the potato peeler strips
out of biscuits out of biscuits this revolution won’t be tweeted with dead wives, say, unless 6 or up to 5 ‘god particles’ are sought. matter gets its mass.com flower power dreams, how slowly t, hings change. (general hellier) PALU, a literation that remembers, accounts for each going against the grain; we seem to have run out of biscuits. access intelligent people who disagree on cordite, on how long it takes for a good mould to form, on farewell intercourse law, how it becomes the massive cloud race in a wintry sky. the potato peeler strips downing and arounding the peel, while a gentle argument about the weather forms an important part of a little crow. laughter ritual, by which a person can signify kindly interest in one’s husband, have sex with another. she gave, finding herself where scraping behaviour is never tolerated. ever. let’s hear what she has to say: the cricket pavilion, as you know, even if parents/participants are relatively sane, hasn’t quite been the answer. a heart, muscle made of sharkbone, muttering.
Reference: But the heart is a muscle made of sharkbone and mutters, from the poem Anatomy by Monica Ferrell
This blog is about writing; it’s valid to veer away from poetry for a while. So the next piece is not poetry but writing that is almost poetic in its play on words. It’s an excerpt from Sesquiotica, a blog that is based on the use of the English Language:
Posted on June 6, 2012
Montgomery Starling-Byrd was back in town on yet another global word-tasting expedition. A few of us joined him for dinner and drinks. He happened to be seated next to Elisa Lively, and I canted an ear to their conversation. Which did not disappoint.
“Well, we ran into trouble right from the get-go,” Elisa was saying.
“From the gecko?” Montgomery said.
“No, from the dog. It kept taking the food.”
“From the gecko,” Montgomery said, seeking clarification.
“Yes, right from the get-go. It liked lizard food right away.”
“As long as it didn’t like lizard for food.”
“Oh,” Elisa said, “that’s a whole other tale.”
“Another tail from the gecko?”
“No, that came later.”
“Where was the tail from?”
“From the gecko, but later. Not from the get-go.”
“I’m afraid I’ve lost the thread of the tale here,” Montgomery said.
“Well, the gecko’s tail was threatened. Actually the dog pulled on it and wouldn’t let go, and the gecko dropped it.”
“Autotomy,” Montgomery observed (that’s the word for when a lizard drops its tail).
“It wanted its autonomy, yes. So that was the end of the tail.”
“And there was no more.”
“No,” Elisa said, “it grew another one. Geckos do that.”
“Indeed they do. It’s a kind of insurance.”
I just about choked on my wine stifling a giggle at the thought of the Geico gecko and its accent, which is not quite as plummy as Montgomery’s.
“That happened more than once,” Elisa said. “But the worst was the noise.”
“From the gecko?”
“Yes, from the very start. Especially from the dog.”
“It didn’t like the noise the gecko made.”
“Ah, yes: ‘Gecko!’ That’s how they got their name. It’s from Malay.”
“‘I burn the candle at both ends…’ She named the gecko?”
“The… Oh, no, the Malay language. In Malaysia. Not Edna St. Vincent Millay.”
“Oh. Well,” Elisa giggled, “that gecko burned at both ends. It made a noise the dog hated. And so the dog barked like crazy. And the gecko made more noise.”
“A sort of gecko echo.”
“Yeah! And at the other end there was that tale.”
“The end of the tale.”
“From the gecko.”
“No, not from the get-go.”
“From the dog?” Montgomery furrowed his brow.
“No, from the gecko.”
“Are you insane, or am I?” Montgomery said, staring abruptly into his wine glass.
I intervened. “Montgomery! Do you mean to say you are unfamiliar with the Americanism – and Canadianism – from the get-go?” I pronounced it slowly and clearly.
(read the rest at http://sesquiotic.wordpress.com/2012/06/06/gecko-get-go/, sesquiotica.wordpress.com. I’ll put a link to the main blog address on the ynklings blogroll.)
From another ‘word’ blog, Logophilius, The Lover of Words, http://logophilius.blogspot.ca/
Ray Bradbury: Literary Artist and Hero
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Ray Bradbury died today.
Of course, I only ever knew the man through his works, but he sure taught me a lot about what our language can do.
Ray Bradbury is one of those literary artists whose work straddles the line between prose and poetry. He’s the one who taught me that there is so much more to a great story than just the story, that there’s so much beauty just in the words themselves, the way they string together and sound and feel on our lips, regardless of what they actually mean.
Ray Bradbury, for me, was a wonderful poet who just didn’t worry about adding those incessant line breaks that make poems look like what we think poems should look like.x Consider the beginning of The Martian Chronicles:
One minute it was Ohio winter, with doors closed, windows locked, the panes blind with frost, icicles fringing every roof, children skiing on slopes, housewives lumbering like great black bears in their furs along the icy streets.
And then a long wave of warmth crossed the small town. A flooding sea of hot air; it seemed as if someone had left a bakery door open. The heat pulsed among the cottages and bushes and children. The icicles dropped, shattering, to melt. The doors flew up. The children worked off their wool clothes. The housewives shed their bear disguises. The snow dissolved and showed last summer’s ancient green lawns.
Read that passage out loud. Listen to the words. Feel the words on your lips and tongue.
“…housewives lumbering like great black bears in their furs along the icy streets.” This could be a line straight out of Ginsberg’s “Howl.” And can’t you just feel the pulsations when you say “cottages and bushes and children”?
And consider the images that he forces into your mind! Can you see the closed-up buildings, the housewives, the icicles?…
Finally the poem part of the blog, or rather what to do with your best poem(s): Introducing the inaugural Walrus poetry prize. The juried winner will receive $5,000, and his or her poem will be published in the December issue of The Walrus. The readers’ choice winner — to be determined by public vote — will receive $1,000. Finalists to be chosen by 2010 Griffin Poetry Prize winner Karen Solie and Walrus poetry editor Michael Lista. $25 entry fee includes a one-year, ten-issue subscription to or renewal of The Walrus magazine.
Enter via the web page by July 31,2012. For more information, read Michael Lista’s kickoff post on the Walrus Blog. For full contest rules and regulations, go to the Walrus website. Please address questions and comments to email@example.com
Until next time, enjoy the new blogs Sesquiotica and Logifilius if you are into words, really into words!