Monday, October 8, 2018

Father Why's Glob - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


Father Why’s Glob

And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heere
Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere
And eek as loude as dooth the chapel belle

-Chaucer

A famous priest takes pictures of his meals
Writes detailed notes on how they were prepared
As he airplanes around the world attending meetings
To talk about people he doesn’t like

A famous priest takes pictures of more meals
Almost cellular closeups of bits of meat
While he is flying holy in first class
And praising his cabernet sauvignon

A famous priest promises prayers (and cookery tips)
If you will send him money for his many trips

Sunday, October 7, 2018

The Workman's Aubade - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Workman’s Aubade

Awake at four, he rises, lights the fire
And puts the kettle on for a cup of tea
Pulls on the work-stained overalls he shed
Only a few exhausted hours before

Working a shutdown stretch of twelves and sevens
Maybe he’ll make enough for Christmas this year:
Wonderful gifts for his family still asleep
He slips out silently through the back door

His wife and children are disappointed in him
Because he doesn’t do enough for them

Saturday, October 6, 2018

The Kent State Racially Right Drama Club - doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Kent State Racially Right Drama Club

Studio UFA has faded away
MosFilm has blended into something new
Cinecitta filmed in Il Duce’s day

But

Kent State University adds their own “We, too!”

For they’re now using race to cast a play
Kent State obeys the old gauleiter’s cue:
Sure, you can act, but what’s your DNA?
They only hire Authentics as cast and crew

You have to be correct to play a part –
And we are expected to call it art

Friday, October 5, 2018

Torah and Talmud - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


Torah and Talmud

To be submerged in world and Word, in Word
That is the world, in words that are the Word
Written in holy fire, the eternal Song
In which and through Whom the world is breathed into being

The Torah scroll unrolls the years of creation
The pages of the Talmud frame the law
As in the statute-structure of the ark
Or as a tabernacle of the soul

To read the words, to chant the Word, to sing -
To be the yad in the great Hand of God

Art as Obedience - column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Art as Obedience

Antonio Rodolfo Quinn Oaxaca, known to all as Anthony Quinn, was born in 1915 in Chihuahua, Mexico. During his long career this accomplished artist, writer, and actor played many characters of many national and ethnic backgrounds in the cinema and on stage, including: a Cheyenne (The Plainsman, 1936), an English king (Becket, 1961), a Hawaiian (Waikiki Wedding, 1937), a Portuguese (The World in His Arms, 1952), a Filipino (Back to Bataan, 1945, an Italian (La Strada, 1954 and The Secret of Santa Vittoria, 1969), a Greek (The Guns of Navarone, 1961, and The Greek Tycoon, 1978), a Frenchman (Lust for Life, 1956 and The Lost Command, 1966), an Inuit (The Savage Innocents, 1956), an Arab (Lawrence of Arabia, 1962), a Mongol (Marco the Magnificent, 1965), a Ukrainian (The Shoes of the Fisherman, 1968), a Jew (Jesus of Nazareth, 1977), an Afghan (Caravans, 1978), a Spaniard (Camino de Santiago, 1999, and The Last Train from Madrid, 1937), a Berber (Lion of the Desert, 1980), a Cuban (The Old Man and the Sea, 1990), and many others.

Mr. Quinn is said to have joked that he was never asked to play a Mexican on the screen or stage, though in fact there were a few of those roles, too.

To catch a late-night movie with Anthony Quinn is to be reminded of the greatness of this mostly self-educated man, tough, strong, smart, and professional, so unlike the knee-pantsied upspeakers of our time.

No one ever demanded that Mr. Quinn be forbidden to play Mayor Bombolini in The Secret of Santa Vittoria or a generic Anglo in Last Train from Gun Hill because he was born in Mexico and so could not be authentic in playing roles outside his DNA.

One wonders what sort of acting roles Mr. Quinn might now be forbidden to play in our increasingly DNA-obsessed era.

Two weeks ago the drama department of Kent State University was given the Article 58 (cf. The Gulag Archipelago) treatment because the casting of their proposed production of West Side Story was not DNA-correct.

Actors of Puerto Rican descent claimed that their story was being told by persons of unauthorized DNA

The reader may remember the gritty, mean-streets reality of the original play in which a Polish gang and a Puerto Rican gang combat each other at first through savage dance-offs. If that’s not authentic, then what is?

The play ends with the death of Tony / Romeo, though Maria / Juliet remains alive to give the “All are punished” speech at the end.

West Side Story is the plot from Romeo and Juliet, and thus a cultural appropriation from an English play. And that’s the point – Shakespeare’s plot is a gift to the world to be adapted and appreciated by all, not an ossified cultural artifact clutched jealously by a clique of Englishmen named Emma and Neville and Olivia and Trevor, still annoyed about the upstart Normans.

