Tag Archives: Humour

Is it Time to put Woke the Word to Bed ?

Is it Time to put Woke the Word to Bed ?

I have a conservative friend who, lately, has started to use Woke the Word a lot.
Every time he uses it, he wags his fingers above his head to indicate inverted commas. Sometimes he’ll give me a conspiratorial wink.
The wink confuses me. What are we conspiring about? And the air quotes, who is he quoting? Or do they mean “so-called”, as in my boss asked me to take my laptop with me on my “vacation”.
I asked him what he meant by “woke” and he was flummoxed. He mumbled something about pronouns, cancel culture, activists, political correctness. I explained to him that it was African-American slang for being alert to signs of racism, it came out of the Black Lives Matter movement and that being anti-woke technically means that one thinks one should not be alert to signs of racist behavior.
This did not help.
He had the notion that the woke crowd had it in for him in some way. When asked who the woke crowd are, again confusion….the left, activists, progressives…who knows. So I ask is all activism bad, is progress bad, no that’s not what he means.
I think what he means is that the world is changing in a way that threatens him, the old assumptions do not stand. The arbitrary superior status he assumes because he’s an educated, upper middle class white male is no longer automatically acknowledged, taken as read.
And it’s that woke crowd who are doing it to him.
As history tells us …when a word or phrase is coopted by conservative white males, well that word is no longer groovy, far out, outta sight, cool ,hip; particularly when they think they are the first to discover it.
Air quotes… for fuck sake….
Yes it is time to put Woke The Word to bed.

For John D. (a Poem and a Deconstruction) …again.

For John D.

fecund, moribund, quincunx

fecund moribundity

moribund fecundity

rhizome, rissole, piss-hole in the snow

phenom, pheromone, genome

lissom, blossom, possum.

This poem is all about sound, association and perhaps, memory. The first three lines are an homage to the sound of ‘un’. The phrase -“fecund moribundity, moribund fecundity” –  was uttered by my friend, John Damery (John D.) during a discussion about the music of Neil Diamond – his oeuvre, his place in the pantheon. This was some time ago but it has always stuck in my head, it has a brevity and clarity  that could only have been brought on by the consumption of 5 or 6 pints and the ingestion of greasy chicken. After a long legal battle (not really) he has recently granted me permission to use  it in a poem.

The fourth line is the workhorse of the poem, the engine, the poem’s midfield general. It inverts the ‘mo’ from the first 3 lines to create the ‘om’ that dominates the last two lines. it also introduces ‘iss’ which makes an appearance in the last line. As for “piss-hole in the snow”, I defy anyone to find a finer example of bathos . The fifth line is all about ‘om” but note the clever inversion back to ‘mo’ in ‘pheromone’.

The sixth and last line has a slick softness to it like blancmange. As promised the ‘iss’ from ‘rissole’ and ‘piss-hole’ makes an appearance  before morphing into ‘oss’ and in a final stroke of nothing that remotely approaches genius, the transformation of ‘om’ into ‘um’.

Notes:

quincunx (a word that flirts with obscenity):

an arrangement of five objects with four at the corners of a square or rectangle and the fifth at its centre, used for the five on dice or playing cards, and in planting trees.

rhizome:

a continuously growing horizontal underground stem that puts out lateral shoots and adventitious roots at intervals.

Both words were used in an article in the Irish Times on the poetry of Seamus Heaney, sent to me by John D; ‘Cartesian dualism’ and ‘Binarism’ were also mentioned (and Jesus wept).

rissole:

a compressed mixture of meat and spices, coated in breadcrumbs and fried.

My mom used to make them, although I remember them as being more like a hamburger patty without the bun…thanks, mom!

Photo: English Bay, Vancouver, A-MAZE-ING LAUGHTER, by Yue Minjun.

Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.

This is also for Glenn Buttkus who passed away recently. Glenn was a regular contributor to dverse. He was an excellent poet and a man who liked edge.

Delilah

Delilah

My friend, Slim Volume,
had a girlfriend once.
called Delilah.
The relationship did not last long
and it wasn’t exactly a passionate affair,
mostly they just liked to watch television together.

I’d say hey Slim, what are you up to this weekend?
and he’d reply with an I’m glad you asked grin
Samsung and Delilah, he’d say
Samsung and Delilah.

