Showing posts with label Long Rhymes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Long Rhymes. Show all posts

Thursday, May 16, 2019

Song of Raven





I had a Gull named Raven, flew to call her Myna,
She cawed like a Crow, but was pretty as a White Rump-ed Shama.
Not a Sapsucker, or a Flycatcher, or the Least bit a-Do-Witcher,
She was just a Rhea Cutia, a purty Redhead Tanager.
An Orange-breasted Sunbird, a Summer Tanager she loves.
“Raven you should be in Skua” . . . “A Courser!”, so she does.

I dwad 'n University, flew first bird Courier.
A Horned Coot with a Baldpate, Babbler and a Worrier.
Knot Apostlebird, though I went to Godwit school,
Never Wren Bishopbird, I thought Cardinal was way too Koel.
I bowered up as a Friarbird, Jacana Turnstone Fody.
Wren I met a Flutist Hen, she Towee how to be Noddy!
Scrabed some Harpy Music, I’m Knot a Nightingale,
More a Mockingbird, Wren when I Smew this little Gull.

Nightjar at Rusty Fronted Barwing's, swallowin’ Turkey and Kokako’s,
Wren I cooed a Starling who for sure Woodstar, she had such Corvus Mangoes!
I Sora’ later at another Barwing . . .  She must have Turnstoned twenty
Oh Raven you’re Toucan, . . a Kiskadee would help you plenty!

“Caw Caw! . . . Wild Turkey and Kokako’s!”

“Oh Raven, a Kiskadee would make me wealthy!
Oh Raven you’re thin, not fat!
“A Chick-a-Dee would keep me healthy,
You’re a Reedling tall thin, like a Chat!

“Not a Secretarybird, nor a Roadrunner, For sure you Sibia Manakin!”
You're a Yungas Mannakin!, you have fine feathers on your tail!
“For such a Cutia Buteo, you’re skinnier than a Rail!
“A kinder man would tether you, Wagtail you a Hutton Vireo!
Fur a Greater Roadrunner, Yur a Graceful Pitta for Rea-l!”

“True, I'm Rail purty, tis true I was a Cutia,
I was the Yougas Mannakin, when I was a just a Tanager.
But then I got too Greeby, and my Manager threw me out,
I’m not the Least Bittern, I’m not the least Tit in doubt.”

We tried to squawk, but Raven’s Bewick had a Hoarse Accentor . .

“I Garganey’d Wild Turkey, but it didn’t make me Tercel,
"My Scarlet-Straited Ant-Thrush is Sora, Tits a gettin’ worse!
“Now I’m trying Kokako’s, to see if brings down the Weka.
“I need a Black Capped Phoebe, something to make it Pica.”

“Open your Magpie wide!”, an' I Sora Nuttalli inside her!
“Your Thrush-like Shiffornis! Gotten red and Sora!
“A Remizidae, I have some Serin, a Currasow in my Caracara!”

Now I ain’t got no Caracara, I have a Minivet and a Scoter,
No reason to Guan too fara.  They get me where I go to Skua.

I Hawfinch took a Waldrapp Swan, for a Divers around the Park
So that day on a Whimbrel, I asked Raven out for a Lark.

We Redstarted up my Scoter, and made the Eider roar.
But just then the Eider quit, the Block busted a Nutcracker.
“Turdus!” Sora Rook bad Luck, the Scoter’s engine gone!
There’s no Currasaw. . . it’s outta Oilbird!

“It’s a Beautiful Jay” Raven said, “Let’s Wren a Caracara!”
So we Wrentit ourselves a Merlin, and Redstarted to the Park.
Raven was actin’ Prinia, Coquette-a as I drove our Wrentit Merlin
Then took a Noddy Tern, and lied to in Tern to Raven,
“Our poor Merlin’s out of Petrel.”

I brought a special Botteri, in the Kestrel, for just such an Auk
It’s not a drink if you think a Stork, I thought she might just Goshawk.

Auk-ward as Raven is, she’s got a lot of Gull
“Wheat-ear!” She cries as she Dippers her Nightjar.
A Robin’ Bustard, a Ruff Babbler in the Act !
She’s Florican gas for our Wrentit car,
Duckin’ a Jackdaw in a Canvasback . . . . . “Caw Caw!”

"Duckin' a Jackdaw in a Canvasback . . . Caw Caw!"

I Coot not say no to Raven
I Lyrebirded to you here in this Dusky Lark
I lied to have you Raven . . .
Right here in Bushtit Park.

The Monal came out, and the Skylark got Bathawk,
“That’s Koel”, cawed Raven, then she threw the Canvasback.
“Let’s make a Leantoo,” Raven said, “I’ll make it up Pootoo, against the Wrentit Caracara bumper."
“And then I’ll invite you to my Bowerbird, and you can show me your Thunder Pumper!”

Raven became a Firewood-gatherer, I became a Leaf-Tosser,
Sora I Woodhunter my Treehunter, when we had enough leaves I’d Gleaner!

The place was kina Treepie, the sun Flicker-ed then Blackstart.
I thought to Coot my Oxpecker, and Shag Raven then in that Park.
Or maybe she Takehe up the Ani . . . like so many birds that Turdus
Wood she be a Trembler? Sora a Screamer? Raven my Bowerbirdus.

I started fumblin with her Spotted Redshank,
Then she took out one Brown Booby muffin.
Woodcock or Snowcock, my Monarch was really Puffin!
My Cock-seemed-made-of-Rock, it needed her Turkey to give Smew stuffin’.

When I Spider-hunter ware-y
“I’m not in a Thrush at all”
I'm Accipiter Cooperii, not at all Gentillis
She said, and took my Barbet Wood Peewee.

“That’s not for playin’” I told my dear young Raven.
“Not for a Pygmy Goose like you,
“That’ll pleasure an Oldsquaw Muttonbird!
“But will Hurt a Hummingbird like you.”

“Caw Caw” . . “Will hurt a hummingbird like you.”

“I ain’t no Rusty Breasted Nunlet, I’m a Ruddy Turnstone twenty!
Pygmy Ibon your Cactus Wren, I’ll give your Puffin Groundpecker plenty!
I ain’t no Virginia Cherrybird. You got a Trogon there?”
"Honeyguide my Rusty Flowerpiercer, Into your Fruithunter Fairey!"

“Caw, Caw! Into her Fruithunter Fairey!”

A Gannet and a Gannet, my Thunder Pumper banged her Butter Ball.
She called me a Stake Driver, and Wren me a Man-of-War!
I was Screamer “Raven!”, my Gull’s a Paradise Crow!
I Rollered her in leaves, we Tumblered in the Ouzel so.

My Puffinus Assimilis, is makin' her Ani Sora . . .
I’ll give her Peewee Stuffin’, and she’ll be beggin me for Moa!

“Guillemot, you are e-Chough for some good Broadbill,
I Coot Falconet” said Raven who then called me Bill.

She’s past being a Fregata minor, or a Twite Tanager
She’ll not be a Tattler, ‘Gwan then, take your Fill.
'And then when she’s had e-Chough you can Saddle-her Broadbill.’

