I don’t know what didactic means

I read the word somewhere,
somewhere in a crowd of words
    on a page
like students crowding in a hallway
    between classes,
some wearing backpacks like semicolons.

But what does it mean?

Is it a type of penguin
    waiting in line for its turn
        to slide down the glacier and
            dive into the water and
                swim for fish?
Is it a kind of rock
    that you’d find next to a stream
        and put in your pocket to bring home
        because its color is really neat?
Is it a time in ancient history when
    dinosaurs roamed the earth
        and roared instead of speaking in sentences?
Is it a type of cloud
    that’s puffy and thick,
        which I see on bright summer days
            and aren’t full of lightning and rain?

On this beautiful day, free of dinosaurs and penguins,
    I sit on a rock and listen to
        the stream mumble by,
            mumbling all the possibilities of the word
didactic.

Ripples in ‘Tom Lake’

I was listening to the audio version
of Ann Pachett’s
Tom Lake, 
narrated by Meryl Streep,
who did a lovely job
with the story

but when Ms. Streep
said “fuck,”
ripples from 
the word
sent a 
mild shock to my brain

but that’s foolish of me

because Ms. Streep
could curse a blue streak
out of frustration
or 
just for the fun of it 
when
no microphones and cameras
are staring at her

after all,
she’s human,
just like everyone else.

Let’s Get Snooty About Wine

I suppose the wine glasses
are like sleeping bats,
hanging upside down
on the rack

and I suppose the red wine
in our glasses could resemble blood

and I suppose we could
pretend we’re vampires

but I hate the idea of drinking blood,
even if I didn’t pierce
a tender neck to get it

so I’d rather listen
to him wax poetic
about how
this vineyard’s terroir is spectacular,
this merlot’s weather was ideal,
the grapes were picked at night,
and the guano in the soil
adds a certain je ne sais quoi.

The Mamas and the Dadas

fit wheat barrier approve
influence hospital electronics

Tristan Tzara’s steps to create a Dada poem:
cut each word from a newspaper article,
put the words in a hat,
shake the hat,
pick out word-papers, and
write each word in the order
you removed them from the hat.

landowner stab lobby
hurl mistreat graphic

A modern way to do it:
use a random word generator website.

south pawn moment
honest drawer peak experience

Tzara’s method limits you
to words in the article (which you choose).
The modern method limits you
to words chosen by the people
who built the website.

hike motivation slip range
smoke oak entry

Although each method will
put together words that
you would not have usually put together
into delightfully unexpected and absurd put-togethers,
and you will birth poems
different from your other poems.

shape bee scratch offensive
ministry accept series

Although some readers
may frown at your nonsensical poem
and stop reading after the second line.

theory thread beautiful
consensus new reactor

Although other readers may continue reading to the end,
like riding a hobby horse to the
Cabaret Voltaire in Zürich,
sipping coffee or kirsch,
and appreciating life’s absurdities,
like standing in Swiss bar
while California dreamin’ a little dream
of sun and beach and endless waves,
but finding reality is a different thing,
like all that sun exposure
could lead to sunburn and skin cancer.

Storytelling to Avoid Murder

Scheherazade spun tales every night
to the vengeful king
for more than two and half years:

telling the beginning half
of the first story on the first night,
then repeating the pattern:

telling the end half of one story,
followed by the beginning half
of the next story,

stopping to dangle (figuratively)
a shiny story chain
before the king’s eyes.

Let’s back up:
The king had vowed to kill
unmarried women in his land,
after his queen had cheated on him,
and he killed her.
In continued brutality,
he repeated the pattern:

wedding a virgin each day,
spending the night with her,
ordering her to be murdered the next day.

But the king kept Scheherazade alive,
one day after another
to hear how each story played out,
and he postponed beheading Scheherazade.

