talk without raising your hand, Bob?”
“Bob the Builder, can’t you fix your self-esteem?”
These seagulls were harsh.
Bob tried to escape into daydreams of a life without jeers and jibes, but the elementary kids were too noisy.
“Bobbie, bobbie, don’t you sobbie. Bet your daddy’s got no jobbie.”
Things were better at home.
“Mom, do you know where some college-ruled filler paper is?”
“Yes, Robert, but I’m not going to tell you until you finish your homework and practice your half-hour on the harpsichord.”
“But I want to finish diagramming my language. I think with another couple hours, I can get the pronouns so that they include the tense, gender, speaker identification, number of both the subject AND the object. It’s a simple matter of setting a letter to each speaker, such as an ‘a’ for first person and an ‘o’ for second person, etc; followed the object specifications; the consonant at the end is the beautiful part: by ingeniously naming each tense with a letter, say ‘g’ for future tense, then the pronoun of the sentence would tell the reader or listener everything about who, when, and how many. I’ve even included a ‘forever’ tense with the letter ‘y.’ How wonderful. It’s flawless, Mom.”
“What, Robert? I’m on the phone.”
“So much for that,” Bob thought to himself. He wrote his essays, trigonometrized his brain to near-insanity, and practiced on the full-sized grand harpsichord his father had commissioned. He finished in time to design the present tense with a beautiful ‘r’ before his mom came to tuck him into bed.
“Mom, I’m fifteen. You can stop.”
“Don’t say that, Robert. You’ll never grow out of your goodnight kiss, nor your teddy Holstein.” She dealt him the smooch and the three-foot stuffed animal.
“Goodnight, Mom.”
“Goodnight, Robert.”
At least his mom liked him. Bob turned things over in his mind as he tossed about on his bed.
“I don’t want to go to school. I don’t want to go to school. School is cruel. School is cruel. I won’t. I won’t.”
But he always fell asleep, and he always went to school.
“Bob did sob after every hob-nob,” his teacher announced to show internal rhyme.
And so went the vicious cycle.
And then things changed.
Bob found a friend.
As the school bus approached his bus stop, the balding driver yapped, “Close the windows, or you’re not getting off.”
Bob reluctantly obeyed, child labor laws coming instantly to his mind. As he slid up the window closest to the back, his foot bumped against something squishy. It was a bag of water. On close inspection, Bob came face to face with a Betta fish of noble blue, transitioning into a deep maroon along the lengthy tail and fins.
“You’re beautiful,” Bob whispered. “A beautiful little Siamese fighting fish, Betta splendens.”
“Get off,” growled the driver.
Bob walked home carefully and calmly, the fish bag in his hand.
At home, he found a large vase and filled it with water. He consulted a book on pets for information regarding proper cleaning and feeding needs. In a short time, he was on his bed, gazing at his acquisition.
“I shall call you Satduly Love. It means ‘I love you forever’ in the language I’m developing. You do, don’t you? You love me? Satduly?”
Satduly did nothing a fish would not ordinarily do, but that is precisely what Bob needed. Everyday became easier for him. His dear Satduly Love was a constant joy in his life of adversity. The taunts and insults of his classmates and teachers became easier to bear with the prospect of returning home to be with his Satduly.
He liked Satduly because she never said anything to harm Bob. She simply looked her gorgeous best on a constant basis. Bob could, at any time he wished, kneel at her vase to gaze at her six centimeter figure of smooth elegance. Her graceful swimming seemed to be the friendly wave that Bob had never received anywhere else.
“Datsuly love, Satduly Love. That means ‘I love you forever.’ When you say it to me, because you’re female, it’s ‘Satduly.’ Because I’m male, I say, ‘Datsuly.’ So, Datsuly love, Satduly Love.”
Satduly sat dully there, staring back with no apparent emotion. But love is blind. Bob did not care at all, nor did he notice.
And so passed two years of happiness where formerly mediocrity would have reigned. Bob began to smile at school. He began to return cruelty with kindness. Where once thrived self-pity, self-confidence abounded. Bob noticed his change in attitude and happiness, and he attributed it all to his beloved Satduly.
Home after a fascinating day of stoichiometry and organisism classification, Bob was especially excited to talk to Satduly.
“Satduly Love, guess what I discovered today! Of the anabantoidei order of fishes, you are of the gourami suborder! Isn’t that fantastic? You’re perchlike!”
But Satduly was not in her vase. Bob panicked.
“Mom, have you seen Satduly anywhere?”
“Goodness, Bobbie dear, I didn’t want to be the one to break the news to you, but Satduly is gone now.”
This news ripped a hole in Bob’s soul as voraciously as a circus tiger. He said nothing, wept not, and immediately went back to Satduly’s vase. He knelt before the urn and stared at the water, unsure of time or feeling. He drifted in and out of consciousness.
Suddenly, he saw her. But she was not moving.
“What?” he thought incredulously. “Mom didn’t dispose of her remains? What an honor I have now. Should I cremate her or simply bury her? I guess I’ll have to write a lyrical eulogy either way.”
He tearfully reminisced as he honored her, hoping his muse would allow him to eternize his goddess properly. Finally, he finished, and Bob carried the vase through the kitchen to get to the backyard through the back door.
“What a fine ceremony we’ll have,” he whispered to his late love.
His mother was scrubbing dishes at the sink as he passed.
“What are you doing, Bob?” she asked, turning on the garbage disposal.
“Oh, I thought Satduly deserved a little more than a common flush.”
“That’s nice. Be careful on the floor. I just mopped.”
But it was too late. Down went Bob. Up went the vase. Bob hit the floor, and the vase hit the sink.
“NOOOOO!” screamed Bob as the contents of the vase poured through the garbage disposal. “Satduly!”
“Bob, wake up.”
“What?”
“I don’t like you just sitting in front of that vase.”
Bob was confused now. “But what about it shattering? The slippery floor? Dear Satduly down the garbage disposal?”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Bob. I don’t think I like you being so attached to that fish, but if it makes you happy, that’s great with me.”
“But where is she?”
“Well, your father and I wanted to surprise you, but as you know, even bettas don’t last forever.” She paused.
“And?” Bob prodded.
“She’s at the pet shop,” his mother answered matter-of-factly.
“What?” Bob asked for the second time.
“She should be home with her new mate and baby fishies within a couple weeks.”
After a stunned pause, Bob tearfully gave his mother a powerful bear hug.
“You’re the greatest, you know that, Mom?”
“Thanks for noticing.” She smiled.
Years passed, and Bob went to college and found a lovely human girl. They married and lived peacefully and happily in a cottage in a forest. He continued his studies and became a professor of linguistics, though he also taught a class on fish classification on the side. Satduly did not live forever, though Bob’s love and appreciation for her did. Perpetually on his desk was a vase containing a descendant of Satduly. Whenever he was stressed or frustrated, he would look at the fish, and memories would flood back. The memories of the impact the love of his little fish had had on him as a young man soothed him and brought relief. Never would he return to being depressed. Never would he be taunted and insulted. Always he would like himself. And without exception, he gave the credit to the same being.
“Datsuly love, Satduly Love.”

