Best Mimetic Poems
He heard the crows,
morning-cawing-crows,
morning-language-cawing-crows.
There was for him,
always, uncertainty in the cawing,
an uncertainty he couldn’t hear,
though he tried for most of his life.
There was brotherhood, yes, brotherhood—
an association-brotherhood, a knowing, an approval,
with only one man to answer—himself.
If he could be the man with the answer,
he would really know the crow-uncertainty-language,
then his own, yet unknown need for approval would be released.
He thought, Oh, to be in the crow’s nest at feeding time.
Magnanimous tutors all, crows, Kafka-ing their way through life,
with K their jackdaw father— great approval there.
He thought, Don’t wait for that one.
He wondered if he’d been under a spell,
the crow-uncertainty-language-spell
of Beckleigh, beeches, bluegills,
shrubs and lightning bugs that sang their own cawing-choruses
in waxed paper covered mayonnaise jars.
Beckleigh, where he and neighbor children
called out from tree-castles,
from every named and friendly bush,
and in mimetic blessedness
that flowed from every child’s heart,
cast their primal caw, caw, caw in tones that pleased the earth itself.
Each step they made, each caw that came
pledged allegiance to some truth,
with approval from below shooting up their legs,
and wind and sun sweeping it into their nostrils.
Dedication and commitment never fell out of season.
One day after years took hold of
Beckleigh, beeches, crows and caws
he heard the distant cry of uncertainty,
like Echo, throwing her voice across the chambers of his heart.
He sensed an essence, perhaps love itself—he paused;
morning-cawing-crows,
morning-language-cawing-crows,
caw, caw, caw.
Oh, to be in the crow’s nest at feeding time.
Mimetic kinetic imagery
of a blossoming Aprylic Me
riding a white spring
at three o”clock in the morning,
lucid hours on a yellow line
so far in Monday”s emptiness.
He”s calling, he”s trying to imitate an owl
an Egyptian Spirit-
he”s just my poor alternative ego
alone
under my grandmother”s sweet soul
in a warm cosmic kitchen.
And now the Sun is melting this poem
and solid objects can be seen
I activate my resurrection
in this mechanic haloween.
"To hold as 'twere, the mirror up to nature. " William Shakespeare," Hamlet 1601."
Window covered by a sycamore tree
Constant friend of my snowy Maple days
Memories spring as insects on a tree
Turn my gloomy days in glorious days
Hippocrates got his inspiration
For research in medicine to begin
Buddh sat under it for meditation
The enlightenment of mind to attain.
Desdemona sat sighing under it
In agony to hear willow song treat
Flying to Egypt Mary stopped a bit
Crann ban “Money tree” in Irish spirit
To demystify health, to personalize
To me sycamore is to poetize.
** The notion of a "mirror held up to nature" has been taken over for any mimetic theory of art — the idea that art should represent reality and nature as closely as possible**
+++++++
Revised and Reposted May 4, 2014
Form : Shakespearean sonnet in Pentameter
Dr.Ram Mehta
Contest: Shakespeare by Frank H.
=========================
Dr. Ram Mehta
Date: 4/19/2011
Fourth Place win in :
Contest:The Tree sponsored by Constance La france-A rambling poet
=========================
* I wrote a sonnet Maple Memories in 2000 while living in Windsor-ONT
and was posted on 6/29/2005 on PS as Maple Memories.
The present poem is re-written for the contest.
** Maple Days- Maple is the national tree of Canada.
* Buddha is pronounced one syllable
Wind, word, sail
The helm is turned
On the oar of the tongue
Against the tide of laws
The righteous cause
Will its litany and prevail
O could the dock
Materialize again
Out of the euphoria of the brain
O could not relay of metered sound
Measure out spoon by empty spoon
The empty wait
And the immediacy of the state
You were a tower
Better than Babel or rainless flower
You were answerer and caller
With exact mimetic
Of the horrific hour
That children go round and round
Sunless in the shadow
I never let the moon get into my blood
The universe is just a batch of mud.
