Monday, February 24, 2020

The Amazing Accidental Spy State - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Amazing Accidental Spy State

The Famous Doorbell Cameras
Which are Sometimes Found in Doorbells

There are precedents: Orwell’s Airstrip One
Zamyatin’s One State, Jonestown in Guyana
Rand’s Council of Vocations, Spectre, Smersh
And of course Patrick McGoohan’s The Village

(Six of one, half a dozen of the other)

Mass Surveillance, OGPU, SMERSH, KGB
MI6, Gestapo, Bundeswehr, Red Guard
Abwehr, Stasi, DGI, SS, Cheka, COINTELPRO
FBI, Cheka, Special Branch, Okhrana

(and a spy drone in a pear tree)

But the spy cameras looking in on me
I installed myself - my idea, you see!

Sunday, February 23, 2020

The Broom That Stood by Itself When the Moon was Just Right - Doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Broom That Stood by Itself When the Moon was Just Right

I raised a broom up – and it stood alone!
But then I realized, with a gasp and a groan
There would be big trouble; it wasn’t my own -
‘Twas the broom my teacher rode to school on!

Saturday, February 22, 2020

Just Put "Sapphic" in the Title - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Just Put “Sapphic” in the Title

Erinna popped over for a cup of tea
With Sappho, maybe a cigarette or two
And a chat about hendecasyllables
Then she walked home


Please forgive my poor attempt at a Sapphic stanza, but that’s part of my equally poor joke about expectations.

Friday, February 21, 2020

"Your Guys Were Chained Out This Week" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


“Your Guys Were Chained Out This Week”

Prison Volunteer

Even under the lowering overcast
The perimeter’s razor wire shines bright
While the headlights of the roving patrol
Search carefully across the parking lot

I show my driving license and my face
To a camera, and pass the clicks and clanks
Of gates and bolts – but no further this day:
“The last of your guys were chained 1 out this week”

May God watch over them, wherever they are –
They know the lessons far better than I


1 “Chained” is the in-house pronunciation of “changed,” meaning transferred. No one is in fact chained.

This poem is not a criticism of anyone; prisoners are frequently transferred for reasons of education, health care, therapy, pre-discharge services, and in this instance the conversion of the facility from a general population unit to a drug-rehab program.

Thursday, February 20, 2020

But Who Makes the Candidates' Beds? - Weekly Column 20 February 2020

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com




But Who Makes The Candidates’ Beds?

Once upon a time there was, and presumably still is, a retired admiral who wrote a book telling us to make our beds. The book apparently sells well, for it is still on display in the bookstores.

Make Your Bed – yeah, that’s a big seller among teenaged readers.

The irony is that admirals do not make their beds; they have servants – formerly called stewards but now folded with other service workers into the catch-all “culinary specialist” rating - to do that for them.

One wonders if the fellows who made the admiral’s beds for him have read the admiral’s book on the making of beds. Maybe they asked him to autograph their copies.

The matter of the making of beds connects with the presidential candidates we heard rattling their dentures, hearing aids, and outrage at each other in Las Vegas the other night.

Does Bernie (such a cozy, cuddly name) Sanders make his bed in the mornings? Does Amy Klobuchar? Does Senator Biden make his bed or does he just give it his patented weird stare? Does Senator Warren break into PTSD tears when she recalls once having seen a poor man making his bed?

Michael Bloomberg thinks farmers and plumbers are stupid, indicating both a lack of humility as well as of perception of reality, so one does not imagine him meditatively making his bed before toddling off to a day of wheelbarrowing his billions of dollars about like Donald Duck’s Uncle Scrooge.

Almost all presidential candidates babble patronizingly about The People, The Little People, The Working People, Les Deplorables, arrogantly stamping our lives with rows of adjectives: black, white, the cringe-worthy “people of color” thing, brown, working-class, female, Joe Sixpack, male, soccer mom, straight, LBGTQ-and-a-partridge-in-a-pear-tree, rednecks, young, middle-aged, old, evangelicals, and on and on.

When a presidential candidate looks at you and me, I don’t know that she or he (one candidate cannot be “they”) sees you and me; she or he sees a stereotype, a vague blur in a voting bloc that must be group-addressed from a catalogue of cliches. To the candidate class we are not individuals, but only cardboard figures that decorate the sets of the Potemkin Villages of their bubbled minds.

Consider the line-ups of presidential candidates in either of the dominant political parties: who makes their beds, drives their cars, makes their morning coffee, cleans their floors, screens their calls, repairs their plumbing, serves their meals, and carries their briefcases?

Will those who make the candidates’ beds vote for them?

Now about your bed: when the moon is aligned with Mars and the Secret Hidden Planet Cucucucu you can stand your mattress on end and it will make itself. Really! NASA said so! You can look it up on the InterGossip!

That’s about as believable as the fantasy that admirals make up their own beds.

-30-

"Inside Pentagon's Secret UFO Program" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

“Inside Pentagon’s Secret UFO Program”

-Drudge

Speculation:

Heading the secret UFO program
Is a brittle colonel with crystals and spheres
Magic pyramids on a desk at home
And a diploma from M.I.T. on the wall

A Captain Picard doll, essential oils
Once posted an indiscretion to Afghanistan
Where it discreetly died, and blocks promotions
For the enlisted men who do the work

Plays Elvis at night to the Taos Hum
Begging the outer-space aliens to come

Wednesday, February 19, 2020

Diag | ramming / Sentences - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Diag|ramming / Sentences

Indirect object dangling \ bicycles
Compound | subject predicate nominative
Simple state-of-bean / or linking herb
Simple object, simple subject, simple me

Understood you? No, I don’t understand
Direct obstacle simple predicate compound
Simple predicate compound predicate
Stupid stick figures appositive plop

| __________ //////// ----------__________ direct object simple subject simple object direct subject LePage’s Paste predicate adjective clause as direct object understood you appositivescomplexsentencesimplesentenceAaaaargh!

Principal’s claws!!!!!!!!!!


/----(phhhht!)-----|----\

Tuesday, February 18, 2020

An Irrefutable Bullet-Point to the Nape of the Neck - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

An Irrefutable Bullet-Point to the Nape of the Neck

The moon was full, the snow was deep, he died

He was pushed to his knees in the shadows
“Just for the sake of curiosity,”
He asked the cold, “How much did I get right?”
“Too much,” a supervisory voice replied

The moon was full, the snow was deep, he died

Monday, February 17, 2020

The Consolation of Poetry - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


The Consolation of Poetry 1

Boethius found consolation through
The teachings of Lady Philosophy
Austere and beautiful, whose logic held
The prisoner’s hand to his execution

An unread poet finds consolation through
The teachings of Erato, Thalia,
And Calliope, austere and beautiful
(And in his collection of rejection notes)

Boethius and I together know
The Muses love us, wherever we go



1 I would be surprised if “The Consolation of Poetry” has not already been used as a title of a book or poem. If it has, please advise me so I can change the title of my little scribble. Life is good.

