Poetics and Ruminations

Monkey Brains

The New York Times, Thursday, May 29, 2008, Page 1 on the Web:

Monkeys Control a Robot Arm With Their Thoughts

By BENEDICT CAREY

The report in the journal Nature is the most striking demonstration of brain-machine interface technology.

(Click the headline which is a link to the original article.)

Clearly, the Bush administration has been doing this for years. Dubbya, the monkey, without being aware of exactly what he is doing, has been controlling members of his staff, the "robot arms," with his brain for almost eight years. Apparently Scott McClellan has somehow broken free.

— Wesli Court

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I strongly object to this, Lew: it's unfair to the monkeys.

 

Rhina

Happy Birthday

Today, May 29, 2008, is my wife Jean's birthday. As San Franciscans like to say on the day the Beatniks bathe; as the Indians of the Southwest say when they drink firewater; as ornithologists say when they spot a rare species, and as the Marx brothers said when they ate steak:

Hippy bath day to you,

Hopi booze day to you,

Hoopoe bird day, dear Jeanie,

Harpo beef day to you! 

As viragos say when they go on a tour; as large water mammals say at mating time; as camels say about jazz; as a bum says when he finds footwear:

Harpy bus day to you,

Hippo boff day to you,

Humpy bop day, dear Jeanie,

Hobo boot day to you!

 As a doctor says while diagnosing a disease transmitted by an infected dog, as tug captains say while working, as Shakespeare might have said at an auction, and as the scientist might say having crossed a flying mammal with an amphibian:

Herpes bite day to you,

Harbor boat day to you,

Haply bid day, dear Jeanie,

Hoppy bat day to you!

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“Jean's Favorite Color is burple.”

Now, what kind of fellow

says, "BURPLE," not yellow

when asked, "What's your wife's favorite hue?"

Although that sin

brought a big grin--

I'll leave the guy's "sentence" to YOU.

Happy Birthday to Jean.

Since she loves yellow, google Lemon Pop bearded iris, and maybe you can show her a picture of what may be her favorite of the box Lowell will dig carefully for her, and you will plant carefully. Soon. This was the Flower of England, I think last year, and I think this year is the flower of the year for Canada. These will bloom more than in the spring.

Vivian

 

A very happy birthday to Jean, and many, many more to come!

Rhina

 

Dear Jean,

The Happiest of Birthdays to you .... how can it not be happy?  Your husband honors you with the wittiest of birthday greetings ... they are indeed keepers — I will download them and keep them for future reference.  Of course I wouldn't lay claim to the authorship ...  but I will share them with upcoming birthday celebrations of my family and friends. Tell me, have you ever received a Hallmark card from Lew?  You remember their sappy logo — "When you care enough to send the very best" ... Who needs a Hallmark when you already have "the very best"?  Again, Happy Birthday, and my very best wishes for a dynamite day. 

Ann

 

Dear Lew

I thought of you over the Memorial Day Holiday.  When I was in 4th grade , we were required to memorize "In Flanders Fields" — I'm sure we didn't get the true gist of the poem ... but I will always, always remember those opening words "In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow, between the crosses row on row ...."  So, I did a little research and found that it was written in the manner of a French rondeau.  Of course, what do I know about rondeaux?  So I looked it up.  Now mind you ... I never, ever would have done that had we not connected ... you see what an influence you have?

Loved your hilarious birthday songs .... 'specially the Marx Brothers (love those guys). 

Ann

 

Lew,

You could make a gag out of hoggy car mike ill, fer chris'sakes. Or do you remember him? I think it was spelled Hoagy Carmichael. A song writer.

I assume Jean dived under the covers for the day after reading your extended punpoem, but tell her happy birthday from me. In my brain she is still somewhere in her mid-30s.

Herrmann

 

John,

You sound like the guy who found a fake fish in his automobile. When he saw it he exclaimed, "Hokey car mackerel!"

Lew

 

From all of us to all of you, Happy Birthday to your lovely spouse.

 

    Jerry

 

Jean! Happy Birthday! Make sure the guy takes you out and treats you!

 

Love,

 

Max

Small Songs

Here are some of my children's poems, all 

written for my kids (my daughter, Melora, 

originally, though): 
 

THE LARK

Hark, hark, the lark! 
How he doth spark! 
	To woo the owl 
	The lark must howl. 
Hark, hark, the lark! 
 
Hark, hark, the lark! 
How he doth spark! 
	To woo the snake 
	The lark must shake. 
Hark, hark, the lark! 
 
Hark, hark, the lark! 
How he doth spark! 
	To woo the dog 
	The lark must jog. 
Hark, hark, the lark! 
 
And so on and on and on...you pick the animal. 
 

MORTIMER LUMP

Bumpitty bumpitty bump, 
My name is Mortimer Lump 
	I eat out of pans 
	And old tin cans 
Because I live in a dump, a dump, 
Because I live in a dump.. 
 
