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Old 07-06-2017, 06:46 AM   #701
greenmountaineer
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Nouvelle Vague

A former de rigueur Romantic, Twiss,
who’s now Edwardian, no longer sheds
a tear at funerals because tsk, tsk,
Sir Arthur said it’s very démodé.

The newest look is stiff on upper lips
with pencil thin mustachios. We scoff
at maudlin tears that glisten irises,

and if one trickles down, do not pretend
it’s perspiration. Protocol insists
you never let us see you sweat. Instead
do this.
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Old 07-06-2017, 08:01 PM   #702
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Quote:
Originally Posted by greenmountaineer View Post
Nouvelle Vague

A former de rigueur Romantic, Twiss,
who’s now Edwardian, no longer sheds
a tear at funerals because tsk, tsk,
Sir Arthur said it’s very démodé.

The newest look is stiff on upper lips
with pencil thin mustachios. We scoff
at maudlin tears that glisten irises,

and if one trickles down, do not pretend
it’s perspiration. Protocol insists
you never let us see you sweat. Instead
do this.
Very fun! Love the playfulness and the near-rhymes, and the ending is just great. I might, to keep the rhythm, add a The before Protocol, but that's just me. And possibly "...because--tsk,tsk-- / Sir Arthur..."

But them's just quibbles.
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Old 07-07-2017, 05:31 AM   #703
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Quote:
Originally Posted by greenmountaineer View Post
Nouvelle Vague

A former de rigueur Romantic, Twiss,
who’s now Edwardian, no longer sheds
a tear at funerals because tsk, tsk,
Sir Arthur said it’s very démodé.

The newest look is stiff on upper lips
with pencil thin mustachios. We scoff
at maudlin tears that glisten irises,

and if one trickles down, do not pretend
it’s perspiration. Protocol insists
you never let us see you sweat. Instead
do this.
Quote:
Originally Posted by legerdemer View Post
Very fun! Love the playfulness and the near-rhymes, and the ending is just great. I might, to keep the rhythm, add a The before Protocol, but that's just me. And possibly "...because--tsk,tsk-- / Sir Arthur..."

But them's just quibbles.
Thanks, Mer. I've been toying with form lately, specially iambic pentameter which I find very challenging. I've always admired how Demure writes in it whose work from time to time appears in "New Poems."

My ear hears line 9 as iambic pentameter, so I prefer it as is:

It's perspiration. Protocol insists

The poem is a variation on the curtal sonnet because the rhyme scheme isn't with every line. I like how the how the form dictates an emphatic ending with the spondee.
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Old 07-07-2017, 10:29 AM   #704
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Quote:
Originally Posted by greenmountaineer View Post
Thanks, Mer. I've been toying with form lately, specially iambic pentameter which I find very challenging. I've always admired how Demure writes in it whose work from time to time appears in "New Poems."

My ear hears line 9 as iambic pentameter, so I prefer it as is:

It's perspiration. Protocol insists

The poem is a variation on the curtal sonnet because the rhyme scheme isn't with every line. I like how the how the form dictates an emphatic ending with the spondee.
You are out of my league here (I tend to defer to AH about form matters related to sonnets, or just bristle at being kept within boundaries).
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Old 07-09-2017, 09:34 AM   #705
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Up on the Roof

"What's so rare as a day in Junius?"
Sister Bea said when we last heard Latin
"Anno Domini, Patri, et Fili”
and after a lapse of memory

"Spiritu Sancti," Sister added
before all the St. Ignatius tassels
dangled with pomp and circumstance,
some of which Sally blew

whose Daddy bought her a Rambler
to go back and forth to Brooklyn College
in September nineteen sixty-
six which hung my tongue like sex.

"Cuniculus is Latin," Sister Bea said,
"for rabbit and coney a derivative
the Brits in 1690
called rabbits that overran the island”

where Sally's a bunny on Saturday nights
while I with my transistor radio
go up on the roof in Jackson Heights
to howl at the moon with Wolfman Jack.

https://youtu.be/VSKTjQT7CrU
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Old 07-11-2017, 08:59 AM   #706
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Clem Magnusson, Private Dick

"Fuckin' A right!" said Clem
who doesn't know why he said it
after four fingers of Glenlivet
and two cans of tuna for supper.

At eight p.m., radio's tuned
to farm reports from the Poconos
as he puts on his Vincent DePaul
suit to stake out a storefront church.

"Not my idea of heaven” says Clem
on behalf of a minister's wife
whose upfront felt like pennies
out of her kitchen cookie jar.

Dicks do living on the edge
of naugahyde booths in all night diners
with steamy windows when Lordy! Lordy!
out walks Reverend Witherspoon

who kisses goodnight his secretary
honey before he waddles on home
where he may find Polaroid glossies
that will make him shit the bed,

but Clem well, he's sitting here thinking
an invite for pie and coffee
will help the reverend see the light
when pennies from heaven won’t help Clem
get Lola’s lips for a few minutes
in Allentown tomorrow night.

Last edited by greenmountaineer : 07-11-2017 at 09:06 AM.
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Old 07-13-2017, 10:59 AM   #707
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State of Grace

The rain descends outside my window.
The sun's concealed by weightless woolen
that hovers serenely above the city.
The spray floats with an unheard rhythm.

