Flashback! Lately I've been pulling out older poems that never saw much light of day, but that I'm fond of. This poem circa 2009 is—okay, check out this concept: it's a movie review in rhymed couplets by the fictitious poet Maurnold X. Thurbin, a creation of The Filthy Critic. Many years ago—back in the 20th century—I wrote video reviews as Gooden Worsted in an alcove off of Filthy's site, which site garnered attention by making it into Rolling Stone and garnering nods from author Stephen King.
Filthy's angle is that he uses a lot of profanity while delivering very incisive reviews that actually have a lot of integrity.
Gooden's angle was that every film rated between nine and ten stars, and all pans were backhanded.
Maurnold's angle was to be the rhymed couplets thing. This is the only prototype I wrote. I'd say you should go watch Bedtime Stories so you know what's going on in the review... but don't.
When your drop a
glass of wine in Lithuania
or bump a porcelain knickknack, shattering it, they say Kamatka lapotcha, coka pooya schmoo. No. I don’t remember the
actual phrase at all, but the meaning is
to the effect that the earth— reality—shifted
around you, and you didn’t notice so naturally, you
didn’t keep up; and it’s not wholly your fault
that the teapot or peanut dish didn’t align with
you and only exists in shards now. You and the world
knock like misaligned gears. The machine will
right itself somehow—or explode, destroying
everything and leaving nothing— Kidding! Things
hardly ever fly hysterically apart that way. You might
fall against an aquarium, killing ten red
fish, then slip on one and bang noggins with the magistrate
you were trying to petition. A different saying
applies in that case to the effect that earth has
shaken you like a sled dog shakes knots into its harness,
which makes it chafe, raising a row of red sores under
her haunch; and you have to know she
Going back into the oldish files for some poems that were lost in the pile. Here at least they'll breathe once more. This poem came from a time when I'd nearly given up on poetry for the first time in 20+ years. With my daughter at 3 years old, and my career as a copywriter picking up speed, I was losing track of why I pursued the ephemeral art at all. But thanks to meeting Poetic Asides , I found a respark and have continued with the practice unabated ever since. 30 years now! This poem is about us humans.
mucky bubbles we all are with
monkey grace and dirt and arm, tied
into our tangled blankets needful
as massage—and thankless— under
the airships of our dreams bursting
through Moissanite ceilings, dropping
our soiled gabardine
spoiled in rain and gasoline… We’re
puddles rainbowed with feeling waking
as angels, but screaming, inventing
stores of penny pranks, rumbling
ohms and ums and flatus... Each
of us born a stinky star of
spark and choice and rice we…