Apr 15, 2014
This poem is the second part of a diptych. To read the first part, already posted, follow this link.
A Passover/Easter Exhortation
When winter, winter days, and dramatic rains,
Arrange with memories in ink and fiction,
Ascribing each benediction to the reigns
Of blessed change and heavenly restriction,
Their season’s preferred font of color let
Bestow with frigid hand a painted touch,
Chromatically whispering even its palette,
And reason a distraction to the brush.
In essence winter day too long decrying,
Thy lip and constancy’s eye, by short diction, tear
The given center. Why, wonted sky denying,
With word take aim, selection and objection their
Reaction? Whether winter be loss, the other teach,
Meet me, thy mate, in the periphery of each.
~David Byron for Cathie
Dec 24, 2013
A Christmas Prayer
Decrying constancy's loss in change,
When winter reigns, bestow a benediction.
Each heavenly tear its mate in ink arrange
And color the frigid winter with other diction,
Denying even the season's wonted selection
Of font and fiction. Palette in lip, hand, eye,
Teach me to meet with reason each objection,
The winter rains. Take aim and touch the sky,
Thy brush whispering whether and winter and why,
Chromatically ascribing. Let the distraction
Of days too short to long– their periphery
Restriction, their center dramatic reaction–
Be painted with memories of a day preferred,
And given essence by Thy blessed Word.
~David Byron for Cathie
in the winter of 1991.
This poem is part one of two. Here's the follow-on poem.
Dec 6, 2013
This is a relatively self-indulgent post, but hey– blog!
This is fundamentally a gaming site, founded and sustained by gamers, and I was once, and remain, a rabid fan of the gaming franchise that began with Thief: The Dark Project, continued with Thief II: The Metal Age and Thief: Deadly Shadows, and will soon resume with 2014's Thief. These are the high water mark in first-person, hybrid, potentially non-violent, stealth-based, story-rich games.
A recent discussion of satire, parody, and pastiche in the comment section of another thread here reminded me that I wrote a handful of Thief-themed pastiches back in the early aughties. To share them with others who might like them, to store them in our database, and to revisit them with wistful nostalgia, I reproduce them below. Each is set to the theme of a pop song. Note well: these are only meaningful if you've played the games, and they're best read with the corresponding tunes playing in the background. :) The songs are Barbie Girl, All Star, Mickey, We Didn't Start The Fire, Uptown Girl, Cheers, and U Can't Touch This.
In one sense, the message of this post in a nutshell is "Ain't I a clever chap!" But if you, too, love the Thief games, then in joining the nostalgia perhaps you'll revisit some fond memories of your own.
Continue Reading »
Oct 23, 2013
It was a formidable task, but agitators or Alinskyites have finally managed to pit the workers against the founders:
By such is my muse newly stirred:
We're studying workers,
And hoping to model their nest.
We've come from the foundry
To size up the boundary
And feel that old Al does it best.
We've taken great pains
To see no ant remains;
We've worked hard to effect their premoval.
You'll be happy to learn, the
New method would earn the
Fourteenth Dalai Lama's approval.
Oct 21, 2013
While off to meander
The vale of Neander
I once took a gander at some lovely gal.
She was low in the hip
And smart as a whip,
But that brow ridge! It made me her pal.
I said, "Though I'm cro-magnon,
I'll be yer companion,
If you'll join me now down in the valley."
With a come-hither look,
My comparatively frail hand she took,
And we down toward the river did sally.
With no hint of neurosis,
We danced the meiosis,
And maybe a tango or two.
And that's why knuckle-dragger
Snips, like a stone dagger
Enhancing your swagger,
Now make you a bragger
'bout the chromosomes that she left to you.
Oct 16, 2013
So it turns out that disgraced former mayor of San Diego, Bob Filner, has owned up to some small portion of his odious malefaction.
What better time to revive The Ballad of Sweet Old Bob?
Oct 8, 2013
It may seem a mite unwholesome
To lust after a corpus callosum,
That hard body inviting fixation
On mammillary fornixation,
But I'm told there's temporally more sex
In proportion to a convoluted cortex,
And that with decreased neural density
Come connective intensity
And a naturally selective propensity.
So don't be hesitant to probe.
There's nothing like falling in lobe!
Aug 20, 2013
The kind of sonnet form that Shakespeare wrote
–a poem of Love, or Time, in fourteen lines
Rhymed the way these are, clear, easy to quote–
Channels strong feelings into deep designs.
Three quatrains neatly fitting limb to joint,
Their lines cut with the sharpness of a prism,
Flash out in colors as they make their point
In what logicians call a syllogism–
(If A, and B, then C)–and so it goes,
Unless the final quatrain starts out "But"
Or "Nevertheless," these groups of lines dispose
Themselves in reasoned sections, tightly shut.
The final couplet's tight and terse and tends
To sum up neatly how the sonnet ends.
~ John Hollander, 28 October 1929 – 17 August 2013
Rhyme's Reason, Yale UP, 0300088329, 1981, p. 19
In your playground I learned to care deeply about form. Thanks, John.
Jul 31, 2013
Today, embrace the sun and moon,
Pose questions to the rocks and clouds,
Consider ripples in the sea,
And delve into the dust of doubt.
Engaging them, take time to see
That each announces not itself
Alone, but one, strong, fair, and true,
Who them displays, whose word all wealth
Now allocates to large and small,
Including you within some scope,
Governing cosmic, quantum, all,
A ground of mystery and hope.
So when you ponder, ask, and reach,
Give time to see as well as show.
Discerning means and motives, learn
To shape and teach as well as know.
Jul 20, 2013
Here's a bit o' light verse, given that words are many but hours few.
A dandelion puff aloft went wayward without sinking,
Uprooted, blown into the sky by simple wishful thinking.
So bold, its dreams of meaning made of happenstance and hope.
So dry, the withering stem now plucked– an epistemic trope.
The keep with no foundation falls apart in nothing flat.
Our prison-house of language games will make quite sure of that!
Each proposition needs a promise– given, cherished, kept–
Else thinking, thus unsteadied, spawns a progeny inept.
So build your treehouse near the stream and, firmly rooted there,
It will provide the place where thought may thrive and grow and dare.
The blooming bud once plucked becomes a thing already dead.
Perennial, the cultivated carefully instead.