Today's additions and deletions owe much to the kind and candid criticism of a reader in Maine, who has been carefully following the developments of our story.
She pointed out that the noisy vacuum cleaner featured at the end of yesterday's sonnet seems a bit ugly and jarring, out of keeping with the tone established in the poem so far. And I think she was right. Therefore, I have re-written the ending of that sonnet as a lead in to the following sonnet, today's sonnet, keeping her comments in mind.
I am always grateful to receive constructive criticism from readers. Sometimes I re-write things as a result. The truth is, I miss things, and sometimes I don't make necessary connections between images, or the connections I make are not always the most logical or obvious ones. I am always grateful to borrow the thoughts of others.
So, I would like to dedicate today's posting to June, in Maine.
As usual, today's contribution follows at the end.
Takaaki entered my life as a leopard Belt being unbuckled at the Y. Until that day, we had exchanged no word Apart from that perfunctory, “Hi,” One naturally nods when in the shower— Never letting eyes fall any lower Than chin, if necessary, collarbone, Carefully leaving ‘well enough’ alone— Lest anything unseemly try to blur The steely line of bubbles separating Really clean from curious—creating Questions about conditioners, and whether Grapefruit is a proper manly scent— Even in a Thought Experiment.
I was hooked by how that feline belt Crept through the four tight loops above his rear; It filled me with four-letter words, which spelt, “Don’t ruin your Moon trip.” Although sincere— Poetic even—this injunction—it Does not, I think, seem quite appropriate. We’re not inside a NASA locker room: We’re here—a cave as moldy as the tomb Where Romeo is scheduled to meet His honey, when Miss Fortune intervenes, Cancelling the dancing in those scenes. I sprinkled fungal powder on my feet, Discretely. As my fairy dust descended, I wondered if his buckle was befriended
By anything besides his fingertips. I could, of course, conceive of other suitors— A bedroom floor, those pant hangers with clips Coated in red rubber, folding doors With tiny metal doorknobs—all of this I could conceive—nor was it my business Where, after leaving his seductive waist, His buckle might intend to hang, how chaste These new companions, if they drank, or stank Of soiled underwear, or socks, or hold Silk stockings with more reverence, or old Boas, handcuffs, or dead cats. (I thank The Lord, this morning, when I dressed, I took A necktie from my closet hook.) Now, look—
Zip, that leopard softly disappears Around Takaaki’s narrow, subtle hips. A poet friend once spent ten thousand years On hips, neglecting to Chapstick his lips; So long he labored he dissolved to dust, Before he could express his love. Or lust. I trust, the stupid use he made of Time Will not be copied in your life. Or mine. With fifty-odd lines written on a waist, A belt, belt loops, belt buckle, and no ass, You might suppose your humble Author has Lost you, Takaaki, and his mind. In case That’s what you think, permit me now to state, While you’ve been thinking, we’ve been on a date.
…
Around a core of elevators set Twelve tall windows in a concrete sheet As crumbly as the Parthenon; let Your panorama start in Brooklyn, greet The Empire State behind a candle (where I sit sweating, in a sticky chair), While your eye continues travelling Along the glass, skyscrapers unraveling, Until the pointy tip of the Chrysler Build- -ing rises from Lexington Avenue, Piercing a silver nitrate mist. Now you Must let this scintillating picture fill The space before your eyes: that is New York. Here, I transfix a carrot with a fork.
“Introibo ad altare,” I will say, While blowing on the steaming vegetable, Adding, “Totemo oishikatta ne,” Hoping, after five months, I am able To tell Takaaki I enjoy his curry Without entangling my tongue in worry. “It’s okay,” he shrugs, quietly deferring My compliments—as always—much preferring A tilted head, a seated bow, the leaner Show of manners honored in Japan, Which can seem strange to an American. I sat there feeling silly, like a wiener, Looking past my carrot, at the sun: Before I’d taken two bites, he was done—
Just like those thirty-minute Japanese Cartoons I used to watch in Buffalo: Star Blazers was my favorite of these, (Nihon-go, Uchu Senkan Yamato.) On rusty orange carpet I would sip Iced-tea as an Imperial Navy ship, Resurrected and retooled for space, Left planet Earth to save the Human Race. And, later, on Eye-Witness News, I’d see Toyota windshields being battered By men from Chevrolet, lives shattered By something known as, “The Economy.” One person wore a map t-shirt. Above Japan it read, “Two bombs were not enough.”
Yesterday, as I was juiced, I managed to construct two stanzas instead of my customary one. Today, things have not been so easy. Writing has been astonishingly hard. I left my glasses at Mikey's house last night, so I have been squinting at my screen like Mr. Magoo all day, which has given me a rapacious headache. If this Motrin doesn't work, I may have to skip the gym tonight. Which means I will go home and die.