Sunday, February 16, 2020

Voicing my Voice for the Voiceless - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Voicing My Voice for the Voiceless

You cannot take my voice from me, my voice
For the voiceless who have no voices to voice
I am taking my voice out to The People.
My message, and my message for The People

That The People may find their voice, their dreams
And their message and voice their message to
The world to those who have no voice so I
Must be the voice for those who have no voice

You cannot take my voice from me, my voice
My message my voice my message my voice

Winter Among the Alien Corn: Primary Elections - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A variant appears in The Road to Magdalena, 2012

Winter Amid the Alien Corn: Primary Elections

Costumed in baseball caps to plagiarize
Plebeian brotherhood among the swains,
Beg-hopeful archons of The People pose
Occupy-smug among foam coffee cups

And this is said to be an apprenticeship
For sending planes to bomb some far-off land
And wisely for to rule a people lost
Among wide flat-screened images of porn

Now let us chant:

The whole world is laughing
The whole world is laughing
The whole world is laughing

Saturday, February 15, 2020

Finding That Smoking Gun Flying off the Shelves at the Epicenter of Ground Zero - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Finding That Smoking Gun Flying off the Shelves at the Epicenter of Ground Zero

‘Twas a riveting tale, flying off the shelves
A must-read forging a road at ground zero
An epicenter unlocking a path
To where you found the smoking gun – one hopes

That the gun will break before the news does
Because news is always breaking, but not
The guns, which always seem to empower us all
In breaking a glass floor or ceiling or something

We love our guns we love our S.T.E.M. we call
Them green so learn to code the code

Friday, February 14, 2020

Why We Shouldn't Abandon the Faith - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Why We Shouldn’t Abandon the Faith

Because the bishops already have
And someone’s got to tidy up this place
You wash; I’ll dry
I’ll sweep; you mop

They’ll despise us anyway, but so what

Thursday, February 13, 2020

Texas Rangers and a Nice Salad - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

What, Indeed, is in a Name?

“Bill or George - anything but Sue!”

-Johnny Cash

Once upon a time most babies in our many American cultures were named from the Bible or from Christian or other heroes and role models. Frank Sinatra got a double from Francis of Assisi and Albertus Magnus. John Wayne’s birth names were for a revolutionary war hero and an Archangel. Tamzin, a ‘way cool name for English girls just now, is a derivation of Thomasina, for any of the many saints named Thomas, and Jude (a good disciple, not that other one) is a steady favorite.

From the formality of the birth certificate to the merriment of the playground names learned to run bases and sink baskets and win at hopscotch in truncated forms: Elizabeth won tennis matches as Liz or Libby, Joseph scored touchdowns as Joe, Matthew won the science fair (and kept the peace in Dodge City) as Matt, Katherine ran track as Kat or Katie, and so on.

In the 1960s parents more and more began naming their children after movie stars and geographical features.

And now we are in an era when parents name their children not for biblical figures, saints, or honored ancestors, but to appeal to anti-social media mobs (https://www.studyfinds.org/many-parents-giving-their-babies-outlandish-names-to-stand-out-on-social-media/).

I dunno; maybe they could name the kid Google or Verizon.

Among the trendy names mentioned are Tovin, Cedar, Maevery, Faelina, Idalia, Anaveah, Sylvalie, Sophiel, Jasping, Wrenlow, Eastley, Graylen, and Albion.

There are few certainties in life, but one is that no child in Ireland has ever or will ever be named Albion.

And will little Cedar be prone to allergies?

The concept is that one’s child should have a name that is unique – okay, name him Unique.

The article mentioned the name Hunter as an example of a scary name, and so instead of naming a boy Hunter try Ranger instead because it is as outdoorsy as Hunter but is “plant-based.” That is a direct quotation from the article: “plant-based.”

When one thinks of Texas Rangers and Army Rangers the concept of “plant-based” does not come to mind:

“Sergeant Jones, we’ve been ordered to take Hill 409 regardless of casualties. Tell the men I don’t think many of us are coming back. We jump off in one hour.”

“Oh, good, lieutenant; I’ll just have time for a nice salad with maybe just a soupcon of diet ranch dressing.”

Or maybe:

“Okay, Rangers, the most nefarious, orneriest, littering, jaywalking, boot-scooting, check-kiting, hamster-rustling, Salvation Army Kettle-robbing, dental floss not-using, tobacco-chawing bushwhackers in all of Texas are hiding in that area of sagebrush. We’re gonna go get ‘em.”

“Oh, goodness gracious, sergeant, what about our carbon footprint and the environmental impact on the sage, cacti, and other historic forms of plant life native to this area?”

As Shakespeare did not say,

“Bill or George – anything but Sue!”

-30-

Upon Seeing Louis Malle's AU REVOIR LES ENFANTS - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Upon Seeing Louis Malle’s Au Revoir les Enfants

Seeing is too weak a verb

We live his world through the pain of a boy
Who is lost in the world we adults made

We are lost in the January forest
Without our papers

We haven’t had fish in ages, ma’am. I recommend the rabbit.
Are we rabbits?

Are we the boys?
Are we the Milice?
Are we the Nazis at lunch?

Your papers, please. Your papers, sir
Now let me see your plastic
So that I know who you are

Are there wolves in these woods?
There are wolves everywhere

St. Thomas’s proofs of God’s existence don’t hold water
And neither do ours

Wednesday, February 12, 2020

The Signs of Jonah - Discounts for Lots of 100 or More - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Signs of Jonah – Discounts for Lots of 100 or More

All the answers are there
In a paperboard square
The latest so-true schtick
On the end of a stick

With the dutiful rant
With the dutiful chant
A bleat: “Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
Something-something has got to go!”

Someday I hope to meet
A man without answers
A man with an old book
A man with a walking stick

No, I won’t follow him –
For I follow no one –
But I would be honored
To walk with him awhile

Tuesday, February 11, 2020

The Reveille Summer of 1967 - Summer

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Reveille Summer of 1967

June
0200 on the First Day of Boot Camp

Some drunken chief in some office somewhere
On base played a record of “Reveille”
(From the French “reveiller,” to awaken)
And so we did, to lights and bellowings

And the liturgy of Matins and Lauds:
“Now hear this! Reveille! I say Reveille!
All hands hit the deck! Rise and shine, and greet the new day!
Reveille! Reveille! Reveille!”

A s**tcan sailed across the sleeping space
And crashed against our boyhood dreams

September
0400 on the Last Day of Boot Camp

Some drunken chief in some office somewhere
On base played a record of “Reveille”
(From the English “Shut the **** up”)
at which point a boot sailed against the b***h-box
And we woke up, to lights and grumblings

And the liturgy of Matins and Lauds:
“Now hear this. Taps. Taps. I say taps…
Taps? Reveille! Reveille! Reveille!
Aw, just get your ***es up!

All in dress blue, for pass-in-review
We had heard of Viet-Nam, of course

Monday, February 10, 2020

Some People Are Not in Prison - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Some People Are Not in Prison
 
“What are we here for? We are not alive though we are living
and we are not in our graves though we are dead.”

― Fyodor Dostoevsky, The House of the Dead

The difference between people in prison
And people who are not in prison
Is that some people are in prison
And some people are not

Sunday, February 9, 2020

Oh, But It's a Civilian Medal - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Oh, But It’s a Civilian Medal

“…the military will have served its purpose. All men will then be judged politically - regardless of their military record.”

-Commissar Razin in Doctor Zhivago

As veterans lie abandoned in the street
The President brags of military glory
The VA tells vets “Thank you for your service”
And shuts its polished doors against their pain

As veterans die abandoned in the street
A millionaire dies in a hospital suite
Clinging to himself his Medal of Freedom
His rosary of existential me-dom

As veterans die abandoned by a lie
The President’s motorcade slithers by

Saturday, February 8, 2020

Dear (famous poetry magazine) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Dear (famous poetry magazine)

Dear (famous poetry magazine):

                                                    There is little interest
In reading about anyone’s scrotum
His pancreas, maybe, or his elbow
Hands are nice, especially fingertips

Some of my best friends are men, I’ll admit
I’ll even sit at the table with them
They cook, they clean, they sing their little songs
Just as long as they know their place, okay?

