In centuries past, women seldom moved fast, preferring to spend hours on end staring at pools, stretching on stools, or sitting on swings. Now and then, they had flings and were equally stirred by a man or large bird. If they did need to race – to hunt deer or outpace vicious hordes – they took care that their clothing and hair would cover, at best, one perky breast.
II.
For generations, men were super jacked, no doubt because they wanted to distract observers from the fact that nearly all their nether parts were vanishingly small.
III
Kids used to be mini adults, with often impressive results – even fresh from the womb they could light up a room and preside over sizeable cults.
Other children (nude, not a bit shy) were great archers. I wish we knew why they would soon have their fill of that valuable skill and, sadly, forget how to fly.
*****
Melissa Balmain writes: “Obviously, the museums and exhibits referenced in this poem are a specific breed—several of which I visited last summer during a heat wave in Paris. (Travel tip: if you’re looking for Louvre-quality art, but you’re running low on Euros, check out the Petit Palais. Not only is it free, it’s air-conditioned.)”
Melissa Balmain edits Light, North America’s longest-running journal of comic verse, and teaches writing at the University of Rochester. Her poems and/or prose have appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Ecotone, The Hopkins Review, Literary Matters, McSweeney’s, The New Yorker, The New York Times, Nimrod, Poetry Daily, and Rattle. Her latest book of poetry is Satan Talks to His Therapist (Paul Dry Books).
Illustration: Boucher, François – Le Repos des nymphes au retour de la chasse, dit Le Retour de chasse de Diane – J 10 – Musée Cognacq-Jay
Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den is crafted entirely from the syllable “shi,” distinguished only by tonal variation, yet it still conveys a complete and coherent story in Chinese. The poem was originally written by Hu Mingfu (胡明复) and published by linguist Yuen Ren Chao in Volume 11 of The Chinese Students’s Monthly in 1916.[2][3] It was then refined by Yuen Ren Chao in the 1930s for demonstrative purposes in his lectures.
In Chinese:
“Shi Shì shí shĩ shĩ”
Shíshì shishì Shi Shì, shì shi, shì shí shí shĩ. Shì shíshí shì shì shì shĩ. Shí shí, shì shí shi shì shì. Shì shí, shì Shi Shì shì shì. Shì shì shì shí shĩ, shì shĩ shì, shĩ shì shí shĩ shìshì. Shì shí shì shí shi shi, shì shíshì. Shíshì shĩ, Shì shĩ shì shì shíshì. Shíshì shì, Shì shĩ shì shí shì shí shĩ. Shí shí, shĩ shí shì shí shĩ shĩ, shí shí shí shĩ shĩ. Shì shì shì shì.
English Translation:
In a stone den lived a poet named Shi, who loved lions and had resolved to eat 10 lions. He often went to the market to look for lions. At 10 o’clock, 10 lions had just arrived at the market. At that moment, Shi also arrived at the market. He saw those 10 lions and, using his arrows, slayed them. He brought the bodies of the 10 lions back to the stone den. The stone den was damp, so he asked his servants to wipe it clean. After it was cleaned, he tried to eat the 10 lions. When he began eating, he realized that those 10 lions were actually 10 stone lion statues. Try to explain this matter.