She Wagtailed her Bendire, and Craned Thrasher in the Air
She jammed my Beak into her fender, and then ripped the clothes off my Scimitair.
We stripped off all our Stitchbirds, till we were naked in the filty Muck
And I then I took her Velvet Swift, to sit upon my Woody Duck.

“Caw Caw! Upon my Woody Duck!”

Then I threw her Velvet Asity down, and I ripped off Raven’s skirt,
I was no Gentoo-man, as I Spurfowl-ed her in the dirt. Caw Caw"

"As I Spurfowl-ed her in the Dirt. Caw Caw!"

I Craveri’d to up her Ani, I knew this was a Ruff Shag
Give me a Rosy-Finch . . . Don’t stop unless you’re a Fag!
"Kittiwake Kittiwake," I cried and she said, “Guan!”
I was Happy Wren my Trogon, jumped out of her gapin Hoatzin yawn!

Then from my Flycatcher, out leapt a Fairy Quill,
From my Hornbill, spilled to her Bushtit dark and Hairy.
“Moa Moa” she cried. She never Quetzal,
Raven was singin’ like a Nightingale merry!

“You’re a Loverbird! It must be your Eurasian Hobby!”
“Your Drongo’s longer than a Currawong.
No wonder you’re so afully Noddy!”

And it was that moment that I Lyrebirded to Raven,
Lyre-ed right there in that Park
. I told Raven I Lovebird-ed her.
All for her Bushtit Bushlark.

I swore Molothrus Ater, I Sora so Fulvetta,
A Gannet her a Divers bunch of lies,
A whole crop of Dotterel I Shoveler’d her
. . . just so I could get Broadbill.

“Dat’s Koel” she said, I hoped she was not a Tattler
"White-don't-Eye do Forktail, It won't make me strain Wryneck!"
Oh she’ll Crane and Crow , and then Swallow
When she takes my Flowerpecker.
She Duck-ed tho when she Dove,
Though I hoped she’d be a deeper Diver!

A Gannet and a Gannet her Sapsucker Godwit
I really thought she Woodswallow . . . . .
But just then my Bananaquit

“Caw Caw!” . . . “Just then his Bananaquit!”

[A Frigatebird may make Fantail, And all above eat Fieldfare
A Flameback Finch’s Firecrest may Dickcissel, Ozel leaps out of one’s Flycatcher!]

I Taiwan-ed on a Barwing, and checked in with a credit card down,
I Wrentit me a Bowerbird, at a five-star Hoaz’in town.
Raven liked the Bellbird, he gave her his Gold Kea,
I had to keep a White-eye, on the Waders that stayed so near!

We bought some Silken Satinbird, from a Weaverbird in the city,
She was Hairbird Cactus Wren, and Bee-Eating Veery Nody!
Raven dropped her Stitchbirds, for the Phillipine Tailorbird to show it’,
And flaunted her Penduline Tits there, and Hairy Pipipi as he sewed it!

You should have seen the Dollarbirds fly, for Longspurs, at a fancy Shoebill shop.
Then I bought a Fur-tive Flycatcher, and a Plushcap to Godwit it on top,
We gambled Dollarbirds at Galahs, and danced out at elegant Storks,
Raven was drinking Cisticola’s, we were feeding out with Kites and Forks.

I wore my Crow Silktails, Raven wore her Feather bust,
We danced away the night away, a Horned Coot with a Tanager in Rust.
I took her to the Flickers . . . the Black and White Trillers she liked best.
She wriggled and got all excited . . . even when she saw the Goldcrest
We started watching Bruce Leiothrix . . and other martial Larks,

Raven was a Replendent Quetzal, I hummed a Versicolored Emerald tune,
We ate Blue Capped Cordon-Bleu, an’ slept at Gentoo Hoat'z’in town.
I Rooked her to a Jewelbird, and bought her a Ruby Topaz.
Then late one night, she gave me such a flight,
When she Ducked outa sight in her Bath!
She liked Kakapos and Corn Crakes, lying a'Loon in bed,
Her Gull-et was an Openbill, inside of Raven’s Kitiwate Red!

“Takahe of this!” I said. I thought to light a Reefer.
Raven was my girlfriend now, by now I thought she was Akepa!
We’re just two Grebes smokin’ weed, I thought we might go a-Lapwing
I’d give her a Dunlin for a ring, and thought we might Teal the Knot,
But when she started Barwing, then I Smew she was a Leafbird fond of Pot.

“Caw Caw! . . . She’s a Leafbird fond of Pot”

Raven needed Minla, so I Loon-ed Raven Murre Monia,
Sure e-Chough I got the Merganser, I said that's not funny!"
It’s a Pitta, It’s a Shama and Murre,
My Gull Raven’s a Siskin Greenleaf addict for sure!

"Caw Caw! . . . A Greenleaf addict for sure!"

“Forktail the Munia, I Linnet ya little Northern Flicker!
“Yur a Bleedin’-heart, You got no Lark! You’re a lousty Tit-Babbler
“Wheres the Minla I Linnet Tinamou?
That Gull Raven of Myna is Wrentit Juncoo!

Caw Caw!” . . . Gull of Myna is a Wrentit Juncoo!”

You’re a Little Grassbird Raven . . and Grassquit you’ll do for sure!
But what are these Needletales? Don’t Lyrebird to me any Murre!
“Don’t give me no Bullfinch, else I’ll give you a Blackeye!
What are these Stubtails?, These Needle Tails? You're a Liarbird for sure!"

I Linnet her ten Francolins, and by day’s end “Shortwing!” Harp-eye.
“The Monal’s all Niltava! I don't have Ani Manee Towee!“
Oh she’ll Pratincoll, Crane and Crow
And then she'll Welcome Swallow.

But then I learned my Gull Raven’ll,
Would Jabiru me in the Knots for sure.

“Caw Caw!” . . . “Jabiru in the Knots for sure!”

Then I caught her Bulbul Teal-in’, Silver Kites 'n Forks ‘n Tern
Wag-in-Tail, Cockoo, an’ actin’ all Imperial Dove and Bittern.

“I’m so Sora, I’ve been Greebe-y, I’ve been Veery Noddy.”
“Guan Shrike a Tanager you Gentoo Man!"
You a makin’ me Siskin, it Smews how Shrike u Skimmer.”
This I'll Egret forever, an' knocked her on the Florican.
“Don’t Toucan, Let me go, l promise I’ll Grassquit”
“Don’t go, don’t go just yet”, I’m Mocking her Penquin.

“You’re a Malle-Fowl, I ain’t done wid Piculet.”
“No Hoatzin, I’ll throw you Owlet on ur Nightjar!”
“I’m makin a Scops-Owl, Swallowin’ Murre and Murre
No Monal left in this Moorhen? To the Hammercop u must go to Murre!”

“Caw! Caw! To the Hammercop u must go to Murre!"

Godwit I’ll Coot catch her Bobwhite,
From Heron I’ll not Thrush about it.
Gannet, Even when I take her to a Triller “Drongo”
And when she Shrikes and lies out . . .
Then I’ll Fly out and Catcher! . . . . . “Caw Caw!”

