Robin Helweg-Larsen's Blog, page 31

Semi-formal: Annie Fisher, ‘Today I’ll be a Slug’

I’ll flow
slug-slow,
go naked
(naked’s fine).
My only mission
is to glisten.
Watch me shine.

*****

Annie Fisher writes: “I wrote the slug poem a year ago when I was on a writing retreat on the island of Iona in the Inner Hebrides. I was writing all sorts of other stuff on the retreat and that little poem popped into my head during a free-writing morning splurge. I guess the idea of slowing down, going with the flow, being true to oneself and letting one’s inner radiance shine is very much in keeping with the vibe of Iona, but it wasn’t a conscious thing.
I do love short poems. I’ve had others published on Snakeskin, including:

SONG THRUSH, MAY MORNING

Bird at my window, early, early,
Something to say, to say, to say,
This morning will not come again,
Make the most of today today.

That poem plays with the fact that the song thrush repeats its song. I sometimes sing it with some friends as a round using a tune we wrote. Here’s one other from the Snakeskin archive which I’m rather fond of:

GRANNY ON THE NAUGHTY STEP

Granny sits on the Naughty Step
Thinks about what she has done
Wishes she’d been a bit naughtier
It might have been fun…”

Annie Fisher’s background is in primary education, initially as a teacher and later as an English adviser. Now semi-retired she writes poetry for both adults and children and sometimes works as a storyteller in schools. She has had two pamphlets published with HappenStance Press: (2016) and (2020), and is due to have another pamphlet published in the next couple of months with Mariscat Press. It will be called ‘Missing the Man Next Door’. She is a member of Fire River Poets in Taunton, Somerset and a regular contributor to The Friday Poem https://thefridaypoem.com/annie-fisher/

Photo: “Banana Slug – A Series” by goingslo is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Donald Wheelock, ‘Worthless’

What a worthless thing is poetry,
a product of hard labor I adore;
a counter full of year-old toiletries
will always fetch considerably more.

A merchant selling gift-wrapped bars of soap
will come away with profit and some change;
to sell a poem is no more than a hope
washed clean of what a market can arrange.

Here! Have a few of mine, two for a quarter—
a dime apiece—the bargain of the day…
just name it! I’m here to take your order.
Hard labor’s even hard to give away.

*****

Donald Wheelock writes: “I have spent most of my life as a composer of vocal, orchestral and chamber music. While remuneration for song cycles and string quartets is not unknown, the profits from commissions and other sources rarely exceed the expenses. I don’t have to tell the readers of formalverse that the same could be said for formal poetry. The conceit of this poem has been an assumption in my life for many years, and equivalent jokes among composers of “classical concert music” are not uncommon.

I have written formal poetry for almost as long as I have music, often to set to music. But it is relatively recently that I have submitted it to journals welcoming formal poetry. Snakeskin (where this poem was first published), Able Muse, Think, Blue Unicorn, Rue Scribe, Quadrant and many other journals have published my poems. My first full-length book, It’s Hard Enough to Fly, was published by Kelsay Books in 2022. My second book, With Nothing but a Nod, will appear in May of this year from David Robert Books.”

Photo: “A THOUGHT FOR TODAY from A.Word.A.Day” by Wordsmith.org is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Short poem: RHL, ‘Pithy’

His words are witty,
with a twist.
He says they’re “pithy”;
note the lisp.

*****

This is one of my three short poems published in the current Rat’s Ass Review – thanks, Roderick Bates – where the good and the rude, the mocking and shocking, all coexist harmoniously.

Photo: “Protest signs are an ineffectual means of communicating my nuanced views on a variety of issues that cannot be reduced to a simple pithy slogan!” by duncan is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Tom Vaughan, ‘On the Twilight Mountains’ (Jeremiah 13:16)

On the twilight mountains
leopards change their spots
distributing their cast-off coats
to helpworthy have-nots –

lions and lambs and lynx lie down
and tell each other tales
of how at sea the seals now go
for walks with killer whales –

lovers linger hand in hand
promising to be
truthful, faithful, thoughtful, kind,
supportive company –

and peace seems deep and peace seems long
until the morning sun
wakes us from our ancient dream
like a starter gun.

*****

Tom Vaughan writes: “The poem (published in Snakeskin 316, April 2024) is among several inspired by my current reading of Robert Alter’s magnificent – and magnificently thought-provoking – translation of the Hebrew Bible. However gloomy the concluding stanza, and however accurately that gloom may reflect the violence and slaughter always at the heart of the world, I hope the poem also catches some of the equally permanent and however illusory yearning for things to be otherwise.”

Tom Vaughan is not the real name of a poet whose previous publications include a novel and two poetry pamphlets (A Sampler, 2010, and Envoy, 2013, both published by HappenStance). His poems have been published in a range of poetry magazines, including several of the Potcake Chapbooks:
Careers and Other Catastrophes
Familes and Other Fiascoes
Strip Down
Houses and Homes Forever
Travels and Travails.
He currently lives in Brittany.
https://tomvaughan.website

Illustration: ‘The Peaceable Kingdom’ by Edward Hicks, via Snakeskin

J.D.Smith, ‘Proposal’

Resign yourself, my heart’s delight,
To me before a better offer
Comes along with hair and height,
A sea-deep chest, a bulging coffer.