*****
If you chase this odd poem down in more detail, you will find arguments about the original poet’s intent, and the subsequent modifications by Yuen Ren Chao (who apparently claimed full ownership), and which language is appropriate for it, and more, in Wikipedia and elsewhere. I leave you with a long excerpt from pinyin.info:
“Yuen Ren Chao was the leader of the group that designed National Romanization. He knew that National Romanization (Guóyǔ Luómǎzì) could only write “modern vernacular Chinese,” and not Classical Chinese. In order to demonstrate this point he playfully wrote a classical essay consisting entirely of “homophones” entitled “Record of Mr. Shi Eating Lions.” The whole essay is copied as follows:
Shi2 shi4 shi1shi4 Shi1 shi4 shi4 shi1, shi4 shi2 shi2 shi1. Shi4 shi2shi2 shi4 shi4 shi4 shi1. Shi2 shi2, shi4 shi4 shi4, shi4 shi2 shi* shi1 shi4 shi4. Shi4 shi2, shi4 shi4 shi4 shi2 shi1, shi3 shi2 shi2 shi3 shi4, shi3 shi4 shi2 shi1 shi4shi4. Shi4 shi2 shi4 shi2 shi1 shi1 shi4 shi2 shi4. Shi2 shi4 shi1, shi3 shi4 shi4 shi3 shi2 shi4. Shi2 shi4 shi4. Shi4 shi3 shi4 shi2 shi4 shi2 shi1 shi1. Shi2 shi2, shi3 shi4 shi4 shi2 shi* shi1 shi1 shi2 shi2 shi* shi2 shi1 shi1. Shi4 shi2, shi4 shi3 shi4 shi4 shi4shi2. Shi4 shi4 shi4 shi4.” (The original article had no punctuation.) (* The character 硕 shuò, meaning huge, was pronounced as shí in the past.)
The vernacular translation of this essay is:
Shítou wūzi lǐ xìng Shī de shīrén xǐhuan chī shīzi, tā juéxīn yào chīdiào 10 tóu shīzi. Tā shíshí dào shìchǎng shàngqu kàn shīzi. Shí diǎn zhōng, tā dào shìchǎng, gānghǎo 10 tóu zhuàngdà de shīzi láidào shìchǎng. Zhè shíhou, tā kàn le zhè 10 tóu shīzi, yīkào 10 zhī shítou zuò de jiàn, bǎ zhè 10 tóu shīzi shāsǐ. Tā jiǎn qǐ zhè 10 tóu shīzi de shītǐ, huídào shítou wūzi lǐ qù. Shítou wūzi cháoshī. Tā jiào shìzhě mǒgān shítou wūzi. Shítou wūzi mǒgān le, tā kāishǐ chángshì chī zhè 10 tóu shīzi de shītǐ. Chī de shíhou, cái zhīdào zhè 10 tóu zhuàngdà de shīzi de shītǐ, shíjì shì 10 tóu zhuàngdà de shítou shīzi de shītǐ. Zhè shíhou, tā cái míngbai zhè jiàn shì de zhēnxiàng. Qǐng nǐ jiěshì, zhè shì zěnme huíshì?
The English translation of the essay is:
Mr. Shi, a poet who lived in a stone house, liked to eat lions. He vowed to eat ten lions. He often went to the market to look at lions. At ten o’clock, he went to the market, (and) just then ten large lions (also) came to the market. At that time, he saw these ten lions. Relying on the power of ten arrows with stone tips, he caused the ten lions to pass away. He picked up the bodies of the ten lions and went back to his stone house. The stone house was damp, so he told his servant to try and wipe it (dry). After the house had been wiped (dry), he began to try to eat the bodies of the ten lions. As he was eating, he realized that the bodies of the ten large lions were actually bodies of ten large stone lions. Only then did he understand the real situation. Can (you) explain what happened? (Translated by Victor H. Mair)
The point is that, if Chao’s classical essay were written in Hanyu Pinyin, everything would be shi and naturally no one could read and understand it. In other words, it is a kind of tour de force tongue twister. Even if it were written in characters, people still would not be able to understand it when it is read aloud. There are people who use this (playful) piece (that is forced and unnatural even in Classical Chinese) to oppose Hanyu Pinyin. They have completely misunderstood Yuen Ren Chao’s original intention!”
When hitchhiking, inevitably tasked with answers to ‘Where from?’ and ‘Origin?’ I lie to simplify the tales I’d spin if my odd background really were unmasked. (The childhood travels, seas in which I’ve basked; prep school: Jamaica. Teen years schooling in a former English palace, slept where Queen Victoria stayed…) because then I’d be asked: ‘Why hitchhike? Spoiled kid! Don’t lie! Get out!’
