Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Myrtle Myers

July 11, 2010

bad seed

Myrtle Myers

Myrtle Myers bought some pliers
At the hardware store
She took them home and all alone
She broke down the door

The next day she found a way
To make the toilet flood
She took a wrench from daddy’s bench
And made a great big thud

Unperturbed, her mother purred
“Well, girls they will be girls
All this rage is just a stage
She has such darling curls”

Then Myrtle took an evil look
At her mother’s dress
It made her think and with some ink
She made a lovely mess

Yet with rage unassauged
She shaved her sister’s head
With kerosene and gasoline
She burned her brother’s bed

Undistressed, her father guessed
“It’s just a child at play
They’re just jealous, those who tell us
To have her put away”

Her parents planned a party grand
Just to celebrate
Her twelfth birthday, and by the way
Myrtle showed up late

No girls nor boys bearing toys
Decided to attend
Although assured the girl was cured
They feared their lives might end

As her family huddled, scared and befuddled
By her piercing stare
Myrtle growled and then she howled
“I publicly declare

“This can’t be true! What did you do
To make them stay away?
You’ll all be blue and live to rue
This catastrophic day!”

Myrtle made a bomb that day
Intending to destroy
Her own home town and miles around
And every girl and boy

But in her hurry, she forgot to scurry
Away from her invention
She’s gone away, I’m sad to say
Results of ill intention

Her parents pleaded all she needed
Was love and understanding
And though it’s true that we all do
Life is more demanding

It takes affection to give direction
And most kids do not mind
Those restrictions and prohibitions
Which seem to some unkind

by Richard W. Bray

Noise Pollution

June 8, 2010

Noise Pollution

Ruben J. Ramos is a tireless worker
And a wonderful husband and dad
Adored and revered by kith and kin
Despite the minor flaw that he had

As soon as he had hit the sack
Ruben began to snore
These nasal spasms were so intense
He once blew off a door

Though his dwelling is reinforced
By the finest Canadian lumber
The house would quake and walls did shake
When he began his slumber

It wasn’t merely Ruben’s house
Which swayed on its foundation
Readings upon the Richter Scale
Alarmed seismologists across the nation

Friends and neighbors offered cures
And various home remedies
He ate raw garlic and slept on his back
And played harmonious melodies

Alas, nothing worked until one day
They came up with a solution
Bankers allow him to sleep in the vault
And there’s no more noise pollution

by Richard W. Bray

nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH

May 27, 2010

Archibald MacLeish

nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH

The poem’s meaning is evoked by the structure of words-as-sounds rather than by the structure of words-as-meanings. And the enhanced meaning, which we feel in any true poems, is a product, therefore, of the structure of the sounds.

–Poetry and Experience
by Archibald MacLeish (23)

Scansion records units of rhythm, not units of sense

–All the Fun’s in How You Say a Thing by Timothy Steele (530)

Vocabulary

Meter: The basic rhythmic structure of written and uttered words (not simply poetry)

Iamb: A unit of language consisting of an unstressed syllable and a stressed syllable, in that order.

I once began a lesson on meter to a group of eighth-graders by exaggerating (both verbally and bodily) the inherent iambic rhythms of the following lines of poetry:

“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Pegg-y Ann McKay
I have the measles and the mumps
A gash, a rash and purple bumps*

A girl in the class looked at me in utter recognition and blurted out,
“I get it:

nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH
nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH

I was happy that this student immediately picked up on the main point of my lesson, but I was really thrilled because her description of iambic poetry was, in my opinion, superior to the one that is commonly offered in textbooks, a depiction with a musical correlation which mimics a snare drum:

ti-tum ti-tum ti-tum ti-tum
ti-tum ti-tum ti-tum ti-tum

Here are some examples of iambic meter:

Iambic Monometer–One Beat (nuh-NUH)

Upon His Departure Hence by Robert Herrick

Thus I
Passe by
And die:
As one,
Unknown,
And gone:
I’m made
A shade,
And laid
I’th’grave:
There have
My cave.
Where tell
I dwell,
Farewell.

Iambic Dimeter–Two Beats (nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH)

The Robin by Thomas Hardy

When up aloft
I fly and fly,
I see in pools
The shining sky

Iambic Trimeter–Three Beats (nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH)

Touring a Past by Dick Davis

There is no boat to cross
From that ill-favored shore
To where the clashing reeds
Complete the works of war
Together with the grass,
And nesting birds, and weeds.