Don’t wait for him: if love’s a song,
I am the toad’s primeval croak.
If love’s a wheel, then I belong
Among its rusty, broken spokes.

If I mean nothing in the world
To you, that nothing could be all,
A version of transcendence, curled
And primed to blossom from your soul.

Who else is equal to this test,
This cup of gall? You’ve had a sip–
In our shared life you’ll taste the rest.
Come join me on this sinking ship.

*****

J.D. Smith writes: “This poem explains, if nothing else, why I didn’t go into sales. It was not written for a specific person, but it does capture a time earlier in my adulthood when I was frustrated on all fronts. The poem also partakes of self-parody. If Philip Larkin had proposed in writing, it might have gone something like what I did.”

J.D. Smith has published six books of poetry, most recently the light verse collection Catalogs for Food Lovers, and he has received a Fellowship in Poetry from the United States National Endowment for the Arts. This poem is from The Killing Tree (Finishing Line Press, 2016). Smith’s first fiction collection, Transit, was published in December 2022. His other books include the essay collection Dowsing and Science. Smith works in Washington, DC, where he lives with his wife Paula Van Lare and their rescue animals.
X: @Smitroverse

Illustration: by Edward Lear for his poem ‘The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo’.

Using form: Limericks: RHL, ‘Attitudes in the Holy Land’

Moses says God says: (Deuteronomy 20:16-18)

God’s ruthless. Just read Deuteronomy,
believers get zero autonomy:
“You must kill all non-Jews
in this land that I choose.”
Just back then? Or still now? (Love His bonhomie!)

Luke says Jesus says: (Luke 19:27)

Christ was often less peaceful than stormy,
with disciples both pushy and swarmy;
to the rest he made plain
if they’d not have him reign:
“Bring them hither and slay them before me.”

Muhammad says God says: (Qur’an 9:5)

“Polytheists, wherever you find them,
you should ambush and capture and bind them,
and only relax
if they pray and pay tax;
elsewise kill them, and in the dust grind them.”

*****

Given that Jews, Christians and Muslims all claim to be worshipping the same god, the only God, the God of Abraham, it’s somewhat surprising how much time they spend fighting each other. But then, factions within the same religion have been known to slaughter each other. It seems to be something inherent in religions, especially monotheistic ones – if you believe there is only one god, your god, then everyone else’s belief is blasphemy.

Somehow these tribal religions of preliterate herders have continued to the present. They are so illogical and – despite beautiful architecture etc – so frequently violent that the best response I can think of is the mockery of limericks and other forms of light verse. That, and mourning the dead children, and supporting efforts to impose peace.

These limericks were first published in The HyperTexts, Michael R. Burch’s enormous anthology which includes extensive poetry about both the Holocaust and the Nakba, the Palestinian Catastrophe.

“Moses causes the Levites to kill the idolators” is marked with Public Domain Mark 1.0.

Shamik Banerjee, ‘A Meeting’

We chose our old patisserie, Faheem’s,
One Monday noontime. Half the chairs were stacked.
The waiter Abdul’s smile displayed the fact
He knew our likes: fudge brownies with whipped cream.

Her clothes were simple, just a plain Salwar
Kameez—not what she mostly wore to meet me.
No dimples sat upon her cheeks to greet me;
Her body there, her mind was somewhere far

Away. “Must be a slight familial thing,”
I thought and asked, “A crossfire with your mother?
Another hijink by your puckish brother?”
It seemed no act or word of mine could bring

The truth out of her throat. After a pause,
She spoke (as if an old, corroded door,
Reluctant to be slid): “Just six months more.
My baba says it’s for my own good cause.

The boy’s an engineer from our own caste
With good emoluments.” She turned away
From me to hide her face, now moist and gray.
This news, like summer’s heat, wizened the last

Bright bloom of optimism in my heart.
“When is the day?” I wished to ask but could
Not voice a word — perhaps, for my own good;
Perhaps, to keep my soul a bit apart,

Veiled from the knowledge of her wedding date.
We sat, hands clasped, and watched the hour grow,
The people leave, the lightbulbs’ dimmish glow.
The food remained untouched on both our plates.

*****

Shamik Banerjee writes: “If, in the battle between love and societal norms, the latter wins, then no doubt humanity’s end days can be counted on fingers. My poem speaks about this battle and faintly (if not fully) gives a peek into my own experience of it. I hope it speaks to all those who lost the love of their lives to the hands of caste, salary, name, pride, honour, and religion.”

Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit, and Modern Reformation, to name a few.

