REPOST: Because. First published 11 April 2013.
I promised poetry but did not deliver. You don't understand the trepidation of letting this tender, soft-hearted part of myself be open to ridicule, taunting, and satire! How the Genetically Indentured Manor Staff thrills at responding to my meekest requests with muttered, "Yeah? Why don't you go write a poem about it?"
Even Fred can get nasty. I showed him one of my best works and he said, "This is why you couldn't help weed the miniature Wimbledon courts? This is what kept you from leading group therapy for the Crackhead Carnies holed up in the barn? THIS is why you couldn't be bothered to cook for my Wednesday night dinner with the Militant Existentialist Lesbian Feminists? And it doesn't even make sense!"
The Castafiore has been my only support. "Ze poésie, cara mia, it is an art and for ze art, we give our all, we give tout! We give ze everything! Are you going to wear ze rouge pencil skirt and ze frilly white blouse of laces cut down to ze navel of you to ze très extraordinaire mass ce soir? But then, it is ze soir when ze muse appears, no, so I, la Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, can wear ze clothings before ze good Abbot Truffatore, n'est-ce pas? We will pray for ze poésie, for ze breast titty of ze muse to land in your head..."
Abbot Truffatore and Bianca have been meeting for private prayer and, judging from his sweaty red face and mismatched buttons when he leaves, heavy monk boots in hand, some athletic catechism review. Tonight, he is leading a special mass for the Saint Day of Gemma Galgani, on whom he's had a crush for the last thirty years, and Bianca has become a green-eyed and now red pencil skirted demon with a deep v-neck lacy frill top. She may not break out in stigmata every Thursday, but everything else about my girl is so totally venerable and serene.
© 2015 L. Ryan
I promised poetry but did not deliver. You don't understand the trepidation of letting this tender, soft-hearted part of myself be open to ridicule, taunting, and satire! How the Genetically Indentured Manor Staff thrills at responding to my meekest requests with muttered, "Yeah? Why don't you go write a poem about it?"
Even Fred can get nasty. I showed him one of my best works and he said, "This is why you couldn't help weed the miniature Wimbledon courts? This is what kept you from leading group therapy for the Crackhead Carnies holed up in the barn? THIS is why you couldn't be bothered to cook for my Wednesday night dinner with the Militant Existentialist Lesbian Feminists? And it doesn't even make sense!"
The Castafiore has been my only support. "Ze poésie, cara mia, it is an art and for ze art, we give our all, we give tout! We give ze everything! Are you going to wear ze rouge pencil skirt and ze frilly white blouse of laces cut down to ze navel of you to ze très extraordinaire mass ce soir? But then, it is ze soir when ze muse appears, no, so I, la Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, can wear ze clothings before ze good Abbot Truffatore, n'est-ce pas? We will pray for ze poésie, for ze breast titty of ze muse to land in your head..."
Abbot Truffatore and Bianca have been meeting for private prayer and, judging from his sweaty red face and mismatched buttons when he leaves, heavy monk boots in hand, some athletic catechism review. Tonight, he is leading a special mass for the Saint Day of Gemma Galgani, on whom he's had a crush for the last thirty years, and Bianca has become a green-eyed and now red pencil skirted demon with a deep v-neck lacy frill top. She may not break out in stigmata every Thursday, but everything else about my girl is so totally venerable and serene.
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| St. Gemma Galgani |
I shall take a page from good Gemma Galgani's book and suffer the jealousies and pettiness thrown at me over my blessed poetry and suffer these "heartaches in reparation, remembering that Our Lord Himself had been misunderstood and ridiculed."
Ahem. Cough. My first selection is a cute little ditty, meant to liven up the day and inspire all with my usual inimitable hope and optimism. Do not be alarmed if you are so moved as to be unable to speak after the first dozen readings or so. This is a perfectly natural response to poetry of this caliber. Like good Saint Gemma Galgani, you may experience ecstacies and raptures, but be calm. It passes.
Final Cut
there is sand between my eye and lid
from crying over nothing, one more dead kid,
pain here, pain there, poor me, while she
becomes green algae.
my legs that just ought to go,
says the do-it-yourself amputation pro,
prod, poke, ponder: it provokes familiar argument,
the age old problem, that old saw.
both legs are off, okay and fine,
and then one arm, a kinder line,
but there's no one for the coup de grâce,
no one to take the last arm off.
-- by Retired Educator, Mocked Poetess
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