Spare Me

it came as a gift
now it sits in the corner
like a sulky child
demanding attention

later…

you learn that
on a trip to the Arctic
frost bit the tip
of Harry’s todger
making him a
not so jolly Roger
a less than artful dodger
when he’s an old codger
he will remember
the day he froze
his dingus, his dong
his John Thomas
his todger
but for now his royal cannon
is just, well,
tabloid fodder.

Watching Prince Harry on Colbert I’m Reminded of a Previous Post involving Oprah and Chickens

Oprah among the Chickens

As I watched Oprah, Harry and Meghen
standing among the chickens
standing at the epicenter of an event
that sent shock waves
throughout the free world
I asked myself this question:

Is a rescue chicken
a chicken that has been rescued by people
or is it a chicken that rescues people?

I then asked myself another question:

How many Royals does it take to change a light bulb?

and a voice answered:

It’s a journey.
They must first acknowledge
that the light bulb
was the source of the light
that previously flooded the room
then and only then
is change possible.

Porcelain, Puppy Chow and Prince Harry (or The Ginger Vision)

Porcelain, Puppy Chow and Prince Harry (or The Ginger Vision)

You’re walking through your kitchen
looking for some granol’
when you do a Prince Harry
and land on your dog’s feeding bowl.

You’re lying there in the porcelain and the Puppy Chow
bruised, confused and cursing your luck
when Prince Harry appears and says:
Hey, you could put this in a book.

Hurricane Donald

Hurricane Donald

What mighty wind blows hard out of Mar-A-Lago
up-ending facts like trailers in a trailer park
ripping the roofs off reputations
revealing the gyrations in the bedrooms below
hailing down bombast and innuendo
on the corrugated tin of truth
a wind that makes Ian and Fiona
look like that nice Scottish couple across the road
(Is she Irish?), the ones you should invite over for dinner
or is it just a storm in a tumbler
is it just Donald raving
in the cocktail hour of his years.

Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal

Goodbye Boris, Goodbye Liz, Hello Rishi!

Goodbye Boris, Goodbye Liz, Hello Rishi!

I have to say
as an Irish person
how proud and honored I am
that the United Kingdom has appointed a prime minister
whose first name is an anagram of “Irish”;
I know we and the English have had our troubles in the past
Troubles with a capital T
(the Plantation of Ulster…don’t get me started)
but the English are subtle people
not given to public displays of emotion
and this gesture is quintessentially English in its subtlety
it’s as if they are saying thank you for Father Ted
it brings a tear to my eye
it takes the oatmeal biscuit
so “Hello Rishi”
as they say in Ireland
“buachaill inniu, fear amarach”
or loosely translated from the Gaelic
“I hope your politics change soon”.

Taking part in OpenLink over at dverse

Photo : statue of Oscar Wilde in Merrion Square, Dublin.

Repartee

Repartee
Slim gets off the no.3 bus
at the corner of Hastings and Main
-the corner of Desperate and Lost-
having travelled east on the 99 express,
his nose stuck in the feral stink
of some guy’s armpit,
wishing, not for the first time,
that he was six inches taller.
A country lyric twangs in his head
something about “the losing side of town”.
He surveys the wreckage all around him:
a guy with a raw scabrous face
scratches frantically;
a bundle of rags twitches in a doorway;
people are scurrying back and forth
like they’ve received a message
from an alien dispatcher
that the mother ship has landed,
and they can’t find a toothbrush;
further on in a laneway that smells of piss
a man and a woman, both dressed in black
with sweating raddled faces
sway back and forth shouting:
Fuck you! No! Fuck you!
in a profane loop.

Repartee, Slim says,
to no one in particular,
what an unexpected bonus.

This poem first appeared in The Galway Review

Taking part in OpenLink over at dverse

Reverend Weeble (again)

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The Reverend George Weeble 

The Reverend George Weeble
liked to visit churches
in foreign lands,
his parishioners called him:
the steeplechaser.

When I’m old and feeble,
George Weeble said,
when I retire, George Weeble said,

I want to be
where the spires conspire
to show me the way.

Desire – what is it good for?

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Desire – what is it good for?

tender is the night
long is the day’s journey into night
it’s easier to name a street car
than it is to name one’s desire
never attempt a ménage in a glass menagerie
there is nothing less erotic than a red wheelbarrow
a thing of beauty is a joy for a fortnight.

This poem was originally written as a response to Anmol Arora’s prompt – Poetics: Desire and Sexuality in Poetry,  at dverse 

photo taken in Sitges, Catalonia.