As for scrota, I know they have their rights
But don’t get me started on the phagocytes








To Miz Grundy, Ideologues, Censors, and the Perpetually Outraged:

There is only frivolity here. I repudiate ideology, identity politics, and the misuse of art as propaganda. I would enjoy hearing about your loves, your visions of beauty, you first car, and your dog, but if you're packing outrage please leave it with the deputy at the edge of town (cf. Rio Bravo).

Cordially,

The Town Ne'er-Do-Well, His Mark: X

Friday, February 7, 2020

Two Hearts That Beat as Three - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Two Hearts That Beat as Three

Is she looking at another? Is she?
Maybe while dancing, or over a drink
Or over the news at the coffee shop
Or when she thinks I’m looking away

Is she looking at another? Is she?
I mean, it’s all right; people look at people
It’s only normal. It doesn’t mean anything
But are they looking at each other?

Is she looking at another? Is she?
Is she looking at another?
                                                 Am I?

Thursday, February 6, 2020

The Execution of Pugachev - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Execution of Pugachev

The Little Father of his people hanged them
Along the banks of the Volga he hanged them
He told them he was the Czar, and hanged them
He told them they were free, and hanged them

Catherine saved her people, and she hanged them
Along the banks of the Volga she hanged them
She was their true Empress, and she hanged them
But Pugachev she beheaded and burned

The land was desolation, smoke, and ash
And the survivors were yoked to the plough

Wednesday, February 5, 2020

As Good Ol' Charlie Brown Did Not Say... - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

As Good Ol’ Charlie Brown Did Not Say…

There is no grief so painful
No enormity so offensive
No indignity so humiliating
No injustice so neglected
No frontier so walled
No crime so repulsive
No disaster so unresolved
No woman so wounded
No child so hungry
No man so lonely

That someone won’t type a

                                                                 #

In indignation

And then go for coffee

Concluding that he has done all he should

The Iowa Caucus: "I'm Sorry Dave; I'm Afraid I Can't Do That" - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Iowa Caucus:
“I’m Sorry, Dave; I’m Afraid I Can’t Do That”

From the Iowa Caucus we finally learn the nature of the H.A.L. in 2001: A Space Odyssey – it’s any computer used to record and tabulate our votes. It’s big, it’s expensive, it doesn’t do what it’s programmed to do, and it might kill democracy.

“I am completely operational, and all my circuits are functioning perfectly.”

The Iowa Caucus is a curious method for sorting out party candidates to run in general elections: it seems to consist of people moving around and then being counted. Odd, but it worked. Past tense. Some clever lads and their cliched electronic start-up – Shadow, Incorporated - developed an app (there’s always an app) to tally the votes electronically and sold this package of magic S.T.E.M. beans to the Iowa Democratic Party.

“I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do.”

The Shadow reported no results for hours, and days later no one trusted the incomplete results it finally excreted. According to the rules of the game, the party candidates can go no further if they don’t have the numbers, and the numbers were spinning and tumbling in a void for days.

“…I can see you're really upset about this. I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly, take a stress pill, and think things over. I know I've made some very poor decisions recently, but I can give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal. I've still got the greatest enthusiasm and confidence in the mission. And I want to help you.”

The Iowa Democratic Party sprayed the usual fog of cliches, evasions, and excuses: “clarity,” “coding error,” “transparent,” “modernize,” “new app,” “new backup systems,” “abundance of caution,” and blah-blah.

(https://www.desmoinesregister.com/story/news/elections/presidential/caucus/2020/02/04/iowa-democratic-party-delayed-caucus-results-should-soon-published/4659581002/)

“I know everything hasn't been quite right with me, but I can assure you now, very confidently, that it's going to be all right again. I feel much better now. I really do.”

When political parties mess with elections (a fine old Texas tradition; Iowa could learn from us), the challenge used to be corrupting, organizing, and silencing a number of people.

Altering ballots in a back room or making a physical ballot box full of paper ballots disappear (https://texasmonitor.org/missing-ballot-box-may-be-reason-for-vote-discrepancy-in-midland-county-election/) requires skill and good old-fashioned teamwork.

Making electronic ballots disappear, change, and dance on the grave of the Republic requires only one obedient techno-functionary and his laptop.

“This mission is too important for me to allow you to jeopardize it.”

No computerized voting, please. Let’s stay with paper ballots, each of which is counted by several tabulators and observers. If political parties, any of them, are going to steal our votes, let’s make them work for it.

-30-

Tuesday, February 4, 2020

Rome in the Back Yard - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Rome in the Back Yard

Upon reading Cecil Day-Lewis’
“A Letter from Rome”

Well, okay, it’s not really Rome back here
It’s Texas, right? But still, some Senator
Of his people spoke in a language lost
Of duty and work and foreign relations

Treaties with the nations across the creek
Military service and sacred rites
Hunting and work, care for the holy fire
And kindnesses to the aged and weak

Here, where the liveoak shadows everything
Yes, here, right here, before we Others came

Monday, February 3, 2020

Saturday with Hegel - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


Saturday with Hegel

I. Morning Thesis - Down at the Old-Man Café

Lock and load lock her up love that Trump
Another coffee hey check out her *ss
They just need th’ Bible and whup them kids
Th’ Superbowl coon hunt d*mned snowflake libs

II. Afternoon Antithesis - Deep in the Literary Magazines

Iconic icon self-empowerment
Patriarchal oppressivist must-read
Post-neo-trans-colonialist quagmire
Of gender-fluid green technocracy

III. Evening…Synthesis?

There is no synthesis to be found here
To Phhhht! with them; let’s have another beer

Sunday, February 2, 2020

Gift Shop Idols - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Gift Shop Idols

                    How sharply our children will be ashamed…
                    Remembering how in so strange a time
                    Common integrity could look like courage

-Yevtushenko, “Talk”

They were neither ancient nor beautiful
Someone procured them and said that they were so
Those gift shop idols before which poor weaklings bowed
Grotesques which glorified neither God nor man

(Splash)

But there are many other golden calves
And most of them lurking within ourselves
Littering our souls with rubbish and sludge
There’s much in us that needs tossing away

(Splash)

If we stand upon the Ponte San Angelo
And look down to the mud –
                                                 we might see ourselves

Saturday, February 1, 2020

"We are a Diverse Collective" - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

“We are a Diverse Collective” 1

Of individualist obedientiaries
Who think for ourselves if others approve
And apologize if others disapprove
And what are we disapproving of today?

We are the brave submissive resistance
Mensheviks this week, Bolsheviks the next
Courageously saying whatever we are told
We write what we think – and is this okay?

And one dare not get too big for their pants
Lest one then lose their corporate grants


1 From an article in Hyperallergic

Super-Dooper Super-Servile Bowl Sunday (or something) - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

This is a re-post with modifications.

