Sunday Scribblings #189: Oracle
[9 sublime]Gender bending cosmonauts,
Priming at the Cool Café,
Their harems in military line,
Echoing the distillations
Of pepperings future past,
Mayan avocado shrimp dip
And McKenna on the sublime
Back nine, Florsheims pandering
To the crooked,
The eventual,
The unhorsed,
The validated parking stickers
That miss by a mile,
While the still are living
And the living are still dead.
92 rhymes with
The rest of where we go,
When the days are blue
And the galleries are blown.
Lyman Frank Baum as birdhouse,
Hosing the weathervanes,
Vainly squiring his minions through
The poppies, angular Fate
In her red tap dancers, sparkling
Recompense for the little
We know and the little
You’ll do. Stand
In the river? If need be,
Of course, but the hissings
Of summer lawns, now
That’s actuarial bliss beyond
Measure, actuarial praise beyond
This.
Labels: fashionistas
posted by murat11 at 3:49 PM
25 Comments:
Hissing of Summer Lawns
does it for me too~
Good evening, MizLee: I've gotta give props to my Scorp sister Joni Mitchell for the theft of those hissings.
"Vainly squiring his minions through
The poppies" How can you say that? Didn't they did get what they wanted after all? Those summer lawns blissfully hissing are proof that there is absolutely no place like home! I will forgive you since you brought Joni into the mix. She can cover a multitude of sins :)
Dee: Why do you think I invoked her? To cover any and all...between Joni (November 7th), Bonnie Raitt (November 8th), and Rickie Lee Jones (also November 8th), I got plenty alibis...
I like your little hints of rhyme all the way through. They aren't where one would expect them but just sit there echoing.
Thank you, Linda. Rhyme's a weird thing for me. Lately, I've found that I need to rhyme to finish off a poem, but as you note, there are all kinds of nooks and crannies where rhyme just creeps in on its own. I encourage my students to do the same: not necessarily to seek it out, but watch how it will sneak in of its own accord.
I read this last night with "interpretion-induced" mushiness of the brain and decided not to comment until I had had at least 10 hours sleep. Went to bed early so I could have time before getting serious about final papers, and your first line still knocks me over.
I just love the image of "gender-bending cosmonauts" and their harems in military lines eating Mayan avocado shrimp, no less. You certainly capture the outre world of haute coutre fashionistas!!
I am not sure about "hissing lawns." That brings to mind snakes in the grass, and I have to start reaching for my machete.
But I was also struck by the "actuarial bliss beyond measure, actuarial praise beyond this." Liked the rhymes and the strutting rhythms, and ending on a Lloyds of London insurance policy for some high end model's legs or nose is just too perfect. They will need the insurance if I'm out there swinging my machete to kill those snakes in the grass...
I may still have "mushy brain" after all. Great poem, Murat.
This sure spilled out in one glorious cascade of paschalian velvet. I especially liked the rich band of trim beginning with angular Fate/In her red tap dancers, sparkling/ Recompense for the little/
We know and the little/ You’ll do.
Oh yes...
Ms T: Mush out, girl: this be tesserine exegesis supreme, saxophone accompaniment to the prevailing drift. Not sure about you and those machetes, girl: I'm mindful of them snakes of Taiwanese yore. Totally dig your Lloyds of London riff.
Ms Anno: What lush words of appreciation. I believe even velvet can blush. How y'all are up there?
Well, I wouldn't be after you, Murat, with the machete that is. I'd just be after those snakes hiding in the lawn of your new home. Out protecting my friends and their kids so to speak. But those goose-step strutting models with their noses in the air just may not see me in my Taiwanese army camoflage clothes (left over from Yuni's military stint), and they may prance right into my swinging blade. So I'd sever an Achilles tendon instead of chopping up a snake in the grass. Then the enraged rattler would bite them on the toe, and Lloyds of London would be sending adjusters to your lawn to measure the level of hissing. (You might find that the actuaries for your home owners insurance decided that your lawn has too much dangerous hissing; those premiums could rise, bro. So I guess I should stop this line of mental movie. Ah well, I was thinking of getting Heidi Klum to be the star strutter.)
Ms T: Keep it up, girl: let the home movies run on - anything to keep you at least a little less engaged with weekend academia.
I wanna be the one to walk in the sun.
Oh,girls,
They wanna have fu-un...
Can't be less engaged with weekend academia!! It's almost the end of the semester. I have final papers aaagggh!!!
Not really, I take bloggy breaks to refresh my mind and keep my sanity.
And your blog is a load of fun!!!
Agreeing with everyone: hissing of summer lawns, how apt! In your word world, it is always summer, decadent humid summer at that, full of peacock blues and palpitating presences. The living are dead, yes, and maybe it's just me, but it makes me wish for the undead.
Besos!
Maria
Amiga! It is so good to hear from you! I love the picture you painted of the palpitating peacock world - puts me in mind of that wonderfully narrative world you inhabit down your Montevidean way. Besos to you as well: pascual
this took me to such places of imaginative bliss!
my favourite lines:
Mayan avocado shrimp dip
And McKenna on the sublime
{don't know why, but this evokes colours: brilliant orange, grey-brown-green and cobalt blue}
92 rhymes with
The rest of where we go,
{I think of a spicy 92-year-old who is open to the possibility of 'whatever'}
Great post!
I'm really fond of the nooks and crannies that carry your rhyme and cause your words to sing. Beautiful!
"while the still are living and the living are still dead".
I love the way you repeat a word and offer another twist to its meaning. Not to mention the ambiguity of the statements themselves. It adds such enormity to your poems. It's much like walking through a mirrored funhouse. Fond amusement, indeed!
Thank you, Jennifer, and thank you for all your own riffs on the poem: interactive poem-ing, thass what it's all about.
And Tumblewords, I am always fond of your wonderful words of appreciation.
Michael: Thanks for getting inside this poem and having some fun with it. Repetition jumped on the paschalian poetizing bandwagon very early on: I likes the rhythm of it, and I likes the fthms of it, too.
ohhh, those brown shoes.... haha, i had to laugh... explosive lines, heavy on the visuals... standing in the river caught me by surprise...
pieceofpie: Oracular shoes, mind you. The poem was buzzing in my ear as I walked into Hollywood Video and heard Will Ferrell's character enthusing about his Florsheim zipper boots in "Land of the Lost." Here in Muravia, demolition is de rigueur. Thanks for dropping in.
Florsheim zipper boots stealing through summer lawns, which hiss back. Oddly, these shoes and that number 9 are resonating with a dream that came up in my dream group. It was another dreamer's dream and so I can't share much. I'll only say that soft leather boots and the number 4, not 9, figured prominently.
"Angular Fate/in her red tap dancers"--that makes something click.
San: Click indeed, cousin Dorothy. I'm sure Carl Gustav wore size 9 Florsheims, no?
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