Therefore of course I have to cut some slack for other people with their bogus tales: big boasters may have nothing to boast about, while quiet ones may not want to go back, whether to jobs or spouses, wars or jails.
*****
I thought I’d pair this with Marion Shore’s reflection on lies, which I republished here in the previous post. The issue of deliberate lies is unresolved for me, along with so many other things. But at least I (rarely) lie about my confused background any longer – I just mention bits that seem relevant in the context.
‘Why I Lie’ was first published in the Sonnet Scroll of the Poetry Porch.
The lies I tell you, little ones, I hope may be be forgiven: Of course there is a Santa, hon, Yes, Tiger’s up in heaven.
When lies forsake you, as they must, And leave you lost, alone, Will you forgive the broken trust? Perhaps when you are grown,
And try to shield your children from The darkness and the cold, You’ll find that you are telling them The lies your mother told.
*****
Marion Shore is the author of For Love of Laura: Poetry of Petrarch, a collecion of Petrarch’s poetry in translation published by the University of Arkansas Press in 1987. Her work has also appeared in Poems from Italy; Petrarch in English; 150 Contemporary Sonnets; and Rhyming Poems: A Contemporary Anthology. Her poems and translations have been published in numerous journals including The Formalist, Light Quarterly, Iambs and Trochees, First Things, and Measure. Recipient of the 2010 Richard Wilbur Award for Sand Castle(from which this poem is taken) and two-time winner of the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award, she lives in Springfield, MA.
One limped a little, and another had a stammer, one was cross-eyed, swarthy, and employed atrocious grammar; so we beat them with a pipe, and then a club, and then a plier, bending them like pretzels after binding them with wire, sending trite condolences with tappings of a hammer.
One was far too clever, another drolly thick, one was hyper, one disfigured by a nervous tic; so we beat them with a tire iron, then aimed a rolling pin at tender ribs, boxed their ears, and kicked them in the shin, pretending we were sorry while we plied the heavy stick.
A fear of heights gripped one; one lived in mother’s cellar; one, depressed, developed gout and had a pasty pallor; so we beat them in a mixing bowl till minds were scrambled eggs, safe and snug at home because we’d manacled their legs, and lent our ears but didn’t hear their squalls amid the squalor.
One ignored the hoi polloi as they were mouthing curses, one kept her nose in books and mumbled antiquated verses; so we beat them with the crucifix, an ankh, and shepherd’s crooks, painted them like prison walls and hoisted them on hooks, and pent them on their merry way in gilded, garish hearses:
and when they got to heaven with its lovely rolling beaches, their uniforms restarched and blanched to white with holy bleaches, we beat them with a lightning rod, the hand of God, and thunder, for only strikes against the flint can spark a soul to wonder. There is no balm in Gilead but serpent oil and leeches.
*****
Ed Shacklee writes: “Trying to write poetry comes from reading the poems of others aloud, I think. It doesn’t seem to matter if you’re smart or eloquent, or not. I started mumbling to myself sometime after coming across William Meredith’s The Wreck of the Thresher, in which a poem ends, ‘There’s flowering, there’s a dark question answered yes.’ I can’t reproduce the experience here, and I doubt anyone can unless they’re as immature, unlettered, and blue as I was back then, but that resonated; the unspoken question that could be any question, the modest, unconditional yes, and the sudden flowering of that line. It shook something till it was almost awake. Arise and walk, I guess you could say. A while later I heard Meredith give a reading, and I regret that I was too tongue-tied in his presence to go up and thank him.”
Seurat completely placed his trust in pointillism, never fussed with other styles, for they’d have just been pointless.
*****
For me this falls right on the border of the category I call ‘Unforgettable Nonsense’ verse – typically short, with puns or other jokes… But this isn’t strictly speaking nonsense… Yet the use of rhyme and rhythm with the wordplay makes it super easy to memorise, which is something I always enjoy. Max Gutmann declines to comment on the poem – which was first published in Snakeskin – other than to suggest I classify it as a squib. – RHL
Max Gutmann has contributed to New Statesman, Able Muse, Cricket, and other publications. His plays have appeared throughout the U.S. (see maxgutmann.com). His latest book, Finish’d!: A Pleasant Trip to Hell with Byron’s Don Juan, is forthcoming from Word Galaxy.