The air is peaceful, my thoughts dormant.
The calm of the rain and avenue's silence
have cleansed me of my torments.
A sinner am I who's prayed his penance.

And then behind me the bath door opens.
On a clam shell of bath towels she stands
like Botticelli's Venus born

whose servant is at the ready
with a robe in hand for her modesty
I drop to the floor when she smiles.
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Old 07-17-2017, 06:50 AM   #708
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Finding Love in the Arthur Kill

Jimmy laughs so goddam hard
club soda drips out his nose
when I tell him kill is Dutch for creek
before he pours me a half-pint beer
Da called a dimey, now a dollar
because, Jimmy says, the treasury's flat
here at the Knights of Columbus bar
where Kearny Ave meets Market St.

New Jersey Transit empties a load
of first shift laundry room ladies
from Perth Amboy General Hospital,
and it's got me thinking, Jimmy,
I hope these worn out women
find meaning in the bleaching of
placenta stains instead of the stuff
of ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Down the street is the Arthur Kill
by the refinery where Da, he got his
whatchamacallit, mesothelioma
when oil tankers rose like Leviathan
all hours of night and secretly spilled
bilge we swam in that looked like mustard.

Choo Choo, my girl, used to sing
"My Guy" better than Mary Wells did
in a dinghy next to storage tanks
that looked like cupcakes, Jimmy,
I swear, giant vanilla ones
in Carteret where there weren't any trees,

Choo Choo so willing in her bikini
on hot summer nights in a dinghy,
and me, a sperm, wiggling her way,
wet and alive in the Arthur Kill.
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Old 07-20-2017, 06:00 PM   #709
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Bukowski's Alter Ego

Chinaski says Fuck you!
Fuck you, Charles! and fuck
our dirty dish rag clothes

when Daddy's dirty verbs
made Mama fry more eggs for him
while we just sat there eating Wheaties.

It's enough to drive a man-boy to drink
at ten o'clock in the morning,
enough to make a man-boy think

there should be a deus ex machina,
that library love child we found
to pound our Daddy into Hades,

but Zeus sent us Melpomene
to make up chillbane words with wine
we stole from Stawicki’s package store

and hid behind some pots and pans
next to the soup in the kitchen
without a strangled chicken in it.
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Old 07-23-2017, 08:44 PM   #710
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The Last Days of de Sade

"I'm hungry once again." The porridge sates
my stomach for five minutes, ten at most,
you fool!" he chides his jailer with disdain.

"He stares as if I were Justine," he pouts
before a young LeBlanc, the only priest
who'll visit there to talk of Satan's pain.

“There was a time my tit for tat would be
to bugger him, or at the very least
dispatch the libertine ‘Le Gros’,” he shouts.

At such vulgarity he knows LeBlanc
will cross himself and ask de Sade to pray
again. He takes delight in knowing this

and fibs that for a sou or two from him
he'll bribe that “fils de pute” to have a whore
be smuggled in, dressed as a nun, of course.

"I've always liked communion with a tryst,"
he tells the priest who's prayed enough today
to join the rats already at the door.
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Old 07-25-2017, 05:42 PM   #711
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Quote:
Originally Posted by greenmountaineer View Post
The Last Days of de Sade

"I'm hungry once again." The porridge sates
my stomach for five minutes, ten at most,
you fool!" he chides his jailer with disdain.

"He stares as if I were Justine," he pouts
before a young LeBlanc, the only priest
who'll visit there to talk of Satan's pain.

“There was a time my tit for tat would be
to bugger him, or at the very least
dispatch the libertine ‘Le Gros’,” he shouts.

At such vulgarity he knows LeBlanc
will cross himself and ask de Sade to pray
again. He takes delight in knowing this

and fibs that for a sou or two from him
he'll bribe that “fils de pute” to have a whore
be smuggled in, dressed as a nun, of course.

"I've always liked communion with a tryst,"
he tells the priest who's prayed enough today
to join the rats already at the door.
I like the cheekiness of this one all around, gm, but especially that last stanza. I like the interplay of the holy with the vulgar, the very real carnal challenges highlighted.
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Old Today, 07:33 AM   #712
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Ellie

Gustaf calls it “la chaise longue”
where Ellie, sitting there, thinks of Billy
who never wrote back from Iraq
after “Forever and Ever. Amen”
he sang among the alfalfa
and cotton on the outskirts of Midland

when stars were as large as Ellie’s eyes
whose “Crazy” heart sang Patsy Cline,
but “I Fall to Pieces” comes to mind
on public transit when she sings to herself
or in rooms to rent by the week
she shares with her new friend “Cerise.”

Ellie pretends the gnats that are swarming
over the swimming pool are fireflies
from her laid back nights with Billy,
but her daydream is interrupted by
a bottle of “baby oil, Baby,
since we ran out of Vaseline.”

Enter the pool boy “Jacques Le Longue.
Oo la la, comprenez vous?”
Gustaf the phony Frenchman says
who hangs with the best at Muscle Beach.
The cue card/sound grip calls himself Star.
Cameraman’s Kraken who lives on the street.
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