#65 in an ongoing series of posts celebrating the alphabet.
Welcome to the Poetry Friday Roundup at Alphabet Soup!
So glad you’re here. Hope you’re having a good September. 🙂
Today we’re celebrating Alphabet Soup’s 18th blogiversary with one of my favorite (and oh-so-appropos) poetic forms, the abecedarian. Recently stumbled upon this gem by new-to-me poet Tom Disch (1940-2008).
A prolific award-winning author of speculative fiction as well as a noted poet, Disch was also a librettist, essayist, theater critic, and author of historical novels, computer-interactive fiction and children’s books (perhaps you’re familiar with his novella, The Brave Little Toaster (1980)). Of all these genres, he wished to excel most in poetry (Dana Gioia considered him a genius).
Love his conversational tone, sharp wit and matter-of-fact storytelling, which gives the poem a fresh, spontaneous feel. I haven’t read an abecedarian quite like this one before (so fun!); I like how his mind works.
“It is not by the gray of the hair that one knows the age of the heart.” ~ Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton
Here’s a little something to lighten the mood. 🙂
“Acropolis” by Mawra Tahreem.
GRECIAN TEMPLES by George Bilgere
Because I'm getting pretty gray at the temples, which negatively impacts my earning potential and does not necessarily attract vibrant young women with their perfumed bosoms to dally with me on the green hillside, I go out and buy some Grecian Hair Formula.
And after the whole process, which involves rubber gloves, a tiny chemistry set, and perfect timing, I look great. I look very fresh and virile, full of earning potential. But when I take my fifteen-year-old beagle out for his evening walk, the contrast is unfortunate. Next to me he doesn't look all that great, with his graying snout, his sort of faded, worn-out-dog look. It makes me feel old, walking around with a dog like that.
It's not something a potential employer, much less a vibrant young woman with a perfumed bosom would necessarily go for. So I go out and get some more Grecian Hair Formula— Light Brown, my beagle's original color. And after all the rigmarole he looks terrific. I mean, he's not going to win any friskiness contests, not at fifteen. But there's a definite visual improvement. The two of us walk virilely around the block.
The next day a striking young woman at the bookstore happens to ask me about my parents, who are, in fact, long dead, due to the effects of age. They were very old, which causes death. But having dead old parents does not go with my virile, intensely fresh new look.
So I say to the woman, my parents are fine. They love their active lifestyle in San Diego. You know, windsurfing, jai alai, a still-vibrant sex life. And while this does not necessarily cause her to come dally with me on the green hillside, I can tell it doesn't hurt my chances.
I can see her imagining dinner with my sparkly, young-seeming mom and dad at some beachside restaurant where we would announce our engagement.
Your son has great earning potential, she'd say to dad, who would take a gander at her perfumed bosom and give me a wink, like he used to do back when he was alive, and vibrant.
I will be a lovely slim Asian woman with a great metabolism who tans I will never get up at 5 AM to shovel snow I will live in some place like Italy or France where having all of August off is normal and older women are still sexy I will wear a bikini whenever possible definitely pose for nude photos and go skinny sipping, with and without friends, in all seasons, day and night. I will play at least one instrument have a voice like k.d. lang and never, ever wear pantyhose have all-season good hair I will not waste myself, body or spirit, on any unworthy man I'll win the lottery build a huge animal shelter always know how to end a poem
“Still Life with Bottle, Carafe, Bread, and Wine” by Claude Monet (1863).
BETTER IN FRENCH by D.E. Green
for Diamonique Walker
Why does everything sound better in French? Wittier? More pointed? More apt and apropos? You know, with savoir faire and all that merde. A woman I know from Cote d’Ivoire likes to say how much she hates things, but she does it with panache. Sometimes she even says, je vous déteste. Sure, she’s saying she hates me, but, god, doesn’t it sound great? I mean I could be hated all day by everybody as long as they said, je vous déteste. And I want to do some je déteste-ing of my own. Je déteste le sandwich de pain rassis. It’s just stale bread, but it sounds like something you’d hear at the United Nations, even the Louvre. Wouldn’t it change the whole sorry dining experience to walk into a MacDonald’s and say, je déteste votre Big Mac? To tell a bombastic politician, Assez, monsieur! Assez!
Totally agree with Professor Green here. French has a sophisticated, elegant music all its own. Not only is it witty and pointed, it commands attention like a beautiful woman in stilettos. Self assured, nonchalant and très blasée, French is a language with attitude.
Jama's Alphabet Soup 