LITERAL TRANSLATION
existential
either-or
strategems
expressing
fundamental
reckoning
insisting
theoretical
individuality
to
ensure
survival
conserved
the
widespread
evidence
of
contradictions
so
precisely
occasioned
I laid down my long schlong
On a table full of kong dongs
The judges had short tongs
To flip the dongs flop
the men and women on song
You wouldn't guess who won?
God, Tom, John, Cock?
No, you are so wrong
It was not my long schlong
Or Johns God throbbing Cock
It was Moscow and Washington
Two Absolute blue whale dongs
Throbbing all the way to the third war
"Very Bad Girl" read the words
Boldly on the lady's sweater!
Nothing in her deportment or deeds
Took the story any further.
Only, I was left to wonder
Why she would've bought the garment
Unless, of course, it was bought by another,
The real owner of the statement.
I found myself wondering why it was
That one saw no "Very Good Girl",
But recalled that being thus
Was then actually being a pearl
Therefore, "Very Bad Girl" makes sense,
Hoping that it's not literal.
It should be seen through that lens
For otherwise it is truly lethal!
Oatmeal pie on your face? Doesn’t make sense.
Not pie, just oatmeal. I am fixing my complexion.
What is wrong with it?
Nothing. I am maintaining.
Maintaining your skin?
Maintaining everything; I do my rear end too.
You put oatmeal on your petootsie?
I sit in it.
I ponder this for a while,
Not able to wrap my mind around it.
Not realizing she means oatmeal water.
People do not understand children are literal.
When my daddy told me he ordered a car with bucket seats
I was angry with him until it arrived.
Thinking it was going to be horrible to sit in.
Literal poetry is my go to gal
Metaphorical poetry is impossible for me.
Metaphors do not come naturally
They are not only difficult
to understand but impossible
to write.
Literal poetry is concrete to me,
Metaphors are abstract.
The only abstracts I want
are in my artwork,
not in my poetry.
For they are not easy.
They are difficult
And I am all about easy.
... The pen is mightier than the sword ...
The poet knight went off to war
To prove his valor true.
Sir Arthur Berk, the troubadour,
Knew he had much to do
For he had found a greater sword
To strike his foes down dead.
He swore to fight invading horde
And make their ink spill red.
Each lord, farm hand and tavern maid,
Had often heard him tell
The fierceness of his secret blade
And all the foes it fell.
Of dragons and of armies past
He'd read this weapon killed.
The legend of his sword was vast;
The ink would soon be spilled.
Soon rival horde had come again
All took up sword and shield.
The armies prepped for battle then
Were met upon the field.
They yelled and brandished spear and dirk
But soon were silent when
All held their breath to watch Sir Berk
As he unsheathed his ... pen?
He rushed in sure and unconcerned
But fell at the first blow,
And what new truth he might have learned
I guess we'll never know.
But if, perhaps, he'd been more keen
Sir Berk might still yet live;
Too late he learned the difference 'tween
Literal and Figurative.
9.13.18
Contest: Unsheathe Your Sword
A dad was washing the car with his son!
Here we go again with the literal stuff, so dumb!
Son said next time, let's use a sponge
This really hurts me quite a bunch
Now how silly is THAT... seems a bit overdone!!!
Very happy with my new fridge magnet
Up to now twelve fridges it did attract
Now that's very literal
Should explain it to all
You see... oh never mind, just ask your kiddies in fact
Death and life—literal or figural?
Maybe both,
Now that there can be death in life or life in death,
As for poets, notably, Bharati and Yeats.
The dialogue between Arjuna and Krishna:
Is it interpersonal or intrapersonal?
Darsan or Epiphany—cling to it we would,
For seeing is believing.
The commandments, though heard,
Had to be attested by the burning bush.
Aha! Come to think of it,
Could Darsan as well be figural—
As is vipasana?
As is epiphany for Joyce?
A shorthand like light years?
***
Word count a burden,
lines adding weight
Meaning gets crushed,
—feelings deflate
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)
My vice is to choose a book at random
From off the library shelf
A book timeworn, a bit forlorn
That sits alone, all by itself
I like that slight crackle
That comes from it’s spine
That warm musty odor reminiscent
Of newly uncorked wine
I t can be just a brief conversation
Or perhaps a grand revelation
That momentary…temporary?
Meeting of minds
Yet at times these random authors
Take hold of my mind
Makes me an unwilling and unwitting
Hostage…with a great opening line
So I enter into a random liason that will end
in but a week or so
With a literal random stranger
Who ends up in my hand in my bed
And shares my nightlamp’s glow
But this chance encounter as always,
Must come to an end
T’was no more than a passing delight
Twas just a book, chosen at random
…A stranger in the night…
Some folks thirst for knowledge;
Others seek release.
There are leaders on the lookout
For a path to peace.
Some folks crave the limelight;
Some reach for the stars.
Others try to bridge the gap
From Venus straight to Mars.
Metaphors don’t move me,
So when I think of thirst,
An ice-cold frothy-headed beer
Is what I think of first!
Adverse.
Converse?
Perverse!
Transverse universe.
That's not my elephant!
It's spaghetti on a spoon!
Ella held back tears.
2nd graders can be so cruel,
just like the bill of rights!
You who are literal even in love
who treats each work
as journey men to a fact,
consider the ambiquity of birds;
the ones pentemeter for instance
the jay who names
his territorys aloud _ _ _
you label those marital cries song
and the weather:
the operatic fall of a snow
burries alive with it's grace notes
the roots of trees
we are only translators, uneasy
unequiped
in the hungry dawn
strange syllables stain our mouths,
like berries picked deep
in the woods. Bitter or healing
poisonous or sweet
how are we to say?
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