Category Archives: Poems

Nonce form: Gail White, ‘Cardinal Richelieu’s Cats’

The Cardinal works into the night
To realize his dream:
To keep the nobles in their place,
Make royalty supreme.
He knows it’s time for government
To grow and centralize,
And when the nobles sober up
They won’t believe their eyes.

And at his feet
The indiscreet
Delightful pet he calls Gazette
Provides his inspiration.

He spreads the map of Europe out
And studies its repair,
Especially in ways that might
Reduce the Hapsburg share,
With here a war and there a plot
And now and then a coup..
His opposition? Well, he might
Assassinate a few.

While on his knees
Soft Soumise,
The Cardinal’s best Eminence Grise,
Provides his inspiration.

*****

This poem by Gail White won The Lyric Magazine’s Roberts Memorial Prize for 2022. White, the resident poet and cat lady of Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, writes: “I’d love to know the names of all 14 of his cats. I’m a believer!”

In a post entitled ‘The Cardinal liked cats – in 1642 he had fourteen!‘, the Eminence Rouge blog states: ‘Here are some of the names of the fourteen favourite felines: Racan (poet and Academician), Gazette (indiscrete), Rubis sur l’Ongle (scratchy), Pyrame & Thysbe (lovers who slept with paws entwined), Serpolet (loved sunning himself), Felimare (tiger-striped), Soumise (submissive, R’s favourite), Lucifer (jet black), Ludovic le Cruel (rat-killer), Ludoviska (rat-catcher’s Polish mistress), Mimi-Paillon (‘straw’ angora), Mounard le Fougueux (‘ardent’, quarellsome,capricious,worldy), Perruque (fell from Racan’s wig), and Gavroche (gastro-angora).’ (Note: this totals 14 if ‘Pyrame & Thysbe’ is the name of one cat that sleeps holding its own paws.)

However in the comments posted by readers of that blog there is scepticism about the story. One writes: ‘Elizabeth Wirth Marwick, The Young Richelieu (Chicago, 1983), says she has been unable to find contemporary documentation on cats, but that he had canaries and warblers, and also 12 small dogs were boarded at Rueil. She wonders if lap-dogs have been turned into cats in the telling. (p. 242, n. 124) But that would be a bizarre change to make.’

A further comment is: ‘I always did think this was true, but now it’s looking more and more likely to me that Richelieu never had cats. I can’t find a source anywhere for all this oft-repeated “information” on the web; people just seem to be copying one another. The earlier comment about the 1938 biographer who was unable to find contemporary documentation is significant. Katharine Macdonogh, in her 1999 book Reigning Cats and Dogs, A History of Pets at Court Since the Renaissance, states on page 124 that the story is a myth, and that it was invented by Paradis de Moncrief, a “toady” at the court of Louis XV.’

Gail White’s books ASPERITY STREET and CATECHISM are available on Amazon. She is a contributing editor to Light Poetry Magazine. “Tourist in India” won the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award for 2013. Her poems have appeared in the Potcake Chapbooks ‘Tourists and Cannibals’, ‘Rogues and Roses’, ‘Families and Other Fiascoes’, ‘Strip Down’ and ‘Lost Love’.
https://www.amazon.com/Catechism-Gail-White/dp/0692696660

Painting: Charles Édouard Delort (1841-1895): La distraction de Richelieu (The cardinal’s leisure), in the public domain.

‘Sonnet Found in a Deserted Madhouse (fantasy of an alternative future)’

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The winds of winter wind through empty halls,
scraps of abandoned paper blow like leaves
to settle in odd corners of old walls.
Once a community lived here, but no one grieves:
the place was nothing but a wasteful home
for the sick, sad, psychotic and insane
who, locked in rooms or left alone to roam,
babbled their lives away, inept, inane.
All funding for the loonies has dried up;
guards, nurses, admin, tea ladies: dismissed.
And all because Brussels came out on top
and closed this home of British mental mist.
Now Big Ben chimes, tolling a final knell.
Farewell, old Houses; Westminster, farewell.

*****

As an Anglo-Dane raised in a third country, I’m naturally in favour of a borderless world. I loathe Brexit and the lies, greed and social inequities that allowed it to happen. Brexit and Trump were the two big foreign policy successes of Putin, stoking lies and fear and division. Sorry, rant over.