“Yuhina Out?”, In some ways Hammerkop.
I really hate to Harrier-her,
Eider Roller in return, She been a Robin and a 'Teal-in
I ought to have her Condor, or have her made Dikkop
Raven’s a Dollarbird, she’ll Gyre a story Weaver
It’s all Fish Owl, Oh she’ll Crane and Crow,
and then Swallow, all nice and sobby.

“Caw Caw! She’s been Loon-y for a Hobby!"

“Caw Caw!” . . . “ She’s been Loon-y for a Hobby.

We went back to Bushtit Park,
And Raven and I took again to Shag’n.
My One-Eyed Wryneck came 'a poking up
And Eider Ruff Shag-ed my darling Raven.

"And Turdus Grayi?"

One day my Dove was Diving along the Audobon
We weren’t even speeding, just Lazuli Bunting along,
I was lying in Raven’s lap, and tickling her Orioles,
It was fun counting her Titties, and looking for her one or two Moles.

“Kittlizt Plover, I’ve got to go Pipipi!”
“Murre Pipipi Raven? You’re the Pewee of Mississippi!”
Caca Guan fall out, along with Turdus Grayi
Upupidae in the Minivet!" Just then I heard a Honker!
"Crash, our Caracara had Kill-d-a-Deer!
My precious Minivet, my Red Lory couldn’t steer!
The wheels were Warblered, Wren we were looking for a Towhee truck
That was the moment I’d come to fear, as my Raven had run Sora luck.

A Crested Copperbird came over,
"Plover," he says, "Plover!
I’m Givin’ you the Collar’d Dove,” he says,
"Osprey-ed you breakin the Law!"

"I'll hear you sing Canary!”
“Ain’t Dunlin nothin’” Raven cried.
"Fulvetta confession," he said.
"I want a Fulmar Avadavat," she cried.

I offered him a Silverbill, but he had a Golden-eye,
Raven’s Spot-Breasted Oriole the Copperbird did Osprey.
"Fork-me-Over some-tail, an’ you won’t go to Jay-L!"
But Raven said "Goldfinch yurself, you Fulmar Horned Bustard!"
So with an Avadavat he claimed she was a Lyrebird, and into prison she was Buzzard.

I Wren an' got an Avocet, he sent papers with a Merganser,
I Babbled to an Avadavat, to a moustached Accentor,
Next thing you know I’m posting Quail,
Forktailing over more Moola!
All so this Quail can get my Gull, outta this Godwit Jay-L!

"Caw! Caw! . . . Outta this Godwit Jay-L!"

Raven’s let out on Parula,
Crake! It cost me Fody Francolins.
And what do you think she does?
Caw Caw! She throws a punch,
At my Broadbilled Treecreeper!

"No Parula," said the Ibis d’bill, it’s all my Bank Wood Swallow,
Sapayoa yur Bill, and I’ll take care of your Papyrus Canary!
“I’m not the Least Greeby! You could Least have some Graceful Pitta! . . . .”

I thought that Wood Ptarmigan,
Raven’s on the Lammer-geier . . .
Someday I really ought t’ Thrasher
While she’s Roadrunnin’ out there Robin‘ and Teal-in’ Murre.

Me I’ll not Shrike a Tanager
She’s Hoopoe’n I’ll Gnatcatcher I’m sure . . .
I really hate to Spurfowl her,
Shelduck everything I say . . .
I really ought to Chukkar Peafowl out,
For what Raven did to me that Day.

“Caw Caw” . . . “For what Raven did to me that Day.”

Then one Nightjar my Poorwill sang in heaven,
I opened up my Crow, and saw who'd rang was Raven.
She was Blackcap, wearing Macaw, and hair lookin all Curlew.
For a moment I Coot a’ Crossbilled her Violet-Ear,
An'felt my swelling Groundpecker.

But in a Moorhen, our love had Pootoo and Guan,
Raven pulled a Riflebird, I caught it and threw it down.
She pulled a Razorbill, but I caught her Rubythroat
I threw her on the Florican. “Common Ant Shrike a Tanager”, she Crow-ed,
“You Turdus assimilius!”
“Auk!” she cried, “You’ll get the Garot for this!”
“Don’t you Toucan! Godwit you’re gonna Gannet!”
“Sibia Care! You’re a Bustard”, she Crowed, she had to Flamingo.

“Caw Caw! . . . Crombec! Raven! Crombec! She had to Flamingo!""

“You’re a Bustard” she Crowed, We were gonna Marial Guan,
I’m Bay Wren a Child . . . Caw Caw! Suddenly I'm A Mute Swan,
What am I suddenly Heron? Could she be a Lyrebird? . . . .

“Is the Plaintive Cuckoo?” asked an Avocet with an Ara Militaris.
“Friarbird in Oilbird . . . She’s a Bataleur.”
“I Sea a Dove, but you say’s she’s a Bataleur,”
“Does she have a Lawyerbird? How does the defendant plead?”
“No Egrets, from Heron, No Bitterns at all. She’s a Fregata minor,
Sterna neglecta, and hence pleads Guillemot, and requests a Lesser Nothura.”

Raven pleaded Guilty and was Regulidae in chains.
An I’m not sure e-Chough I’ll ever see my little Gull Raven again.

Hwamei here? White-eye do it?
From Heron no Egrets.
I’ll not Grouse, or Rail at how Bird I am,
I’m not Moorhen, or even take a-Pelican,
Not the Least Bittern, I’ll take my Tern,
I thought I might Gnatcatcher.
What should I Dowitcher?
How I ought to Thrasher?
Oh Frigate! I’ll not Thrasher or Whipporwill!
But I know she’s not a Green Crombec
I’d Shoveler shit for a bit a Tit, so Owl ‘not flap about it!

She’s a Goose let loose, two Boobies with Tits an Orioles
She loves a Cock-at-tou, an’ a PeeWee’s Peafowl call
But I ain’t no Quail or a Limp-dic-kin Rail
So what ever Nuthatch, she a Least do one Ostrich,
An’ spend at Least Swan Stint in Jay-L .

“Caw Caw” . . . “An’ spend at Least Swan Stint in Jay-L !”

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Song of Paul - Octopus vulgaris





After the World Cup, our bandit curled up,
     perched atop his strand of pink coral.
Of all life on the reef, he stood tall in relief,
    Of course that octopus was Paul.

Perhaps an alien inhabited the brain,
     of our cephalopod bookie so damned,
Monoped shellfish claim octopoid hell-fish,
     Scam gamblers for dinners of clams.

Around a tank stood, beer lovers from the hood,
    a TV in the bar was playing.
They all knew it was Paul, the sage of football,
   Who swam in that salty aquarium.

Paul loosened an arm, and puckered a song:
     "They've upgraded my lodgings since winning.
Money's been made by visitors who've paid,
      Respect to my soccer ball singin'.
Without fuss and ado, I reach for the truth,
      I'll call this game in a minute!

A rush to the halls, for change to make calls
     In phone booths fumbling for dimes.
"Uruguay rusts, Dutch drown in Spanish dust",
    . . .  the sage old octopus chimed.

In a moment we learned, the market had turned,
    Paul the Octopus had hard wired.
"In my professional life, as a booky on ice,
     I never complained, or once whined.