The greatest courage is not needed for war, but for ordinary people growing old. Like soldiers, the aged are never very far from death: many are called, all are chosen. A soldier faces danger then retreats, but for the old, going back is not possible; they may hunger for youth but pray for the luck of a quick death. When one by one the body’s systems fail, they must be brave and face annihilation of the flesh and bone, the Soul clinging like a shipwrecked sailor, to love; finally, love is all we are given to navigate between exhaustion and heaven.
*****
Red Hawk writes: “What inspired this poem is the School of Hard Knocks, surviving on Earth for 83 years, observing the chaos and madness of the human species, 45 years of self observation to see my own inner chaos & madness, and the Objectively Clear understanding that we all die, we all pay for our emanations, our lives, and finally there is the revelation that all & everything is the Love of Our Creator (whatever that is) & we are how that Love manifests in human form; the Love of Our Creator manifests disguised as our life. Following that, the chaos & madness which that Love takes in human beings is the result of it passing through the human mind & being corrupted and perverted by that screening process. Absent the interference of the ego structure, that Love manifests cleanly, clearly, and without judgment.
“The sonnet form is one of my favorite poetry disciplines & owes much to Shakespeare, Keats, & Edna St. V. Millay! Being one given to speaking too much & too often, this discipline has been a tremendous ally in taming that compulsion & mastering the tongue. Rhyme, though not in favor just now, is another tremendous discipline: it opens the gateway to the unknown—I may begin with a plan or an idea, but the demands of the rhyme send me at once into unknown territory: I don’t know what or how will come next to satisfy the demand of the rhyme and now I am subject to intuition & inspiration, the opening to the Divine.
“Red Hawk (aka Robert Moore) is not an Indian name, nor was it ever intended to be one or pretend to be one; it is an Earth name, given by Mother Earth many years ago after a 4-day water fast at the Buffalo River in an effort to save my life in one of the darkest periods of my life. Given to me during one of the worst ice storms in recent Arkansas history, it was given as an answer to prayer. It came about through conscious labor, prayer and wish, and was paid for by intentional suffering and remorse. It indicates a deep love & reverence for the Earth and how it has shaped my life. It is an honoring of Conscience and of the source which named me: our Mother Earth. To not acknowledge Her gift would be to disrespect Her and Her power to name and direct the course of my life; I am Her legitimate son. As the illegitimate son of unknown parents, Robert Moore is my adopted name given to me by 2 people who died of alcoholism; I honor it and them by the way I live my life. You can google many of my books at Amazon, or find many of them at www.hohmpress.com. The book on self observation is now in 14 languages.”
‘Old Age Requires the Greatest Courage’ was first published in Rattle.
It is not a forest, more a sun- dappled woodland near the Pont du Gard, the river fol-de-rolling merrily. Here, where they’ve been told the wild things are, a family, a mother and her young, step through wild garlic till they come upon a small ménage of wild boars, sangliers: a mother and her young, a glade away. Their shadows lengthened by the dappling sun, each gives way to the other and trots on.
*****
David Callin writes: “There are no deep secrets about the poem. It’s a memory from a family holiday in 2006, and my wife’s description of the experience of this strange meeting on her return from it. It struck me strongly at the time, but I must have stored it away, because I didn’t try to turn it into a poem until nearly 20 years later. Then, as a non-metrical poem, it didn’t take, but I found it again when looking for inspiration for George’s excellent short poems Snakeskin (issue 339, May 2026). It seemed to blossom in its new form.
“This is unlike the bulk of my poems, most of which – but by no means all – arise out of the life, history and folklore of the Isle of Man, where I’ve lived all my life apart from a brief period in the 1980s when I made a bolt for freedom, first to London and then to the Netherlands. But the place has a way of reeling you back in.
