Ode to a Louse(1)
On Reedin One in the Pap'rs Printn
Agin, I caut ye, ye crawlin' critter!
Back an fro ya go, I know not whither.
In black and white ya strut your pizen
Fed by pymehts from your cussins.
Ye ugly, aged thing tha be
Somethg that natur for sure set free.
How dare ya see fit to writ
In a fine public forum such as it
.
St. Louie's long past squattle
From thence y' came and now y' prattle.
Wi kindred, bumblin fools
Ya pen the twist'd memory of Mo's mules.
Me thinks that havin ya out'er sight
Beneth the scope of man's senses, tis right.
For to awak'n memories of drugs and ill got pashion
Seems now's the thing to test our reason.
Yet here ya be on th' noble pate
O're the printer's ink you spread your hate.
My sooth; right bauld ye set your nose in
Twist'n facts of which y're not certin.
In other print, I'd not be su'prize
But on this great lady, tis not wise.
Haps the educat'd ones will preciate
Yore tempts to spread not luv but hate.
But on Miss's fine wood'n pap'r
How daur ye do't.
What cursed speed does such a crawlin' ferlie do,
O'vr the blessed span, twixt salty shores and icey mews
Inked and ^�livered most working days
T' spred the wonders of busn's that pays.
Tis not the louse that causes distress
It's the respect given to ur false dress.
O wad to be seen as it should be,
A critter, crawl'n in the scum of darkness, sightless yet free.
To pizen thoughts of unknown souls
Who seek knowledge untainted by gaouls
.
Inst'd r treated to a burst of gory
From Old Sixty and Five who tells no story.
With apologies to Robert Burns, but not Frederick Seidel(2) who was the object of this piece. The following two poems of his were published in the Wall Street Journal in November and December of 2001. A response to each follows:
The child stands at the window, after his birthday party,
Gray flannel little boy shorts. shirt with an Eton collar,
St. Louis, Missouri, sixty years ago,
And sees the World Trade Center towers falling.
The window is the wall
The wide world presents to pre~pubescence.
People on fire are jumping from the eightieth floor
To flee the fireball.
In the airplane blind~dating the south tower,
People are screaming with horror.
The airplane meeting the north tower
Erupts with ketchup.
The window is a wall
Through which the aquarium visitors can see.
Airplanes are swimming
Up to the towers of steel.
Up to the Twin Towers to feed.
People rather than die prefer to leap
From the eightieth floor to their death.
The man stands at his childhood window saving them.
Old enough to undress himself,
Gray flannel little boy shorts, shirt with an Eton collar,
He stands at the worldwide window. after the birthday party,
And sees the mountains collapsing and collapsing.
On the other side of the aquarium glass is September 11th.
Under his birthday party clothes is his underwear and the underwater.
Why bother to wash your clothes. or your skin, why bother to wash,
When you will only get dirty again?
Why bother to live when you will die?
Visitors are peering through the thick glass ~ and taking photographs
Of ground zero-of Allah akbar in formaldehyde in a jar.
God is great. Love is hate.
Frederick Seidel
*****
November deserves much better than Seidel,
Who in his self impose misery does dwell;
On events of his own insignificant past
That has for sure, his future cast.
As the grasshopper and the ant did learn,
It's not enough for childlike innocence to yearn.
Preparedness' the coin of our strong nation,
^�S been there since its creation.
Strength comes from an inner spirit
.
Look to our Hero's badges of honor and of merit.
Memories of September elev'n will remain
As we all share the Victim's Pain.
Of Seidel, Sam Butler might have writ;
He's ravish'd with his own great Wit.
And fond of all the Nonsense he brings forth,
Yearns for the public's judgem't of its great worth.
"Thou then, that see'st how ill I spend my Time,
Teach me for Pity, how to make a Rhime;
And in th' instructions chance to prove in vain,
Teach ^� how ne'er to write again." (a)
***
(a) Satyr, The Genuine Remains in Verse and Prose, Samuel Butler, London, J. R. Tonson, 1759, pp90.
I don't believe in anything. I do
Believe in you.
Down here in hell we do don't.
I can't think of anything I won't.
I amputate your feet and I walk.
I excise your tongue and I talk.
You make me fly through the black sky.
I will kill you until I die.
Thank God for you, God.
I do.
My God, it is almost always Christmas Eve this time of year, too.
Then I began to pray.
I don't believe in anything anyway.
I did what I do. I do believe in you.
Down here in hell they do don't.
I can't think of anything we won't.
How beautiful thy feet with shoes.
Struggling barefoot over dunes of snow forever, more falling, forever,
Jews
Imagine mounds of breasts stretching to the horizon.
We send them to their breast, mouthful of orison.
I like the color of the smell. I like the odor of spoiled meat.
I like how gangrene transubstantiates warm firm flesh into rotten sleet.
When the blue blackens and they amputate, I fly.
I am flying a Concorde of modern passengers to gangrene in the sky.
I am flying to Area Code 212
To stab a Concorde into you,
To plunge a Sword into the gangrene.
This is a poem about a sword of kerosene.
This is my 2lst century in hell.
I stab the sword into the smell.
I am the sword of sunrise flying into Area Code 212
To flense the people in the buildings, and the buildings, into dew.
Frederick Seidel
****
The tragedy of September ^�leven has shaped our future
But that's no reason t' bask in poetical manure.
Siedel's right, Evil men do evil things.
But he forgets. Hope flies on Angel's wings.
Celebrate the Prince of Peace, not the one down below,
Count the blessings on our great Nation, God did bestow.
We'r stronger one and all
For the lessons of th' buildings' downfall
.
In each family who suffered loss,
Is inner strength to overcome th' gross
Musings of a learned one's facts
Who seeks to dwell upon evil acts.
Object is not to publish more drivel
But to get on with life; be more civil.
Forget - Never!
Forgive - Ever!
That is the lesson of this season.
Peace on Earth and return to reason.
[Now Siedel has learned his lines to rhyme,
The next lesson should be content. Perhaps another time?
Poor Sam Butler, got stone for his efforts
The Journal's poet gets ink for his moment's works.]
****
(1)
Robert Burns
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gawze and lace;
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely, 5
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,
Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a Lady! 10
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 15
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle,
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight, 20
Na faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,
Till ye've got on it,
The vera tapmost, towrin height
O' Miss's bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, 25
As plump an' gray as onie grozet:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,
Wad dress your droddum! 30
I wan na been surpriz'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy,
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On 's wylecoat;
But Miss's fine Lunardi, fye! 35
How daur ye do 't?
O Jenny dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin! 40
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin!
O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us 45
An' foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And ev'n Devotion!
*****
(2) In the event that Frederick Seidel needs to find other employment, may I suggest the following which is from Chuck Shepherd's "News of the Weird".
Greg Carpenter, 25, started Nitpickers last year in Wichita, Kan., to comb the head lice out of infested schoolchildren at $35 each (even though a thorough job might take more than two hours). Children who have been sent home from school for head lice (2,800 in the city's schools last year) cannot get back in until they are nitless, and Carpenter guarantees they will be." The Weekly, Vol. 12, No. 17, pp4, March 6, 2002.
*****
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