This Shakespearean sonnet was just published in the biannual poetry magazine Allegro, edited by Sally Long.

“Abandoned Dominican Building #2” by FotoGrazio is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Jeff Gallagher, ‘History’

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The rock and the club and the spark to make fire,
A hide and a carcass, a spear and a knife,
The sowing, the harvest, the store for the winter,
The village, the empire, the civilised life.

Philosophy, culture, the pride of the warrior,
The need for a leader to show you the light,
Indecision, suspicion, the hoarding of plenty,
And fighting for causes they told you were right.

The stake and the axe and the flaming hot poker,
Lies, superstition, false promises, famine,
Rhetoric, lost hope and man made disasters,
The killing of children, the torture of women.

Murder rebranded as collateral damage,
The constant suppression of anything odd,
Like those with a different language or culture,
And those who believed in the wrong sort of god.

Heroes defending what cowards had stolen,
Inequality hidden by national pride,
Swastikas, heraldry, crosses and eagles,
Bright flags and platitudes for those who had died.

Destroying the planet disguised as prosperity,
Dreamers and schemers ignoring the science,
Marketing rubbish as essential to living,
Envy and greed in one more grand alliance.

After desert and snowstorm and flood and pandemic,
The poor go to heaven, the rich go to Mars;
The rest live in caves, find a spark to make fire,
Start another new history, then weep at the stars.

*****

Jeff Gallagher writes: “This poem was inspired by George Santayana’s remark that ‘those who do not remember their history are condemned to repeat it’. In UK schools at least, History is now very much an optional subject, which is a tragedy in my opinion. Humanity’s continued failure to find peaceful solutions to conflict only confirms the truth of Santayana’s remark.”

Jeff Gallagher is from Sussex, UK. His poems have featured in publications such as Rialto, The High Window and The Journal. He has had numerous plays for children performed nationwide. He was the winner of the Carr Webber Prize 2021. He also appeared (briefly) in an Oscar-winning movie. He has no handles.

http://www.carrwebberprize.org/ … Scroll down to ‘Winners 2021’

Illustration: “ESCENA EN EL FIN DEL MUNDO // SCENE AT THE END OF THE WORLD (April 09 / 2007)” by Simon Wilches is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Using form: Songs as poems: Janice D. Soderling, ‘Lookin’ For Lucinda G.’

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Lucinda G. from Podunk City,
A gal what big-time mens call pretty.
Her lips is red.
Her eyes is dead.
I’m lookin’ for Lucinda.

Lucinda G., she be my sister.
One night she tell me in a whisper
She ain’t gon’ stay
She leave next day,
Cause Johnny drop Lucinda.

Lucinda G., she head for Dallas.
She get a job at Girlie Palace.
She write one time,
She doin’ fine.
The mens all love Lucinda.

Lucinda G., she made for lovin’.
But all she get is push and shovin’.
She write once more,
She ain’t no whore.
I’m lookin’ for Lucinda.

Lucinda G, she make big dough.
How she do it, I don’ know.
She say she soon
Come home. Real soon.
I’m lookin’ for Lucinda.

Lucinda G. from Podunk City.
She used to be what folks call pretty.
Tell me mister,
You seen my sister?
I’m lookin’ for Lucinda.

*****

Janice D. Soderling writes: “I like to try my hand at various genres, both poetry and prose, both light and serious. This sprouted in a songwriting workshop but later was published by Anna Evans, at Barefoot Muse. I’ve had a few Swedish poems set to music and one recorded which I used to hear on the radio every Midsummer weekend. Maybe some musician will find it worthwhile to set to music. That would be nice.”

Janice D. Soderling has published poems, fiction and translations in hundreds of print and online journals and anthologies over the years. Her most recent poetry collection is ‘Rooms and Closets‘ available at all online bookshops.

“Dallas at Twilight” by bdesham is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Michael R. Burch, ‘Water and Gold’

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You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once.
But joys? Mere wan illusions to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.

You came to me as riches to a miser
when all is gold, or so his heart believes,
until he dies much thinner and much wiser,
his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves.

You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly;
I could not take it in; it was too much.
I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly.
I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch.

I dreamed you gave me water of your lips,
then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs.