“My first full book of poems, From the Nab, is essentially Manx in subject matter. There is a review of it in Light (whose editor, I see, also features in your blog). This is the link to that … https://lightpoetrymagazine.com/book-reviews-summer-25/
“If any of your readers should like a copy – and who wouldn’t, based on that review? – a simple email to me, with their postal address, would do the trick: dcallin2bvc@gmail.com
“Other than that, I pop up in Snakeskin from time to time – as often as I can, really. And occasionally in other places.”
*****
The image features a wild boar (Sus scrofa) with its piglets, commonly known as humbugs due to their striped appearance.
to the vet with our decrepit cat: snaggle-toothed, arthritic, ectoparasitic. His kick-ass piebald coat is now a mat for fleas to wipe their feet on.
His legs are lame. His dignity is flat. He used to know his name was Tipperary. Today it could be Tom or even Jerry. Enough. He’s had enough. And that is that.
*****
Joe Crocker writes: “Tipper” was my youngest daughter’s cat. He had white socks and a white tip to his black tail. “Tipperary” seemed like a fitting formalisation for his vaccination record. (And somewhere in my head was TS Eliot’s “The Naming of Cats”.) I don’t suppose Tipper ever really knew our name for him. In his final weeks he looked utterly bewildered and certainly unable to “keep up his tail perpendicular, spread out his whiskers or cherish his pride.”
‘A One-way Visit’ was originally published in Snakeskin.
Brief biography of Joe Crocker (masculine/feminine/neutered)
He writes his stuff and slides it under doors. His age and sex, his fantasies, are no concern of yours.
The rhymes reflect his humour — down to earth. A pamphlet is forthcoming but refuses to come fearth.
Winner of the Awkward Prize, ham-fisted. Never short- or long- but sometimes black- or shopping-listed.
Nominated (pusher) for the pushcart. Squawking from the slush pile, self-regarding little upstart.
Google says he’s one of Sheffield’s legends — a rock star who gets by with little help from friends, well… ex-friends.
So there you are, clambering amongst the topmost golden apples when – ker-boom! A storm! an avalanche! comes hurtling through, ripping round the orchard-side. And you?
Down that ladder smartish. Catch your breath. Shelter in the shed, whose wobbly walls squeal with lightning-snaps , whose old roof pings and rattles in the hail. And then? Then things
go back to normal. Rosy sky. The grass, perky with flowers, says No Damage Done. So up you go again, and pick the fruit, that beckon, brighterwetter, in the sun.
Parmi les pommes d’or que frôle un vent léger Tu m’apparais là-haut, glissant de branche en branche, Lorsque soudain l’orage accourt en avalanche Et lacère le front ramu du vieux verger.
Tu fuis craintive et preste et descends de l’échelle Et t’abrites sous l’appentis dont le mur clair Devient livide et blanc aux lueurs de l’éclair Et dont sonne le toit sous la pluie et la grêle.
Mais voici tout le ciel redevenu vermeil. Alors, dans l’herbe en fleur qui de nouveau t’accueille, Tu t’avances et tends, pour qu’il rie au soleil, Le fruit mouillé que tu cueillis, parmi les feuilles.
*****
John Gallas writes: “Loved doing these – 3 months, off and on, 50 mornings, to do 50 Verhaeren poems – the ones from ‘The Flems’ (‘Les Flamands’) are wonderful, objective descriptions of loft, orchard, pond, farmyard, cow, cowherd, espaliers, milk, breadbaking etc. Did ’em all. So the whole 50 set is with Carcanet – just sent last week – awaiting a decision: the little feature for ‘Storm’ might be a good sign!”
John Gallas, Aotearoa/NZ poet, published mostly by Carcanet. Saxonship Poet (see www.saxonship.org), Fellow of the English Association, St Magnus Festival Orkney Poet, librettist, translator and biker. 2025 Midlands Writing Prize winner. Presently living in Markfield, Leicestershire. Website is www.johngallaspoetry.co.uk which has a featured Poem of the Month, complete book list, links and news.
Form in Formless Times 