A fresh aroma of the winter roses bore upon
The break of the day light, the first ray hold upon
By the droplets beaded over the floral leaf
Mulled over by the sight so mimetic
The life glazed over the mist filled by the charismatic.
An ecstatic jubilation bided by the Christmas carol
The gala affair of the sunset, the last ray hold upon
By the beloved savored over the time cajole
Relived over by the chorus so balmy
The rendezvous solemnization blended by the carmine patty.
A warm welcome of the edging resolutions blessed upon
The solemnity of Mary, the first greet hold upon
By the wishes ordained over the coming élan
Pleased over by the time so worth
The time of the year met with the springtime growth.
Anew Sun brought upon the garden, bore upon
The green of the array, the first ray hold upon
By the moving moraine over the frost melted -
Drifted over by the season so pledged
The aroma suspired over the blue air, warmth blended.
Pooled by affections over the day choired by love, relived upon
Betrothals belonged forever, the first kiss hold upon
By the destiny manana over the time so limn -
Touched by the amity so dear
The warmth over the ardor met with sweetness so fair.
They held back for the bathe in the colour so motleyed, poured upon
The meme prevailed over decades across the east, the last ray hold upon
By the field blazed over the harvests so sear
Turned over by the air so brut
The time of the year met with the season so hot.
Note: Continued from Fragrance - II
IT’S SPRING THE SONGBIRDS DO SING--
Oh, perching birds Passeriformes on branches sit Passeriformes;
Singing unto me a songs mimetic merrily in vocalization;
Territorial repertoire attracting mating calls characters;
A Chirp Whistles and Beeps Tweet-Tweets cries in formations;
Nightingales and mockingbirds attracts mates or hold territory;
Variety of many oscine songs thrashers and catbirds allegory;
Blue Jays, Mockingbirds kiss and flap their little wings;
The song in this clade signals sexual intentions race;
Sexual selection among songbirds is highly based;
And in Backyard marrying and dancing they do sing;
Alas! Tis the sounds and coming of spring, all the songbirds do sing;
Songbirds Poetry Contest
Rhyme poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
Without ever consuming
bureaucratic butter or
sacramental bread, nor
coffee and latte.
She prefers spiritual
mystical fruits from space...!
This way she becomes
beyond stunning
for all...
With her mimetic smile,
melted words and
asthmatics hugs, she
is now a myth !
And so she operates
with virtue an symptomatic
way of talking
that broadcasts her now
agoraphobia absent...
All in her is impressive...
and i say with love :
"It is marvelous to be
by her side because
she makes me feel
geometrically misaligned
with this world i live"
With her it is alike living
in Matrix.
Stashed with programs recorded, which, condensed on universal files
Will tell them very little of what they don’t know and may never know
In this lifetime or the next heaven, in this orbit or the next
Treasure from this Earth loaded up on classical chips, some kind of text
Even the quantum loads with memory mimetic, made to mimic the brane
Will lead you no where’s at all, empty, with your mind well past insane
For what else or beyond could be so crazy as to part from this precious earth
Without ever having known it’s cost, price, work, measure or stint of worth
And clearly, those who leave, when they leave, will not have known one grain
Of sand or soil, mud or toil: all dusty plows pluming billow-clouds into rain
Run on gasoline or stocks of mules, donkey, horse, or ram, shepperd’s hand
Fields from lost fields, turning wheat from grass, rice from blue water land
The mystery of death and birth still a mystery; life a mere reminiscence
Without any real light here or plant photometry, only luminescence
Imagine leaving this planet without every having known it’s rhythm
Going to some other world set in it’s own path, with it’s Keplerian hum
Beating out some different drum, set in a blinding sphere of light and sound
Like blended whiskey with the Irish; or Navajo, without the calendar round
Sans irony, the starmen will consult their astrologer or star-chart for this logic
Countin’ the days before they land again when the stars are [csmo]allo-genic
Since this cosmos has revealed no light to them, the starmen going forth
Eager to jump off of Earth’s orbital path, bend and trajectory
Their spacesuits, ships, tanks, sabres, and thrusters made from the factory
Everything printed like plastic in hazy glow and in false dimension
In light and low gravity, with false smiles and fat charms hanging in suspension
How could the new age begin completely unaware, one might ask ?