*****

Michael R. Burch writes:

Published by The Lyric, Black Medina, Dusure Abueaoa (Tokelau), Shabestaneh (Iran), The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Kritya (India), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, Freshet, Captivating Poetry (Anthology), Strange Road, Shot Glass Journal (the first stanza as “Dry Hump”), Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Famous Poets and Poems, Poetry Life & Times and Sonnetto Poesia (Canada)

The last time I checked, Google reported that “Water and Gold” appeared on 1,500 web pages. That’s a lot of cutting and pasting and suggests a number of readers have liked the poem enough to share it.

I’m a fan of nature shows and the opening lines were inspired by a nature show about the sudden flowering of deserts after any kind of rainfall. But deserts also produce mirages and it occurred to me that Bedouins would realize that the rain might be an illusion and that in any case the flowering would be unlikely to last. Love affairs can be like that.

None of the poem was planned and I didn’t know how it would end until I wrote the closing couplet. I came up with the title “Water and Gold” after the fact. The first image brought to mind other desert images: of mirages, Bedouins and pyramids. Midas with his “golden touch” just popped into my mind. I write most of my poems “organically” with no planning. My method is to “open myself to words” and I often have no idea how a poem will end when I begin.

Surprisingly, many such poems of mine end up telling coherent stories with unusual twists at the end. I’m not sure how that happens but I think not imposing too much of my myself on a poem probably helps.

I have never liked picky “rules” about sonnets and other poetic forms. I always do as I please and any sonnet can be shorter or longer than 14 lines, but 14 lines seemed to suit this poem.

There are different versions of the poem with line three being one of the following:

But joy is an illusion to the expert:
But joys are wan illusions to the expert:
But joys? Mere wan illusions to the expert:
But joys are mere mirages to the expert:
But joys are heat mirages to the expert:
But joys are heat’s mirages to the expert:

Which one do you prefer? Please let me know in the comments, because I continue to waffle.

These are comments that have been made about the poem over the years…

I was especially moved by your beautiful poems “Water and Gold” and “Memory.” The music of “Water and Gold” is admirable, and the variations very strong. – Terese Coe, poet and translator

I have been reading more of your work: “Distances” and “Water and Gold” are some magical pieces, and “Something” is a tug too deep. – Rafia Bilkis, poet

I was going through your poems again to see which ones would be published in issue one [of New Lyre]. I LOVE “Will there be starlight” and “Regret”. SO DREAMY. Love it, love it. “Lady’s Favor” and “Water and Gold” are some of my other favorites. – David B. Gosselin, poet and editor

David Gosselin later led off the first issue of The New Lyre with five of my poems: “Distances,” “Will There Be Starlight,” “Water and Gold,” “Lady’s Favor” and “Regret.”

It’s a great sonnet!—Joyce Wilson, poet and editor of Poetry Porch and Sonnet Scroll

A really brilliant piece of writing. I’m not surprised it has been published so widely. Thank you for sharing. I for one am enriched from the experience of reading it. – Griffonner, poet

Marie Stella, a student in the Philippines, chose “Water and Gold” for analysis and criticism.

Robert L. Smith mentioned “Water and Gold” in a review of one of my books:

Michael R. Burch’s Violets For Beth is an exceptional collection, compromised mostly of formalist poems that seem so fluid and natural that it’s easy to forget they are rhymed and metered. Mr. Burch’s technical virtuosity is not what makes this collection memorable, however. These poems, all of them, possess an extraordinary emotional depth and tenderness, and resonate in the heart as well as in the mind. Consider the sonnet “Water and Gold,” one of my favorite pieces in a cornucopia of gems. The poem is flawless from start to finish, but its exquisite concluding couplet is positively breathtaking:

“I dreamed you gave me water of your lips,
Then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs.”

There are no subpar poems anywhere here, and more than a few would truly be worthy of Yeats or Rilke in their prime. Other favorites of mine include “Redolence” and the gorgeous “Infinity.” Mike Burch is a true poet in the very best sense of the word, and this haunting little book is a treasure to be read, reread, and savored for generations to come.