“My tenured behest for a barkeeper's jest,
   His clients had lost to a pet.
Such was my karma, to excel at the dharma,
   Betting what's soft and what's wet.

"I constructed a temple, alas I’m kept single,
     Grant me a bit more space.
So I can straighten my tentacles while scraping off barnacles,
     from the walls of this glass carapace.

"A short time ago - salt time is so slow,
     To cement a cephalopod's fame.
I picked eleven winners, in return for my dinner
     And surpassed all fauna in name.

"You might say my intellect, broadcast my dinner bet,
    And affected the outcome I'd agree.
My achievements were mortal, all for some morsels,
    Of clams that died for my creed.

"I'll spin you tall tales, of sea monsters and whales,
    A bard with lore of the sea.
The list of my heroes, is long although feral,
    Indulge while I sing to you three."

Three brunettes had sauntered, towards the tank that Paul haunted,
     perched atop his pink coral remnant.
"How exquisitely formed!" one exclaimed so absorbed.
     "With eyes and and brains, he's brilliant!"

Paul overheard, so blushed pink at those words:
     "I practice the art of deep learning . . .
I'm glad you took notice, of my feats as a novice,
     when I selected the eight teams with discerning."

The beauty inferred, 'By what method, by what word?
     The thoughts this creature is sharing!
He knows to entrain, his thoughts to my brain,
     'And so bridges our species barrier!'

"I broadcast my thoughts, via neural onslaughts
     radio waves fine tuned to your brain.
When you stand near me, I swear you can hear me,
     And the tales I'm about to entrain . . .

"So enlighten with cheer, as you pull up your beer,
     with friends you just met at the bar.
Beauties listen closely, as I spell out a bit grossly,
     how cephalopods have progressed thus far . . .

"The history of AI, is nothing to my . . .
     abilities to boot up quickly.
Any subject you choose I'll learn and you'll lose,
  It's about octal programming.

"Nerves do fare better, in an environment that is wetter,
     I soaked up what was taught at the Center.
A squid whispered tips on a technique to read lips,
    Ecologists became my close mentors.

"The news of the Times, does no justice to brine,
     Citizens of the sea are exploited.
Editors of the Post now have to play host,
     To denizens of the deep re-anointed.

"On the phone through my glass, from TV and in class,
     they speak of my neural network.
But none can surpass, the reality of that task,
     seven victories at prophetic bet-work,
   
"English is no trick - Octo-lect makes you sick,
     You haven't the stomach to watch it.
It's a light show of tentacles - not one limb identical,
      You'll not unravel our Gorgon logic.

"Back in the day, before evolution held sway,
     there was an early implication of sex.
The birth of the mollusks, 'whatever' said Wallace,
     had Darwin most throughly perplexed.

"With my hectocotylus - think penis or stylus -
     I write verse for the octopus nation.
My limb number three, I could offer to thee,
     then grow another by self-generation.

"A professor last week - I overheard him in speech,"
     "said we're born of an alien race.
It doesn't make sense, our genome's so immense,
     Our proteins contend for first place.

"Of cephalopod suckers - think kisses that pucker -
     two-thousand does seem like a lot.
After counting eight limbs, it seems more a sin,
     To have science so tied in a knot.
"Before I commence mumbling, about cephalopod tumbling,
     I'll get on with some tales in cadence.
I promised thee three, about the life in the sea,
     I'll make them a bit X-rated."

"To remain in the sea, as a morsel that's tasty,
   seems contrary to becoming archival.
Before I recount, let me divulge from this mount,
    the art of octopus survival.

"As a species we're fed, from birth by the web,
     On knowledge of the sea that surround us.
We gather the facts, and use them to match hats,
    That masterfully do camouflage us.

"Our eyes surmise texture, and analyze the deep structure,
    Of coral and anemone blossoms.
We pinch up our surfaces, to rhyme like these verses,
   With the flora and fauna on the bottom.

"In brains versus brawn, the octopi have outrun,
    All reptiles, mammals and fishes,
Cephalopod three-hundred, like Spartans outnumbered,
     some have unfortunately gone missing.

"An Aussie-ringed cousin, who once learned to use poison,
     as a chemical line of defense.
A tidal pool dweller, with azure markings so stellar,
    Spelled 'don't touch' to the birds that had sense.

"Another technique, for eight legs on the slink,
     is an cloud of melanin that stings,
It balances the equation, to jet away in evasion,
     in hopes that a predator rethinks.

"We've given up hard homes, we never had bones,
     Our children trade up what they find.
An old cousin's shell, or a junk sandbox pail,
     Will house them just perfectly fine.

"When octopeds get large, they needn't go forage,
     when wandering around on safari.
They sit in disguise, with photo-luminescent dyes,
     our delectable flesh calamari.

"Once set up on top, of a coral outcrop,
     Color and texture to match.
When along swims some dinner, there's an octopus winner,
     and a crab to take up the hatch.

"Like humans we're soft, though not nearly so daft,
     We employ Musashi's strategy.
We reach out and tap, a shrimp on its back,
     So it swims right into our cavity.

"'Midst sharks and barracudas, in the dark sit like Buddha -
     in brain we're highly invested.
We co-ordinate eight arms, to avoid violence and harm -
     Our cerebellums have thoroughly been tested.

"On this topic of brains, let's now entertain,
     a mollusky tale of collusion.
How one eight legged scholar, untwisted a jar,
     and threw his lab in confusion.

"The phDs went home, this octopus would roam,
     invading tanks with profusion.
He swallowed snails, the fish in their pails,
     then retreated to conceal his intrusion.

"He pulled shut his cover, when night missions were over,
     then watched the blame-game begin.
'Who stole from our lab? Who robbed all the crabs?'
     The white coats were dismayed to their kin.

"A solution suggested, by a tech who just whispered,
     'Perhaps it's an eight-armed felon.'
But how could a morsel, of jelly corpuscles,
     navigate a dry floor with such talent?

"When we octopi escape, we become thin as a crepe,
    There isn't a void we can't wiggle free of.
An octal prisoner like a Marseillaise safe-picker,
    Picks locks with a paperclip key.

"Our man lowered himself down, suckers wound-round,
     the legs of tables and furniture.
He filled up his mantle, with seawater to make gentle,
     his crawl across the dry desert.

"Squirting a puddle, across which he scuttled,
     he climbed each aquarium in turn.
Raiding the mollusks, he downed them in solace,
     and by dawn returned to his berm.

"Back to our story, I hope you won't worry,
    that our hero dried up on a rug.
Not at all, I'll enthrall, with a tale that's not tall,
    This Octopus vulgaris got smug.

"The simplest of brains, displays intelligence in spades,
     a complex of Mensa chosen.
Survival on the reef is not easily achieved,
     with defenses of ink or poison.
"We octopi hide with genius inside,
     Camouflage is better than evasion.
Sun Tzu's strategy of war, is indeed at our core,
     Passed to the next octopoid generation.

"And now that your here, I'll play to your ears,
    And explain how we octopi do it.
No need for protection from this x-rated section,
    Deep down you already knew it.

"Using eight arms gives a lover great charms;
     We males use one arm . . . as a penis.
It's not even bony, or a fossil that's stony,
     Ideal for an octopus Venus.