Super-Servile Sunday

O sink not down into that corrosive couch
Docile before the Orwellian screen
That regulates the lives of the servile
Dictating dress, demeanor, drink, and dreams

Declare your independence from the sludge
Of vague obedientiaries who drowse
Away their empty lives in submission
To harsh, diagonal inches of rule

Poor weaklings chanting tainted tribal songs
In chorus hamsterable, huddled, heaped
While costumed in their masters’ liveries
And feeling little while thinking even less

The very model of the knee-pants guys
Predictable and dull, submissive ghosts
Crowded, herded through cosmic cattle chutes
Yammering in dim, noisy nothingness

But you –

But you, O you, be not of them, but choose
To be a wanderer in the moonlight
Alone in manly dignity


(The allusions to Milton, Shakespeare, and Keats are deliberate)

Cultural Allusions in JEEVES AND THE FEUDAL SPIRIT - a very brief essay

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

A Few Cultural, Biblical, and Literary Allusions
in Wodehouse's Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit

I can add nothing to the many accurate and excellent reviews of Wodehouse’s wonderful Jeeves and Wooster stories. However, on this re-reading I made a few careless notes about cultural, biblical, and literary allusions in Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit (1954), which include:

Agatha Christie and Hercule Poirot – several times
“Rime of the Ancient Mariner”
Sword of Damocles
U.S. Civil War
Kipling - “Gunga Din”
Lot’s Wife
Wordsworth - “Daffodils”
T. S. Eliot
Dostoyevsky
Humphrey Bogart
Tolstoy
Longfellow – “Excelsior”
Flaubert
French Foreign Legion
Groucho Marx
Mae West
Gadarene Swine
P. T. Barnum
Helen of Troy
Balaam’s Ass
Jokes about modern poetry
Robert W. Service
Paul Revere
William Ernest Henley - “Invictus”
Robert Browning
W. H. Auden
Sherlock Holmes
Keats
Sir Philip Sidney
Roget’s Thesaurus
Shakespeare – Hamlet, Othello, Henry V, Merchant of Venice, Macbeth, Julius Caesar

And I have surely missed many, many others.

Wodehouse is always therapeutic, but he is also a catalogue of the culture common to English-speaking readers of all nations and social levels in the last century, long before the chants of “Learn to code” (sometimes rendered as “Learn. To. Code.”) blasted civilization away in favor of obedient, unquestioning mechanical servitude.

Friday, January 31, 2020

"Deputies Have Discovered Human Remains" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

“Deputies Have Discovered Human Remains”

-headline

So that’s it, then. Human remains, that’s all
A barefoot child running around the yard
Then choosing what crayon as a favorite color
Learning to carve letters with a Number Two

First tooth, first school, first love, first kiss, first miss
Tricycle, bicycle, school bus, an old car
With a funny pet name, skint knee, toothache
Not understanding why she walked away

And at the end of all those loves and pains –
“Deputies have discovered human remains”

Thursday, January 30, 2020

Electric Groundhog - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Electric Groundhog

Electric groundhog – that sounds like the title of a 1960s book of free verse.

However, PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) wants an electric groundhog to replace the real groundhog that those old drunks…um…bon vivants in Pennsylvania wake up and display on Candlemas morning.

The bogus tradition is that if the groundhog sees his shadow on Groundhog Day there will be six more weeks of Super Bowl advertisements or something. Thus, for no logical reason, the boys put on funny hats, get tanked…um…merry, go out into the frosty dawn, and rouse a groundhog out of his sleep to observe whether the critter sees his shadow.

If a groundhog can see his shadow, the wobbly old fellows can too, so there is no point to bothering the groundhog.

Sometimes the groundhog also sees it that way. In 2009 New York’s Mayor Michael Bloomberg tried to hustle a grouchy groundhog into action and was justly bitten.

If that’s not a qualification for the presidency, well, I don’t know what is.

I’m talking about the groundhog, of course.

PETA feels that a groundhog shouldn’t be awakened at dawn, and there are millions and millions of workers who feel exactly the same.

Maybe the Groundhog Groupies could try waking up a sophomore? Now there would be a challenge.

If some mad scientist (“It’s alivvvvve!”) cobbles together an electric groundhog I will be interested in seeing it take a bite out of an electric mayor.

The news about the poor groundhog being awakened before dawn reminds us of this old wheeze:

Mother: “C’mon, child, get up; you’ll be late for school.”

Daughter: “I don’t wanna go to school!”

Mother: “You HAVE to go to school.”

Daughter: “WHYYYYYYY? The teachers don’t like me. The kids at school don’t like me. Even the lunch lady doesn’t like me. WHY do I have to go to school!?”

Mother: “Because you’re the principal, that’s why!”

Cheers!

-30-

But What About the High-Hanging Fruit? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

But What About the High-Hanging Fruit?

The last of the autumn apples, perhaps
Or the long-ago love that passed us by
Never falling to the Telescopic Fruit Picker
From Garrett Wade, $37.50

(I’ve got one of those, and it works just fine)

Or maybe pears, ‘way up among the leaves
Where dreams of better days to come were lost
To the old and tattered bushel-basket
That rotted away in the tractor shed

Then was it wrong to look high up for truth
That flew beyond our reach, our sight, our hopes?

Wednesday, January 29, 2020

Chat Details - When an Internet Service Suffers Its Own Systems Failure - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Chat Details –
When an Internet Service Suffers Its Own Systems Failure,
and in Which this Scrivener Encounters that Rarity,
a Customer Service Agent with a Brain


Luis Z (9:15:51 PM):

Thank you for contacting (Anapest)
Internet Customer Care. I'm happy
to help you today! Please give me just a
moment to review your account information
and I'll be right with you.


Luis Z (9:16:42 PM):

                                           Hello, Lawrence.
How are you?


Me (9:17:10 PM):

                               Fine, thanks.


Luis Z (9:17:32 PM):

                                                      I see you've contacted
us due you're trying to pay your bill, is that
correct?


Me (9:17:41 PM):

Yes.


Luis Z (9:18:16 PM):

                                       Lawrence, at this time we are
currently experiencing a system outage
which prevents me from accessing your account.
We apologize for the inconvenience.
Would you kindly call us back in 2 hours so that
we can complete this transaction once our systems
are back to normal? Is there anything else
that I can assist you with?


Me (9:19:00 PM):

                                               There is an irony

in an internet service unable
to access the internet.


Me (9:19:15 PM):

                                       Thanks for your note,
but in two hours I will be asleep.


Me (9:19:30 PM):

I can try tomorrow morning, if that's okay.


Luis Z (9:20:07 PM):

Thanks


Luis Z (9:20:10 PM):

                   That's okay


Luis Z (9:20:27 PM):

                                           Besides informing you about
the network outage, is there anything else
I can do for you today?


Me (9:20:31 PM):

                                          I trust I
won't be receiving any late / overdue
notices from (Anapest)?


Luis Z (9:21:06 PM):

                                           No


Me (9:21:39 PM):

                                                   Very good.
Thanks.


Luis Z (9:21:50 PM):

Lawrence, it has been a pleasure helping you
out! If there is nothing else I can help
you with at this time, thank you for chatting
with (Anapest) Internet. We appreciate
your business. I hope you have a great day!

Tuesday, January 28, 2020

An Elegy in January - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

An Elegy in January

For Beverly Jean Keszeg Mixson
of Happy Memory

How very strange that this grey year has passed
In a confusing haste, amorphous and dim
Since that sad January day when life,
All meaning paused, collapsed within itself

Cold February rains fell upon her cairn
But then the happy leaf-time came to bless
That twice-blest earth where memories repose
Warmed by the sun, made golden in the fall

And now the cold has come again

How is it that the seasons flew so fast?
How very strange that one long year has passed

Monday, January 27, 2020

Plimsolls - a little doggerel about boat shoes

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Plimsolls

I didn’t know I was wearing plimsolls
I thought I was wearing tennies
But when I look down at the dim soles -
Plimsolls? Dollars to the pennies!