With no real knowledge of how the past one ended, without a task
This high level of dimness, this naivete, and ignorance unknowing
Much like blind men on the river styx, or perhaps, along with Homer rowing
Going from one ruse to harbour next shenanigan—look into the Cyclop’s Eye!
No land in Egypt and with Dido elope, with the Siren’s despair, intoxicants in Libya
Mimetic mimicry mimicked the mime.
More than furlong, the entire belonging day long.
Prophet, the proper property, pope prophecy.
Hardhearted harshness tied a fair harness.
Shepherd herding sheep, harder in a herder way.
Within the ambit of the psyche untamed
Is the wonder cavern with hanging thoughts
And projections prompting peevish plots-
Thick and prickly notions oddly framed
Fall about, on the least spur of moment
Which ruffles the indignant frozen ill-will-
Once a serene pond of feelings still -
To avenge, seeking pleasure from torment.
Classic structures replaced deserts and the dale
Waters and mounds changed their form and course
Feats were performed with earthly resource ;
Mimetic modes enabled all flights and sail,
Dive in the deep ,or reach across the shores , With ease, earlier than the reliable sun Or ply endways with minutes lost none
All ventured true with disciplined lores ..!
Jack of all trades Ignores the essence : Concur living with the rhythm of Nature ,
Cosmic chord in accord with the geo- culture ;
The achiever soul mentors the mind immense.
By nature, zetetic,
he doubted the yetic,
but xenogenetic? That just seemed absurd.
A known workaholic,
scoured feeds from Videtics,
but was unsympathetic, in a word.
At best, theoretic,
and in large part, synthetic,
only the rabietic were on board.
Tilting towards quixotic,
their fevered ravings, phrenetic,
though onomatopoetic,
eschewed the noetic, impaled themselves on truth’s sword.
A parrot’s mimetic,
much like Loch Ness limnetics,
ignored body kinetics,
claimed pre-Japhetic disperse.
Yet still more idiotic,
seizing the hypothetic,
their case for genetics made worse!
But like all true fanatics,
the more so, emphatic,
they're left with a docetic sasquatch.
Finding all copasetic,
they get rather bathetic
when antithetic folk question their watch!
----------
So, the original goal was a monorhyme using the '-etic' ending.
Then, I realized I might be able to use one on every line, from Z..A,
but I made a few concessions along the way, departing from '-etic' a few times.
And I added a little rhyme, using the '-etic' words within the lines...
And if the storyline is a little thin, don't wreck my aesthetic...
zetetic - skeptical, proceeding by inquiry
yetic - pertaining to all things Yeti :-)
Videtics is a real company that does AI analysis of video feeds
rabietic - relating to rabies
limnetics - pertaining to the deeper, open waters of a lake
Japhetic - pertaining to one of Noah's sons, so, basically, antediluvian
docetic - an early heresy suggesting only a spiritual body
bathetic - effusively emotional
A Murder of Crows, A Pantheon of Gods!
Monotheism, we’re told, is the way it should be.
But the Heavenly Court doesn’t make it agree.
Similar to the pantheons of many a belief.
All kinds of beings with a head guy as chief.
Whether Zeus or Odin, whatever their name,
The behaviors and hierarchies are always the same.
(The heavenly court or angels in this dictation.
Where do they fall in the story of creation?
Nowhere mentioned in the seven days.
So what do we make of this obvious daze?)
Within the Courts we find all kinds of entities,
With differing functions of various complexities.
Hermes was the messenger for the Olympian Zeus.
And the word angel, means messenger, not really abstruse.
And then there are maidens the gods choose to take,
And often in them, babies they make.
These girls never have a choice in events.
The gods never asked for their consents.
And famous these children did become.
Not hard to imagine, with whom they came from.
