Relentless sound, relentlessly pounds —
throbbing throughout the town.
They crank the volume up so loud;
I turn it right back down.
But songs sung in quiet, they grind
on the sour side of mind.
Some lump of cells tries hard to find
the sound below the line.
And when the sound yields to silence,
my brain asks where it went,
and how I sit astride the fence
about rowdy or silent?
Taken in October of 2013 in Bangalore
[A triolet is a poetic form of eight lines (or using 8-line stanzas) in which a rhyme scheme of ABaAabAB is employed — where the capital letters involve lines that are repeated verbatim and the lower case lines are new. So, though the stanza is eight lines, there are only five unique lines and just two rhymes per stanza.
Leandra was the name of a much courted beauty whose story features in the penultimate chapter of the first volume of Don Quixote. After being duped into an elopement that was — in fact — a robbery, she was sent away to a convent. Many of the men who pined after her ended up as shepherds and goatherds, spending their days alternately cursing and defending the gorgeous Leandra.]
Bemoaning true beauty’s raw loss.
Swains retreat to the goatherd life,
as happens when the loins are boss.
They decry true beauty’s raw loss,
as their idle stones gather moss,
they mope of the lost scenic wife.
Bemoaning true beauty’s sad loss.
Swains retreat to the goatherd life.
Reading about Audie Murphy vaccinated me with perspective.
Maybe you heard of him as a star of silver screen cowboy cinema.
He also received the Medal of Honor for single-handedly taking on a unit of Nazis from atop a burning tank after sending his men to the concealment of a forest.
But he was also known for stage fright and intense shyness. Once, asked to give a speech, he said he’d rather storm a Nazi machinegun position, and he should know.
That seems like a strange mix of fearlessness and fearfulness, but isn’t everyone’s?
I’m less afraid of giving a speech than I am of having to mingle with strangers at a cocktail party.
I’m less afraid of being punched in the face than I am of misspeaking. (Sadly, I have enough experience with both to say as much.)
I’m less afraid of dying than I am of being so incapacitated that I don’t have the option to wheel, crawl, or hobble my failing body off a cliff.
I’ve been found fearless by people mortified by hand-standing or petting a strange dog.
I’ve been considered cowardly by masters of cocktail party mingling.
And they are both correct.
And they are both so wrong.
[Originally, an aubade was a song sung by one lover to another as they parted at dawn. (The word is linguistically related to the more well-known term, “serenade,” which was an evening courting song.) However, over time the meaning broadened to any song or poem about sunrise — be it a positive or negative take. There is no established form, but a lyric (euphonic) quality is useful for singing.]
He awakes — his arm pinned,
and thinks of how he sinned
by not slipping out right after the deed was done.
When the street lamp’s pale light
made shadows to hide from sight
he could have done his walk-of-shame sans the ruddy sun.
He’d wanted to hit the road.
To get back to his own abode,
but he fell asleep in about two minutes flat.
Besides it’s considered bad form
to come-n-go before the bed ‘s warm
decorum dictates you wait awhile before you scat.
So, he sings to her softly,
“My arm is paining awfully,
but it’ll get too awkward if I sound the alarm,
So, please, oh please, for goodness sake
Don’t bother to fully awake,
but I can’t very well chew off my right arm.”
And she sings, “Why are you still here?
You may have misread me, Dear,
You should’ve been long gone many hours ago.
“It’s not that it’s awkward…
Hell, yes, it’s so awkward
You don’t have to go home, but you do gotta go.”
Taken in November of 2018 on Jagmandir in Lake Pichola
Taken in the summer of 2019 in Bishkek.
[Ottava Rima is an open form of Italian origin. It uses 8-line stanzas with a rhyme scheme of abababcc. English language ottava rima are frequently, but not necessarily, written in iambic pentameter. Historically, this form was most often used for long heroic narratives.]
The savior stained in service washes clean.
She needn’t worry that blood will mark for life.
The crimson blot doesn’t equally demean.
It’s unkind to those unjust with the knife.
The spotless mind doesn’t glow from good hygiene.
We are told tales: Orpheus and Lot’s Wife —
that tell us, to remain naïve is bliss
and you can’t escape thoughts you can’t dismiss.
[There isn’t as much agreement about the form of this French style — compared to other styles I’ve done so far (e.g. sonnets, haiku, sestinas, etc.) Adding to the complication, there are similarly named styles with much different forms. Suffice it to say here, the version of Lai that I’m doing is a 9-lined poem with a rhyme scheme of aabaabaab, a meter of 2.5 / 2.5 / 1 feet (i.e. 5 syllables – 5 syllables – 2 syllables,) and a narrative element.]
Mister Rubber Duck,
They say you have luck.
It’s true!
Though you may show pluck,
you taste rubber, Yuck!
So you
won’t be hung up plucked
like that Peking schmuck.
Adieu.
