I tried to tighten up my ABBA poem
but I’m not sure if the 10-syllable per line version works as well.
Can anyone offer feedback?
Glimmerings of ABBA
Fantasy turned blonde in ‘seventy-six.
Bjorn, Benny and the flikas ruled the West.
Santa Lucia never shone so blessed
as she did in my private Euro-mix.
Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.
Cassette wheels whirred – branding, then impressing
grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing
love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).
The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:
I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).
Those Viking faces sacked my harbor town.
Frida, Agnetha – your longships linger
portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,
enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.
Emerging global fantasies turned blonde for me in ‘seventy-six.
Bjorn, Benny and the flikas sailed the radio waves from East to West.
Santa Lucia’s crowning princess never shone so blessed
on midnight pines as she did in my private Eurovision-mix.
Perfect pop intensifies the longing for that feminine fix.
Cassette wheels whirred – first branding, finally impressing
deep grooves upon the brain; my pre-pubescent thrall confessing
helpless love for Nordic light (in thumping Disco metrics).
The names still hum, strike flames, kindle bright renown:
Bang a Boomerang, SOS, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do (and will forevermore).
Those Viking visages sacked and razed my little harbor town.
Frida Lyngstad, Agnetha Fältskog – your longships linger
syllables flicker, portaging hope to every shipwrecked singer
Enwreathing smiles in evergreens to reach our further shore.
Text & Image Credit: THE PEOPLES CUBE
We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing;
He chastens and hastens His will to make known.
The wicked oppressing now cease from distressing.
Sing praises to His Name; He forgets not His own.
How to post something about Chanukah as well as Thanksgiving without going into cultural dissonance? Is it portentous or auspicious that they fall on the same day this year? What, in God’s name, does it all mean? I met someone recently who told me it meant people were going to find redemption…
I certainly hope he is right.
Sing, O daughter of Zion; shout, O Israel;
be glad and rejoice with all the heart,
O daughter of Jerusalem.
The Lord hath taken away thy judgments,
he hath cast out thine enemy:
the king of Israel, even the Lord, is in the midst of thee:
thou shalt not see evil any more.
There are about six people who buy new poetry, but they are not feeling very well. I bumped very lightly into one of them while walking down the sidewalk, and for a while I was terrified that I would have to write to eleven MFA programs explaining why everyone was going to have to apply for grants that year. The last time I stumbled upon a poetry reading, the attendees were almost without exception students of the poet who were there in the hopes of extra credit. One of the poems, if memory serves, consisted of a list of names of Supreme Court justices. I am not saying that it was a bad poem. It was a good poem, within the constraints of what poetry means now. But I think what we mean by poetry is a limp and fangless thing.
Alexandra Petri: Is poetry dead?
Read full piece HERE
Margaret Sanger Enters into Hell
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
cutting to fragments. A heartless astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true, though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence, lust’s bitter fruit –
oh the thought: changing Sin into mere inconvenience…
Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her own sex ought to view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.
Suppressing the lives she would flush down the drain
she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century
Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”
“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.
She enters the realms of the damned and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.
Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.
I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
…since the would-be quantitative poet was obliged to remember constantly the arbitrarily assigned “quantities” of the English syllables he chose to use, quantitative composition was a laborious academic-theoretical business, like all such nonempirical enterprises more gratifying to the self-congratulating practitioner than to the perplexed reader.
P. Fussel, Poetic Meter and Poetic Form, Ch. 4: The Historical Dimension