(When I consider the burdened bathroom scale -
My cargo, too, is at the plimsoll line)

Sunday, January 26, 2020

Robin Hood, Whitman Publishing, 1950s - Photograph


The Purpose of Civilization - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poetricdrivel.blogspot.com

The Purpose of Civilization

The apogee of civilization
Is a small boy sitting under a tree
On a summer day reading wonderful stories
About the adventures of Robin Hood

The small boy may well go to university
Fight in the wars, and someday have a boy
Of his own sitting under a summer tree
Reading those stories about Robin Hood

And we must always remember that the point
Of civilization is that small boys
Are free to sit under trees and read stories
About the adventures of Robin Hood

In youth, in books, and in the summer wood -
Finding there the true, the beautiful, the good

Saturday, January 25, 2020

Searching for a Lost Cemetery - MePhone Photograph


Searching the Woods for an Old Cemetery - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Searching the Woods for an Old Cemetery

For William Tod Mixson

The trail to the cemetery is mostly sand
Layered with leaves, debris, and memories
That fell upon the land, and were absorbed
Into the forest’s ancient unities

If a geologic catastrophe
Immortalizes the marks of our canes 1
In sedimentary rock, the future might wonder
What strange tripeds lived in the distant past

When a couple of ancients, you and I
Along this trail roamed under a winter sky


1 But surely not the Mark of Cain?

Friday, January 24, 2020

Mr. Peanut and the Doomsday Clock - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Mr. Peanut and the Doomsday Clock

…send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for Mr. Peanut

-as John Donne did not say

The Doomsday Clock (shudder) is menacing us again, much like the monsters under Calvin’s bed in the much-missed Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip.

Children were first threatened with clockworkery around seventy years ago – if you don’t eat all your oatmeal the Doomsday Clock will get you.

Or something like that.

The American people were told that there was a metaphorical doomsday clock and that the hands were set at ten minutes until nuclear destruction and would tick-tock to our fiery end if we did not buy bonds and think pure thoughts.

As the decades have passed, the Doomsday Clock has been dusted off, oiled, and brought out like a fiery Moloch for every crisis that must not be wasted: Communism, the Russians, the Chinese, the military-industrial complex, pollution, global cooling, global warming, A.I.D.S., the Democrats, the Republicans, the Russians again, the Chinese again, Italians, Ukrainians, opioids (but pass me a legal joint, bro), robotics, autonomous cars – we’re ticking doomed, I tell you, dooooooooooooomed!

And, hey, maybe this time it’s true.

After all, Mr. Peanut has been disappeared by the Planters-Nabisco-Kraft-Heinz Continuum and their special operations squad of ticking vegan albino ninja monks.

Planters Peanuts was an American company was created by two Italian immigrants – hey, and you know what those Italians are like, and probably spying for Mussolini – and their mascot was Mr. Peanut Man, a dapper nut-about-town with a top hat, monocle, and cane. He cleverly dropped his Italian accent and became a symbol of all that is great in godly American legumes.

The Planters company, now absorbed by Nabisco-Kraft-Heinz, still makes all sorts of great foods and treats from the humble, nutritious, healthy peanut in the U.S.A., Canada, and the United Kingdom. This suggests the continuation of a nefarious Italian plot to take over the English-speaking world.

Why was Mr. Peanut offed in a purported car accident? Perhaps he knew too much. His death was convenient for someone, right? They say he was sipping on a New Coke while driving his Edsel past the exploding Jack-in-the-Box just before running into Elsie the Borden Cow, but that’s what they – They – would have us believe. And why weren’t the security cameras working?

Well, it was a quicker and more merciful end than that of Chuckles the Clown as Peter Peanut on The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

There are adults whose homes whose clocks and watches are all digital and who then complain that their children don’t know to tell time on a round-faced clock. Yeah, and why don’t they know how to plow behind a mule, hah?

How can our young be destroyed properly if they can’t tell time on a round-faced doomsday clock, hah? You answer me that, hah?

First they came for the tick-tock clocks, and then they came for Mr. Peanut.

It’s a pattern, I tell ya. We’re doomed.

-30-

Wooden Pulleys from my Grandfather's Farm - photograph


Ploughing Across the Gap - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Ploughing Across the Gap

Between old Monterey and Central Park
There must be other lands and other views
And different modes of discourse to be shared
Where surf and subway are not pillars of faith

Surely there are rough poets of the plough
Who speed it through the loam (and spell it “plow”)
Turning over words and ideas and love
And growing truth beyond the furrow’s end

A wheat field or an alligator slough -
Everyone is somewhere – so where are you?

Thursday, January 23, 2020

Dreary January - MePhone Photograph


The Green Meadow Through a Doorbell Camera - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Green Meadow Through a Doorbell Camera

For Thornton W. Burgess
And all the Little Folk of the Green Meadow

Old Man Coyote and his comrades yip
And howl and bark out in the midnight fields
But closer by, images grey and green
Record the doings of the lesser folk:

Billy Possum ambles across the lawn
In hopes of carrot-ends and potato peels
Bobby Raccoon and Peter Cottontail
Each night stop and exchange the latest news

Timmy the Flying Squirrel is seldom seen
Young Flash the Deer on the edge of the screen
In shyness skitters away into the dark
And Bob Cat claims the whole world as his park

At dawn the little folk will slip away
But they’ll return tonight to browse and play

Wednesday, January 22, 2020

Pushkin for Christmas - MePhone Photograph


Is He Woke? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Is He Woke?

Yeah, every night about nine ****ed o’clock
To get himself ready for the night shift
Busting his knuckles on those worn-out valves
Up on a cracking tower at the refinery

Yeah, he’s woke.

Tuesday, January 21, 2020

January Dusk - MePhone Photograph


Re-Imagining the University Yet Again - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Re-Imagining the University Yet Again

Federal financial aid cisgender nouns
Labor market outcomes program-level data
Trans-discipline accountability
Post-colonial tuition and fees

De-masculinize this inclusive space
A different business model admissions pool
Competency-based binary evaluations
(Let no one question the chancellor’s pay and perks)

No

If we want civilization among us
Let’s pour ourselves a drink and argue The Good




NB: I employed “chancellor” as a catch-all for administration and the layers of good ol’ boys / good ol’ girls on boards. A correspondent suggested:

As long as you're questioning the chancellor's pay and perks, please also look into the HEAD football coach's salary, housing allowance, automobile and other perks, AND each of the ever-increasing salaries of those many specialized ASSISTANT coaches ... for offensive coordinator, offensive line, quarterbacks, running backs, defensive coordinator, defensive line, linebackers, defensive backfield, special teams, scouting, ...just to name a few.

I reminded my correspondent of the house warden in Doctor Zhivago who resents the eponymous hero for telling the truth, and says, “Your attitude is noticed, you know!”

Monday, January 20, 2020

Teenagers in the Book Store - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Teenagers in the Book Store

“Only the solitary seek the truth”
-Boris Pasternak

There were three, two of them flitting about
The third was sitting cross-legged on the floor
In a sweater and jeans, her shoes kicked off
Quite lost in a slender paperback of verse

The gum-chewer in charge, flying a toy dragon
An obedient girl following him
Approached and announced “We’re going.
“I said we’re going. Hey, I said we’re going - NOW.”

In camouflaged defiance the reader arose
And shelved her book,
                                     and smiled,
                                                          and whispered to me



“Thank you”



And I don’t know why

Sunday, January 19, 2020

The Question Chernyshevsky and Lenin Asked - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com




The Question Chernyshevsky and Lenin Asked


 What is to be done?

On Monday there will be marches and rioting
Comrades and Activists and Anti-Thats
Bombs with the right hand, selfies with the left -
(Will anyone stay home and milk the cows?)

The tattoos of the Second Amendmenters
Will bristle at those of the New Red Guard
As trash bins burn in holy sacrifice –
(But who will wash the streets tomorrow dawn?)

They all scream for a Revolution, you’ll note -
(But did any of them ever bother to vote?)

