Posted tagged ‘manicddaily’

“What She Was Into For A While”

August 23, 2012

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What She Was Into For a While

Take P.G. Wodehouse.
Clare did, meeting me every morning
with ‘what ho what ho
what ho?” and, when I
was not about to be called ‘Dingo’,
shimmering into talk of
“the good old F & B” (her brother,
Kieran)  (Flesh
and Blood).

Though even Wodehouse
was better than the bands. That one
actually started
with Kieran I think,
who may already
have been using–don’t know for sure–only
that he was crazed by then, bringing his
guitar to school to practice
in the bathroom, cradling it
on the boys’ room floor, which I thought
freaky enough, but his fingers oh so fast, man, like
he’d taught himself to
flicker.

Though Clare, hurt the way he seemed
to just stop caring, sniffed ‘heavy metal,’
‘not her thing,’ her profile thinning against
her laptop;  again, again
clicking on some My Space rif
(or ten) that (from my point of view) could never
buffer
long enough.

The worse was when I’d go
with her to a beer-amped
cave to actually see the stupid
band and one of the guys would
unhook himself
from the stage, buzzing
nonchalantly to
her be; ready, I could see, to take her
like a cigarette, quick and half-
smoked down, and I’d ‘hey Clare,’ even whispering
‘what ho?’ as if
a joke could break
the spin, but had to snake
my own way home, trying to shake
her out of me like my own
hair
out of my eyes.

At least she gave up on each band guy soon enough,
not admitting that the music sucked,
but that, well, it wasn’t so great after all, and we’d sit
on her parents’ couch, Kieran gone for good
then, gone
for bad,
watching Jeeves again and again
smooth out
everything.

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Ah.  So here’s a rather odd draft poem that’s actually from a sort-of verse novel, called “A Good Thing.”  I am posting it for dVerse Poets “Meeting the Bar”, hosted today by Victoria C. Slotto; the prompt to create a character. 

The references to the wonderful P.G. Wodehouse, author of Jeeves and Wooster series, which I am quite sure Clare will agree are much much better as books (though there was also a very fun series starring Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie.) 

1950’s – Halcyon? (Maybe Not in Terms of Tax Rates)

August 22, 2012

Fingers Crossed Behind Back

You know what makes me sick: certain disconnects between hypocrisy and fact; i.e. manipulation.

One thing that comes to mind is the conflict between proclaiming absolute devotion to the sanctity of life while balking at even the most minor limitation (as in a three day waiting period) upon the accumulation of massive numbers of assault weapons.

But I don’t want to talk about gun control–a subject seemingly verboten in this country – or even about women’s health issues.

No, let’s just go straight into the wonderfully entertaining subject of taxes.

Many, especially on the right, seem to view the 1950’s as a halcyon time of an expanding economy, increases in home ownership, stable families and values.   A time when men were men, women were women, and everyone, in either arrow or peter pan collar, knew their place (including in kitchen or closet.)

Actually, I have nothing particular against the 1950’s!  (A fine-enough decade to be born in.)  But guess what?

Under the administration of Dwight D. Eisenhower, genuine American hero and Republican, the marginal federal tax rate on regular income of over $400,000 was 91-92%.  (Gulp.)

The maximum capital gains rate was 25%.

Just for comparison’s sake, the maximum marginal federal tax rate on regular income under President Obama has been 35% (on income over $372,950 – 388,350).

The maximum capital gains rate has been 15%.

Although Obama is regularly characterized as socialist, he has never proposed a return to anything like the tax rates of the good old 1950’s.  What Obama has proposed is a return to the Clinton era tax rates (another age of economic prosperity) — but only for those earning over $250,000.  His proposals would raise the top marginal rates for those earning over $250,000  (now 33% and 35%) to 36% and 39.5%.

For many, that extra 4 per cent or so upon those earning over $250,000 feels like a death blow to liberty.  But don’t worry, even with such raises, some of the very wealthy (like Mr. Romney) will still probably be able to keep their operable rates to at least 13%.