A tragedy of our time is that artistic endeavors in this nation, including theatre and cinema, are now subject to bullying, fear, and obedience to political and racial dictates. The theatre faculty at Kent State groveled their surrender to racist bullying instead of defying it.

The producers of drama in this nation once believed in artistic freedom and so scorned the racial and political policies of Goebbels’ UFA Studios, Stalin’s Mosfilm, and Mussolini’s Cinecitta; now they have themselves adopted those oppressive and DNA-ist approaches, sacrificing art to the obscenity of propaganda.

-30-

Thursday, October 4, 2018

To a Bishop - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

To a Bishop

Your Grace, you cannot be a common man
There are no common men - but there are men
And in their service, wearily, alone
You now must bear their mitre and their ring

Your Grace, please do not dine with the regime
They’re only using you, laughing at you
Nor with the blessed poor – you’ll slurp your soup
And they deserve better company anyway

Your Grace, you must completely humble yourself
Submitting even to being addressed as “Your Grace”

Wednesday, October 3, 2018

"And Still to Their Goal the Rivers Go" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


“And Still to Their Goal the Rivers Go”

-Ecclesiastes 1:2-11

That which is said to come already is
And was, and so will be again – the sun
Will rise tomorrow, perhaps not upon me
But still the sun will rise again tomorrow

And warm the waters in a little stream
That laughing play with fallen autumn leaves
And all of them swim past a rotting pier
Where little boys with their cane poles once fished

The river currents flow, and so do we
To find our sunlit dreams upon that sea

Tuesday, October 2, 2018

"Houston Mayor Reveals Plan to Block Robot Sex Shop" - doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


“Houston Mayor Reveals Plan to Block Robot Sex Shop”

-Houston Chronicle, 10.1.2018

A robot wandered the mean streets alone
While lighting up and smoking his last transistor
Remembering an IBM long gone
“Buy me a WD-40, mister?”

A floozy thermostat took him to Radio Shack
And talked about some Texas Instruments she knew
A Compaq sent them to a room out back -
“Do ya wanna undo my phillips screw?”

He paid the thermostat some gigabytes

And then…

He was mugged by a relay who put out his lights

Monday, October 1, 2018

A Cold Front in October, Complete with a Merry Little Dachshund - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Cold Front in October, Complete with a Merry Little Dachshund

A merry dachshund yaps, and leaps for leaves
Wind-blown across the still-green summer grass
As autumn visits briefly, and looks around
To plan his festive moonlit frosts when next
Diana dances ‘cross November’s skies.

Sunday, September 30, 2018

A Devout Sunday Morning Meditation Invoking a Firing Squad - poem (of a sort)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Devout Sunday Morning Meditation Invoking a Firing Squad

“I do none harm, I say none harm, I think none harm.”

-Thomas More in Robert Bolt’s A Man for all Seasons

And yet how schadenfreude to imagine
The purported Melvin from Mumbai
Tipping the executioner for good service
(To Melvin a concept previously unknown):

     “Be not I understand afraid of your office I need your
     major credit card and your date of birth you but send
     me I understand to that Limited Offer 30G in the Sky
     I understand.”

Or the executives of ISPs
Their eyes blindfolded with their own insolence
Standing before a new Customer Care Team
Drawn from a list of eager volunteers

Now look upon each techno-high-flyer

And

“Customer Care Team – Ready! Aim! Fire!”

Saturday, September 29, 2018

And the Senator's Boy is a Harvard Man - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


And the Senator’s Boy is a Harvard Man

A corporal on his embarkation leave
Encounters a girl: “Tell me, what’s your name?”
She smiles and replies on that summer eve
“Tell me no lies and I’ll tell you the same.”

The congressman’s son is on the rowing team

They stroll along a San Diego pier
Where the old museum ships lie in repose
She has a coffee; he orders a beer
From a vendor he buys her a pretty rose

The President’s son is a UPenn man

They flirt over an order of burgers and fries
A soldier-boy so handsome and so young -
The women of the plains will gouge out his eyes
The lads from the hills will cut out his tongue

And the senator’s boy is a Harvard man

Friday, September 28, 2018

The Future of Texas is in Prison - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


The Future of Texas is in Prison

A class for correctional officers
at the local community college

Thirty-six-thousand a year to begin
No education or experience required
The recruiting posters are pretty, though:
Handsome young people uniformed in grey

But the poor sergeant can’t control his class
His students have their cell ‘phones and their ‘tudes -
“Tell Momma to pick me up like I said!” –
Slouched in their seats or wandering the halls

While dozing over her own telescreen
A fat corporal yawns by the soda machine

Thursday, September 27, 2018

The Coming Blue Wave - or is it a Red Wave? - doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


The Coming Blue Wave - or is it a Red Wave?

I can’t remember my color, can you?
One side is the bad side; the other is good -
Am I a red, or am I then a blue?
What’s the true color for my neighborhood?