Iambic Tetrameter–Four Beats (nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH,
nuh-NUH)

Now I lay me Down to Sleep

If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take

Iambic Pentameter–Five Beats (nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH,
nuh-NUH, nuh-NUH)

Mad Girl’s Love Song by Sylvia Plath

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born a-gain
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

One Final Thought


…”scanning” a line is not a dramatic, or poetic reading of a line. Scanning a line is reading it in a special, more or less forced, way, to bring out the meter and any definite derivations or substitutions. Scanning will not bring out the other parts of the tension; it will tend to iron them out. On the other hand, a good dramatic, or poetic, reading will tend to bring out the tensions–but note well that in order to do this it must be careful not to override and completely kill the meter. When that is done, the tensions vanish. (Another reason why the meter must be observed is, of course, that if a line is truly metrical, a reading which actually destroys the meter can only be an incorrect reading–by dictionary and rhetorical standards.) A good dramatic reading is a much more delicate, difficult, and rewarding than a mere scanning. Yet the scanning has its justification, its use. We would argue that a good dramatic reading is possible only by a person who can also perform a scansion.


The Concept of Meter by W.K. Wimsatt and Monroe C. Beardsley
from The Structure of Verse, Edited by Harvey Gross (163-164)

Suggested Further Reading:

The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within by Stephen Fry

The Sounds of Poetry: A Brief Guide by Robert Pinsky

Versification: A Short Introduction by James McAuley

by Richard W. Bray

* Sick by Shel Silverstein

The Decider

April 15, 2010

The Decider

I stepped into the river
It was wet and it was cold
My bones began to shiver
Just like I had been told

I stepped deeper in the river
And it didn’t get any better
I felt my body quiver
And my clothes were getting wetter

I kept descending deeper
And it didn’t feel so nice
I’m a plodder, not a leaper
But it felt as cold as ice

I continued on my quest
My parents did not raise a quitter
I would not fail this test
But the chill was getting bitter

I did not question why
As hypothermia numbed my brain
I’m not the kinda’ guy
Who is threatened by mere pain

They found my body on the shore
No more frigid quests for me
No more chances to explore
No more Brave New Worlds to see

It is true that I am dead
And it’s too late for revisions
But it never can be said
That I don’t stand by my decisions

by Richard W. Bray

Owe-Ewe-Gee-Aitch

April 6, 2010

Owe-Ewe-Gee-Aitch

Owe-Ewe-Gee-Aitch, I simply can’t pronounce it
Owe-Ewe-Gee-Aitch, it’s my duty to renounce it
Rough and tough rhyme with stuff
So why does cough rhyme with off?

Owe-Ewe-Gee-Aitch, there’s no rule of explanation
Owe-Ewe-Gee-Aitch, it’s just a spelling complication
I ought, I thought, never get caught
Saying bout when I mean bought

Owe-Ewe-Gee-Aitch, my English teacher doesn’t care
Owe-Ewe-Gee-Aitch, nobody warns: Speller beware!
If I threw my shoe at you
Would it be true that we are through?

Owe-Ewe-Gee-Aitch, the cranial overload
Owe-Ewe-Gee-Aitch, might just make my brain explode
Though I reach out and grow like a bough
I’ll flunk my spelling test anyhow

by Richard W. Bray

War-Junkie Worshipers

February 11, 2010

War-Junkie Worshipers

All who live to shoot and kill are really just one man:
Bonaparte and Patton, Alexander and his clan
Curtis Lemay, good ole Che, and the Son of Sam
Killers one and all. Why can’t you understand?

Glory, Glory Hallelujah–you can march and sing and shout
But an appetite for murder isn’t something one should tout
Don’t tell me that their cause was just. That ain’t what it’s about
‘Twas not for love of country Patton killed so many Krauts

It’s always a mistake to worship human beings
But idolizing killers is way beyond obscene
Actors, barons, rock stars, billionaires and queens
Should suffice for grownups who act like love-struck teens

Historians and novelists and tv talking heads
Reenactors and war-wankers who hail the happy dead
Are so quick to overlook so many who have bled
Perhaps they should revere blessed peacemakers instead

by Richard W. Bray

What is a Crappy Little Country, Mr. Goldberg?

January 21, 2010

What did you do in the Global War on Terror, Daddy?

(Editor’s Note: I am not the person who brought Mr. Goldberg’s family into this. It was Jonah Goldberg who hid inside his own daughter’s skirt when it came time to fight in a war he so assiduously promoted)

People move into violence by a disposition to treat the world as entirely theirs.

–Alfred Kazin


Every ten years or so, the United States needs to pick up some small crappy little country and throw it against the wall, just to show the world we mean business.


Jonah Goldberg

What is a Crappy Little Country, Mr. Goldberg?


What’s a crappy little country, Mr. Goldberg?
When cluster bombs are dropped upon its conscripts
Is it fecal matter rather than blood
That drains from their bodies?
When a little girl in a crappy little country cries
Because the car transporting her family
Was shot to bits at a checkpoint
Does she cry saline tears, like your daughter?
Or does liquefied shit ooze out of her eyes?
Or am I just taking your metaphor too literally?

by Richard W. Bray

Spontaneous Western Haiku #1996 (by Wade)

January 9, 2010

(We are thrilled to announce new guest poster”> Wade, an artist who expresses himself in many media. He paints self-portraits on a variety of surfaces including toasters and other people’s artwork, and has recently turned his attention to dismantling, reconstituting, and painting discarded, often headless dolls which are then nestled together in the “basket o’babies.”

He is also a fixture at Southern California poetry readings and has published a book of poems entitled Madcap: Spontaneous Western Haiku by a Guy Named Wade. One of his first art pieces involved a doll’s head impaled on a skimmer pole, entitled “Baby Wade’s Head on a Stick.” It was utilized for emphasis during his poetry readings and lead to his self-portrait series.

He lives in Southern California with his wife and their furry children and is hard at work on the next painting in his admittedly egotistical self-portrait series.)

INSTRUCTIONS TO THE READER

Dear reader, read one line of the Spontaneous
Western Haiku #1996
per day. Write the day’s line
down on a piece of paper, put the paper in your pocket
and refer to it throughout the day. On the fourth day,
read the poem in its entirety. After that, your guess is
as good as mine. Enjoy

Spontaneous Western Haiku #1996

Old places, new days

Old roles are recast

A clown (The Ghost) sits alone

EDTIOR’S NOTE:

Hey Kids! Want more poetic bang for your buck?
Rearrange the order of the Spontaneous Western
Haiku’s first three lines and repeat the previous
instructions

Have fun!

The House of the Dead

October 30, 2009

The House of the Dead

Terrence, Timmy, Becky and Fred
Went to visit The House of the Dead
Terrence was frightened but Becky said,
“C’mon guys, it’s just an old shed”
Timmy stammered, “Did you hear about Ned?
He disappeared the night he was wed.
His widow claims that although he fled
Spirits dragged him back to the House of the Dead”

Becky said, “Timmy, you’re just a scardy cat.
Ned went back to pick up his hat.”
“I heard,” said Fred “That he found his hat
But lost his life. How about that?”
“You know,” Said Terrence, “I think we should scat
Cuz’ I just saw a big black cat.”
Then Tommy bumped into a great big bat
And screamed for his mommy who had warned him that

The House of the Dead was no place to play
And prudent people knew to stay away
But Becky was fearless on that fateful day.
She continued down the spooky walkway
Terrence and Timmy turned and ran away
But Fred got up the nerve to say,
“Now Becky you know I’d rather not stay
But I couldn’t just leave you alone that way.”

Becky said, “Terrence, do what you will
I’m not about to miss out on a thrill.”
Terrence shrugged off a great big chill
And followed her up the haunted hill
The two trekked on by force of will
And boldly ignored with majestic skill
The squeals and screeches, wicked and shrill
Made by spirits that maim and kill

After they opened the creaking door
She grabbed his arm and they walked ‘cross the floor
Then they saw what they were looking for
Grisly guts and gruesome gore
And a hideous specter which they could not ignore
Appeared behind them and locked the door
He said, “Have a seat, I do implore
And I’ll tell you a story about the woman I adore

Her name is Rebecca, just like you
She died in Seventeen Seventy-Two
When a man named Oliver Sutton Drew
Shot her and her lover, Winthrop Larue
Oliver died a young man too
He was sent to the gallows for the people he slew
Now the three of us have nothing to do
But frighten poor young fools like you.”

Two bloody bodies appeared next to Fred
Their faces filled with terror and dread
Becky grabbed a bar made of lead
And threw it through the window next to the bed
As one of the ghosts removed its head
They tried to climb out then dove instead
They followed their trail back where it led
And never returned to The House of the Dead

by Richard W. Bray

A Monster’s Worst Nightmare

October 29, 2009

A Monster’s Worst Nightmare

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There was a dragon in my room
I slew him with a fork and spoon
And cooked it on my brand new grill
My mom and dad couldn’t get their fill

A vampire tried to bite my neck
I turned and said, “Hey, what the heck?”
I grabbed a pencil from my desk
And shoved it deep into his chest

While walking on a moonlit night
A werewolf tried to pick a fight
But I showed him my silver knife
And he went running for his life

A haunted house is where I play
And when a ghost gets in my way
One curse and three Latin chants
Scares him right out of his pants

Frankenstein thinks he’s so vicious
And I’ll admit he is pernicious
But he’s so easy to short-circuit
If you know just how to work it

The loch-Ness monster got in my tub
When it was time to rub-dub-dub
I lured him like all other fishes
My family said he was delicious

I’m not a guy who likes to boast
But mess with me and you are toast
Warning monsters: If you see me
I suggest you let me be

by Richard W. Bray