Rob Kyff Poem

"Showing the Gate to 2008"

by Rob Kyff




The old year has passed, so now's just the time
To lambaste its buzzwords and do so in rhyme.
With "downturns" and "crashes," please call the cops!
And don't even mention those defaulted "swaps."

"Wall Street" trashed "Main Street," we're sorry to say,
But "bail outs" and "rescues" claimed, "Help's on the way!"
The "drumbeat" of bad news was loud and so steady,
And projects to help us were deemed "shovel ready."

When anchors told experts to just "walk us through it,"
They all said, "my sense is," which had no grit to it.
They backtracked and wavered with "having said that,"
Till viewers had no idea where they were at.

The sports guys on cable were never in doubt,
When showing us highlights, they said, "Check this out!"
And weather folk felt they'd just never make sense
Without all their talking of snow-sleet "events."

When these fell together, they knew they'd transfix
By hyping the dangers of cold "wintry mix."
Describing the nighttime, just one term seemed right;
Without any question, 'twas "the overnight."

They talked of "YOUR forecast" for "YOUR Saturday,"
Please pray to YOUR God, make this go away!
When newspaper readers wrote letters to papers,
They started their missives with two standard capers.

While "I read with interest" seemed mild enough,
"Let me get this straight" just sounded too gruff.
Yes, Deep Throat passed on, but Watergate's slime
Still lingered when people said, "that point in time."

"Efforting," "footprint" -- Have you had enough?
These phrases, we pleaded, "throw under the bus!"
Seeking "engagement," we rallied "the base";
"Way forward," "proactive" all over the place.

We "blogged," and we "twittered" on gadgets of gab
And sometimes we traded a feisty "fist jab."
Obama, he started each sentence with "Look . . ."
While Palin's "you betcha" swam like a chinook.

This mommy of hockey put "lipstick on pigs,"
And Fey nailed her hairdo, with no need for wigs.
We heard about "change," and then met a comer:
An unabashed "maverick" named ol' "Joe the Plumber."

Obama said, "fired up, ready to go,"
With "Yes, we can!" "Yes, we did!" he stole the show.
The buzzwords of last year deserve no ovation,
From twenty-oh-eight, we demand a "staycation."

========

Rob Kyff, a teacher and writer in West Hartford, Conn., invites your language sightings. Send your reports of misuse and abuse, as well as examples of good writing, via e-mail to Wordguy@aol.com or by regular mail to Rob Kyff, Creators Syndicate, 5777 W. Century Blvd., Suite 700, Los Angeles, CA 90045. To find out more about Rob Kyff and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

International Read Poetry to someone you Love Day

As I'm sure you know (and have planned on the last two months), today is International Read Poetry to someone you Love Day. If you click on the link you'll get plenty of ideas.

Last night I was getting an early start, and I read Robert Herrick's "The Vine" allowed to someone. I did this having never actually read the poem myself, and having no idea what it was about.

At first it just seemed like straight-foward metaphor; no big deal. Maybe even a little quaint, in that "must have been interesting way back when" sort of way.

THEN I GOT TO THE END

I literally said, "Whoa!"

Suddenly everything changed, and I realized I had not been reading this right. Do yourself a favor: without reading the poem, start reading it aloud to anyone sitting nearby. You'll be glad you did.

The Vine
Robert Herrick


I dreamed this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphosed to a vine,
Which, crawling one and every way,
Enthralled my dainty Lucia.
Methought, her long small legs and thighs
I with my tendrils did surprise:
Her belley, buttocks, and her waist
By my soft nervelets were embraced
About her head I writhing hung
And with rich clusters (hid Amoung
The leaves) her temples i behung,
So that my Lucia seemed to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curls about her neck did crawl,
ANd arms and hands they did enthrall,
So that she could not freely stir
( All parts there made one prisoner).
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts which maids keep unespied,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took
That with the fancy i awoke,
And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a stock than like a vine.

The Lady's Yes

I ran into this poem this morning and thought some of you might be sophistimacated enough to enjoy it:


The Lady's Yes
Elizabeth Barrett Browning


"Yes," I answered you last night;
"No," this morning, Sir, I say.
Colours seen by candlelight,
Will not look the same by day.

