Daily Archives: April 13, 2004

The Press Conference: descort

No outrage, just amused
(perhaps its because I can’t stand the sound
of his voice)
It reminds me of a song by Robyn Hitchcock
“He’s the president of Europe and he’s talking to the dead /
They’re the only ones who’ll listen or believe a word he’s said”
That, and Wenn ich Kultur hore
entsichere ich meinen Browning
*
runs through my head as he testifies
(as in testifying about his faith, under oath
only to his God)
There ought to be a law against running the country
without a mandate to do so
(like say, the popular vote).

13 APR 2004

* Hanns Johst, a German playwright of the Nazi era, wrote “Wenn ich Kultur hore… entsichere ich meinen Browning” (When I hear the word “Culture”, I reach for my Browning (rifle)).

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Can This Thing Fly?: septenary stanzas

It’s doubtful that democracy’s dense doyens can reclaim
the country’s core without creating more sorrow and shame,
to count coup on the status quo, entrenched in apathy,
seems like the wisest way to go, at least it looks to me.

The Left Wing’s fawning satyrs spawn their imbecilic imps
who feign as fiends for filibuster, but are worthless wimps,
while on the Right, cropped high and tight, the fascists frolic on
investing in the right of kings and trampling the pawns,

and in the Middle’s mild morass, the muck is made and sold
that so entrenches everyone, they just do as they’re told.
The nation’s fate is fixed, with fools all wrestling at the wheel;
Smart money might just scan the hand, and demand a redeal.

13 APR 2004

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Wretched Thoughts: deibhidhe

Most days I don’t mind the mess
that fills my fancy, doubtless
in its mad mire growing grand
plans my desires demand;

but today, the turmoil seeks
to wreck my poor reason’s speech
and turn to tares the flowers
where I’ve worked long hard spent hours.

Voices volley in my head;
oh, that order would instead
cast this chaos to the void
before this day is destroyed.

13 APR 2004

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A Meeting is no Substitute for Progress: a cywydd llosgyrnog

So much to do, and time so tight
that one would think to do things right
the first time might be thought wise;
but it’s a finger pointing game,
no one willing to take the blame.
Things stay the same. No surprise

there, I guess, but one can still work
to bypass the constant knee-jerk
reflex that lurks, just waiting
to derail some major meeting
and cause dissent, thus defeating
those who bring hope. Frustrating,

when it takes more hours than at hand
to craft and hone some kind of plan
that spans the project’s gamut.
Consensus is great, that is true,
but other times you just have to
Shut up and do it, dammit.

13 APR 2004

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Eliot’s Month, Not Mine

cywydd deuair hyrion

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
— T.S. Eliot, from The Waste Land

Again the winds are playing
like knives, and the steel wool gray
and ominous gathered clouds
have the horizon shrouded.
The spring that for a week warmed
winter’s bones is now forlorn
and hiding beneath the porch,
confused and quite out of sorts,

proud short-sleeved glory faded,
its sun-drenched dreams frustrated.
Like giants, groggy, half asleep,
the trees hang to their new leaves;
and tender young plants, untrained
and weak, lay flattened by rain
that keeps coming at odd hours
to chill the blooming flowers.

April, you promised sunshine,
but delivered a long line
of bitter squalls; now just half
spent, your span’s sad epitaph
will read of somber, bleak days
filled with dreary, wet malaise,
seeking in vain for some warmth
from your cruel unending storms.

13 APR 2004

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