Bumpitty bumpitty bump, 
My name is Mortimer Lump 
	I nibble on seeds 
	And dig in the weeds 
That grow in the fields in a clump, a clump, 
That grow in the fields in a clump. 
 

THE SINGLE STAIR

There once was a single stair 
Who wanted to go somewhere, 
	So he put on his shoe 
	And sailed for Peru — 
But he found he was already there! 
 

LULLABYE

Rocket by, baby, in your space ship, 
When you count down the rocket will zip. 
When you blast off, go into free fall, 
And off will go baby, cockpit and all. 

BUGS
 
Big Bug, little Bug, 
Middle Bug, Beetle, 
One named Tweedledum, 
Another named Tweedle, 
The third named Sam and he went for a ride 
With a pretty little ladybug sitting at his side. 

HAPPY HARRY
 
Happy Harry Hooligan, 
Acting like a fool again, 
	Kissed a frog 
	That sat on a log 
And jumped into the pool again. 
 

Copyright 2008 by Lewis Turco / Wesli Court, all 

rights reserved. May not be reprinted without 

the specific permission of the author.

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Enjoyed "Joust," and most especially the 
children's poems, which are delightful.
Rhina

Joust

 

JOUST

 

Cast:  Antique, an elder poet

         Moderne, a new poet

         Avaunt, a young poet

Scene: A bare stage

 

LIGHTS UP. Antique is seen astride a rather regal hobby horse. He wears a noble costume, very bright and ornate. He is rocking back and forth. Moderne enters opposite. His garb is that of the twenties: a “chicken inspector’s” striped sport suit. He wears a straw boater and carries a cane. Antique sees him, jumps from his horse, and draws a foil.

 

ANTIQUE. Retain thy stance, thou oafish modern bard!

         E’er I draw nigh, shall we, with rapier’d word,

         Engage in mortal duel ‘til, in our ire,

         One or the other of us must expire!

 

MODERNE stops, surprised. He begins to laugh, then speaks:

         A word-tipped, sword-spitted

                  sunbeam spangles

                           polished steel,

                                    ancient poet.

         And glass, glinting, seeks

                  translucent abandonment.

         Shape glass, mold steel

                  to new-age forms and needs.

         So, with words; so, with words.

 

ANTIQUE brandishes his foil, lunges, but is easily evaded:

         Suspend these impish prancings, parvenu!

         Else my chivalric glory may not show!

         Stand fast; I vow my vengeance shall be just ¾

         Thy tongue dissevered with one splendid thrust.

During the rest of the scene, Antique is very theatrical.

 

MODERNE cocky:

         Laughter tipples grayly,

                  dawn seeks a tomb.

         Moldering miasmas

                  own epitaphs for sentinels;

                           stale breath rasps to a hoary,

                                    lachrymose crescendo.

         Fling a shroud banner

                  bravely to the nightwind!

         The crystal globe is shattered,

                  aged sage.

 

ANTIQUE becoming more theatrical:

         Thy mode is strange, loquacious Hercules ¾

         M’lunge is parried with unseemly ease!

         How durst thou enter combat with no plate

         To shield thy breast, nor helmet on thy pate?

 

MODERNE, self-sure:

         Velvet grape clusters

                  spill red wine

                           no longer staining Roman marble.

         A steel skull turns the blade ¾

                  no turnkey frees thought

                           from gilded prisons.

         Forged fetters groove,

                  creak-backed word-warrior.

 

ANTIQUE jumps back upon his hobby horse, waving his foil overhead:

         Enough! Enough! Up, gallant, snorting steed;

         We seek a nobler foe, a finer breed

         Than that whose representative we face

         Upon this field of latter-day disgrace!

Antique begins to rock furiously. Moderne walks to front stage center and addresses the audience, his boater set at a jaunty angle. He punctuates his gestures with a fountain pen.

 

MODERNE. Burnished sorrel

                  fades in candlelight.

         Tarnished armor

                  swaybacks

                           graying mares.

He turns, bows from the waist to the still rocking Antique, taps the brim of his boater with the head of his cane, and walks rakishly offstage, whistling.

 

MOMENTARY BLACKOUT

         Rising lights reveal Moderne now standing beside the hobby horse, stroking its head. He still wears his sporty outfit, but instead of the cane, he now carries Antique’s foil and wears his red cloak. Avaunt enters, is spied by Moderne, who spins to face the newcomer. Avaunt is carrying books, typewriter, and is dressed in Ivy League fashion.

MODERNE, turning to face the newcomer:

         Eyes, forged

                  to twin and piercing

                           points of force,

                                    cry you “Halt!”

                                             star-wanderer.

         Face your lingual tragedy if you can.