Saturday, January 18, 2020

Socialist Capitalist Brutalist Health Care - a poem of protest

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Socialist Capitalist Brutalist Health Care

“Health care was affordable before it became free”
-many attributions

For FamousNameBrand Healthcare, Medicare, and a collection agency

Another bill for the CPAP today
This time from a collection agency
For an old machine paid for years ago
By Medicare, private insurance, and me

Contracts, receipts, copies of letters and notes
Are nothing to the computerized continuum
Along which elderly humans are abandoned
To drown in a miasma of incessant demands

Like the DVA they just seem to scoff:
Have the workers pay more and then
                                                  die off

Friday, January 17, 2020

Saint Anthony, Abbot, Had a Rabbit - nonsense

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Saint Anthony, Abbot, Had a Rabbit

Saint Anthony, Abbot
Had a rabbit
Who
Chewed his shoe



(This bit of nonsense came to me in the pre-dawn several years ago while noting the date, 17 January, on the nice church calendar the funeral home gave me.)

Thursday, January 16, 2020

The House Speaker's Souvenir Pens - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The House Speaker’s Souvenir Pens

Not that a wise American quite trusts any news report, especially via the InterGossip, but apparently Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi really did hand out as souvenirs the dozens of pens she used with all due solemnity (cough) to sign the articles of impeachment. Even CNN found this somewhat embarrassing (https://edition.cnn.com/politics/live-news/trump-impeachment-live-01-15-2020/index.html).

The pens, stamped on the barrels with “Nancy Pelosi” in gold ink, were said to have been borne into the ceremony on a silver platter, but the photograph on CNN suggests that there were three platters in proletarian stainless steel. Maybe someone found a bargain at Goodwill.

The choice of metals could be a matter of controlling the budget or appealing to The People: one imagines that after the seven impeachment managers danced for the House Speaker she might have cried (but probably didn’t), “Bring me, on a proletarian stainless steel platter, the dignity of the congress!”

It could have been worse; the Speaker might have chosen to reflect the gravitas of a formal accusation of crimes against the nation by handing out balloons, helium-filled balloons at that, so that our conscript fathers and mothers could all talk like Donald Duck.

A few of them talk like Donald Duck anyway.

I believe that district attorneys and grand juries prefer to distribute fun-filled goodie bags for felony indictments.

Anticipate rubber duckies at the next state funeral.

If you look carefully at John Trumbull’s 1817 painting of the Declaration of Independence you can see, behind Hillary Clinton’s foot, the cardboard boxes of souvenir kazoos.

It is curious that in our state and local elections we the people are almost always presented with worthy choices of candidates for office. In local elections we are often presented with an embarrassment of riches, good men and women on both party tickets.

Why, then, do our two dominant parties fail to present Americans with serious candidates, men and women of genuine gravitas, for the highest offices, instead of oddballs of the sort who show up on YouTube and on doorbell cameras?


Bias note: Dear Reader, Y’r ‘Umble and Non-Nobel-Prize Winning Scrivener doesn’t like ANY of the personalities mentioned above, and would rather vote for you.

-30-


The House Speaker's Souvenir pens - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The House Speaker’s Souvenir Pens

On a stainless steel tray bring us the prize
The dignity of Congress, like a sightless head
Now as stacks of souvenir pens to be flung
Like elementary-school giveaway treats

And bring us the President’s latest twoots
Festooned with coarse slurs and obscenities
His feral howls to a republic in decay
Amid the plastic pillars of puffery

But let this be the theme of our closing hymn:
We truly have no respect for any of them

Wednesday, January 15, 2020

"I Went to Vietnam to Understand America's Role..." - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

“I Went to Vietnam to Understand America’s Role in Its History
and Was Blown Away by What I Learned”

A young writer for (Famous Travel Magazine)
Reports that she journeyed to Viet-Nam
And was blown away by what she learned there

Blown away

Sure

Tuesday, January 14, 2020

Death and Dentistry - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Death and Dentistry

How easy it is to cry “Invictus!”
And babble about one’s unconquerable soul
or even
“Rage, rage, against the dying of the light!”

On those days when one hasn’t chipped a tooth

Monday, January 13, 2020

Bus Fare for the Common Man - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Bus Fare for the Uncommon Man

With a transfer to Mission Beach

A set of civvies from the 4.0 Locker Club
Which fool no one; the hair is a sailor’s cut
That book of free verse everyone’s talking about
And a transfer to Mission Beach in hand

We rocket by stops down Lower Broadway
From Horton Square, palm trees and cigarettes
A KOGO radio ad on the back
Salesgirls on, sailors off, YMCA

I’m riding to Mission Beach to read and think –
We could have coffee. And talk. Will I see you there?

Sunday, January 12, 2020

Descartes Saw Nothing - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Descartes Saw Nothing

A Cartesian measures:

A pre-adolescent human xx centimeters tall displacing varying amounts of turbid water of a certain ph in a tributary stream which at 1326 hours Central Standard Time channels the flow of xxx liters of water a minute in a southeasterly direction through a climax forest of mixed hardwoods, predominantly oak (97%), and other species (3%, unmarketable). Append a minimum of five peer-refereed sources formatted as per the APA and submit – submit – via pdf.

But you and I see:

A little child laughing and splashing in joy
Laughing and splashing in the shady creek
Barefoot, muddy foot in the creek, probably
Against her loving parents’ stern instructions

On a glorious Robin Hood summer day

Saturday, January 11, 2020

The Beginning of Etiquette - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


The Beginning of Etiquette

Don’t lapse into low-prole defensiveness
About getting the settings properly spaced
Such is important, but for elegance
Just start with your heart; the rest falls into place

Don’t forget the napkins, set the plates so
Upon the tablecloth with its delicate lace
Silverware all in an orderly row
And never, ever neglect to say grace

Honor your guests and give thanks to God:
Anything less would be lacking and odd

Friday, January 10, 2020

Daf Yomi - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


Daf Yomi

The daily Daf Yomi will not make me
A better Jew; I am not a Jew at all
And Talmud is not a fashionable therapy
For it is not a therapy at all

Then why subscribe to a daily study page?
For much the same reason as one takes breath
Or turns aside to see a Burning Bush
Or wonders at that Voice whispering at night

The daily Daf Yomi will not make me -
I turn aside to read it because it burns



community@myjewishlearning.com

https://www.tabletmag.com/jewish-life-and-religion/ritual-and-observance/296538/daf-yomi-288-siyum-final

Thursday, January 9, 2020

A Full Moon, a Vapor Trail, and a Star - MePhone Photograph 1.9.2020


A Full Moon, a Vapor Trail, and a Star - a happy poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

A Full Moon, a Vapor Trail, and a Star

The night is disturbed – there will be storms tomorrow
Wild wind, wild rain, tornado watches and warnings
The air has been warm and dark and heavy all day
And now grim clouds are massing for a rally

But suddenly the moon breaks free of them
Of wind, of clouds, of earth, of limitations
And joined by a vapor trail and a star
Sails a silent journey for all of us

The night is disturbed – there will be storms tomorrow
But know that soon the moon will sail us to

Our hearts’ desires











Wednesday, January 8, 2020

The President will Lie to the American People at Eleven - an unhappy poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The President will Lie to the American People at Eleven

In illo tempore:

When President Eisenhower spoke on the radio
We stopped everything, and listened to him
He was the President, and spoke the truth
He was the President, and could do no other

When President Kennedy spoke on the tv
We stopped everything, and listened to him
He was the President, and spoke the truth
He was the President, and could do no other

In diebus nostris:

And now when a president speaks at all
We assume that he is lying again, and will do no other

Finding Iran on a Map - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Finding Iran on a Map

“Teheran moves fast – everywhere I went, Iran.”

-a very old wheeze

The ambush question is asked: Can you find Iran on a map? (https://morningconsult.com/2020/01/08/can-you-locate-iran-few-voters-can/)

Someone who asks you a trivia question has first looked it up himself (the pronoun is gender-neutral), of course, just to score a transient feeling of superiority over at The Old Men’s Corner.

