His words are witty,
with a twist.
He says they’re “pithy”;
note the lisp.
*****
This is one of my three short poems published in the current Rat’s Ass Review – thanks, Roderick Bates – where the good and the rude, the mocking and shocking, all coexist harmoniously.
Photo: “Protest signs are an ineffectual means of communicating my nuanced views on a variety of issues that cannot be reduced to a simple pithy slogan!” by duncan is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.
They’re insecure black holes of need
and here they come to clog your feed
with photos and confessionals
shaped by PR professionals—
a pool glows blue in the backyard
next to a pull quote: “It was hard
to fight those demons of self-doubt”—
How brave you are for speaking out!
(“Dinner? Umm…the rainbow trout?”)
Some glossy shots show off the house
where, on a massive sun-splashed couch
the boyfriend lounges with a grin—
familiar…what’s that show he’s in?
“Yes, I’ve found love—I’m over the moon!
My memoir’s coming out in June.”
But now hushed tones, dropped eyes reveal
we’re ready for the big reveal—
speaking to us as to a friend
she grabs onto the latest trend
and tries to humanize herself
with references to mental health:
“Depression and anxiety—
none of the meds would work for me
but a friend introduced me to
this yogi, or—more like—guru?
He teaches tantric meditation
to reach this cosmic—like—vibration?—
where all your energies align—
Oh yeah, hey, my new makeup line
is rolling out in every state—
I promise the concealer’s great!”
How nice for you. The problem is
for those without advantages
like wealth and fame, the proper cure
for suffering is not so sure,
and wasn’t there some news report
about—“That settled out of court,
so let’s move on,” smoothly insists
the always-hovering publicist.
The only cure for their disease?
Awards, red carpets, galaxies
of flashbulbs dazzling their eyes,
the swarms of fans, their ardent cries—
the roar of being glorified
drowns out the whispering voice inside
that tells them that their fame won’t last
but crumble into dust and ash
leaving them lost and destitute—
quick—schedule a new photo shoot!
*****
Brooke Clarke writes: “Celebrities was triggered by scrolling through the news app on my phone and being bombarded with coverage of famous people, which ranged from the adoring to the outright hagiographic. I resisted writing the poem at first, since celebrities seemed like a bit of an obvious target, but in the end I decided to give in & go with it.
In terms of the form, I went back and forth a bit between tetrameter and pentameter couplets, but in the end I settled on the tetrameter. They always strike me as suited to a “lighter” satirical approach, and a slightly more throwaway, less sculpted feel — more Swift than Pope, if that makes sense — and I thought that worked for the subject matter in this one.
One other point that might be of interest: the poem as I submitted it ended with one final couplet:
Reality gets hard to take
when everything about you’s fake.
I thought it worked as a way to pull back from the specific content and give a final summary to tie things together. The editor who published it in Rat’s Ass Review felt it was heavy-handed and obvious, and belaboured the same points that had already been made, so we agreed to cut it. It might be interesting to know what readers think.”
Brooke Clark is the author of the poetry collection Urbanities and the editor of the online epigrams journal The Asses of Parnassus. He’s still (occasionally, hesitantly) on Twitter at @thatbrookeclark.
Other writing:
A recent poem about the jazz guitarist Johnny Smith, in the journal Syncopation
Another poem in couplets, freely adapted from Catullus 63: https://the-agonist.github.io/poetry/2019/07/01/poetry-clark.html
A recent epigram, from Light
An article about narcissism in contemporary poetry: https://thewalrus.ca/the-narcissism-of-contemporary-poetry/
A review of Frederick Seidel and Rachel Hadas in Able Muse
An article about Donna Tartt’s novel The Secret History: https://lareviewofbooks.org/short-takes/donna-tartts-the-secret-history-as-revenge-fantasy/
Photo: “Tag Game: Red Carpet Ready for the OSCARS” by napudollworld is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
One day a great idea just comes you,
like using some old stuff stored in your shed
for some pyrotechnic derring-do,
and you can’t get the thought out of your head,
and you’re excited but a little scared,
since carrying the stunt out would require
some tricky timing. You feel unprepared
and think of all the ways it could backfire…
And yet key elements are on the scene—
the tires and lumber, and most critically
a full two-gallon can of gasoline—
as if assembled there by destiny.