The Colossus of Rhodes wasn't embarrassed to show,
    the rock that endowed him as God.
The statues on Delos, most definitely do tell us,
   of the thing that's so shaped like a rod.

Unlike a codfish, a cephalopod is steadfast,
     To give a baculum to his octopus Eve.
The tradition's to donate, a piece of the stone age,
    That rises from his tentacled weave.

"We'll often be urged, when out on a splurge,
     Take it off to donate as a flower!
She takes it right home to nurture with foam,
     and impregnate with cephalopoid power.

"The octopus bed, suddenly turns red,
     Exodermus and suckers all match.
A Pacific Striped Venus, takes hold what's keenest,
     in hopes of some offspring she'll catch.

"One kiss beak to beak, a shudder and squeak,
     a great tangle of limbs get inspected.
The octopoid liturgy gets mumbled in synergy,
     DNA gets suddenly injected.

A painful admission, about cephalopoid emission,
     We bonding with Octopussy but once.
A sad truth to divulge, is that once we find love,
    We dry up and die like a dunce.
 
The secret to living, for an octopus that's winning,
   Never provide him a dame.
A octopus bookie who successfully avoids nooky,
    Will live long and make poetry fame.



This is part II of 'Song of Paul', for Part I go here.


Saturday, October 17, 2015

Coming Soon - Song of Raven


“Warble daw Raven"

Wat daw Scribblers Scrabe:

Striped Babbler: “Bee-eating a Veery Nody-tail, Scrabe ‘n Averic wid English, Breton, Gaelic, Cornish, Irish, Latin and American Bird names.”

Popinjay: “Purre Goldfinch. A Yoldring Tail ‘n Birdic Grammaw, fly ao Blakeling Scribbler, daw Tail of doo Lovebirds.”

Nanny Wash-tail: “Knot doo Shabby . . Knot Pheasant . .  May-be Fowl . .  Tithys goldie Tell-tale Triller . . “

Bohemian Chatterer: “As Great Reeds go, a ‘Monarch Moualc'h’ ‘n Bird!”

Gossip Bird: “ Bass Guiss? A Pretty Quick Coot Reed! Great Divers! Knot Fody Bleeding-hearts. A Tail doo Ptarmigan 'n Ptarmigan!"

Daw Haggister: “Fody Gull Chasers . . . and Squeezy Gulls Doo . . . Moor Tits ‘n Assity ‘n Fody Plover Padges!”

Warble Daw Raven:"Io Tam Gled Io Rood '!"

"Yoit Knot Coot Wheary! "


"Alae, daw fannag of Cromadh Bend-daw Ear bird!"


"Cob Rook a Rant!"

Thursday, January 8, 2015

Az Ének un Pennsylvania Vampir






Magyar culture spread itself around Eastern Europe from the first millennium BCE. After the first World War, which cut the Austro-Hungarian Empire into bits, Hungary lost all of Transylvania to the reformed nation of Romania.

The Carpathian mountains are inhabited by a diversity of peoples and tribes. The region known as Transylvania has heard Latin, German, Russian, and hundreds of dialects over the past two thousand years, as well as local tongues, mainly Romanian and Hungarian between which there are almost no similarities. Dialects abound. In some places the lingua franca changes from village to village. In Romania the mother tongue Daco-Romanian or Moldovan is a Romance language and part of the giant Indo-European language family. Hungarian on the other hand, is Finno-Ugrik, and does not derive from the Indo-European root at all. Its only close relatives are in Northern Scandinavia, Finland, and Estonia, though a few patches of Finno-Ugrik are spoken south of this region and inside Russia.

Acquiring language appropriate for a subject is only half of a poet's task. It may take a lifetime to learn Hungarian for a non-native speaker, and even so, would leave the studious foreigner unable to relate to concepts that are social in origin. The great linguists, such as Captain Richard Burton, were able not just to acquire foreign speech, but also pass in behavior, as natives of that land. It is notable that when Burton travelled in disguise to Mecca, his traveling companions were never wiser as to his British origin, except when mistakenly, he peed standing up, rather than squatting which was the Islamic custom.

Is it necessary to be Transylvanian to understand or feel for the vampire myth? I think not. Vampires are a universal suggestion of all mythos, as old as beliefs in aliens from other planets, and one that has roots in almost every culture. From Indonesia to Central South America, tales of blood-drinking beings are firmly embedded in the human imagination worldwide.

My perceived connection between Pennsylvania and Transylvania began when I made a weeklong trip to Philadelphia to visit the fine art museum there. I made day trips, and explored the local Schuylkill River to its source. At that time I wondered why most myths about Vampires posit that these creatures are afraid of water. The rivers in the Eastern US all possess a haunting beauty. The Hudson, the Delaware, the Susquehanna, carry a form of self-consciousness that at times can be terrifying. The rivers themselves tell their story. It is violent. They think, they feel, they are not us.

Never is this quite as true as around the upper Schuylkill and Brandywine. These are literally the veins of our history, blood vessels of our land, draining past and present into the sea.

And then of course I wondered, suppose there was a vampire whose modus operandi was to hunt along these rivers, swim in them, and move through their waters with ease. Suppose he used the carnage of the American Civil War to grow strong. Suppose he drank the blood of a desperate nation.

If he were from Transylvania originally, he would understand the situation in which he found himself. Once a man, now a mere form of consciousness, in human terms, dead already, but able to ponder his own fate and the fates of those he lives by. He would live like history lives, dead, yet always alive.

To do this right I'd need something from Transylvania. Not just memories, not just internet research, but something from the structure and sound of the language itself. If I could get the sound pushing inside the mind of my subject. he'll become a metaphor for the predicament of all living things. There are three forms of nutrition, plan, animal, and mineral. Having the latter helps, but one cannot survive without an adequate diet of the first too. We live taking the lives of other beings. Do we think we're exempt? Does nothing eat us?

Since beginning this project I've come to love the sound of Magyar speech, and know that past migrations of warriors to the Transylvania region of Romania suits the progress of my coal-dark tale.




-=:)(:=-

Az Ének un Pennsylvania Vampir

Révén Pennsylvania táplálja, a holló,
Ingyenes, és érezte a régi Erdélyben.
Ő a magyar, cseh származású,
Soha számít, ahol a magyarság ment.
A háború után hagyta el Romániát,
A halálfélelem, a gyűlölet és a vágóhidak.

"Drága feleségem, én itt található magyarázat,
Az élet külföldön, mert én fordult vámpír.
A szomjúság a lelkeket, egy fájdalom a vérben,
Teszi az én átok, sokkal rosszabb, mint a szén.

De egy perc ezekben Egyesült Államok,
Ott álltam a szenátus, győzött aznap versenyt.
Aztán gyertyafényes, vitatkozunk eltörlése,
Én lettem az áldozata egy angyali nő.

A hölgy megragadta a karom,
És préselt olyan közel, mintha a csók,
A kék szeme beszélt. Nem forma ártalmak,
Hozna a halál, de az életnek nincs rendjén.

Ő lecsapolták az én akaratom. M fej gyenge volt.
Összeszorított fogakkal nyakam helyett.
Azt gondoltam, hogy furcsa megcsókolta olyan nehéz,
Halvány, észrevettem, vér részeg volt.