*****

Michael R. Burch is an American poet who lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Beth and two outrageously spoiled puppies. Burch’s poems, translations, essays, articles, reviews, short stories, epigrams, quotes, puns, jokes and letters have appeared more than 7,000 times in publications which include TIME, USA Today, The Hindu, BBC Radio 3, CNN.com, Daily Kos, The Washington Post and hundreds of literary journals, websites and blogs. Burch is also the founder and editor-in-chief of The HyperTexts, a former columnist for the Nashville City Paper, and, according to Google’s rankings, a relevant online publisher of poems about the Holocaust, Hiroshima, the Trail of Tears, Darfur, Gaza and the Palestinian Nakba. Burch’s poetry has been taught in high schools and universities, translated into fifteen languages, incorporated into three plays and two operas, set to music by twenty composers, recited or otherwise employed in more than forty YouTube videos, and used to provide book titles to two other authors. To read the best poems of Mike Burch in his own opinion, with his comments, please click here: Michael R. Burch Best Poems.

Photo: “Gold and Blue Water Reflection” by Stanley Zimny (Thank You for 52 Million views) is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Barbara Lydecker Crane: ‘The African Elephants’ Report’

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Small herds of Two-Legs roll across the plain
and stop to stare at us in our domain.

They rumble in their giant metal hunks,
which belch the fumes that irritate our trunks.

These creatures demonstrate a lack of strength.
They seldom run, nor walk for any length.

We assume their eyesight is defective:
the flat things that they click must be corrective.

Why do they retreat from every shower,
since rain-washed hide will dry within the hour?

When darkness comes these creatures enter tents
and miss the night-shift intrigue of events.

As for their young, we’ve spotted precious few—
a doubtful future, from our point of view.

We shake our heads when Two-Leg herds arrive.
We have concluded they will not survive.

*****

Barbara Lydecker Crane writes: “I wrote this while looking at videos of wildlife in Tanzania – in one, an elephant was peering into a tent with excited humans inside, whispering and filming; I had fun imagining that the elephant had been sent by his herd on a reconnaissance mission, and would report back to them.”

Barbara Lydecker Crane, a Rattle Poetry Prize finalist in 2017 and 2019, has received two Pushcart nominations and several awards. Her poems have appeared in Ekphrastic Review, First Things, Light, Measure, THINK, and many others. Her fourth collection, entitled You Will Remember Me (sonnets in the imagined voices of artists through history, with many color images of artwork) is about to be published by Able Muse Press.

Photo: “Addo Elephant Park, South Africa” by exfordy is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Peggy Landsman, ‘Minimum Achiever’

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Minimum Achiever, for years forlorn,
Grew grey and fat and out of fashion;
She wore the jeans she’d always worn,
And swore with passion.

Minimum loved the days gone by
When wars were wrong and songs were moving;
With files from the FBI,
What was she proving?

Minimum sighed for what had been,
And bitched and moaned how nothing lasted;
She longed for one more great love-in,
And dropping acid.

Minimum mourned the hippie years,
The counterculture’s zest and freedom;
She mourned ideals—her sell-out peers
Didn’t seem to need ’em.

Minimum loved her artsy friends,
And swore that she would start achieving;
Her starts were great, but had no ends
And left her grieving.

Minimum cursed the worthless game
And gave it up instead of trying;
She missed her fifteen minutes’ fame,
But wasn’t crying.

Minimum scorned the job she sought,
But how could she survive without it?
Minimum thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.

Minimum Achiever, starting late,
Started out by hesitating;
Minimum knew she shouldn’t wait,
And kept on waiting.

*****

‘Minimum Achiever’ was first published with apologies to Edwin Arlington Robinson in Clockwise Cat.

Peggy Landsman writes: “I started writing ‘Minimum Achiever’ in 1978. Back then, Minimum watched TV: “…She turned and turned and turned the dial,/ but every station showed World War Three,/ modern, nuclear style.” She was also very political: “Minimum loved the anarchists,/ did actions in the name of Emma….” In the almost thirty years it took me to complete the present version, she went through many changes. The one constant, though, has always been that she is the great-granddaughter of Miniver Cheevy.”

