through the green fuse drives the flower

A belated happy birthday to the Welsh bard, Dylan Thomas, born to David and Florence Thomas on October 27, 1914, in Swansea, Wales. Hey, what's the weather in Swansea? If you hurry, you still might make the Dylan Thomas festival.

The fierce that thrown the preen ruse hives the power
Hives my preen page; that flouts the routes of bees
Is my describer.
And I am done to spell the cricket home
My wreath is rent by this sane flinty river.

And a birthday salute from the Dickinsonian oracle:

My Heart ran so to thee
It would not wait for me
And I affronted grew
And drew away
For whatsoe'er my pace
He first achieve thy Face -
How general a Grace
Allotted two -
(E. Dickinson, from 1331)

Meta-Four Lily

Lily says the mind
is like a pinata
when you crack it
open you find lots
of surprises that's pinata
perspective when losing your
mind becomes a peak
experience but isn't losing
your mind reallly losing
your pinata not cracking
it open what then

Shed some light, O Dickinsonian oracle:

The Outer - from the Inner
Derives it's magnitude -
'Tis Duke, or Dwarf, according
as is the central mood -
(E. Dickinson, from 450)

Like a pinata

Lovely, funny Lily Tomlin: the mind is like a pinata.

Me: the mind is like a skillet. Or an eclair. Or a bowling lane. Or a lap. Maybe a flea market. Definitely a pudding.

The Dickinson oracle: the mind is like

A Coffin - is a small Domain,
Yet able to contain
A citizen of Paradise
In it's diminished Plane -
(E. Dickinson, from 890)

Postmodern Meta-Four

For a postmodern Friday:

It seems that postmodern
discourse about liminality's facticity
is just talk about
the facts of limits
or limens meaning thresholds
why not just say
it Judy but historicity
now that's some word

From the Dickinsonian oracle's postmodern mouth:

As we pass Houses musing slow
If they be occupied
So minds may pass minds
If they be occupied
(E. Dickinson, 1723)

Spirits and feathers

Read about a terrific and fascinating women in a terrific and fascinating article written by terrific and fascinating you know who. It's in this current issue of Minnesota Women's Press

And the Dickinsonian oracle adds:

If this is "fading"
Oh let me immediately "fade"!
If this is "dying"
Bury - me, in such a shroud of red!
If this is "sleep,"
On such a night
How proud to shut the eye!
Good evening, gentle Fellow men!
Peacock presumes to die!
(E. Dickisnson, 119)

Tuesday Meta-Four

An unfunny meta-four:

Quake

the earth breaks open
and we don't know
what to do what
happens bodies fall upon
bodies and more bodies

The Dickinson oracle:

The Opening and the Close
Of Being, are alike
Or differ, if they do,
As Bloom upon a Stalk -

That from an equal Seed
Unto an equal Bud
Go parallel, perfected
In that they have decayed -
(E. Dickinson, 1098)

Meta-Four for Monday

It's all Jonathan Williams' idea. Try a meta-four yourself. The only rules: each line must have four and only four words; eliminate all capital letters and punctuation (except for hyphens and apostrophes). Have fun and make some Monday nonsense.

Monday Meta-Four

it could have been
a great weekend you'll
never tell your coworkers
are asking but what
do you care pass
a donut will you

Though Williams certainly shows originality, did he in fact swipe the idea from Miss Emily? Check out the Dickinsonian oracle's almost meta-four:

Alter! When the Hills do -
Falter! When the Sun
Question if His Glory
Be the Perfect One -

Surfeit! When the Daffodil
Doth of the Dew -
Even as Herself - Sir -
I will - Of You -
(E. Dickinson, 755)

Swift: A Poem, plus kinky chemistry

You dart
as quick
as a kleptomaniac's
wish
for more,
you dart.

And from the Dickinsonian oracle, sage advice about the two chemists who just won the Smarty Pants Prize for their work on dancing atoms that swap their subatomic parts:

Ourselves - we do inter - with sweet derision
The channel of the Dust - who once achieves -
Invalidates the Balm of that Religion
That doubts - as fervently as it believes -
(E. Dickinson, 1449)

Soutwest metropolis morality tale #1

Once upon a sunny southwest metropolis time, a girl named Seether was shuffling through her sun-dripping neighborhood, her imaginary tale twitching and her imaginary pointed ears quivering to the imaginary static she so easily perceived buzzing through the early-morning but nevertheless humid air.

As she often did on her morning forays, Seether was on the lookout for hypocrites, analytic philosophers, and other threats to civilization as she imagined it.

"Snark," she seethed. "Rat licker. Pig bottom," she snarled as she rounded a corner, humming to the hum in her head, a ripple cascading down her imaginarily fur-lined back.

Suddenly, a thin, wheezy voice penetrated her concentration: "... and she said 4856, but there is no 4856..."

Seether stopped in her imaginary four-pawed tracks, seeing a short, white haired old lady standing on the corner looking up and down the street, then imploringly at Seether.

"Ack. Brain numb-er," Seether spit out, but the old lady approached, coming so close that Seether saw her whiskers, and a bright dot of coral lipstick smeared on her upper left lip.

"... and I took the bus, but there is no 4856."

"What," Seether asked, titling her head so as to better filter the static now bristling all about, "are you looking for?"

The old lady, peering out through her little old lady eyes, wheezed, "The hair dresser's." Her frizzled hair frizzled.

Twitching her tail, had it been there, Seether turned, pointed, and said, "The green awning... there," the mention of which caused the little old lady to blink, blink again, and start off in the direction of the now apparent, flourescently glowing "OPEN" sign.

"Have," Seether cautiously offered, "a good day."

"... and it has been such a bad one already," the little old lady replied, seething a bit herself.

"It can only," Seether said, "thus," Seether spun, "get better." And off Seether sprinted, thinking that the old lady was not the sort to spout mind-numbing drivel parading as wonderment at best and linguistic slight-of-hand at worst; nor did she seem a hypocrite, with her early morning appointment and that spot of color on her lip.

The End

And the moral of the story from the Dickinsonian oracle:

A Thought went up my mind today -
That I have had before -
But did not finish - some way back -
I could not fix the Year -

Nor Where it went - nor why it came
The second time to me -
Nor definitely, what it was -
Have I the Art to say -

But somewhere - in my soul - I know -
I've met the Thing before -
It just reminded me - 'twas all -
And came my way no more -
(E. Dickinson, 731)