(Please note that I do not know the best way of healing our troubled economy, or the world’s troubled economy, and I don’t particularly like paying taxes any more than I like paying for health insurance, car insurance. airplane fees, clothes that are not on sale, or a whole bunch of other things.  I just bring up these figures because I feel like the numbers, as well as our historical decades, are constantly being manipulated and mischaracterized.)

“By Any Other Name” (For Todd Akin, and even, perhaps, Paul Ryan)

August 21, 2012

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By Any Other Name

I want it to hurt,” he said,
(meaning, it hurt).

Though she did not get pregnant,
(meaning, perhaps, that the pain was ‘legitimate,’)

even though he had no gun,
(if a hard sell for ‘forcible.’)

Still, her body, it seemed, shut down,
(meaning, hurt)

for some period afterwards
(years),

as he forced himself, these times, into her head,
(which is to say, as he hurt her),

just as he had wanted,
(no matter what words you use),

and she had not.

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The above is a draft poem written in response to the remarks of Todd Akin, six=term Missouri Representative and current Senatorial candidate,  about the lack of need for a rape exception for abortion bans due to his “understanding” that many women’s bodies “shut down” during “legitimate” rape and thereby avoid pregnancy.  Many Republicans have distanced themselves from Akin since his remarks–they really really really want that Senate seat (and there is concern, for some reason, that Akin may have flubbed it.)   It is worth noting, however, that House Republicans recently pushed a bill (co-sponsored by Paul Ryan) that would require a proof of  “forcible rape”  (rather than just plain old regular rape) in order to qualify for the rape exception from the ban on using federal Medicaid funds to pay for abortion.

I am posting this also for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.   Check out dVerse for wonderful poetry.  

Also, for a complete change of pace, check out MY BOOKS! Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

What I wonder about mushrooms…

August 20, 2012

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…is what’s happened to the little beings who have taken all those bites?

“Holding On To Your Hat”

August 19, 2012
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“Under Windsor Bridge,” 1912, by Adolphe Valette

Re-covery (Holding On To Your Hat)

And then there are those times
when all that feels
real
in this wide blurred world
is the darkness cupped
by your black felt hat.

Something should be different.
You do not know what that something
should be, only
that it should take hold of you
wholly.

And yet–and this you are suddenly
sure of – it should also leave you
with the hat.

You run your fingers over the rough curve
of its brim, the
dark abiding wool
that even now resists crushing,
resists stain, blocks
wind and rain, allows
itself to be held by you,
wholly.
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I’m posting the above sort-of draft poem for Tess Kincaid’s Magpie Tales, a writing blog in which Tess puts up a pictorial prompt each week. 

Check it out!  And also if you have a chance, check out my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

“End of Summer Night”

August 18, 2012

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End of Summer Night

You wept last night as you slept.
Your body did not heave, rather
reverberated, like a stream, whose
flow, in summer, channels beneath its
dust-greyed rockface, or that low
thunder that can sometimes be heard distantly
all hot day long, though
it was a cold night, a night
when summer suddenly
ended, and as I lay my arm over the warm
tremor of your ribs, a part of me, a very small selfish
part, wanted to reach down to the greater
heat of your loins (the alertness of
your cock, dreaming, still such a
phenomenon to
me) but you wept as
you slept, you who weep
so rarely, and in my alarm
and basic humanity, and sudden
worry too at the part
any loin-touching might play
in that mime of loss that ran through you as
hard as anything waking–what end, whose
end–I held you, my
hand not moving from your dream-sorrowed
heart, the cold from the North window
streaming over my face now
clear of the blanket, until,
still seemingly asleep, you clasped
that hand on your chest, held it
for a long long time, and I was
glad it was there,
so glad.

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The above is my offering for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics prompt which I am hosting today. The prompt is basically the dog days of summer. Do check it out – there’s a great picture of Pearl with a Zucchini, and check out all the wonderful poems at dVerse.

I am also linking up to the Open Link Night of Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads

Also, if you haven’t yet, do check out MY BOOKS! Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

Prettyscape

August 17, 2012

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“Record-Keeping” (Huitain, Aging Brain) (Also Flash 55)

August 16, 2012

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Record-Keeping

Aging brain blanks–record skipping a beat.
Do you, reading this, have any notion
what a record is?  (Was?) These super-neat
spun disks.  Blank aging brain jumps to ‘ocean,’
‘Bonnie,’ ‘sea’–the mysterious motion
of bringing back; and what does re-cord mean
but rebraiding the unmoored? Devotion
spinning us back from wayward to midstream.