You know you won’t rest till this thing gets done.
Carpe diem. Light the fuse and run.
*****
David Stephenson writes: “On the background for the poem (just published in Rat’s Ass Review), I thought of the title first, as sometimes happens, and was trying to think up some verse that would go with it. I have habitually written sonnets for years, but hadn’t written one in a while when I was working on this, and I thought it had potential for a good sonnet, since most things do. One thing I like about the form, in addition to the technical challenge, is its endless flexibility. Some of the details comes from bonfire videos that I’ve seen on Youtube, in which somebody pours a couple of gallons of gas on a woodpile and lights a match, resulting in an explosion. I find these videos fascinating and always wonder what they were thinking. I was also thinking of one of my favorite quotes, from the Kurt Vonnegut novel Galápagos:
“That, in my opinion, was the most diabolical aspect of those old-time big brains: They would tell their owners, in effect, ‘Here is a crazy thing we could actually do, probably, but we would never do it, of course. It’s just fun to think about.’ And then, as though in trances, the people would really do it…”
David Stephenson is a retired engineer. He writes: “I worked in the automotive business and have lived in Detroit for many years, although I am originally from the same part of rural Illinois as Carl Sandburg, my favorite poet. I was a technical expert in machining operations, first at General Motors and later at Ford. My mother was a school teacher and my father was a skilled craftsman who worked in various factories for John Deere, mostly the big ones along the Mississippi River in Moline. I write poetry out of a desire to make music; if I could play an instrument and was more presentable, I would have formed a band instead. I have two collections out, Rhythm and Blues, which won the 2007 Richard Wilbur Award, and Wall of Sound, which was published by Kelsay Books in 2022. Both are available on Amazon. And as you know, I am also editor of Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.”
Photo: “Fire man!” by redeye^ is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.
Life’s trials left me lonely as a cloud
On high until I found some daffodils,
Not in an adventitious golden crowd
Extending by a lakeside near some hills
Like Wordsworth in his poem, but below
York’s city walls on sloping grassy banks,
Arrayed in row upon enticing row.
So I plucked half a dozen from the ranks
And clasped them and, like Wordsworth, felt a rapt
Companionship that filled me with renewed
Light-heartedness … until a copper tapped
On my left shoulder and rebuked me—”Dude,
Unlicensed flower picking’s stealing”—then
Detained my blooms … to leave me lone, again.
*****
Editor’s comment: Mike Mesterton-Gibbons has produced a Shakespearean sonnet acrostically spelling out the title and theme that references one of the best-known poems in the English language. A full discussion of Wordsworth’s original (text, background, modifications, reception, various photos, etc) is in Wikipedia – including the suggestion that Wordsworth originally came up with “I wandered lonely as a cow” until his sister Dorothy told him “William, you can’t put that.” But rather than Wordsworth’s blissed-out ending, Mesterton-Gibbons goes full circle to a rueful police-induced return to loneliness.
Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus at Florida State University who has returned to England to live in York, where he once attended university after going to school in Cumbria near the Lake District. His poems have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Better Than Starbucks, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, MONO, the New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review (where this poem was first published), the Satirist, the Washington Post and WestWard Quarterly. Links to all these poems can be found at https://www.math.fsu.edu/~mesterto/Unscramble/wordplay.html
Photo: “York: City Walls and Daffodils” by jack cousin is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
All the things God could do,
all the things he doesn’t:
stop earthquakes and disease,
world war between first cousins…
Complaints at God may seem
rashly impertinent–
But so what? Life shows God
clearly omnimpotent.
*****
Not much to say about my rude little poems, except that a lot of them get published in Rat’s Ass Review, whose Spring/Summer issue has just (optimistically) been published – thanks, Roderick Bates! And also, well, I guess I was proud of the poem’s last word, though I’m definitely not the first person to think of it.
