Felt my poetry apolitical, not concerned with history. But language is political, historical. Witness the first line to Applies to Oranges XLIX:
"The birds are embedded in my mobile combat unit."
I've started needing a Roman numerals calculator in order to figure out how to properly label these things. The goal is 100. Current themes: communication through singing, photographs, lies.
What I really want to do: nothing. absolutely nothing. I need a leisure revolution. And maybe a good sandwich. Mmmm. Sandwich.
Things like this make all the glorious 80s rock songs of my youth pour through my ears. Aw, yeah.
Remember, people. Money makes the world go round, but Shafer makes it happen.
O people of New York, what's it like out there? Has our city become something out of Mad Max? Is there carnage in the streets? Has morning traffic become a bumper-to-bumper gridlock of death? Are the streets a-jostle with zombie hordes of tired yuppie persons schlepping forty-plus blocks to their cubicles? Is the Brooklyn Bridge buckling under the weight of foot traffic? Or has the utter pointlessness of NYC without mass transit turned into an unofficial mass holiday?
The Collected Poems of Kenneth Koch
The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan
Henceforth known as Fat Tomes of Poetry ("F-TOPs"), these were a present from Mark.
O Spam Poams by Rob Read
The Joyous Age by Christopher Nealon
Yes! All true! And now you also can thrill to the diabolical versical horror that is "Maureen." Straight outta the Quiller-Couch edition of the Oxford Book of English Verse (1250-1900). "Sir Patrick Spens"? Forget that crap . . . "To the Virgins"? Feh! There's "Maureen" to read.
O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,
Girl of my choice, Maureen!
Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies,
Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,
White rose of the West, Maureen:
For it 's pale you are, and the fear that 's on you is over me too,
Sure it 's one complaint that 's on us, asthore, this day,
Bride of my dreams, Maureen:
The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say,
I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,
Mavourneen, my own Maureen!
When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm's embrace,
O where was the King o' the World that day-only me?
My one true love, Maureen!
And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree,
Wow! But don't thank me! Thank John Todhunter (1836-1916). He sounds a very nice man with only the slight problem of writing poems of impossible meter and incomprehensible topic. There are overtones of "Annabel Lee" here except rather than being doomed, I think the lovers here are merely inconvenienced by being in love, as though passion were a kind of mild digestive upset.
At any rate, if anyone out there wants to start calling me "White rose of the West," (and I think you do), I will begin answering to it. But in any future homages to the glory of Maureenosity, please limit yourself to sonnet form (whether Shakespearian or Spenserian I leave up to you).
Thanks to Mark, the latest addition to my household is . . .
a sneaky Roomba!