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The above rather odd poem is a huitain, an eight-line poem from the French (or Spanish) that follows a certain rhyme scheme.   I’m not quite sure where my aging brain has taken itbut I am posting it for a dVerse Poets Pub “Form For All” challenge hosted by Gemma Wiseman and Gay Reiser Cannon.  For more on huitains, check out Gemma’s article at dVerse.   (The picture was amazingly done on my iPhone, with wonderful Brushes App plus Hudson River.) 

Also, please, tell it to the G-Man, because the poem is, amazingly, 55 words!!!!!

Also, if you have time, check out my books!   Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE,  (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco).    1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

P.S. Not sure about that re-braiding – maybe plain old re-tying –

The Mag 130 – “An Evening at the Triton Club”

August 15, 2012
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Image by Francesca Woodman

Below are two short and rather silly poems posted for The Mag, a writing blog hosted by Tess Kincaid with a picture prompt each week.  I tend to do my own pictures, but found it very hard to do my own version of this image by Francesca Woodman, a young woman photographer who sadly took her life at a very young age.  I actually found it rather hard to write about this image at all – perhaps the reason for the comic direction.   (Do not feel obligated to read both – first very silly, second a revised sonnet.) 

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An Evening At The Triton Club

Okay, they were gits with swollen–um–noses–
but they’d paid top price for these very poses:
a girl with a shell in a brown paper wrapper,
a girl (without shell) still managing dapper–
Better than cake-jumping–(gooey as hell;
frosting and hair–euewww–didn’t mix well)
Besides this big conch could double as club,
perfect for either a grope or a (s)nub.
She’d sneak it home too when her shift was over
her taxi becoming the white cliffs of Dover,
her couch, the sea side, her bed the far shore,
as she kept by her head the caught oceans’ roar,
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Different Tastes in Mythical Creatures

Some go for vampires, caught by the idea
of themselves archly pursued, the notion
of life as the personal cup of tea
of the ruthless.  Others look to the ocean,
scanning fantastic waves for gleam of gleam,
twist of twist, the well-hipped curve of tail;
their magic’s found in the muscular seam
between breast and flipper, flesh and scale.
They crave submergence, the dive to the unknown,
an elegance clothed in its own wet skin–
Eve and the serpent combined–slicked hair let down,
finding their idyll in the dare, plunge, swim.
But some (aforementioned) fear to go headfirst–
we’ll just wait, dryly, to slake another’s thirst.

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What We Can’t Swallow (Bitter Pills/Politics)

August 14, 2012

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What We Can’t Swallow  (Bitter Pills/Politics)

When my father was old and ill,
he could not swallow pills
well.
Even the pieces I cut
to speck size, souped
with applesauce,
stuck.
After finger-digging
some neon morsel
from between the rawer
pink of gum and lip (the bit where humans
evolved from bivalves) for
the eighth time (he, scowling
at the bitter trail),
I’d get frustrated, almost
mad,
and might even have given up
or castigated,
but for the background play
of Big Bands,
his yarn-blue eyes, and perhaps most importantly,
some tuning of my inner ear to the
reverberation of unkindness, that bit
(evolved from prey) that
instinctively ducks the rebound,
boomerang and karmic ka-ching, a
sensor of pendulum swing that
kept me adjusting the volume of
both applesauce and Glenn Miller,
till the pill-specks all
got down.

It’s that same part of me, breathless and increasingly
dry-mouthed,
as I walk uphill today, my joints
all waving hello,
that wonders how it is that greed
cannot see
its self-interest;
how those politicians/people
urging the further squeeze of the sick,
the elderly, the working poor and poorer, in favor of
the more-er and more-er,
can be so cock-sure that they will not also
some day
have a bitter pill
to swallow, one that the past greasing of
palms may not
lubricate.

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I’m posting the above for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.  Check out dVerse and also (from my main page) my books!  poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.