Cartoon: Matt Rosemier
Illegals, both of us; married last year,
now she cleans houses, I cut grass, sweep decks,
for superrich who see us as mere specks
while their big spaceship exit they prepare.
Earth will be fishless, treeless, plastic, bare.
They’ve offered us both jobs as restaveks,
but I said No, they just want us for sex.
She said Then suck them off, why should you care?
I said, We’ll stay. She said, I said I’d go.
I said, You’d leave me? She said, Stay, be dead.
I said, That makes you nothing but a whore.
She said, I fucked him for your job, you know;
I go to space, I’ll live, have food, have bed,
and, if I’m good, oh maybe so much more…
*****
“Restavek” is normally a term for a child of an impoverished Haitian family, sent to live as a domestic servant for a wealthier (or less poor) family. There are an estimated 300,000 in Haiti, mostly girls; and an unknown number in the Haitian communities in the US.
This sonnet (Petrarchan, rhyming ABBA ABBA CDE CDE) was recently published in the frequently NSFW Rat’s Ass Review – thanks, Roderick Bates!
Illustration: “Tiny Empires 3000” by Daniel Voyager is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
You, yes you, contain multitudes, conflicted mobs-–
the adroit who holds two jobs,
the maladroit who fails and sobs,
the shortcut thug, dacoit, who simply robs-–
you’ve urges to protect and to exploit:
be just! (but help yourself when you’ve the chance
and no one’s there to look at you askance.)
Priests educate, instruct and rape their flock
as farmers care for, milk and eat their herd
and statesmen love the country they extort.
*****
This is (apparently) the most interesting excerpt from a longer rant that was more than the Rat’s Ass Review wanted. Thanks Roderick Bates for selecting this piece!
“Disagreement” by Petri Damstén is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
In the far future, humans gone from Earth,
now disembodied as self-structured flows
of energy and information, woes
of the unknown replacing old Death, Birth
and even Copulation; when a dearth
of physical experience bestows
rich glamor on ideas of Nature’s shows–
sunset, moon rise, trees, seas–the planet’s worth…
they’ll lust after these days we suffer through,
marveling at the rich chaotic times,
enthralled by nearing immortality
while planetary destruction loomed in view.
Wrapping themselves in simulated climes,
they think them us… Are they?… We’re them?… Maybe!
*****
One of my more obscure Petrarchan sonnets, perhaps… but Nick Bostrom of Oxford University hypothesises that, as simulations get increasingly complex, engaging and realistic, there will ultimately be many more simulations than the original reality… and therefore that there is a higher probability that you are living in a simulation than in the “real” world. Whatever the “real” world is. Or whoever you actually are. And seeing as Quantum Mechanics is drawing us all into a sense of the illusory nature of reality (particles being waves when they feel like it, or until closely questioned), then maybe somewhere between Ancient Hinduism and future physics we are all something that we haven’t come close to figuring out yet.
Published in Rat’s Ass Review – thanks, Rick Bates!
“Woman having fun with a VR set” by Rawpixel Ltd is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
Demonic nurses, finding little sin,
all leave my bedside. Doctor Death comes in.
He looks around, “I’m only here
To get a rough sense of the atmosphere. ”
“Please, don’t get up…”
He sits. “Not healing with your usual speed,
Eh, you young pup?
You’ve got a few years left still, don’t you worry.
Take all the time you need.
I’m in no hurry.”
*****
I wrote this in mid-2020; I think Doctor Death was in all our minds at that point, though I didn’t catch Covid myself for another couple of years. The poem was published in the current issue of Rat’s Ass Review – thanks, Rick Bates!
Photo: “1974 Madhouse with Vincent Price playing Dr Death 9599” by Brechtbug is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
When your flesh freshly and your face flushly
Face the imperatives of flesh,
I find your mind now unleashed lusty-lushly…
Must we not then enmesh?
*****
This little poem was triggered by pondering the nearness to each other of the words fresh, flesh and flush, and jamming them all together. The result was coherent enough for publication in (naturally) ‘Rat’s Ass Review‘ – thanks, Rick Bates!
Photo: “The Redhead Piano Bar” by Thomas Hawk is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.
Form in Formless Times 