The phrase "Introibo ad altare dei," from the opening line of today's stanza, was just something that occurred to me this morning on the train. It is part of the Catholic liturgy for the Tridentine Mass, the Mass of the Holy Trinty. It famously occurs in the opening paragraph of James Joyce's Ulysses, when stately, plump Buck Mulligan emerges from the stairhead and lofts the bowl of lather, strop and razor, preparatory to shaving his friend, Stephen Dedalus.
The phrase translates as, "I will go in to the altar of God." What this may suggest in the context of the three languages of the stanza, Takaaki, a steaming carrot and my mouth, I leave to my religious readers to determine.
As usual, today's contribution is appended at the end of the excerpt.
Takaaki entered my life as a leopard Belt being unbuckled at the Y. Until that day, we had exchanged no word Apart from that perfunctory, “Hi,” One naturally nods when in the shower— Never letting eyes fall any lower Than chin, if necessary, collarbone, Carefully leaving ‘well enough’ alone— Lest anything unseemly try to blur The steely line of bubbles separating Really clean from curious—creating Questions about conditioners, and whether Grapefruit is a proper manly scent— Even in a Thought Experiment.
I was hooked by how that feline belt Crept through the four tight loops above his rear; It filled me with four-letter words, which spelt, “Don’t ruin your Moon trip.” Although sincere— Poetic even—this injunction—it Does not, I think, seem quite appropriate. We’re not inside a NASA locker room: We’re here—a cave as moldy as the tomb Where Romeo is scheduled to meet His honey, when Miss Fortune intervenes, Cancelling the dancing in those scenes. I sprinkled fungal powder on my feet, Discretely. As my fairy dust descended, I wondered if his buckle was befriended
By anything besides his fingertips. I could, of course, conceive of other suitors— A bedroom floor, those pant hangers with clips Coated in red rubber, folding doors With tiny metal doorknobs—all of this I could conceive—nor was it my business Where, after leaving his seductive waist, His buckle might intend to hang, how chaste These new companions, if they drank, or stank Of soiled underwear, or socks, or hold Silk stockings with more reverence, or old Boas, handcuffs, or dead cats. (I thank The Lord, this morning, when I dressed, I took A necktie from my closet hook. ) Now, look—
Zip, that leopard softly disappears Around Takaaki’s narrow, subtle hips. A poet friend once spent ten thousand years On hips, neglecting to Chapstick his lips; So long he labored he dissolved to dust, Before he could express his love. Or lust. I trust, the stupid use he made of Time Will not be copied in your life. Or mine. With fifty-odd lines written on a waist, A belt, belt loops, belt buckle, and no ass, You might suppose your humble Author has Lost you, Takaaki, and his mind. In case That’s what you think, permit me now to state, While you’ve been thinking, we’ve been on a date.
…
Around a core of elevators set Twelve tall windows in a concrete sheet As crumbly as the Parthenon; let Your panorama start in Brooklyn, greet The Empire State, behind a candle (where I sit sweating, in a sticky chair), While your eye continues travelling Along the glass, skyscrapers unraveling, Until the pointy tip of the Chrysler Build- -ing rises from Lexington Avenue, Piercing a silver nitrate mist. Now you Must let this scintillating picture fill The space before your eyes: that is New York. Here, I transfix a carrot with a fork.
“Introibo ad altare,” I will say, While blowing on that steaming vegetable, Adding, “Totemo oishikatta ne,” Hoping, after five months, I am able To tell Takaaki I enjoy his curry Without entangling my tongue in worry. “It’s okay,” he shrugs, quietly deferring My compliments—as always—much preferring A tilted head, a seated bow, the leaner Show of manners honored in Japan; Which seems bizarre to an American Astonished how a wooden vacuum cleaner Fashioned from a pair of eight-inch sticks Picks clean a plate in under two minutes.
Hello everyone. I think today and yesterday have been the most enjoyable I have had so far in working on this poem. Maybe because the stanzas felt so easy to write.
Prosodically speaking, I think they are both rather weak in terms of metaphor and sensual imagery. And the verbs are as bald and uninteresting as my head. But I think there is potential here, and, in the final draft of the poem, I will probably come back and correct things. For now, just to stay on schedule, I will publish thing as they are.
Today's posting title is taken from Andrew Marvell's poem, "To His Coy Mistress," which, after King Lear, and Nabokov's Pale Fire and Lolita, may be my favorite piece of literature. It certainly is my favorite poem. The final stanza is--well, what can one say--res ipsa loquitur.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am'rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power. Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
My much inferior thoughts follow this...
Takaaki entered my life as a leopard Belt being unbuckled at the Y. We hardly had exchanged a single word Apart from that perfunctory, “Hi,” One naturally nods when in the shower— Never letting eyes fall any lower Than chin, if necessary, collarbone, Carefully leaving ‘well enough’ alone— Lest anything unseemly rise to blur The steely line of bubbles separating Really clean from curious—creating Questions about conditioners, and whether Grapefruit is a proper manly scent— Even in a Thought Experiment.