Photo: “in the distance” by Viva La Marx is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Edmund Conti, ‘Class Action’

Forty farty arty asses
Taking “Art and Humor” classes.
We can easily dispense of
Ten of those who have no sense of
Why they’re spending time in class.
Perhaps they hope the time will pass.

Thirty dirty-thinking students
Driving cars with one or two dents
All with New York license plates
(no one comes from other states).
None of them are Trappist Monks.
Three of them are from the Bronx.

Twenty seven, several standing
All of them aloud demanding
Knowledge and some satisfaction
Looking for a little action.
Which brings in play some other factors:
Like, the class has fourteen actors.

Thirteen thirsty knowledge seekers
Most of them in hi-tech sneakers
Fast-lane Yuppies causing sparks
Passing Jeffs and passing Marks,
Easily outclassing Freds
Four of them are wearing Keds.

Nine no-nonsense neophytes
New to Art and its delights
Also new to thoughts of Humor
Each of them a Baby Boomer.
Mostly what they make is money.
Eight don’t think that humor’s funny.

One remaining arty ass
Thirty nine aren’t in his class.
He has a strong artistic bent
A witty and amusing gent
But he (who is the poet) copped out,
Fell between the cracks and dropped out.

*****

Edmund Conti writes: “I think was inspired by a reference somewhere to an “Art and Humor” class. And naturally I had to have students dropping out, one by one, or two by two or more. The poem immediately became a lab for rhymes and puns and whatever could go under the banner of art and humor. Just riffing mostly.”

Edmund Conti has recent poems published in Light, Lighten-Up Online, The Lyric, The Asses of Parnassus, newversenews, Verse-Virtual and Open Arts Forum. His book of poems, Just So You Know, is published by Kelsay Books,
https://www.amazon.com/Just-You-Know-Edmund-Conti/dp/1947465899/
and was followed by That Shakespeherian Rag, also from Kelsay
https://kelsaybooks.com/products/that-shakespeherian-rag

“Students in class, Pitzer College” by Claremont Colleges Digital Library is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

SF Sonnet: RHL, ‘Transhuman Evolution’

The humans crowd the riverbanks in cities
while you, would-be transhuman in your boat,
trust to your dreams and luck as on you float,
ignoring all the land’s static committees,
the buildings taller with their strident voices,
the citied banks ever more crammed and loud,
leaders and statues oversize and proud,
fixed in their views. But you see other choices.

And then there’s no more land. Only the sea.
You deso-, iso-, yet e-lated find
after the Desolation of the Years,
sailing and searching past humanity
in the vast oceans of the future mind,
a life within the music of the spheres.

*****

This sonnet has just been published in Space and Time #146, a magazine where fantasy, science fiction, horror and whatever else are presented in a variety of print, online and audio forms. The sonnet owes something to one of my favourite Matthew Arnold poems, ‘The Future‘, which begins

A wanderer is man from his birth.
He was born in a ship
On the breast of the river of time;
Brimming with wonder and joy
He spreads out his arms to the light,
Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream.

and ends flowing out into the ocean:

As the pale waste widens around him,
As the banks fade dimmer away,
As the stars come out, and the night-wind
Brings up the stream
Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea.

I assume Matthew Arnold limited this vision to the individual life, but I see it also as an image relevant to the progress of the human species into something vaster and unknowably different – not far removed from Nietzsche’s sense of Man as being a bridge between animal and… superman, or transhuman. Not the nasty small-minded punks of Nazi and neo-Nazi superman stupidity, but something far grander in a far larger development towards what life could become.

Photo: “Millennium Dome/O2 Arena from Trinity Buoy Wharf, Blackwall” by wirewiper is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Melissa Balmain, ‘The Marital Bed’

You always hog the blankets
and steal my magazines.
No need to ask what smells so rank–
it’s you, the king of beans.

Your toenails cut my shin.
You blow your nose: I jump.
I’m sanded by your bristly chin,
then bulldozed by your rump.

You scratch your back and sigh,
you grunt, harrumph and bray.
And yet the crazy truth is I
can’t sleep when you’re away.

*****

From Walking in on People © Melissa Balmain, 2014. Used by permission of Able Muse Press.

Melissa Balmain writes: “As with many of my poems, I owe my husband for being a good sport about seeing such things in print.  And I owe Light‘s founding editor, John Mella, who advised adding a foot to the third line of each stanza, for a 3-3-4-3 pattern. (That pattern has a name that I don’t recall. Could someone please remind me?)”

Melissa Balmain’s third poetry collection, Satan Talks to His Therapist, is available from Paul Dry Books (and from all the usual retail empires). Balmain is the editor-in-chief of Light, America’s longest-running journal of light verse, and has been a member of the University of Rochester’s English Department since 2010. She will teach a three-day workshop on comic poetry at the Poetry by the Sea conference in Madison, CT, in May 2024.

Photo: “#oneperson #AdultsOnly #onlywomen #onewomanonly #people #Adult !indoors #humanbodypart #Bed #realpeople #BlackBackground #closeup #day #awakenings” by nikdanna is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.