A nő felállt, egy szerető elutasított,
"Most már tudom, ez az, amit keresett,
"A nap alatt rabszolgák minden küszködik,
"De most egy gazfickó, aludni alatt talaj."

Saját út Richmond, amikor fiatal voltam,
Becsapott a az a nő, és az ő csábító nyelvét.
Egy szénfekete éjszaka, vágási készült,
Ivott a lelkem, és elhagyta ezt helyette.

Hagyta, hogy elég oltja rá szomjat,
A legkegyetlenebb leányzó, hogy biztosítsa egy átok.
"Van most már tanulni, te csak egy szolga!
"Mint minden az életben, szenátorok, gazfickók."

Hetek nincs lélegzet, nem egy darab kenyeret.
Utáltam a víz, én majdnem meghalt.
Vágytam sót, húst engem geg,
Hogyan átkozva, hogy parázna banya.

Saját visszatérés az egészségre, amikor végre etettem,
Egy vértócsában egy baleseti halál.
De egy csepp megérintette ajkamat,
Egy sebből felemelte, a keze ügyében.

A rendőrség és a mentősök lökött félre,
És vissza a szervezetben, hogy szegény gyerek.
Rögtön tudtam, hogy mit száguldott az ereimben,
Az én ősi helyén, a magyar nevet.

Amerikai élet rájött,
Milyen bujkált benne mindezen századok.
Milyen gének vágy táplálja a halhatatlanság,
Cserélni átkokat az emberiségtől.

Kezem-lábam nőtt erős, az új hatalom megfogta.
Most már fürdött, az én testem kihűltek.
A szenátus elmentem több alkalommal több.
Nem szóltam, de even'd az állás.

Egy tucat rabszolga találkozott szörnyű véget ér,
A megelőző hetekben, hogy a lázadó kongresszus.
By este tombolt virginiai földön,
Szeletelés nyakára képmutató születés.

Dél-Mason-Dixon kerestem William Preston
Ki fejlett, hogy számlát déli győz.
A Smithfield Mansion, ereiben vért vettünk,
Halvány csuhé ültetett ágyban.

A lámpafényes hajógyári egy borús nautch,
Két Yankee tengerészek állt a végső óra.
A jelenés, hogy lecsapolták a fiatalok,
Volt, sápadt bőr, mint rabolt igazságuk.

Fedélzet alatti összes fogvatartott megjelent,
De megvágta őket először, így hamarosan ők 'táplálkoznak.
A gyáva Dél-átok szétszórt,
Elkapták a mesterek, majd hirtelen a szomjat.

Én rendezik a folyón északra Philadelphia városában.
A emberiség szerelmese voltam minden kerek.
Egy óriás kúria falai négy tégla vastag,
Nem lehet eladni, szellemek lakták.

Én nem vett tudomást a siránkozás lidércek,
Ki felsikoltott éjjel aludtam, mint nap.
A megrémült szomszédok pedig nem lép,
A jól őrzött otthont a távollevő bérlő.

Hogy a nagy barát város a férfiak,
Sokkal jó élet volt ütött, majd,
A nyomorúságos kórházban, tele kétségbeeséssel,
Lelkek, akik több remény, mint ellátást.

Azt kerülni üszkösödés azokban a szörnyű óra,
Mint egy éjféli nővér állatias morgás.
Éjjeli orvosok telt keresztül a korai reggel,
Hogy nem talál impulzusok, a legények voltak ott.

Nem halálos járványt fog dönteni a háború,
Nap eljön nélkül Istenről.
Én pimaszul bedugult a folyók ömlött,
Miután Shiloh a zsákmányt, a föld tönkre só,

Ettől a pillanattól kezdve ittam élni,
És szem előtt tartotta, hogy minden élet egy ajándék.
Egy kisgyerek egy kis labdázni.
Szakadt a gyermekbénulás, arra gondoltam, talán esni.

Örömét forró volt, mint áramok a füst,
Egy kis meccs, hogy az apró fazont.
Gyengéden, hálásan megragadtam, hogy az élet.
És úgy érezte, hogy szaporodnak mélyen.

Valaha zöld levél táplálja a vágy,
A nem kerül felhasználásra, így a virág nagyobb?
Bár minden lény át kell mennie az élelmiszer,
Jellemzők élet, hogy nekünk utódokat.

Csaták, kórházak, utak, iskolák,
Kedves követte vér medencék.
Ne veszítsünk csepp, amikor a ivás,
Nem öntsön lényeg vagy több, mint szüksége.

Kedves szereti a vizet, annak ellenére, hogy a mítosz.
De az élő száraz, mint a viperák megőrizni erőnket.
Mi rejlik a helyeken, ahol halál követhet,
És vágja le az állomány, mint egy farkas, hogy szólója.

Volt egy élet harc valaha nyert?
A győztes vámpír, a Bull Run?
Majd vadászni újra, ezek a versek I kísérteni,
Annyi voltam a boxban, de maradni örökre szikár.

Hol légiók bátor halandók menni,
Mint én most hazugság örökre hideg.
Akiknek a szíve egyszer megverte most már festett lelkek,
Egy vágy a folyadékok, ellopott és üríteni.

Szegény antietami a megszentelt föld,
Egy öreg katona I vérzett a Gettysburg városában.
A legkisebb száma életét I Döfködték,
Varjak mint a rettenetes Civil War.

Neath hulló levelek I follow'd a nyomában.
Öreg tölgyfa áldott lelkek tenni.
A presbiteriánus, hamar lenne ápoló,
Majd elájul rá riverside temetési halottaskocsi.

A háborúk vége erőm nőtt légió
Re életét vesztette az a hírhedt térségben.
Félelmeim a fulladás eloszlik,
Mélyen a folyók, én türelmesen várt.

És a part menti mélyén egy éjszaka
Egy szerencsétlen úszó megfulladt a láthatáron,
Az ő gyáva szeretője verte a partra.
Megtalálták a két testület által már reggel.

Ahol az Erie-tó vizenyős medencében végződik,
Vettem egy kőműves lánya, elemzi Jenn.
A következő éjszaka, hálát adva szórakoztató,
Én esett a rémülettől, majd ivott a fiát.

És végig a gyönyörű Lackwana,
Én Fanged egy hórihorgas gal nevű Joanna.
Egy szerető ma este énekel egy Randy dallamot,
Aztán szörnyethalt, alatta egy Borbuggyan hold.

A vámpírok nem szeretnek énekelni, és barangolni,
Bár este véget ér az agyarak és élénkvörös habot.
A zene egy módja van,
A elcsábítani szerelmeseinek a halála előtt.

Amennyire csak lehetséges, igyekszem megkímélni,
A fitt és egészséges, azoknak a lelkes imádság.
Bénító élmény, a jóga tanultam,
Inni, majd indulnak a nyomorult féreg.

Most túra folyók, patakok, és tavak,
Backyard játszani készletek, és szabadtéri felfújtak.
De sajnos a mi fajunk nem tudja eldönteni,
Milyen élelmiszer táplálják a szennyezett belsejét.

