Tag Archives: irony

Richard’s heart

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Richard Lionheart’s heart has been exhumed, and, although to dust it has returned, what remains is mingled with creosote, frankincense, and numerous other fragrant herbs.  The point seems to have been to preserve it and make it more attractive to God, who, as everyone knows, is easily fooled.  Inspired by my friend Elaine Stirling, I thought I’d write a short poem in 12th century style, a low bar to clear, judging by this fragment:

A man who dines with the French
Should grab whatever he may
As either he will end up with the nuts
Or will just carry off the shallots
                                  – Andrew de Countances

Right, then:

King Richard had no heart so pure
It could be sent to all anon
As unadorned as baby’s bum
For God to fondle as He choose

It lies in France unaccidental
But in such company as befits
A king whose heart was torn
Twixt kindly deeds and murder

All tars and herbs the nose to please
Surrounded Richard’s organ
To no avail it seems
‘Tis naught but reddish dust these days

Maybe Prometheus could pull it off
To swindle Zeus with fatted bones
But God these days is wiser
Having seen enough of Europes’s kings

Impossible

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One soft-winded luck-drenched
Park bench afternoon
While dust motes drifted languidly
In and out of sunbeam streams
Eyelids too closed to bother

I dreamed of life
Of love-stained moons
Lake-bound loons and the stars
And a vastness so supreme
Only a poor cosmic ash of a
Barely dim spark
Could comprehend it

I dreamed of the gravity of gravity
Of the long loose distance
Between here and now
Of the slow dip of the long journey

The road moves easily within
And without the fortress skull
At a whim
At an ungrim wager
With vaporous fate

I dreamed of how in old age
The bones of our deciduous dreams
Absurdly seductive
Still nudge us toward the impossible

Having arrived at which
We stare longingly behind

The mantis king

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Long ago, the mantis was young and slender
As a new formed blade of grass,
And tipped and tumbled at the vaguest breeze.
Enormous food-bearing beasts abounded,
But his poor wee jaws could only open so far.
He could only eat mites (he favored red ones).

Then one day, something remarkable happened.
As he sat hungry, near a gargantuan useless breadcrumb,
A tiny ant appeared, ripped a piece from the crumb,
And carried it away.
Then another, and another came.

Tiny, yes, but many, many mites
Could not equal the weight of just one ant.
And there were hundreds,
For the trickle had become a stream,
Hour after hour.
The mantis ate like a fat king.

And fat and large he became, king of all
Within his hideous grasp.
No grasshopper, no June bug so boisterous
It escaped his perfected skill.
The little ants that nourished him were now ignored,
Out of favor against the panoply
Of hulking nutrients.

Then, for no apparent reason, the days grew
Shorter.  It was damned chilly.
Not so bad in itself, the mantis thought,
But food was getting harder to find.
There were those niggling little ants.
Not even a decent snack.

The Mantis was himself grown huge and ponderous.
He sat for hours, hands in position to pounce,
But no food presented itself.
Bye and bye, he fell from the twig,
Exhausted.

First, one tiny ant appeared, ripped a piece from the mantis,
And carried it away.
Then another, and another came.

Why whales beach themselves

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Once, long ago,
Whales lived on the land
With their cousins, the humans

There was sunshine
And rain so gentle it caressed
The thin and delicate skins
Of men and whales alike.
 
They cavorted together,
If you can imagine a creature
So ungainly
As a human
Cavorting.

There was plenty to eat.
Winged seeds, and tiny flying shrimp
Were everywhere.
All you had to do was open your mouth,
Sit back,
And nourishing goodness filled your body.

Then humans hatched a plan.
They would knock down the bounty
That was free to all
Collect it
And hide it away for themselves.

Naturally, God was annoyed.
All the goodness he had spread
Was gathered in dark pits,
Hidden away and guarded.

But humans blamed the whales,
And God was not experienced in deceit.
So he banished the whales,
And doomed them to swim forever.

Still, some great and wise whales remember,
And fling themselves back on the land to die.

The damned humans, of course,
Put them back in the water.

Haibun: Cabbages

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First posted January 2, 2012; augmented today.

I’ve been thinking lately of Barriss Mills, with whom I spent many pleasant afternoons discussing his always future kitchen remodeling plans, and watching him grind coffee in his ancient hand-crank machine, then drinking it with him.  After his retirement from his long career of teaching English literature, he spent time rereading all the classics he taught for decades, and discovered he’d missed teaching his students the most important aspect of them: they’re, above all, damned good stories, well told.  He’s long since gone now.  Concerning poetry, he once told me he’d rather write about cabbages than loftier subjects, which he found rather dreary.  It inspired me to write this haiku.

Forlorn cabbages
In the refrigerator
Silent witnesses