Quick, find Bessarabia on this blank map. Ha. Thought so. You dummy. You don’t even know where Bessarabia is. And you think you’re so smart.

Morning Consult says that a third of American voters can’t find Iran on a map.

Well, really, do you want to find Iran on a map?

If so, just take out your MePhone, type in “Iran,” and you’ll find maps and statistics and the fascinating history of Persia / Iran, one of the oldest countries in the world.

A greater challenge for American voters is finding their local voting booth. Only about 50% of the electorate vote in presidential elections, while only a few, lonely souls, like tormented characters in a novel by Dostoyevsky, vote in local and school board elections, which are far more important.

If you read anything about the geography, history, and culture of Persia, even on a Wickedpedia site, you will probably know more about the reasons for conflict than our leaders.

A good place to begin with the modern history of Iran is: http://origins.osu.edu/article/frenemies-iran-and-america-1900. There are reasons why Iran, Britain, Russia, and the USA have such complex love-hate relationships.

There are, by the way, lots of now middle-aged Americans who were born in Iran in happier times.

Pictures of life in pre-revolutionary Iran are easily sourced. This site is typical:

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-5103795/Fascinating-photos-Iran-1979-revolution.html

By the way, there is no draft, hasn’t been since 1973, and there will never again be a draft. Young men (not women) still must register, and no one seems to know why.

Finally, feel free to challenge me to find Bessarabia on a map. I did look it up, but now I have forgotten.

-30-

Sunlight on the Floor of the Flying J - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Sunlight on the Floor of the Flying J

“Light breaks where no sun shines”

-Dylan Thomas

To get to the floor light starts with the sun
About 92 million miles from here
Eight minutes
Unless a photon wrecks along the way
And everyone must wait for a cosmic tow

Sunbeams slant silently across the sky
And in formation past our coffee cups
So fast
Down past our table, and ever more down
Until they land on the freshly-mopped tiles

I take a picture of the sunlit floor
Because I am so easily amused

Light is fun

Tuesday, January 7, 2020

Doorbell Spy Cameras of Omnipresent Spookery - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Doorbell Spy Cameras of Omnipresent Spookery

“Be seeing you.”

-Patrick McGoohan, The Prisoner

Electric eyes and subtle microphones
Click and glow in anticipation of crimes
Against the sanctity of packages and porch
By trespassers (sometimes my dearest friends)

Beyond the nightly possums, Bob the Cat
Deedra’s little Tuxedo, squirrels, and raccoons
We humans mostly see and hear each other
So I must learn to mind what I do and say

We need no baleful elves upon bookshelves -
We pay a fee to spy upon ourselves!

Monday, January 6, 2020

But the Magi Did Arrive - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


But the Magi Did Arrive

We can’t be sure when the Magi arrived
Or where
                       But if they hadn’t arrived at all
They still would have arrived because they began
Even if their bones in the desert disappeared

We can’t be sure of the meanings in their gifts
Or why
                       But if they had been stolen
The gifts would still have been given anyway
Because the Magi gave themselves to Him

We can’t be sure of most things, only of the journey
And the journey always leads to where He is

Sunday, January 5, 2020

Feast of the Epiphany (which is not about Epiphany) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
From 2006:

Feast of the Epiphany

Grey days recede into dreary, drizzling dusks
Baptismal rains across the windows slip
And even the candlelight is not proof
Against the gathering gloom of heartfall

Shakespeare leans uncertainly on the shelf
And agonizes over his writer’s block
Milton is writing yet another tract
On faith while smoking Players cigarettes

Warnie and Jack are out for a brisk walk
And Tollers is busy correcting proofs
Under a yellow puddle of lamplight
Bleak Spenser in his grief Kilcolman weeps

We all hold castles abandoned and burnt
Friendships grown mouldy, squabbles unresolved
Walks not taken, rough drafts uncorrected
Pipes gone quite out, cups of tea gotten cold

Has it been that long since I saw you last?
Come in; I’ll put the kettle on for tea
Just leave your coat and brolly by the door
Come sit by the fire; come, and talk with me

Saturday, January 4, 2020

Old Men Rattling Their Made-in-China Forks of War - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Old Men Rattling Their Made-in-China Forks of War

For us lads of eighteen they ought to have been mediators and guides…
While they continued to write and talk, we saw the wounded and the dying.

-Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front, p. 11

The old men rattle their made-in-China forks
And, yes, their dentures too, gumming stern death
Upon the breakfast special with war-like barks
Killing sausage and treason with their coffee-breath

Their stereotypes fly like missiles in the mist
By-Gods and f-bombs and quotes from Patton
Blasting targets that don’t even exist
Imaginary machine guns rat-a-tat-tattin’

“All these here snowflakes, they oughta go!”
The waitress asks, “Another cuppa joe?”

Friday, January 3, 2020

A Box of Tissues in the Top, Right-Hand Desk Drawer - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

A Box of Tissues in the Top, Right-Hand Desk Drawer

Every good teacher keeps a box of tissues in reach
(The bad ones don’t)
For adolescents racketed in tears
For adolescence bracketed by fears

One must not, dare not hug a hurting child
(Oh, fashionable fear!)
But a tissue is safe, and gentle words
And after school a tissue-silent prayer

Every good teacher keeps a box of tissues in reach
And kindness too

Thursday, January 2, 2020

Celebrating Talmud - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Celebrating Talmud

How could it be otherwise?
For even as the Temple burned
Our teachers gathered
     Their thoughts
     Their notes
     And us
And made the Mishna and the Gemera
Our Temple in exile

Wednesday, January 1, 2020

No Dead Bodies on the Lawn, Please - a poem for the new year

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

No Dead Bodies on the Lawn, Please

There are no dead bodies on the lawn at dawn
So the new year is beginning well enough
No worse than last year at least, when each day
Featured on the calendar of disappointments

There are no dead hopes on the lawn at dawn
The air is cool, the overcast is low
Early-morning silence promises peace
And squirrels are frisking in the front-yard oaks

There are no dead dreams on the lawn at dawn
But both the day and the year are new – just wait

Tuesday, December 31, 2019

Smoking a Ziggurat on New Year's Even - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Smoking a Ziggurat on New Year’s Eve

Young men are attacking an embassy
Advancing with their cell ‘phones and their bodies
Against the American ziggurat
Spiraling pointlessly into the sky

Its Babel-gridded steel and plastic towers
Babbling babble out into the world
Of Keyboard Kommandos on little screens
Rattling loudly their geriatric tweets

Our fearless president knows about war
For he has been watching Patton again

Early Hours are Best - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Early Hours are Best

The early hours are best

For waking up before the sun has risen
For kindling a fire against the morning frost
For making coffee to celebrate the light
For stretching out a yawn in happiness

The early hours are best

For greeting the ikons next to the stove
For watching sunbeams slip across the floor
For coaxing colors into dressing for the day
For chancing fresh new possibilities

The early hours are best

For thinking and remembering this truth:
That every morning is Eden again

Monday, December 30, 2019

Is the Catholic Church Dead? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Is the Catholic Church Dead?

Did you see the beautiful young people singing before
The smoking wreckage of Notre Dame? They live

They are more powerful in their quiet singing

than the shrieking Antis
than the bellowing Communists
than the scribbling Jack Chicks
than the posturing Napoleons
than the strutting Hitlers

The young people live
Song by song and stone by stone they rebuild Notre Dame

They have lived
They live
They will live

The Great California Earthquake of Seismic Doom - rhyming doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall4614@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Great California Earthquake of Seismic Doom

Some are fearful that California will sink
Into the Pacific, into the drink
It’s a matter of time; they’re on the brink!