Peggy Landsman is the author of the full-length poetry collection, Too Much World, Not Enough Chocolate (forthcoming from Nightingale & Sparrow Press, 2023), and two poetry chapbooks, Our Words, Our Worlds (Kelsay Books, 2021) and To-wit To-woo (Foothills Publishing, 2008). She lives in South Florida where she swims in the warm Atlantic Ocean every chance she gets. A selection of her poems and prose pieces can be read on her website: https://peggylandsman.wordpress.com/

Photo: “For all those low achievers” by Claire_Sambrook is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Short poem: ‘Possessions’

Odd poem: Julius Caesar, ‘On the poetry of Terence’ (fragment)

Odd poem: ‘The Mother’ or ‘Thanks’ (‘Dank’es!’) by Adolf Hitler

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When your mother has grown old,
And you have grown older
When what used to be easy and effortless
Has now become a burden to her,

When her dear, faithful eyes
no longer see life as they once did,
When her tired feet
don’t want to carry her any more while walking. –

Then give her your arm to support,
Accompany her with pleasure –
The hour is coming. When you, weeping,
Must accompany her on her last walk!

And if she asks you a question, then give her an answer.
And if she asks again, then answer!
And if she asks yet again, answer again,
Not impatiently, but with gentle calm.

And if she cannot understand you properly
Explain her everything happily.
The hour will come, the bitter hour,
When her mouth asks no more.

Wenn deine Mutter alt geworden / Und älter du geworden bist
Wenn ihr, was früher leicht und mühelos / Nunmehr zur Last geworden ist,
Wenn ihre lieben, treuen Augen / Nicht mehr, wie einst, ins Leben seh’n
Wenn ihre müd’ gewordnen Füße / Sie nicht mehr tragen woll’n beim Gehen. –
Dann reiche ihr den Arm zur Stütze, / Geleite sie mit froher Lust –
Die Stunde kommt. Da du sie weinend / Zum letzten Gang begleiten musst!
Und fragt sie dich, so gib ihr Antwort. / Und fragt sie wieder, sprich auch du!
Und fragt sie noch mehr, steh ihr Rede, / Nicht ungestüm, in sanfter Ruh!
Und kann sie dich nicht recht verstehen, / Erklär’ ihr alles froh bewegt.
Die Stunde kommt, die bitt’re Stunde, / Da dich ihr Mund nach nichts mehr fragt!

*****

No apologies for posting a 1923 poem by Hitler about his mother Klara Hitler who had died in 1907. He loved her very deeply, so what? She had been cared for by the Jewish Doctor Eduard Bloch, and Hitler painted the picture above of the doctor’s house in 1913. So what? So Hitler was a Malignant Narcissist like an unfortunate number of powerful modern politicians and businesspeople. That doesn’t mean that he wasn’t capable of love or artistic impulses; you can have them and still be a narcissist. People who insist that there is pure evil in the world (whether Nazism or Judaism) are themselves a lot of the problem. Personally, I have a lot of difficulty with both Nazism and Judaism (and Communism and Christianity, and anyone who insists they are Right and they Know because their Leader or their Book says so), but I also have family and friends of all those persuasions. I don’t respect them for their authoritarian tendencies, but I also don’t think they are pure evil. The demonising of people who you disagree with or fear or are jealous of, that’s the start of the problem. We’re all people, and people are apes after all. Some people are stupid, some are intelligent but uneducated, some are sick, some have genetic defects, some were badly raised, some are sociopaths… then study them, try to make them better human beings, and in the meantime make sure they don’t have access to guns. Thank you. Rant over.

Photo: Watercolour by Adolph Hitler, 1913, House of Dr. Bloch. https://www.wikiart.org/en/adolf-hitler/maison-du-dr-bloch-1913

Form in Formless Times

Searching for word-for-word memorable poetry… editing the Potcake Chapbook series for Sampson Low

Category Archives: Poems

Nonce form: Gail White, ‘Cardinal Richelieu’s Cats’

‘Sonnet Found in a Deserted Madhouse (fantasy of an alternative future)’

Jeff Gallagher, ‘History’

Using form: Songs as poems: Janice D. Soderling, ‘Lookin’ For Lucinda G.’

Michael R. Burch, ‘Water and Gold’

Barbara Lydecker Crane: ‘The African Elephants’ Report’

Peggy Landsman, ‘Minimum Achiever’

Short poem: ‘Possessions’

Odd poem: Julius Caesar, ‘On the poetry of Terence’ (fragment)

Odd poem: ‘The Mother’ or ‘Thanks’ (‘Dank’es!’) by Adolf Hitler

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