Mennyire hosszú a nedves ágy legtöbb,
Ahol én rég eltemetett régi cseh kísértet,
Hogy a pincéjében sötét és nedves,
Nem megyek oda, legalábbis még nem.
Vágyom aludni ezer évvel,
Hogyan Én már sírtam, mint a mérgező könnyek!

Van bányák meglátogatni, tengelyek szén,
Városok befeketíteni az én átkozva lélek.
Barangolni az esős Allegheny éjszaka,
És mi a sima költészet rémület.
Éhes, szomjas, éhen több,
Azt nem lehet megmenteni, kivéve metafora.

Saját szavai elsápad, amit üríteni őket,
Az én Wolfen üvöltés, és a prérifarkas hívást.
Sajnos én kutatnak ihletett vers,
Oldalak haldoklik az én átok.

Saját esze éles, van foga, mint a kés,
Nem tudom abbahagyni táplálkozó ezeket az életeket.
A tragédia nem tudok inni ahhoz,
Szavakat, mint én, és szeretem szavakat, mint a szerelem.
Keresztül nyugtalan hegyek, a végtelen vándorlás,
Én simogatni a kitöltést, a comb és a nyak.

Sávos pisztráng fut fel Northkill Creek,
A szeplős fiatal elragadtatott csak ezen a héten.
Hol Schuylkill hullámai robbant a Delaware,
Saját erkölcstelen izgalom volt a legrosszabb rémálma.
Amikor a gyors Susquehanna árvíz csúcsán,
Én formálni tolódik a vérem felé Chesapeake.

Amikor éjszakai jön, a szívverésem szárnyal,
Ijesztő Végzet, a hátsó utca üvölt,
Remélem és imádkozom gyógyítja Isten.
Éjszakai fordul nap, de végződik gyep szőnyeg.
Gyere rózsás hajnal, csúszik az én ágya.
Szunnyad és meleg, a büdös föld.

Dobálni, és álmodni bélrendszer fájó,
Vagy üvölteni és kiabálni jövőm kockára.
Az út, hogy vadásznak rám, hogy felajánl egy ünnep,
Szavak kábító én, a remény, a béke.
De az érintés a talaj, a natív sár,
Hozza forrni, én vágy a vér.


-=:)(:=-


Sunday, August 7, 2011

Tea-bowl Tantra





Mt. Fuji for Natsuko drawn
On this teabowl, dripped upon.
What's got fire, land, and sea?
With soul, not ire, it stands for me.

Watered Shino, tinged and rosy,
To daughter Maya, a gift with poesy.
Why so pleasant drinking tea?
Life's great lesson is simplicity.

Little bats, from iron rich clay,
Nibbled my lip, they crawl'd through glaze.
This Vampire Cup was made from mud,
With vampire bats, for drinking blood!

Win this bowl without a fee,
Drink from a vessel, soul-ed by tea.
A humble bowl's modernity,
Took some soul, from a mystery.
The tiny pin prick on this bowl,
Defeats perfection, that has no soul.

To Lieutenant Edward Lash,
This cup got covered, by wood ash.
I'll give to you at Brandreth Lake,
Where tea we'll drink, and thanks we'll take.

On a lumpy cup our fire played,
Dumped in ash, and melted clay.
This project's soul, is friendship tea,
Not about objects, or pottery.
I've named this bowl for a moon that's full,
It gleams tonight, my full-moon bowl.

Her knee's inflamed, she lies in bed,
Some tears of pain, it's turned bright red,
Where tantra acts the night is clear,
Reflects back, what light is near.

By a river of time, a restless fire,
Ignites in life, what dreams inspire.
Who will take this Shino bowl,
And then for tea, will pour in soul?

What in deed does Murdoch fear?
He's turned eighty, could play King Lear,
In James the son, his ego's host,
He made a run, with his father's ghost.

There's a time to lead and a time to follow,
One's the seed, and the other's the father.
Shiva meditates in his cave,
So brings success, the 'I Ching' says.

I come at last to bowl nineteen,
In which I taste some soul with tea.
On this bowl, Don-oxide danced,
Quixote's soul, walks with lance.

In a tidal marsh, of sunset red,
We saw this egret, before going to bed.
Some red flashing, inside drips,
What's left of brushwork, looks like fish.

I've written couplets about each cup,
Next time I'll write them on it.
And if I get fed up with that,
I'll then start writing sonnets.

A slim tree with leaves of green,
A mountain hidden by what you're seeing.
Mud burned red, by simple iron,
The blood is fed by trembling desire.
A draught of Mars will deaden fears,
Drink from this cup, live a thousand years.

A distant isle swathed in fog,
From ashen fire, a dawn-rising raga.
A volcano's erupted, or else a wig,
A tiny hill, sprouts grassy sprigs.

A weft ikat by fire woven,
A sketch of flames in a witches' coven.
On that sari, or pashmina shawl,
Behind my drawing lies hidden from all.
A Shino bowl, where reds have flashed,
Now is gone, to David's stash.

Hail to a Mott Street friend,
Hale fell at my journey's end.
From this cup we'll drink some tea,
And then old friend, it belongs to thee.

Streaks of lightning, striking down,
Thirty-one is crying, "I'm almost done!"
Strokes by nature's drawing kit,
Mocks attempts, at imitating it.
When tea in this, is finally bowl-ed,
The X you'll see is green and gold.

Fire flutters, and then it rushes,
Iron splatters, rosy blushes.
A mountain seen through snowy haze,
Leaves of tea, in a crackly glaze.
The project’s through, Cup thirty-six,
A haiku of leaves, and winter sticks.


-:-

  123,  4,  5,  6
  78910,11,12

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Fly Me Back to Tripoli



Fly me back to Tripoli,
Watch me start a war that's holy.
I'll drop my bombs on Gaddafi,
Fly me there in fast Lockheed.

Let's fly back to that Barbary coast,
See us make Gaddafi a ghost.
Watch us turn the desert to glass,
Fly me there in a Lockheed fast.

Fly me over that no-fly zone,
Fly me there, I'll read my poem.
Above Bengazi I'll rant and rave,
And all the citizenry, our bombs will save.

Watch me streak over old Ajdabiya,
It reminds me of Baghdad, pre-GW.
How Iraq rose of its own choosing,
And helped us oust that tyrant Hussain.

I'm UN backed, do you need proof?
Let's whack the rebels in Ras Lanuf.
Let's save some Libyans by dropping bombs,
Just listen to that patriot, Cameron.

If being British doesn't make you cozy
Sleep to French from Nick Sarkozy.
Oil's a foil to distract the world,
Islamic turmoil, now unfurled.

We need our villain, we need him bad,
So let's put boots on Libyan sand,
And when the rebels secure our oil,
Let's bomb Libya, until it boils.

Who are the rebels? Do you know them well?
Who started the trouble? Did you hear them tell?
Some say Al Queda, we've thrown a rope,
A place for income, a refuge they hope.

Say ceasefire, suggest peace talks,
We speak the lingo of Tomahawks.
We'll put that dictator back in his cage,
Airdrop him a nice bandage.