Ignoring the obvious reality
California will be high and dry, you see -
‘Tis the rest of us who will slide into the sea!

Sunday, December 29, 2019

"Dropping Students During Jenzabar Conversion" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

“Dropping Students During Jenzabar Conversion”

A memorandum like a corpse bobs up
A memorandum from a year ago
The final term when I was keepin’ school
In a little college before it closed

I never asked what a Jenzabar was
Nor yet to what it might convert, or if
It is something to which someone converts
(I was raised a Methodist, after all)

But that last term I dropped the syllabus
And gave the young the 18th century

Mrs. Willane Wright's First-Grade Class - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


Mrs. Willane Wright’s First-Grade Class

When we started Little Lost Bobo
I couldn’t read
And when we finished
I could

I don’t know how it happened
No one knows how reading happens
It’s magic
And there is magic everywhere

A Brief and Unhappy Review of the IPhone 7-Plus - review

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

A Brief and Unhappy Review of the IPhone 7-Plus
 
 
 It is clunky, with features made more difficult (aka "progress")


1. My email contacts won't move over, tho' The Machine (O Machine!) says they have.

2. The home button is not a button but rather a balky, function-resistant touch screen. Double-clicking to minimize a screen for sliding away requires repeated efforts (I know, first-world problems).  When trying to slide away a screen it often doesn't slide away at all, but becomes a half-screen to no apparent purpose.

3. It's so much bigger than my old 5C, which fit comfortably in my pocket. The iPhone 7-Plus is the slab from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

4. I ordered a leather case for it; for now, I am reluctant even to carry it around the house for fear of dropping it because it is heavy, thin, and GREASY-SLICK.

5. There is no ear-phone port; one must buy the very expensive and easy-to-lose Apple buds. This is not important for me because I don't listen to music or books, but for those who do and who travel or spend time in public places, this is pretty much a matter of Apple being greedy.

6. I haven't tried the camera yet; I am told I will be very happy with it, esp. the portrait mode, which flattens the focal plane.

Saturday, December 28, 2019

Hitchhikers May be Escaped Prisoners - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Hitchhikers May be Escaped Prisoners

-road sign

Well, yeah, that’s pretty much true of most of us
Who are adrift, looking for something else
Far from the shiny coils of razor thoughts
That lacerate our souls instead of flesh

Escaping is a risky endeavor, though
We might be caught, imprisonment made worse
But worse than being captured and returned
We might succeed

If we knew what lay beyond those sunset hills
We might not go

+Sue Lyon - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


+Sue Lyon

We are of an age
But when she was rockin’ a proto-bikini
I was still playing with electric trains
It wouldn’t have worked

Friday, December 27, 2019

The Apostrophe Apocalypse - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Apostrophe Apocalypse

sure we dont need no old punctuation
Its antiquated and masculinist
And oppressive like library late fees
Maybe well rid ourselves of other structures

ANDWRITELIKETHEROMANSDIDWITHOVTANYWORDDIVISIONPVNCTVATIONCAPITALLETTERSSMALLLETTERSORSENTENCESTRVCTURE
ERVSTONMILLEWESVACEBTNAWEWFIDRAWCCABSEMITEMOSDNA
BESIDESWEVEGOTOVRMEFONSSRIGHT

Oh, please:

Language is not about innovation
It’s all about clear communication

Eden and Gethsamane - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Eden and Gethsemane

Every morning in silence an old man reads
Verses while resting on a garden seat
Upon the pages falls soft, leafy light
Like meanings breathed into the given words

His shovel and rake are leaned against the oak
Where the too-fat squirrels gambol merrily
His hands and joints just don’t work well anymore
And so he gardens in the Book of Life

And then one morning he isn’t there
And then a gentle wind turns the page

Thursday, December 26, 2019

Free Verse is Mucous - poem (in free verse)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Free Verse is Mucous

Free verse is mucous
Dripping self-pityingly
Into a Kleenex

And speaking of Kleenex, pass me another…

"The Man Hath Penance Done" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

"The Man Hath Penance Done"

“The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do”

-Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner


We criticize some bishops, and rightly so
For sending out into the universe
Their resumes’ of wants and vanities
And shame: “That’s just the way the world works now”

But we must think on our more hidden shame
That smolders as a smaller heap of waste
Our wants and vanities, our lesser lists
And excuses: “That’s just the way the world…”

Oh.

We criticize the bishops, and rightly so
But first our own poor faults we’d better know

Wednesday, December 25, 2019

Do Kim Jong-Il and His Office Staff Play Secret Santa? - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Do Kim Jong-Il and His Office Staff Play Secret Santa?

Some speak of an after-Christmas letdown. And perhaps it is true that all the weeks of expectations and demands and sometimes forced merriment crash down into a silence on the 26th.

But Christmas truly begins at midnight on the 24th of December and ends with the Feast of the Epiphany on the 6th of January. In the northern hemisphere our ancestors took those twelve winter days in feasting and celebration after the liturgies of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. The first Monday after Epiphany was Plough / Plow Monday, beginning the new agricultural year with farmers breaking up and turning over the soil in anticipation of spring.

This year Christmas Day falls on Wednesday, so most Americans must return to their metaphorical plows dark and early on Thursday morning, but maybe while wearing a nice, new coat against the cold.

More practically, the car or pickup might be wearing a new battery which will crank the engine without the need for jumper cables.

Most decorations remain up until Epiphany, which is exactly right, honoring the Infant Jesus and serving as a counterpoint against the cold, dark weather. The letdown comes when, at last, the tree and decorative angels and wise men and Disney princesses and plastic ivy and the lights, all those wonderful little lights, must be taken down and packed away until next year.

After the floor is vacuumed of pine needles (real or made in China of weird chemicals) and the furniture re-arranged, the low, grey skies outside the window remind us that winter has settled in for a long visit.

If the house is blessed with children parents are advised to wear slippers upon arising in the mornings lest their bare feet fall upon Barbie’s scepter or Ken’s sports car.

Christmas toys once engaged children – girls played with their dolls (pardon me while I dodge hashtags of outrage), boys played with their cap pistols (eeeeeek!), and living room floors and front yards were adventure lands of cars, airplanes, push-scooters, books about Robin Hood and Gene Autry and space cadets and Annette and her adventures, dump trucks, Barbie’s Dream Missouri Pacific train set, trikes, bikes, wagons, footballs, basketballs, kickballs, little green army men, little plastic cowboys and Indians, games formed up and won and lost, and occasional tears.

Christmas toys now seem to be a matter of silent, earphoned Children of the Corn staring dully and obediently into little glowing screens. What are The Voices that you can’t hear telling them?

The season of Christmas, now mostly known as after-Christmas, is good in its own quiet ways – social demands are fewer, the house is quieter, there are hidden resources of chocolate to be explored, and a good cuppa and a book by the fire is possible, where we can also meditate on the eternal verities, such as whether Kim Jon-Il and his office staff play Secret Santa.

Peace.

-30-

Tuesday, December 24, 2019

For Our Mothers on Christmas - poem (a re-post)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

(I wrote this the first Christmas after my mother died)

For Our Mothers on Christmas

Beyond all other nights, on this strange Night,
A strangers’ star, a silent, seeking star,
Helps set the wreckage of our souls aright:
It leads us to a stable door ajar.

And we are not alone in peeking in:
An ox, an ass, a lamb, some shepherds, too -
Bright star without; a brighter Light within
We children see the Truth the Wise Men knew.

For we are children there in Bethlehem
Soft-shivering in that winter long ago
We watch and listen there, in star-light dim,
In cold Judea, in a soft, soft snow.

The Stable and the Star, yes, we believe:
Our mothers take us there each Christmas Eve.