Also taking part in Open Link over at earthweal: earthweal

A Hoedown for the Pronouns (Grammarama 2022)

A Hoedown for the Pronouns (Grammarama 2022)

This year for Grammarama
we attempted to organize
a hoedown for the pronouns
they, she, he
but we couldn’t get the verbs to agree.
Things got very tense
they kept dredging up the past
getting all conditional on us
every time we seemed close to a consensus
they would run off into corners
and conjugate.
Then it got melogrammatic
the pronouns them, her, him
announced they were tired
of being used as objects
and refused to participate.
In the end we threw up our hands
and gave up.
Give me a bunch of nouns any day.

The Doggerel Days Of Summer, Part 2

The Doggerel Days of Summer Part 2

Oft on a still summer evening
I take my doggerel
for a long, long walk

looking for rhymes
in all the wrong places.

I bring with me
a small, beige, plastic bag;
when I finish the poem I’m composing
I place the poem in the plastic bag
and deposit the bag
in a trash can deep in the forest

a trash can known to all the local poets
a trash can where moon always rhymes with June
a trash can where clouds
are as fluffy as mashed potatoes.

The challenge over at earthweal is to write about ‘wild stillness”. So this is a poem about an attempt to write a poem. Check out earthweal here for poems that actually meet the challenge!

Relatives

Relatives

Slim* has an aunt and uncle
who fight all the time
like Simon and Garfunkel

they have a son
who looks like
Russ Kunkel

the session drummer
who played with,
among others,

Joni Mitchell
and, yes,
Art Garfunkel.

Slim also has a cousin
who likes to snorkel,
at the local swimming pool.

She is constantly amazed
at how pale the human body looks
when viewed under water.

I’m amazed at how pale
the human body looks
when viewed under water

she says,
every time she returns
from the pool

her name is Rachel
Rachel, who likes to snorkel.

*aka Slim Volume, real name Reginald Dwight…..not really, think that’s Elton John’s real name. For more about Slim, see here.

Scenes from a Restaurant in the Time Between Variants

Scenes from a Restaurant in the Time Between Variants

the guys from finance
hold their wine glasses by the stem
and every now and again
they do that swirl and sniff thing

the girl in the tight dress
is two drinks away
from feeling comfortable

a couple out on their first date
have discovered too late
that they have nothing to say to each other
the long evening yawns before them

the bathroom door bursts open
two bros wearing dark suits
and built like refrigerators
emerge, their eyes pulsing
with guilty energy

it’s happy hour

cocktails are fifty per cent off
and all the cocktails have jokey names
Insane Moose
Milantini
Rogue Zamboni

nothing on the menu escapes description
the Market Crashin’ IPA
has a dry hopped finish with a touch of citrus
the Failed Priest Sauvignon Blanc
is full bodied with gooseberry and melon grace notes
and that beet and feta salad we’ve ordered
just happens to be a personal favorite of our waitress
she loves that hint of sourness
the cheese brings to the dish

she’s a dancer, by the way,
lived for a while in Saskatoon.

Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.

Bucket List (a ghazal, sort of)

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Bucket List (a ghazal)

mountain climbing in County Meath
put it on my bucket list

fly fishing in the Sahara
put it on my bucket list

snow shoeing in the Serengeti
put it on my bucket list

surfing in Saskatchewan
put it on my bucket list

stop hiding behind a shield of sarcasm
Really? Put that on my bucket list?

write a ghazal about everlasting love
aw fuck it, put it on my bucket list

stop peppering my poems with profanity
that’s a prohibition, it has no place on the list.

NaPoWriMoan (Day 11)

NaPoWriMoan (Day 11)

NaPoWriMo
eleven days in
and I have nothing to show
last night I rummaged through abandoned shoeboxes
in the dusty attic of my mind
(I apologize for those last two lines)
and there’s nothing there, bro
there’s nothing there………bro
I’m moving in slow mo
I’ve lost my mojo
my get up and go
I have met my Alamo
or is it Waterloo?
I’m running on empty
no quid pro quo
NaPoWriMo
NaPoWriMo
nineteen days to go
nineteen days to go.

Poetic Ailments (Edit)

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Poetic Ailments

irritable vowel syndrome
arrhythmia
pain in the assonance
acute enjambment
inflammation of the lower case
latinnittus
typographical dysfunction
fear of sonnets
halibunions
grammaroids
rhymetism
pundruff
the irrational fear
on entering a room
that someone is going to recite
The Lake Isle of Inisfree
in a plummy, orotund
stage Irish accent.

Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal.