I rarely see you enter in But I can feel when you begin To squeeze my heart, my lungs, my breath To make me feel a certain death
Oh, Fear, you are a serpent vile You wrap my innards python-style The contents of my stomach curdle As you crush my guts, my girdle
My vision narrows, blackens, shrinks You laugh, for you this is high jinks You enjoy this deadly strangle I fight. Must. See…From…Diff’rent…. Angle
I break your grip and gasp for air Fear, you’re a liar sent to scare You’re gone now but you’ll be back And I’ll prepare for next attack
This is my response to this week’s W3 prompt “to choose an abstract noun and make the abstract concrete by describing what your abstract noun feels, sounds, looks, smells, or tastes like. How does your abstract noun move? Where does it move? What kind of animal is it? What kind of landscape? Go where the prompt leads—write a poem in any format, as long as it does not exceed 24 lines.”
The Stream of Consciousness Saturday word this week is notebook.
The W3 prompt for this week was to borrow the first line from another poem to use as the start of your own.
What if, I wondered this morning, I take those two prompts and mush them together?
For instance: Two roads diverged in a yellow notebook. (Sorry, Robert Frost.)
What would that look like? I picture an artist drawing a notebook — because that’s what they happened to have with them when they encountered a scene they wanted to remember. So they started drawing one road coming up from the left hand corner and another road coming up from the right. Where would they meet?
Oh wait, I just made the roads CONverging, not DIverging. I’d have to turn my notebook upside-down.
How about this one: Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight notebook of Paul Revere. (Sorry, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.)
What if Paul Revere was not a man of action but a man who believed that the pen was mightier than the sword? I mean, I DO believe that words are mighty, but I’m grateful that Paul Revere rode to every Middlesex village and farm to spread the alarm instead just writing his grievances in a notebook.
How about: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s notebook? (Sorry, William Shakespeare) A lot of the romance is gone in that one! As much as I love notebooks, I would NOT want to be compared to one, even a summer one.
Here are a few more (without my blather). Submit your own in the comments —
i thank You God for most this amazing notebook (e.e. cummings)
The notebook is too much with us, late and soon (William Wordsworth)
So much depends upon a red note book (William Carlos Williams)
Ooh! One more — but it’s a children’s book (one of my favorites)
Once there was a notebook…. And she loved a little boy (Shel Silverstein)
That one has a lot of potential for a story about a future writer, don’t you think?
Thanks, Linda Hill, Josie Holford and David Bogomolny for a fun prompt!
In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines Lived a little gray cat all covered with lines She made her home behind the wall Came out to play when she was called
Her muted tabby stripes became The reason for her silly name They called her Tweedy – you know, like tweed It suited her well, all agreed
Tweedy had a bouncing gait Light on her feet At pouncing — great!
She bouncy-pounced around the house Until the day there came a mouse Who ventured in, and up, behind The wall to Tweedy’s lair — unkind!
Behind the wall Tweedy had no pounce Behind the wall Tweedy had no bounce So nose-to-nose with visiting mouse Tweedy growled and hissed and groused
Then little mouse spoke in his little mouse voice “Don’t be like this! You have a choice — We could be friends, you and I. Sip some tea. Nibble on pie.”
Tweedy stopped her growl and hiss Said to the mouse, “I’ve been remiss. Yes, let’s go out into the kitchen I’ll see if I can find a smidgeon.”
So out they went from Tweedy’s space Into the big wide kitchen place “Bet you don’t weigh even an ounce,” Tweedy said — and then she pounced
“Delicious!” she purred a few minutes later Not feeling the least bit like a traitor. There’s an old house in Paris covered with vines Guarded by cat with muted gray lines
Every poem begins somewhere. Sometimes, all it takes is a single line to set our imagination in motion. But what happens when that first line belongs to someone else?
For this prompt, I invite you to borrow the opening line of any poem, famous or obscure, and use it as the starting point for a poem of your own.
You can keep as much of the original poem’s voice, rhythm, tone, form, or imagery as you like, or leave it all behind and head in a completely different direction. Be serious or playful, thoughtful or mischievous, quiet or outrageous. The important thing is to let your own voice shine through.
I kind of cheated by using the first line of Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans. It’s a children’s book (which I love) but it’s also a poem. The best children’s books have that rhymey lilty rhythm that makes them so fun to read aloud.
A friend of mine has a new cat that likes to hide behind the wall in the basement. Her name is Luna — but Tweedy is very much modeled after her.
Look Wanna See a trick? It’s quite easy Guess what’s in my hand (giggle) [flips hand] Nothing! How ’bout this hand? What’s in it? A coin! How’d I do that? Magic! The world is quite a magical place — See that bee visiting the flower there? Do you know what he is doing? Magic That little bee will go make honey Magic sweetness incarnate Science also tells us more Why is the flower red? Magic and science Open your mind Ask questions Listen Look
This week’s W3 PoW Dennis challenged us to write a poem that gives something abstract a voice. Imagine your chosen concept as a character. What might it say?
It’s been a busy week for me. I started a story poem called The Worry Clinic:
He stood outside and read the sign “C. I. Tee’s Worry Clinic” He worried over EVERYTHING Wished he wasn’t such a cynic
That’s about as far as I got. Dr. C. I. Tee’s first name was going to be Curious. I had read that curiosity can be a cure (or at least a deterrent) for anxiety.
Anyway, the week got away from me. So, for what it’s worth, I wrote a Double Etheree about curiosity.
Today’s Song Lyric Sunday is to find a song that was written or performed by someone who was born in the month of November.
This may be a stretch, but I’m going with Tina Weymouth (DOB 11/22/1950) who was a founding member of Talking Heads. She is credited with co-writing Psycho Killer. Her writing contribution was the French thrown into the song (Qu’est-ce que c’est?) along with playing the bass that is so integral to the song.
I was a teenager in the ’70s when this song was a hit. Did I listen to it then? No. Did I listen to Talking Heads? No. I’m late to this party.
I stumbled into Psycho Killer via a Scottish band called Stramash. They have a song called Stirling Psycho.
When I typed “Stirling Psycho” into the search bar, I had AI questioning me.
Did I mean “Stirling Psychology” and want to learn about the Department of Psychology at the University of Stirling? — No, I did not.
Did I mean “stir-psycho” which is prison slang for stir-crazy? — No, I did not.
Did I mean “ClariceStarling”, the iconic FBI trainee who squares off against a psychopath in the legendary psychological thriller The Silence of the Lambs? — No, I did not.
I meant Stirling Psycho, a song by Stramash, a Celtic/Folk/Rock Band. They fuse traditional Scottish songs with rock songs, like, say, taking Stirling Brig, a traditional ballad about The Battle of Stirling Bridge in 1297, and riffing into Psycho Killer, a song by Talking Heads.
Here are all the things I love about this song:
It’s an earworm. Be prepared.
The Stramash version is a fusion of two different stories/sounds/cultures. We need more reaching across the aisle, don’t you think?
The Talking Heads video is just funny. There’s no blood or gore, just suggested/relatable psycho-crazy.
The Stramash version is 8 minutes (it includes Stirling Brig). I recommend Talking Heads’ Psycho Killer video which is a little over 4 minutes; as I said above, the video is fun/funny. Choose your poison. Maybe I shouldn’t say that. It makes me sound like a psycho killer.
The lyrics are at the end.
Lyrics
I can’t seem to face up to the facts I’m tense and nervous and I can’t relax I can’t sleep ’cause my bed’s on fire Don’t touch me, I’m a real live wire
Psycho Killer Qu’est-ce que c’est? Fa-fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa, better Run, run, run, run, run, run, run away, oh-oh-oh Psycho Killer Qu’est-ce que c’est? Fa-fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa, better Run, run, run, run, run, run, run away, oh, oh, oh, oh Ay-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya, ooh
You start a conversation, you can’t even finish it You’re talking a lot, but you’re not saying anything When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed Say something once, why say it again?
Psycho Killer Qu’est-ce que c’est? Fa-fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa, better Run, run, run, run, run, run, run away, oh-oh-oh Psycho Killer Qu’est-ce que c’est? Fa-fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa, better Run, run, run, run, run, run, run away, oh, oh, oh, oh Ay-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya
Ce que j’ai fait, ce soir-là Ce qu’elle a dit, ce soir-là Réalisant mon espoir Je me lance vers la gloire, okay Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah We are vain and we are blind I hate people when they’re not polite
Psycho Killer Qu’est-ce que c’est? Fa-fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa, better Run, run, run, run, run, run, run away, oh-oh-oh Psycho Killer Qu’est-ce que c’est? Fa-fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa, better Run, run, run, run, run, run, run away, oh, oh, oh, oh Ai-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya, ooh
I was raised on folk music. My father especially loved Burl Ives. In the 60s The Smothers Brothers albums entered our lives. I LOVED the Smothers Brothers. Still do. In fact, I’ve started playing them again mostly because I need something to smile about. They never fail to make me laugh.
So I’m posting below both versions of “The Cowboy’s Lament” aka “The Streets of Laredo.” I’m only posting the lyrics to the Burl Ives version. You’ll have to listen to the Smothers Brothers to hear their twisted irreverence. Their voices harmonize so beautifully – and they make me laugh. They always me laugh. Have I mentioned that they are FUNNY?
The song is the story of dying cowboy — not funny at all. It’s a lament. He’s been shot and is dying. He gives his final wishes to another cowboy. “Beat the drum slowly, play the fife lowly” etc. It’s sad.
Apparently it’s a rewrite of an Irish-British Ballad about a dying sailor. Frank Maynard, a poet and balladeer of the Old West, turned the song from “The Unfortunate Rake” into “The Dying Cowboy” and published it in 1911.
Here are the lyrics:
As I walked out in the streets of Laredo As I walked out in Laredo one day I spied a young cowboy all wrapped in white linen Wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay
I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy These words he did say as I boldly walked by Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story I’m shot in the breast and I know I must die
It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing Once in the saddle I used to go gay First down to Rosie’s and then to the card house Got shot in the breast and I’m dying today
Get sixteen gamblers to carry my coffin Get six jolly cowboys to sing me a song Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o’er me For I’m a young cowboy and know I’ve done wrong
Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin Get six pretty maidens to sing me a song Take me to the valley and lay the sod o’er me For I’m a young cowboy, and know I’ve done wrong
Oh beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly Play the Dead March as they carry me along Put bunches of roses all over my coffin Put roses to deaden the clods as they fall
As I walked out in the streets of Laredo As I walked out in Laredo one day I spied a young cowboy all wrapped in white linen Wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay
Here’s Burl Ives singing The Cowboy’s Lament:
And a clip of the very irreverent Smothers Brothers version:
My great-grandmother, Margrethe, came over steerage Which was at least two decks below the peerage
Her home had been Varde a small Danish town Moving to Boston turned her life upside down
Her four young children accompanied her Moving-reuniting family with father
He was a tailor who had come over ahead Establishing his business to earn their bread
He worked for the wealthy on Boston’s North Shore While living in an alley among immigrant poor
Speaking no English, Margrethe invited Other Danish women similarly plighted
Their Kaffeeklatsches became a sweet haven To encourage each other before anyone gave in
People of wealth sometimes didn’t pay their bills Margrethe went without coal while the rich dressed in frills
It doesn’t seem fair — they worked so hard! But that strong work ethic is its own reward
My grandmother worked hard; my mother did too I learned there’s always something worthwhile to do!
My great-grandmother, Margrethe, came over steerage Her legacy leaves me far richer than the peerage
This is my response to the W3 prompt: write a poem about a person who has had to leave home. Please include the word “home” in your poem.
I chose to write a Couplet Poem about my great-grandmother, Margethe. My grandmother, Margrethe’s youngest daughter, wrote afamily history and included the details that I used — like no coal on winter day because the rich customers “forgot” to pay their bill.
I encouraged my kids to play either of two sports: swimming or soccer. They’re both fairly easy to understand.
In swimming the person who touches the wall first wins (assuming they swam the proper stroke legally).
In soccer, one team is heading toward one goal, the other toward the other. Kick the ball in the correct goal and your team scores a point. (Of course there are other rules, but that’s the general idea.)
Baseball, on the other hand, is not so easy.
I grew up on baseball, living in Cooperstown (home of the Baseball Hall of Fame and alleged birthplace of the game) and having a father who made annual pilgrimages to Fenway Park in Boston. I can still name Red Sox players from those days: Carl Yastrzemski, Tony Conigliaro, Rico Petrocelli, Carlton Fisk.
After my father died, a man told me the story of how he first met my father — they were both driving to a spot outside town (the dump) where they could pick up WBZ to listen to the Red Sox game in the car. When Keith realized that my father was listening to the same game, he tapped on the car window, introduced himself, and thereafter they listened together and became friends with the common bond of Red Sox baseball.
But baseball is hard to understand. Just ask a tee-ball coach. They’re the ones trying to explain the hitting, running around the bases, fielding, tagging the runner, etc. etc etc.
I’ve watched the little faces of the players go blank as the coach loses them in his explanation.
I’ve watched kids run around the bases in the wrong direction because the coach neglected to mention that requirement.
I’ve watched players making dandelion crowns in the outfield because they don’t understand that they are still playing the game even though they feel like they are just standing around far from where the game is actually taking place.
Yep. Baseball fails to hold the attention of young people.
They won’t understand for a decade that the pitcher (when they’ve moved beyond tee-ball and actually have a pitcher) and the batter are really two chess players trying to outthink and thereby outplay the other.
No – a lot of them will be swimming or playing soccer because their mom was bored with baseball.
Still, I love watching that moment when the pitcher is leaning in, resting his hand with the ball on his back, studying the batter, watching the signals the catcher is giving him, deciding in a moment which pitch to throw. Meanwhile the batter is mentally running through the pitches he has seen the pitcher throw and deciding how he will respond to each one.
Yeah, I love that moment.
But, honestly, I love watching the hand hit the touchpad in pool even more.