Hear this rant Old Tripoli!
We'll bomb your tyrant Gaddafi.
Fly us back to Tripoli,
Fly us there, in a fast Lockheed.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

लैंड ऑफ़ सिंध

 

[Hindi transliteration, from English]


इ'म गोइंग तो भारत'स सालती पांस, 
गोइंग तो मीत माय गुजु गल 
इ'म गोइंग तो रन्स नार पाकिस्तान, 
तो देसेर्ट्स ऑफ़ कुत्च एंड साल',

इ'म गोइंग तो संड्स नार बुर्तों'स सिंध,
वेयर 'अ थौसंद ओने निघ्ट्स' वास फर्स्ट इन्स्पिरेड,
इ'ल सतुदी बुर्तों, सी हाउ वोमेन अरे लिविंग,
इन लैंड ऑफ़ सी सनके एंड चाय.

इ'ल वंडर अबाउट अहमद'स सौक्स,
वेयर शोप्स अरे साइज़ ऑफ़ बग.
इ'ल स्पेंड सम टाइम बुयिंग कोत्तों थ्रेअड्स,
मय्बे इ'ल एवें स्प्रिंग फॉर अ रुग.

इ'म गोइंग तो सुल्तान'स मरबले अबोड़े,
एंड टेम्पले बेलो हिस सिटी.
इ'ल फोल्लो शाह तो इस्लाम बेलो,
एंड सतुदी हिस हरीम पोएट्री.







आमिर'स गोइंग तो टेक में बिर्डिंग,
आउट तेरे ओं ठोसे सालती पांस,
हे'स गोत फास्ट फलकों ठाट लीर्निंग,
एंड एकुँल्ली फास्ट पैर ऑफ़ हौंड्स.

इ'म गोइंग तो कात्च अ नगर तिगेर,
आउट तेरे ओं ठाट सालती बोग.
मय्बे इ'ल स्नात्च गोल्ड फ्रॉम हेर फिरे,
मय्बे इ'ल सी अ हरे चसे अ दोग!

इ'ल वाल्क विथ आमिर एंड अमीरी,
बी शोरेस ऑफ़ साबरमती,
थें गो बेक तो ओल्ड मुंबई,
तो विसित पल्स अत मर्चंट-इवोरी.

इ'ल स्टॉप तो वाटच सम क्रिकेट,
इन थे हाल्स ऑफ़ ठाट क्ची क्लब.
इ'ल ड्रिंक सम टा, एंड मुम्ब्ले अ पला,
तो हवे आईटी इन अ ग्लास ठाट'स बीन स्क्रुब्बेद.

काबा इ'ल मीत योगिनी इन संदाल्स,
इ'll बे नागा'डी बी नंबर ओने मुसे.
वे'ल गो स्नेअकिंग फॉर कोब्रस इन तन्देम
'तवील कोंफुसे हेर इफ इ दोन'टी ब्रिंग माय शोएस!

"दो यू रेच्कों इ'म नगर तिगेर?
"वौल्ड यू सी में नकद आउट इन कोल्ड?
"आईटी'स फ्रीजिंग हियर इन माय तिगेर वल्ली!
"माय क्रोत्च इस नीडिंग मोरे गोल्ड!"

नो इ'म शाह ऑफ़ अहमदाबाद,
इ'वे जुस्त ब्रौघत माय दौघ्टर एंड सों.
बुत इ'म रेअल्ली जुस्त अ कोन्न्नेक्टिचुत यांकी
व्हो हप्पेनेद तो शूट अ हरे विथ अ गुण.

इ'ल वाल्क बरेफूत डाउन बी रिवर,
वोमेन ऑफ़ देसेर्ट गो तेरे तो वैल,
पेद्दले ठिर उसेद तीनस ऑफ़ कुकिंग आयल,
एंड इ'ल शिप माय स्कुल्प्तुरेस बेक होम तो याले.

स्चेहेराज़दे  विल तेल में हेर तलेस,
अल निघत राईट थ्रौघ तो मोर्न,
इफ शे गेट्स में एन्स्नारेड इन प्लाट ठाट शे'स मदे
इ'ल पोस्त्पोने हेर एक्षेकुतिओन!

व्हेन बिर्ड्स तूर्ण उप वोलुमे इन मोर्निंग,
बेफोरे फर्स्ट क्रैक ऑफ़ देसेर्ट दवन,
इ'ल बे दोंग माय स्पेशल योग,
सिंगिंग माय ओह्म-फिल्लेद सोंग . . . 

"इ'म गोइंग तो भारत'स सालती पांस!
"इ'म गोइंग तो रन ऑफ़ कुत्च!
"इ'म गोइंग तो कात्च अ नगर तिगेर!
"इन रोल्लिंग देसेर्ट्स ऑफ़ काक्टुस एंड भुज!"

My Muse comments on this piece, I respond to her.



Saturday, December 11, 2010

Land of Sindh


I'm walking to Bharat's salty pans, 
Going to meet my Guju gal, 
I'm walking to the Ranns near Pakistan, 
To the deserts of Kutch and sal'. 

I'm going to the sands near Burton's Sindh, 
Where 'A Thousand and One Nights' was first inspired, 
I'll study him, and see how his women are livin', 
In the lands of sea, snake, and chai. 

I'll wander about Ahmed's souks,
Where shops are the size of a bug.
Spend some time buying cotton threads,
And maybe even spring for a rug.

I'll go to the Sultan's marble abode,
And the temple below his city.
I'll follow the Shah to his Islam below,
And study his hareem's poetry.







The Amir will take me birding,
Out there on those salty pans,
He's got a fast falcon that he's learning,
And an equally fast pair of hounds.

I'll catch me a Nagar tiger
Out there on that salty bog.
Maybe I'll snatch some gold from her fire,
Maybe I'll see a hare chase a dog!

I'll stroll with Amir and Amiri,
By the shores of the Sabarmati,
Then back to old Mumbai,
To visit pals at Merchant-Ivory.

Then stop to watch some cricket,
In the dust of that CCI club.
I'll drink mint tea, and mumble a plea,
To have it in a glass that's been scrubbed.

When I meet my yoginis at Coba,
I'll be Nāgá'd by number one Muse.
We'll go sneaking in tandem for Cobras,
'It will confuse her if I don't bring my shoes.

"Do you reckon I'm a Nagar Tiger?
"You see me naked out here in the cold?
"It's freezing here in Tiger valley!
"My crotch is needing more gold!"

Now I'm the Shah of Ahmedabad,
I've brought over my daughter and son.
But I'm really just a Connecticut Yankee,
Who happened to shoot a hare with a gun.

I'll walk barefoot down by the river,
The women of the desert go there to wail,
They peddle me used tins of cooking oil,
To ship my sculptures back home to Yale.

Scheherazade tells me her stories,
From dusk right through to the dawn.
She's got me ensnared, in the plots that's she's bared -
I'll postpone her execution.

The birds call out time to do yoga,
At first light of the desert morn.
Down his hole goes that old King Cobra,
Singing that ohm-filled song . . . 

"I'm going to Bharat's salty pans!
"I'm going to the Ran of Kutch!
"I'm going to catch me a Nagar Tiger!
"In rolling deserts of cactus and Bhuj!"


[Hindi transliteration , also my Muse comments on this piece, I respond.]




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