To cross the street Herr Biedermeyer
made a firm election:
the spot was safe – Gefahrengasse -
strictly one-direction.
But, looking south and stepping out,
he got a sharp surprise:
a car, approaching from the north,
was hidden from his eyes.
It knocked him in the air, and soon
had sped away and gone.
Herr Biedermeyer had a lot
to muse and ponder on.
No bones were broken, no blood shed:
no blasphemy, no oaths:
he knit his brow in thought, and frowned,
and dusted-off his clothes.
The German mind’s a splendid thing
(think Schopenhauer, Kant):
but nimbleness is not its bag –
it’s no-one’s corybant.
“The street’s one way, and thus,” surmised
this latter-day Von Papen,
“nothing hit me. I’m immune.
No accident could happen.”
A make-up artist? Um … no thanks.
That’s not my kind of courtship caper.
I want the girl who wrote a paper
on Massachusetts’ failing banks.
You can keep your belly-dancer.
The nimbleness that I would seek
is cerebral: I need the geek
who’ll find a cure for prostate cancer.
A chick who’s slick in silk and satin
is just what I’m inclined to spurn:
the only beauty I discern
likes reading Ovid – but in Latin.
The field is very small, because
I’m fussy, biased, preferential:
to me, it’s utterly essential
she knows who Dosso Dossi was.
I need you to be erudite:
call if you can tell apart
bead-and-reel from egg-and-dart:
the stamen from the Stagyrite.
One thing that’s truly terrific’s
knowing the plot of Lavransdatter:
write to me about grey matter
in Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Sharon Tate? Scarlett Johansson?
My type is more Diane from “Cheers”.
She had stuff between her ears:
so save the blondes for Charlie Manson.
My ‘ask’ should now be quite transparent:
I’d love a lassie with a brain,
who writes reviews of Citizen Kane.
Where are you hiding, Hannah Arendt?
While downloading some music
a thought crossed my mind,
of things that I learned in the past
when playing old music in various formats
which, sadly, were not meant to last.
I learned concentration when using a biro
to untangle a music cassette,
and patience when searching my reel-to-reel
for a song whose place I would forget.
And keeping my hand steady,
breathing quite slowly, thus making my
body relaxed,
when lowering the stylus on my record player
to land at the start of a track.
So my patience, control and nimbleness of finger
I've held up to the present day,
while all the young 'uns who want everything now,
have missed out on these joys-
Just press 'Play'.
Alphanumeric emergency is her agency of supremacy,
press your neck with a kiss ment for carniverous kinesthetics,
move you into a position of requisition, repitition aphyxiated with joy,
she can always be found on the border of banishment and bedlam,
bedevil you between hesitation & aggression, hug you inbetween love & anger,
place a soul betwixt a lamb and lion, orchestrate necessity with a natural nimbleness,
ask one to trample or tumble upon the question mark,
numb you as a plumb hung on a ledge too long,
she'll say thank you as your resources become a subject of ridicule
and when the lungs of childhood age with exhaustion from hailing her
more effort she will exhort, bite you on the fingertip of surrender
reminding us that glory is a growl from the jaws of jealousy,
earthy are her entanglements,
healthy her arrangements,
keep you searching for fragments on battlefronts -
J.A.B.
Nimbleness on my piano softly.
I hear the notes on high lofty.
Others come, and tickle tunes.
Listening intently, in my room.
We've moved and taken it with.
I play for my puppies, a gift.
It sits again in my dining area.
In tune, wooden condition fair.
For now it sits. I hear discs long
All day as my player plays on.