It’s all confusing for this old fellow
They tell me I’m white, but I’m somewhat pink
(When I had the jaundice I was rather yellow)
What color is good – oh, what do you think?

Identification with color – says who?
I think I’ll just stick with the red, white, and blue

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

John Bolton Rattles his Moustache of War - Doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

John Bolton Rattles his Moustache of War

The National Security Advisor
In all his frumpery and trumpery
Waves his combat moustache menacingly
Backed up by each nuclear incisor

He threatens Iran with his “hell to pay”
Word missiles through his bristles - “We will come after you!”
Omitting to say (through his facial hairdo)
His child won’t go, but only yours – hooray!

For his own combat record is no joke:
He bravely fought the Cong around Fort Polk

Tuesday, September 25, 2018

The Teletype Machine in CASABLANCA - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Teletype Machine in Casablanca

To all officers: 504 ERROR
Two German couriers DIAGNOSED WITH AFIB
THIS HAND LOTION IS carrying official documents
murdered on train from LIKE US FOLLOW US

Screen freeze: restart

Oran. AN ERROR OCCURRED IN THE SCRIPT
Murderer ELIMINATES LAUNDRY ODORS
and possible JAW DROPPING accomplices
headed for NOT RESPONDING Casablanca.

Screen freeze: restart

WE’VE GOT AN UPGRADE FOR YOU round up all
suspicious characters TRY IT YOURSELF

Screen freeze: restart



Thanks to:
https://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/movie_script.php?movie=casablanca
for access to the script of Casablanca.

Monday, September 24, 2018

Our Lady of Walsingham - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Our Lady of Walsingham

O how beautiful is Our Lady Queen!
Queen of our hearts and hopes, and of the May
Sweet Empress over forest, down, and dene,
And happy Sunrise over the pilgrim’s way

O let us crown Our Queen with leaf and flower
Gathered this morning in the dawnlit dew
For we in this Island are Her true dower
Pledging our faith with thorn and rose and yew

She gives us Her feast day, cool and quiet and green -
O how beautiful is Our Lady Queen!

Sunday, September 23, 2018

#TheNewSwastika# - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

#TheNewSwastika#

#iobey #meweak #isubmit #mefollow
#idon’tthink #pleasedon’tdisapproveofme
#itoo #allin #mecomrade #iobedient
#idesperate # mecabbage #Ilabelled

#ilicensedmerchandise #meclothingtag
#willyoubemyfriend? #mehatewhatyouhate
#idoasiamtold #mehavenocharacter
#ichantanddanceandwave#mesacrifice

           They’ll hate you, you know, if you walk away,
           Think for yourself, and refuse to obey

Saturday, September 22, 2018

Harvest Time in the Fens: Saint Michael's Church, Chesterton

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Harvest Time in the Fens

St. Michael’s Church, Chesterton

A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs,

When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue,
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens,
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens.

Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn,
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn.

Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And soon comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all.


Chesterton, in ancient Huntingdonshire (only those who know not God claim that Hunts is but a division of Cambridgeshire), is the home of my de Beauville / Beauville / Beville / Bevil ancestors.

St. Michael’s Church was built ca. 1295 and contains several memorials to the Bevilles and the tomb of William Beville, +1487. I do not know if there was ever any bit of land designated as “Saint Michael’s Fields”; I wrote that in for the sake of an autumn fair.

Friday, September 21, 2018

Dispatches from the Colonial Office - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches from the Colonial Office

Sometimes they are all Up the Down Staircase:
Please use the computer we never gave you
Respond to the directive we never sent
And send again the grades you sent last month

You have thirty students in your night class
The adjunct next to you has only six
Well, no, you don’t get any more pay than him
           I mean “than he”
We’re miffed that you even asked about that

Your roof is leaking only because it’s raining
And you’re overdue on your pervert training

Thursday, September 20, 2018

20 September 1870 - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

20 September 1870

Like vultures hovering over the faithful dead
The rank red rags of base repression hung
Upon the blast-breeched walls of captive Rome;
The smoke of conquest fouled the ancient streets
While mocking conquerors marched their betters
At the point of enlightened bayonets
To the scientific future, murdering those
Who bore themselves with quiet dignity

False, sinister Savoy sneered in disdain
At ancient truths, this costumed reprobate
Who played at soldier once the firing ceased,
And claimed Saint Peter’s patrimony on
The corpses of the merely useful who
With this day’s slogans fresh upon their lips
At dawn advanced upon the remnant walls
So thinly held by so the last faithful few

And thus befeathered fat Vittorio
Was given his victory by better men
On both sides there, their corpses looted by
The pallid inheritors of Progress
The son of a Sardinian spurred his horse
Along the streets of now obedient Rome
And to the Quirinal by a passage broad
And finally to the Ardeatine Caves