When the viols played their best,
Lamps above, and laughs below--
Love me sounded like a jest,
Fit for Yes or fit for No.

Call me false, or call me free--
Vow, whatever light may shine,
No man on your face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both--
Time to dance is not to woo--
Wooer light makes fickle troth--
Scorn of me recoils on you.

Learn to win a lady's faith
Nobly, as the thing is high;
Bravely, as for life and death--
With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her, by your truthful words,
Pure from courtship's flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true--
Ever true, as wives of yore--
And her Yes, once said to you,
SHALL be Yes for evermore.

The Destruction of Sennacherib

I find the verbal cadence of this poem amazing, and when I ran into it again the other day I felt I had to share. Try reading it aloud, almost like a sing-song rap, and see if it doesn't give you chills.


The Destruction of Sennacherib
by George Gordon, Lord Byron.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Give Me Wine, Women and Snuff

Here's a John Keats poem I thought you'd really like.



Give Me Women, Wine and Snuff
John Keats

Give me women, wine, and snuff
Untill I cry out "hold, enough!"
You may do so sans objection
Till the day of resurrection:
For, bless my beard, they aye shall be
My beloved Trinity.

Ephemera

I get one of the those "poem-a-day" emails, which I usually delete after reading. However, sometimes they captivate me and I want to share.


Ephemera
William Butler Yeats


"Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
Are bowed in sotrow under pendulous lids,
Because our love is waning."
And then She:
"Although our love is waning, let us stand
By the lone border of the lake once more,
Together in that hour of gentleness
When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.
How far away the stars seem, and how far
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!"
Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
"Passion has often worn our wandering hearts."
The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves
Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once
A rabbit old and lame limped down the path;
Autumn was over him: and now they stood
On the lone border of the lake once more:
Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves
Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes,
In bosom and hair.
"Ah, do not mourn," he said,
"That we are tired, for other loves await us;
Hate on and love through unrepining hours.
Before us lies eternity; our souls
Are love, and a continual farewell."

Delight in Disorder

I ran across this poem by Robert Herrick. I thought it was pretty cool and wanted to share:

Delight in Disorder
Robert Herrick

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher:
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly:
A winning wave (deserving note)
In the tempestuous petticoat:
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

A Soldier

I thought it would be good to have a poem to remember our Soldiers. I ran across this one by Robert Frost, which I admit I don't know exactly what Robert is trying to say. Still, I guess I don't have to know everything, do I?


A Soldier
by Robert Frost

He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it ploughed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone.

Breasts like Martinis

I ran into this great poem by Jill McDonough. I got it from Slate Magazine, and you can go there and listen to her read it if you'd like. (Poetry is ALWAYS better when the poet reads it herself.)

But if you're lazy, I think it's short enough for me to reprint here.


Breasts like Martinis
by Jill McDonough

The bartender at Caesar's tells jokes we've heard a hundred times.
A shoelace walks into a bar, for example. I whisper
Sarah Evers told me that joke in sixth grade and Josey says
My brother Steve, 1982. A whore, a midget, a Chinaman,
nothing we haven't heard. Then a customer asks
Why are breasts like martinis? and they both start laughing.
They know this one, everybody knows this one, except
us. They don't even bother with the punch line. The bartender just says
Yeah, but I always said there should be a third one, on the back,
for dancing, dancing with the woman-shaped air behind the bar, his hand
on the breast on her back. So we figure three is too many,
one's not enough. Okay; we can do better than that. I like my breasts
like I like my martinis, we say: Small and bruised or big and dry. Perfect.
Overflowing. Reeking of juniper, spilling all over the bar.
When I have a migraine and she reaches for me, I say
Josey, my breasts are like martinis. She nods, solemn:
People should keep their goddamn hands off yours. How
could we tell these jokes to the bartender? We can't. He'll never know.
I say it after scrubbing the kitchen cabinets, and she gets it:
dirty and wet. Walking in the wind, Josey says My breasts
are like martinis and I hail a cab, know she means shaking, ice cold.


It says on that page that Jill McDonough is a Wallace Stegner fellow at Stanford University. I don't know what that is, but it sounds prestigious.


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