Monday, March 20, 2017

Don't shake that Speare at me!








Bard Garb

Shakespeare found a well-placed cuff
When writing fight scenes just enough.
To set his mind; for romance, collars
Helped him rake in royal dollars.
When he mocked in sharp ad-libbin',
He wound about his neck a ribbon,
And wore his stiff and starchy ruff
When he wrote more solemn stuff.


The Original Fanfiction

Fanfic may not be canon, but don't dare
Denounce it as dishonest, or declare
That it is unoriginal or, worse,
Suggest that it devalues Shakespeare's verse:
Remember, then, the Bard had sticky fingers
When it came to names or witty zingers,
And lifted storylines wholesale, it's said
From folks like poor old Mr Holinshead.
And if you'll visit poor young Willie's grave
(You'll tell it from the bust that needs a shave),
I'd wager that his grave itself was not
His own. He probably just stole the plot.

both by Daniel Galef
in volume 5 issue 2

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Monday, March 13, 2017

Vestigial








Ode to the Appendix
in the style of Pablo Neruda
Organ small,
unnecessary,
I caress you.
Sprung from stars
and bound for stars,
poised as a locust,
you are modestly
excessive,
intimate with
the great engines
and boilers,
the heartbeats
and belches,
yet oddly detached.
You loaf and
lounge at your
ease. I think of
Pushkin:
by your good graces
you whipped up in his
belly
no revolution,
refused
to interfere
with the rhythms
of his concentration—
were it up to you,
his voice would
be rhapsodizing still.
The least part
of that mighty poet,
aren't you,
by virtue of such
light employment,
the least defiled
by mundane needs
and uses? Therefore
the most refined,
sluiced in your
oils and chyle,
the most prone
to those late-night
marinatings the
pedants call
lucubrations:
the most pristine
and fit for singing?
Are you not
the very essence
of the deathless
and necessary Poet,
and by extension
everyone?
Little neglected one,
above all,
I caress you.

by Dan Campion
in volume 5 issue 2

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Monday, March 6, 2017

In the name of science!






An Ode to Oobleck

Oobleck, my love, of the gooiest goo,
Thy affection, I trow, doth simmer and stew!
Is wrought into frenzy upon being boiled,
but starling, my Oobleck! For thee I have toiled!
Thy lumps are like mumps of the bumpiest kind,
and in poetry here, thy lumps are enshrined.

by Sarah Valeika
in volume 5 issue 2

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Monday, February 27, 2017

Perspectives on Western Literature







To Mr. Andrew Marvell
a response to a certain advance
Dear Mr. Andrew Marvell
I hope you're thriving and are well.
I write to you only to say
You and I can't happen. No way!

Not that your poem is not preferred
But your argument is absurd!
Telling me my beauties should fade
Will never ever get you laid!

The time is indeed on the run
But learn some patience from John Donne!
Carpe diem can wait a while.
Rushing to things is not my style.

Moreover, it is impolite
To claim a lady as your right.
And last but not least I must stress
I'm not anybody's "mistress!"


Darcy and Lydia
musings on a certain literary romantic
If Darcy lived today
he'd be lured by the media.
He'd live a life of ease
and choose to marry Lydia.

You see, Lydia's fun.
She's not as headstrong as Lizzy.
Now, men don't want conflict,
they just want someone who's easy.

Lydia may not be
bold, clever, challenging, and brave.
But she sure can cook meals
using the newest microwave.

Lizzy's the type of girl
whose wits captivate and compel.
But who on earth needs wits
when Lydia can flirt so well?

Why fight for Lizzy's love,
who's clearly playing hard to get,
when you can readily
drive Lydia's uncle's corvette?

Why care for true beauty
which might be a myth after all?
For a touch of makeup,
even men like Darcy can fall.

Though Lizzy has fine eyes
and nobly trimmed, dusky tresses,
Darcy much more prefers
Lydia's revealing dresses.

Gone are the days of pride,
of Lizzy's grace and Darcy's stare.
Today it's all about
Lydia's hip, highlighted hair.

by Niloufar Behrooz
in volume 5 issue 2

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Monday, February 20, 2017

Stop! Thief!






The Car Not Taken
with a nod to Robert Frost
Two unlocked cars, black and red, looked good,
And sorry I could not steal them both
And be one felon, at length I stood
Looking at one as long as I could.
To leave one behind I was quite loath.

A coin toss guided me. I took
The red one (I hoped) the better car
Because it was newer. One last look
at the black car. It was time to hook
My new ride up, then vamoose afar.

The car not taken, with keys in sight,
was a beauty in metallic black.
I thought I'd sneak back that same night
and claim this vision of delight,
But—Darn it!—I never made it back.

I'm telling my story with a sigh
And have told it numerous times since.
Two unlocked cars looked good, and I—
I took the newer one, and I see why
To me, in jail, it's made no difference.

by Janice Canerdy
both in volume 5 issue 1

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