Grandfather Joe Limerick

Pax et bonum

Smudges of Three

for on

I of

I any

who 4 the 

Hell's kicking the 

shoving panel 

life of 

if type hit

like

man truck around 

pure I

don't I'm 

there of in

the shooting 

sky gasoline 

I blasted 

the you in

you a a out

and of

(I followed though on my All Star suggestion of creating a dada poem. Might be more to come!) 

Pax et bonum

Random Planets

I've been published in the new anthology Random Planets. The anthology includes various short poems with science fiction/horror themes.

My three contributions:

alien banquet -
host's toothy smile reveals bits  
of missing crewman

* 

mining rights sold
the full moon becomes          
only a crescent

* 

two moons                       
rise above the
lunatic asylum
inspiring the Martian inmates
to howl

The first is a horrorku, the second a scifaiku, and the last one a cinquain.
The anthology features some of the leading names in science fiction poetry, so I feel honored to have my work included.

Pax et bonum

Why I Write Poetry

Why I Write Poetry

Forget the legends:
On a frozen, sun-bleached February Day
a groundhog warily raised his head
in the field behind my childhood home.
He blinked in the white brilliance of the sun
sniffed the mint-cold air
saw me
and fled beneath the surface.

I dream of his return.

Pax et bonum

The Voice from the Mother's Womb - Donald Iain MacDonald

While reading a book review about An Tuil: Anthology of Twentieth Century Scottish Gaelic Verse (edited by Ronald Black), in the latest edition of StAR.(Saint Austin Review), I came across mention of a pro-life poem by Donald Iain MacDonald, "The Voice from in the Mother's Womb." Curious, I searched for it online. It was originally written in Gaelic, apparently, but here's an English translation I found in a blog (Cum Lazaro) back in 2013 -

The Voice from the Mother's Womb
Come close and give an ear to me,
  All of you who have your health,
Listen to me and take pity on me
  For you're about to have me killed;
Here I am, a developed child
  Wrapped around in my mother's womb,
And the murderer standing close to me
  With the Crown's consent to snuff me out.


He'll get no gallows, fine or prison
  And no court will sentence him,
Even if he murdered thousands
  He is quit of the country's law;
He will slaughter me tomorrow,
  Anyway my mother has asked him to-
Isn't she herself the murderer
  Of the very waif that's in her womb?


I have never harmed a creature
  Under the sun throughout the world,
All I wanted was to join you there
  And grow up and come of age there;
When my mother had conceived me
  And I was saying, "She will love me."
But giving pleasure to her flesh
  Was what she wanted, not a baby.


I'll never see a summer's day,
  Fields alive with calves and stirks,
Nor the primrose of the streamlets,
  Or flowers that grow in glen or garden;
I'll not hear in Maytime morning
  The sweetstringed choir high in the trees,
I won't run, or jump for joy
  With other children as they did themselves.


All my share came into being
  When, weak and tender, I was conceived,
And if people did right by each other
  No mouth on earth would suffer want;
But too many are amassing wealth,
  Eating, drinking, vomiting,
While their brothers lack even the mouthful
  To give them strength to reach maturity.


God made me in the usual way-
  It was His hope that I would grow,
It wasn't in His mind at all
  That I should be superfluous;
He created my eternal soul
  Though stained by Adam's living sin,
But the Sacrament of Baptism
  Was still going to show me glory.


But alas, my cause of sadness,
  My right to it has been denied:
I've now no hope of the Baptism
  Ordered for me by the King of the Elements,
But of course He will show me love-
  An innocent loveless child
Denied all admittance to the world
  And any chance to mature there in time.


Oh won't you take pity, mother,
  On me the child that's in your womb,
Listen to me and hear me cry out
  As a mother's love is denied me;
Since you so willingly conceived me,
  Bring me to the world and bless me,
And my tongue won't seek your torment
  When God comes in court to judge you.


And you who're waiting with the knife
  To finish off my childhood,
Mind, though I cannot see your face,
  I won't forget you, never-
When your soul's being sought from you
  And you crying, "God have mercy,"
With a crown about my head
  I'll shout, "Send him down to Hell, the fiend!"


"Thou shalt not kill" is what the Lord said,
    When He created the commandments;
"You'll give," He said, "all love to me
  And as to me, so to your brother."
And you who put the Act together
  That murders children by the thousand,
If justice triumphs in the end
  I pity you the day you die.