I was hooked by how that feline belt Crept through the four tight loops above his rear; It filled me with four-letter words, which spelt, “Don’t ruin your Moon trip.” A very weird Injunction—poetic, maybe—but it Bears no relation to immediate Concerns here, in a crowded locker room: A cave as old and moldy as the tomb Where Friar Lawrence has Romeo meet Juliet, when that poison intervenes, Crossing out the dancing in those scenes. I sprinkled fungal powder on my feet, Discretely. As my fairy dust descended, I wondered if his buckle was befriended
By anything besides his fingertips. I could, of course, conceive of other suitors— A bedroom floor, those pant hangers with clips Coated in red rubber, folding doors With tiny metal doorknobs—all of this I could conceive—nor was it my business Where, after leaving his seductive waist, His buckle might intend to hang, how chaste These new companions, if they drank, or stank Of soiled underwear, or socks, or hold Silk stockings with more reverence, or cold Hands in handcuffs, or dead cats. I thank The Lord the neckties on my closet hook Will never show up in a tell-all book—
Zip, the leopard softly disappears, Around the narrow bend formed by his hips. A guy I know spent thirty thousand years On hips, neglecting to Chapstick his lips; So long, he worked, his mouth dissolved to dust, Before he could express his love. Or lust. I trust, the stupid use he made of Time Will not be copied in your life. Or mine. With fifty-odd lines written on a waist, A belt, belt loops, belt buckle, and no ass, You might suppose your humble Author has Lost you, Takaaki, and his mind. In case That’s what you think, permit me now to state, While you’ve been reading, we’ve been on a date.
…
Around a core of elevators set A dozen picture windows in concrete, Crumbly as the Parthenon; and let Your panorama rise in Brooklyn, greet The Empire State, behind a candle (where I am sitting, in a sticky chair), While your eye continues travelling Along the glass, skyscrapers unravelling, Until the silver tip of the Chrysler Build- -ing rises from Lexington Avenue, Piercing a fine mist—coppery in hue. Now let this scintillating mural fill The space before your eyes: that is New York. Here, I transfix a carrot with a fork.
Since today is another one of those crazy days at the office, made even loonier by the fact that I have Japanese tonight and I haven't cracked my textbook since last week, I shall dispense with all preamble and post posthaste.
Takaaki entered my life as a leopard Belt being unbuckled at the Y. Until then, we had not exchanged a word Apart from that perfunctory, “Hi,” One naturally nods when in the shower— Never letting eyes fall any lower Than chin, if necessary, collarbone, Careful to leave your ‘well enough’ alone— Lest anything unseemly rise to blur The steely line of bubbles separating Really clean from curious—creating Questions about conditioners, and whether Grapefruit is a proper manly scent— Even in a Thought Experiment.
I was hooked by how that feline belt Crept through the four tight loops above his rear; It filled me with four-letter words, which spelt, “Don’t ruin your Moon trip.” A very weird Injunction—poetic, perhaps—but it Bears no relation to immediate Concerns here, in a crowded locker room: A cave as cold and moldy as the tomb Where Romeo is scheduled to meet His Juliet, when Shakespeare intervenes, Crossing out the dancing in those scenes. I sprinkled fungal powder on my feet, Discretely. As my fairy dust descended, I wondered if his buckle was befriended
By anything besides his fingertips. I could, of course, conceive of other suitors— A bedroom floor, those pant hangers with clips Coated in red rubber, folding doors With tiny metal doorknobs—all of this I could conceive—nor was it my business Where, after leaving his seductive waist, His buckle might intend to hang, how chaste These new companions, if they drink, or stink Of soiled underwear, or socks, or hold Silk stockings with more reverence, or cold Hands in handcuffs, or dead cats. I think What one discovers on a closet hook Can tell you more than any tell-all book.
It isn't often that I have occassion to thank Metro-North for train delays, but this morning is one of those rarities.
After reading 15 pages of Nabokov's novel, Pale Fire, between Stamford and Port Chester, as my train mournfully crawled past a defunct relative, a dead engine on the tracks in Greenwich, I found myself more focused on my immortal contribution to verse than ever before.
Here are today's crazy developments:
Takaaki entered my life as a leopard Belt that was unbuckled at the Y. We had not exchanged a single word Apart from the perfunctory, “Hi,” One naturally nods when in the shower— Never letting eyes fall any lower Than chin, if necessary, collarbone, Careful to leave your ‘well enough’ alone— Lest anything unseemly rise to blur The steely line of bubbles separating Really clean from curious—thus creating Questions about conditioners, and whether Grapefruit is a proper manly scent— Even in a Thought Experiment.
My eyes were hooked by how that feline belt Crept through the four tight loops above his rear; It filled me with four-letter words, which spelt, “Don’t ruin your Moon trip.” What a weird Injunction—poetic, perhaps—but it Bears no relation to immediate Concerns here, in this crowded locker room: A place as cold and moldy as the tomb Where Romeo was scheduled to greet Juliet, when Fate’s feather intervenes, Crossing out the dancing in those scenes. I sprinkled fungal powder on my feet, Discretely. As the Lotramin descended, I wondered if his buckle was befriended...