So once again, mimesis comes to play.
God impregnates Mary without her say.
And a baby is born and when an adult,
Becomes famous for his actions as a result,
Of being part god as well as part human,
And able to do things, superhuman.
So in the end, we have this god,
In a book which clearly shows a facade,
Of a single deity who reigns alone,
But seems too similar to another’s thrown.
Angels, archangels, principalities and thrones,
Powers, virtues, dominions, all clones,
Of other pantheons in the region.
Really no different in its legion.
So monotheism? Not exactly true.
It doesn’t matter what they tell you.
The truth is there, it’s again, mimetic,
It just keeps repeating as if synergetic.
That rambling castle across the landscape bewitched my heart
As though divinity has signed, gorgeous is its art.
Are the cherubims relaxing, spreading out their legs and hands?
Are these archaic, ornate boulders on mountainous strands?
Cave-like, carved curvy corridors crookedly coil around
Vertical and horizontal length, width, and depth rebound
Celestially thrill-filled, airy arrays in sunlit style
Are Hephaestus and Athena spreading a sapphire smile?
Points, lines, planes, volumes, and magnitude speak tonnes of volumes.
Are these flawless frills and folds parts of angelic costumes?
Gloriously intricate, cosy carvings, and wide wings
Brim-fill with cosmically grace-filled mimetic mouldings
These sprawling, spreading, sturdy structures seem to symbolise
Incomprehensibly divine marvels that synthesise
Short, long, sharp, and blunt; straight and twisted mortal existence
That draws, from the spiritual source, its soul sustenance.
A Murder of Crows, A Pantheon of Gods!
Monotheism, we’re told, is the way it should be.
But the Heavenly Court doesn’t make it agree.
Similar to the pantheons of many a belief.
All kinds of beings with a head guy as chief.
Whether Zeus or Odin, whatever their name,
The behaviors and hierarchies are always the same.
(The heavenly court or angels in this dictation.
Where do they fall in the story of creation?
Nowhere mentioned in the seven days.
So what do we make of this obvious daze?)
Within the Courts we find all kinds of entities,
With differing functions of various complexities.
Hermes was the messenger for the Olympian Zeus.
And the word angel, means messenger, not really abstruse.
And then there are maidens the gods choose to take,
And often in them, babies they make.
These girls never have a choice in events.
The gods never asked for their consents.
And famous these children did become.
Not hard to imagine, with whom they came from.
So once again, mimesis comes to play.
God impregnates Mary without her say.
And a baby is born and when an adult,
Becomes famous for his actions as a result,
Of being part god as well as part human,
And able to do things, superhuman.
So in the end, we have this god,
In a book which clearly shows a facade,
Of a single deity who reigns alone,
But seems too similar to another’s thrown.
Angels, archangels, principalities and thrones,
Powers, virtues, dominions, all clones,
Of other pantheons in the region.
Really no different in its legion.
So monotheism? Not exactly true.
It doesn’t matter what they tell you.
The truth is there, it’s again, mimetic,
It just keeps repeating as if synergetic.
I have a right to dance.
In my elder years, all sound has faded.
The once pure melodies are now atonal.
But kicking up a storm,
dancing is a revolutionary act.
I have a right to dance.
I awaken to a chorus of chanters,
I awaken to the legends and lore.
Part dream, part audio reception.
Part past life, part immaculate conception.
Part laugh, part delirious deception.
I am connected, I am comforted,
I am confronted, I am contorted
by forces ever so much larger,
by senses ever so much stronger.
I have a right to dance,
a right to prance in the human parade.
Like ants, my cells are self-organizing.
Like trees, my rings archive my story.
I smell and taste the music I recall.
I savor the instinctual harmonies,
the behavior of rhapsodies.
I deliver the symbolic pirouettes,
the mimetic genuflect.
All motion becomes a spectacle.
All movements shape a carnival.
With my body, I advance,
moods and dreamscapes, I enhance,
lost and forgotten in the endless expanse.
I have a right to dance!