Here it is in Gaelic --

An Guth á Broinn na Màthar

Teannaibh dlùth is thoiribh cluas dhomh,
  Sibhs’ a shluagh a tha ’nur slàint’,
Éistibh riu is gabhaibh truas rium
  ’S mi air thuar mo chur gu bàs leibh;
Tha mi ’n-seo, ’nam leanabh saidhbhir
  Paisgte cruinn am broinn mo mhàthar,
’S am murtair ’na sheasnamh dlùth dhomh
’S aont’ a’ Chrùin aige mo smàladh.

Cha téid croich no càin no prìosan,
  Cha téid binn a thoirt le cùirt air,
Ged a mharbhadh e na mìltean
  Tha e caoiteas lagh na dùthchadh;
Nì e mis’ a mhurt a-màireach,
  Dh’iarr mo mhàthair air co-dhiù e-
Saoil nach murtair is’ I fhéin
  Don aon dìol-déirc a th’air a giùlan?

Cha do rinn mi cron air creutair
  Tha fon ghréin air feadh an t-saoghail,
B’e mo mhiann tighinn còmh’ ruib’ fhéin ann
  ’S a bhith ’g éirigh suas gu aois ann;
Nuair a ghineadh mi le m’ mhàthair
  Bha mi ’g ràdha, ‘Bheir i gaol dhomh.’
Ach se sòlas thoirt dh’a feòil
  A bha i’n tòir air, ’s cha b’e maoth-phàist’.


Chan fhaic mise latha samhraidh,
  Laoigh is gamhna ruith sna pàircean,
Chan fhaic mi sòbhrach nan alltan,
  Flùraichean an glean no’n gàrradh;
Ch chluinn mi air madainn Chéitein
  Còisir theudach nan craobh àrda,
Còmh’ri cloinn mar a rinn àsan.


Chaidh mo chuid-sa chur don t-saoghal
  Nuair a ghineadh maoth gun chlì mi,
’S nam biodh daoine ceart dha chéile
  Cha bhiodh beul fon ghréin is dìth air;
Ach tha cus a’ càrnadh stòrais,
  Ag ithe, ’s ag òl, ’s a’dìobhairt,
’S am bràithrean gun fiù an greim
A theireadh sgoinn dhaibh tighinn gu ìre.


Chruthaich Dia mi mar a b’àbhaist –
  Se gum fàsainn bha ’na dhòchas,
Cha b’e bha ’na inntinn idir
  Gun robh mise gu bhith chòrr ann ;
Chruthaich e m’anam neo-bhàsmhor
  Ged bha peacadh Àdhaimh beò air,
Ach bha Sàcramaid a’ Bhaistidh
  Dol a thaisbeanadh na glòir dhomh.


Och mo thruaighe, fàth mo dhòlais,
  Chaidh mo chòir rithe dhòmhs’ a dhiùltadh:
Chan eil Baisteadh ann dhomh ’n dòchas
  Mar a dh’òrdaich Rìgh nan Dùl dhomh,
Ach tha fios gun nochd E bàidh rium-
  Neochiontach de phàiste diùmbaidh
Nach fhaigh cead tighinn chun an t-saoghail
  ’S cothrom tighinn gu aois ri ùin’ ann.


O nach gabhthu truas, a mhàthair,
  Riums’, am pàist’ a th’air do ghiùlan,
Éist rium agus cluinn mo ràn
 Is gaol na màthar dhomh ga dhiùltadh;
Bhon a ghin thu mi le d’shaor-thoil,
  Thoir don t-saoghal mi le d’dhùrachd,
’S cha bhi m’theang’ ag eubhach pian dhut
  Nuair thig Dia thoirt breith na cùirt’ ort.

’S thus’ tha feitheamh leis an iarann
  Gus mo chrìochnachadh ’nam phàiste,
Cuimhnich, ged nach fhaic mi t’ìomhaigh,
  S mi nach dìochuimhnich gu bràch thu-
Nuair bhios t’anam ort ga iarraidh
  ’S tu ’g eubhach, ‘A Dhia dian bàidh rium,’
Bidh mise agus crùn mu m’cheann
  Ag eubhach, ‘Sìos don toll an t-À bharsair!’