Moderne points his foil threateningly at Avaunt who appears sober but unconcerned.

 

AVAUNT (calmly logical):

         There are tragedies to come

                  And not to come, Moderne.

         What is on my tongue

                  Must run  like water from an urn,

                           Translucently.

                  Where is the tragedy?

 

MODERNE (increasingly distraught):

         My cunning, coiling, silver plunge

                  spun numbly,

                           slicing April rains....,

                                    but atoms less than more!

 

AVAUNT (serious):

         Trumpeters no longer blow

                  Their gaudy calls to arms.

         Now the status quo

                  Discovers rebels, come to terms,

                           Behind the moat.

                  New rebels sound their note.

 

MODERNE, wildly plunging:

         Spin, thrust, strike, jab,

                  cut, lunge (does so) ¾

                           but my once-young-lunged breath

                                    billows up

                                             to no avail,

                                                      joins the creaking wind.

         The new is growing old

                  but still is strong!

 

AVAUNT. Balanced on the blade of time,

                  Each poet piles his cairn.

         Some are made of lime,

                  While others are obsidian:

                           They all cannot

                  Remain untouched by rot.

 

MODERNE furious:

         The word-whirler

                  shall plunder suns and tenements,

                           ordain no quarter through

                                    the tumbling earth!

         The mutineer’s red roar

                  shall not grow feeble,

                           futile, like the moss

                                    assaulting hopelessly

                                             your fort of stainless steel

                                                      and polished glass!

 

AVAUNT. You have taught us long and well.

                  Remember what you said:

         “Shape glass, mold steel

                  To new-age forms and needs?”

                           Those words have worth.

                  Youth must, and will hold forth.

 

Avaunt turns, picks up his typewriter, and walks slowly offstage. Moderne’s eyes follow him, a hurt and puzzled expression pervading his face. When Avaunt has gone, Moderne turns, looks at the audience quizzically, then slowly mounts the hobby horse. He rocks uncertainly for a moment; then, casting an angry glance over his shoulder in the direction in which Avaunt disappeared, he draws his foil, waves it over his head, and begins rocking furiously.

CURTAIN

 

 

 Originally published under the title "Cycle" in Experiment, vii:3-4, 1958. Copyright 1958 & 2008. All rights reserved.

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I enjoyed the Joust. Antique reminded me of the translation of Don Quixote I listened to last year. I liked how the three characters spoke in distinctive voices and the descriptions. And it's going  to go on and on, I think. All that furious riding and waving of swords.
-- 
Alice Teeter

Epistle to Hillary, the Great White Hope, Wednesday, 7 May 2008

Dear Hillary,

It’s over. You can stop acting like a Republican now and return to acting like a Democrat. There is no chance that your husband Bubba is going to be your “Co-President” for a third term. You can stop sipping whiskey in good-old-boy bars; you can stop coming up with plans to suspend the gas tax for the summer which you could never do anyway, not being the President, nor the Senate Majority Leader, and it’s way too late for this summer anyway, and you can stop saying that you’ve been against NAFTA and the War in Iraq all along…and PLEASE stop saying you’re going to bomb the hell out of Iran first chance you get.

You can stop taking your daughter Chelsea into an imaginary Bosnia to help you make believe you are under enemy sniper fire. You can stop attacking your decent-guy opponent using guilt-by-association with irrelevant people like his pastor and somebody he served on a commission with. You can stop pretending to be from Scranton, and Arkansas, and Chicago, and you can admit that you’re from New Haven, and New York City, and Washington, D. C.

You can stop making believe you’re one of the hoi polloi who don’t have the privileges you have and have had — your Ivy League education, your millions of dollars stashed away: so many millions that you can lend your own campaign nearly twelve million dollars when your cash flow dries up. You can ask Bubba to stop touring the rural south and telling the folks there that your opponent is Black and they should vote for a white woman so that he can get back into the Oval Office to buy new dresses for White House interns. We thought Bubba was supposed to have been “the first Black President.” Is that why nearly the entire Black population of the U. S. has seen him now for what he is: a demagogue who will say or do anything to fulfill the “sense of entitlement” Bill Richardson says you and he feel about the White House? You and Bubba used to be the champions of the underdog, but now that you and he are the underdogs, you have become backbiters.

In other words, stop trying to split the Democratic party in order that the decrepit, senile Senator John McCain will win the Presidency in the fall, die in office and enable you to run for President again in four years. The country can’t survive another Bush Presidency. The economy is a wreck; the war in Iraq is largely to blame, and wholly to blame for the dead and permanently maimed — both mentally and physically — young men and women who are coming home to be neglected by a government that has a ruined health "system," a government that began and used the war you voted for to exploit the global petroleum shortage and line the pockets of the Bushes and the Cheneys and all their multimillionaire chums.

Oh, that’s right — YOU’RE one of those chums, aren’t you?