Freedom of Captivity

I wrote this sonnet in high school.

Freedom of Captivity
When gently spoken words did not succeed,
The horse’s trainer felt the need to add
A rope with which he could his creature lead,
And so correct his stubborn habits bad.
But Bruno did resist with angry force
To test the limits of his master’s grip.
And though his master held the reins, the horse
Did chomp the bit ‘til rope from hand did slip.
The liberated Bruno ran away;
His master no more saw his hide and tail.
Poor Bruno, in the wild, lived not a day:
In danger’s face the egotist did fail.
What Bruno in his rashness did not see
Is that a bridled life is one that’s free.

Good Knight, Princess

I really like my suit of steel,
For it makes me feel quite knightly.
But wearing the thing just makes me feel
That chivalry’s not to be taken lightly.

Once upon a royal errand, the noblest of quests,
I chanced upon a blondish damsel, fair, yet quite distressed.

She was chained to the top of the tallest tower,
Surrounded by the widest moat,
All by her lonesome, hour after hour,
Her only company a bloodthirsty goat.
“Forsooth,” I spake with my manliest voice, with all the sympathy I could muster,
“We hast chanced upon an authentic knight, so with confidence it can trust her.”
“Oh, no, no, you silly lump,” the damsel cruelly teased.
“I could not be rescued by such as thee, thou grammarly-diseased!”
“Alas!” I cried. “Alack, fairest one! He graspeth not its meaning!
“Why thinkest their speech so offensively ill, and with such errors teeming?”
“Well, Sir Knight, I’ll stay with the Goat, thou Clumsiest of Speech,
“Rathan be rescued by an unclever oaf, to whom pronouns I’d have to teach.”
“Well, then,” I said, quite disenchanted now, “Have it our way, silly.”
Next I jumped off the tower, swam across the moat, and left Miss Clever with Billy.

I then returned home to my humble castle,
And after feasting, to bed alighted.
As I lay there I realized my endless hassle,
Had I, for Princess Grammaria, fighted.

Sir Dallahad

“Intolerance of ambiguity is the mark of an authoritarian personality.”
Theodor W. Adorno

Sir Dallahad

 

Princess Grammaria

 

The Bloodthirsty Goat.