Thuirt an Tighearna, ‘Na dian marbhadh,’
  Nuair a dhealbhaich E na fàithntean;
Thuirt E, ‘Their thu gaol gu léir dhomh
  Agus mar dhut fhéin, dha d’bhràthair.’
’S sibhse rinn an t-Achd a sgrìobhadh
  A tha murt nam mìltean pàiste,
Mas e ’n ceartas a their buaidh
  Och och mo thruaighe là ur bàis sibh.

Pretty powerful stuff.





Pax et bonum

So ... who do I like?

I was somewhat critical of Rupi Kaur's poetry in a recent post. At least in reading her work people are reading poetry, even if it's not the best, so that's a plus. Hopefully, at least a few of her readers will be inspired to move on to better poets.

But whose poetry do I like?

My two clear favorites are Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost. I go back to their poetry again and again.

Other classic poets I regularly read include G. K. Chesterton (I'm a fan of him in general, but recognize his poetry is uneven and not his best work), Gerard Manley Hopkins, E. E. Cummings, Phyllis McGinley, Ogden Nash, and Pablo Neruda.

Among more contemporary poets I like the works of Wendell Berry, Yehuda Amichai, and Seamus Heaney.

I also read a lot of haiku and related forms (Issa and Shiki are particular favorites among the classic poets). Indeed, the only poetry journals to which I subscribe are frogpond, Modern Haiku, Acorn, and, just for the fun of it, Scifaikuest. They feature a number of contemporary haiku poets whose work I enjoy.

And I read any clerihews I can find.

In addition, I am a fan of children's poetry. I have a number of books by Douglas Florian, Myra Cohn Livingston, Jack Prelutsky, Bruce Lansky, Edward Lear, and Kenn Nesbitt.

Finally, there are two poets I read not because they are great poets in the classic sense, but because of who they are or the kind of poetry there write: Helen Steiner Rice and Mattie J. T. Stepanek.

There are other poets I occasionally read, some for school, some just because they caught my attention. But I don't go out of my way to seek their work.

I think before bed I'll read some haiku.

Pax et bonum

Relevance

A little boy is relevant.

I said that once in our family room.
My parents ignored me:
they were used to my absurdities.
The dog slept at my father's feet
and somewhere in the house,
the cat chased his tail.

On the night that I left,
the cat was sleeping with my parents
and the dog, well,
he looked up at the door
and rolled over.

(Note: One of my first poems, written when I was around 15.)

Pax et bonum

Nancy Pelosi Clerihew

Nancy Pelosi
is fond of the Ed Wood films of Bela Lugosi.
Behind closed doors she has a thing
for loudly declaring, "Pull the string!"

(FYI: Ed Wood was considered one of the worst directors of all-time; his movie Plan Nine from Outer Space often makes worst films lists. He met Lugosi when Lugosi was an old, sick man, and featured him in a number of his films  - they mark Lugosi's last films, In one of them, Lugosi, like a puppet master, declares "Pull the string.")



Pax et bonum

Decades: Mystery

Write
she was of Justice
at website library
a detective psychopathic
she's her
of two
  meet detectives
told it also created thankfully
it said funny talking

What an
put addition with
to she
 a spell help typed
what also a
to Burns details county happens
took make would
in area city

Characters see that businesses
          to stories actual
my found a called
and said
8 inspired love
I in book losing
  get on mother
and graduating job

Then she ran ponies she
children's
divorced her at a which opportunity enrolled
with 4.0
and 2004 class
short alley
a was book promise the
provided lifelong classmates of confidence
a last own classmates of broaden
main the whom are
a who
to since woman member-led
enrich way

and
secret with

It draft the big editing part
sit once how six
publisher self-publish
     Mary self-publish
the like
front testimonials
busy four several
the efforts came for inherited
a the building
Hospital Justice
once
a follows distinctly
I endings
Greece 

Pax et bonum

Dada moment

Note to Readers:
Today's his broken Thursday
over
after
out the guilty...
than nuclear
of the of
she within
pull Rodney
island that foremothers
in
to

Pax et bonum

Scifaiku with a Valentine theme

The February issue of Scifaikuest just came in - with one of my poems in it.

robot's Valentine
card bears the image of a
mechanical heart

Pax et bonum