She wove one thousand stories
into a vibrant, intricate tapestry:

jinn, dreams, magicians, thieves,
a mechanical flying horse, ghouls,
magical carpets, a singing tree,
characters who tell their own stories,
and more beyond more.

Then Scheherazade told the king
she was done, no more stories,
and she must’ve expected execution,
but wished to bid farewell
to her three sons first.

(so storytelling wasn’t the only
activity in the bedchamber,
yet she still focused
on storytelling during pregnancy
and childbirth)

By now, the king was in love
with Scheherazade:

he spared her life
and kept her as his wife and queen,
then they spun a new story together.

Top painting: Scheherazade by Édouard Frédéric Wilhelm Richter
Bottom painting: Scheherazade and the sultan by Sani al Mulk
Source for both: Wikimedia Commons

Winter Monotony

Sure, of course:
sledding and
snowball fights and
building snowmen and
gazing out the window
at the falling snow
as your family sips hot cocoa
by the crackling fireplace…

These are enjoyable pastimes.

I’m not here to argue that point with you.

But please hear the view from my side.

When you live inside a snow globe,
those pastimes can get as monotonous
as white noise on the radio,
and you find yourself
wishing for climate change.

A Morning Moment

Looking out the window,
I see the winter morning sun
lighting/warming
the side of a house
across the street
like an Edward Hopper painting.

The quiet beauty of that.

Please Hold My Seat, Harlan Ellison

As I leave my desk chair,
I swiftly put a copy of
The Essential Ellison: A 50-Year Retrospective
on the chair’s seat
to block the cat from lying on the seat
(presumably to soak the residual warmth).

Not that I don’t want the cat
to get the warmth,
but she’s grumpy
when I return from the kitchen
with a fresh cup of tea
and I lift her out of the chair
so I can sit there.

Not that I blame her.
I would also be grumpy
if a giant lifted me
out of a cozy spot.

So I’m grateful for Harlan Ellison
to put fantastical stories into the world,
as well as this thick book
that saves me and the cat
from a disagreeable moment.

Delighted and Humbled

A trip of emotions…

Surprise when fellow blogger John Malone commented that he had written a post about my poem “Unicorn Migration,” and his post has a poem about how reading my poem lit up his day.

Then I was humbled and delighted and grateful. Thank you, John. You’re generous to write such a poem 🙂

Lit Up

Unicorn Migration

The drive from their house
to the parking lot seemed
to take a long time to Joe,
as did the walk
from the parking lot
to the observation spot—
a (dry) grassy slope
overlooking a valley.

Mid-way through the walk,
little Calvin asked to be carried,
and Joe was happy to do so.

Finally the day had arrived,
finally Joe and his family were here,
amid the crowd of other watchers,
and Joe’s excitement
included himself and Calvin.

Joe had wanted
to come here as a boy,
but his parents never took him,
and he never asked to go.

Because his father
was one of those people
with entrenched beliefs:
boys love dragons,
girls love unicorns.
If a boy loved unicorns,
he was deemed a sissy
and ridiculed.

Joe had wondered:
Why did it have to be that way?
Couldn’t kids of any gender
love whatever creatures are out there?

Grown into an adult,
Joe didn’t go by himself,
guilt-shame keeping him away.

Not until his son Calvin
grew into toddlerdom
did Joe confess his wish,
and his wife Beverly
looked at him with tenderness,
saying, “It’s about time you go, then.”

Sound arrived before the sight:
thudding, like a thousand
marching drummers.

“There they are!”
said someone in the crowd.

Joe kept silent among
the murmurings of the watchers
as the herd showed.
Brown, black, chestnut, white, dappled:
the mass of unicorns
in their annual migration south,
amid cooling weather,
traveling to greener pastures.
Manes waved, horns glinted in the sun.
Some unicorns trotted, others galloped,
presumably for the joy of running.
Like Calvin did in parks.

Joe gazed at his son’s
thrilled face that stared at the creatures.
Calvin, like a unicorn:
unique and wondrous.