House & River

On the left, the house--
on the right, the river;
along the path--the low, deadhand grass,
the jealous burrs,
the lateflower on watch for evening.

On the left, the house--
on the right, the river;
by the path--the restless sinktooth cur,
your bracelet lost,
and the moon reflecting herself in it.

Did my lips kiss curve and scar the same?
Did they speak each of your dozen names?
The thorn,
the berry,
the briar?

On the left, the house--
on the right, the river;
where the path bends--the gibbet-necked heron,
the cat bone stars,
pouring lives like silver into the borrowed body of a Nixie--you, in full song.
_______

Dog Antony's Funeral Oration

Purebreds, mixed breeds, neighborhood mutts, cock me your ears;
I come to bury the Green Tennis Ball, not to praise it.
The no-no's that toys do live after them,
the good is oft interred with their squeakers;
so let it be with Green Tennis Ball. The noble Bowser
hath told you Green Tennis Ball was bouncy;
if it were so, it was a grievous fault,
and grievously hath Green Tennis Ball answer'd it.
Here, under drool of Bowser and the rest,--
for Bowser is a good doggy;
so are they all, all good doggies,--
come I to speak at Green Tennis Ball's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and fun to me:
but Bowser says he was bouncy;
and Bowser is a good doggy.
He hath brought many slobbers back to the dog house,
whose fetchings did the general toy box fill:
did this in Green Tennis Ball seem bouncy?
When that the poor doggies have cried, Green Tennis Ball hath dripp'd;
bounciness should be made of sterner stuff:
yet Bowser says he was bouncy;
and Bowser is a good doggy.
You all did see that on the master's front lawn
I thrice dropped at his feet the tennis ball,
which he did thrice refuse; was this bouncy?
Yet Bowser says it was bouncy;
and, sure, he is a good doggy.
I bark not to disprove what Bowser spoke,
but here I am to bark what I do know.
You all did love it once, not without cause:
what cause withholds you then to howl for it?
O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
and dogs have lost their obedience. Bear with me;
my heart is in the shoe box there with Green Tennis Ball,
and I must lay my head on my paws til it bounceth back to me.
______

(human translation)

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious;
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,--
For Brutus is an honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men,--
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
_____

for Kerry Says at Real Toads: If Only TheyCould Talk.

And, Lord Buckley's fabulous hipster version:  

 

Tersha

Tersha wears jeans and a blue shirt--
she is the land in shadow
and the starred sky.

Tersha has cats with flame tails--
she presses her cheek to them;
singing, they go up in smoke.

Tersha's hair is dreamside dark--
to touch it is to sleep on the center line,
smiling under a white moon.
________

for Flash 55 at Real Toads.

Book Review: "The Sorrows of Young Werther"

The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I became interested in reading this book after having seen the movie "Young Goethe In Love" (German title simply "Goethe!"). I wasn't sure what to expect; after all, this is a novel that came out in 1774! I confess I expected stilted language, and so on. Not so. Whether owing to this rather recent (2005) translation or not, this edition is immediate and vital in its language.

The story is of a young man who forms a passionate attachment to a woman--Lotte--despite knowing from the beginning that she is promised to someone else. The novel takes the form of letters Werther writes, mostly to a friend named Wilhelm, whose reactions we can only infer from later responses written by Werther.

In the beginning, Werther is a hearty soul who loves nature, art, and children, and who has a lot of insightful observations to make about people, and life in general. He is ruled by his emotions, and his affinity for young children inevitably puts him in the path of their mothers, whom he clearly likes just fine. When he meets Lotte, she is surrounded by little ones, who turn out to be her younger siblings; their mother is dead, and she is raising them. He and Lotte, along with a larger group, attend a dance, and in the carriage on the way there, Werther falls in love with Lotte, whom he finds charming, interesting, lively, good-looking, and irresistible. I found her charming, too.

Unfortunately, Lotte's fiance returns from a trip, and they are married. Unlike in the movie, Albert is a good guy, dependable and steady, as opposed to Werther's wild passion. Three's a crowd, and being on the outside looking in slowly drives Werther to distraction, a state he expresses in ever more desperate terms, to his friend Wilhelm. Along the way, we meet two other lovelorn would-be suitors, ruined by their desire for women they can't have; one of them driven to madness by his unrequited love for Lotte herself!

I felt badly for Werther, who tears himself to shreds with his impossible desire for Lotte, but at the same time, there was a whiff of creepy stalker to him, too, in my opinion. He idealizes her, he falls fast, and then he can't face reality, driving himself to the edge of suicide. Lotte wonders at one point if it isn't her very unavailability that draws him. Then again, the heart wants what it wants, and Werther's heart and soul want Lotte. 

This is a passionate, timeless story about two unforgettable characters and the doomed attraction they have for each other. I loved it, and the only reason I didn't give it five stars was because of a six-page stretch near the end of the book, where Werther reads Ossian to Lotte. The scene is crucial, but the Ossian is laughably dated (the only thing in the book that is) and almost unreadable to modern eyes. Ossian aside, I loved this book!

One final note: as with so many editions of classic novels, the introduction blithely gives away important plot twists, a pet peeve of mine. It's as if the editors can't imagine that the book may be being read for pleasure. So, if you read it, leave the introduction until *after* you've read the novel itself!



View all my reviews

Please Recycle

Here is a way to fix the weak spot in an old fence. (Somebody's car went through this big old sign. Hopefully no cars will come through the back yard!)

for Good Fences #28.

Fall

Bright by daylight,
but you get dark early, babe.

You make me shiver,
when you wrap yourself around me.

Your blackcat ways
and the things you say,

leave me to smile, 
redden, 
fall.
_____

33 words for Words Count with Mama Zen.

Clutch

In the clutch,
a stone--
dense as a widow's heart.

The stone
is an un-bird,
cursed nonetheless with a damned restlessness.

Birthed 
through the bottom of the nest,
it takes the whole thing down,

spiraling 
end over disintegrating end
like the Creation Wheel gone graveyard.

Sister murderer,
brother destroyer,
be born into dirt, burrow and grow blinder.

Mother was stoic
and tossed a rose without a tear,
but went home with a hawk in her hair.

She tore at it,
banging her head and rocking to get rid of it,
sitting alone in the hallway to the kitchen, screeching.

Ah well,
this stone is like all the rest,
inside her, a clutch, cracking, then demanding everything--

bald, sightless
helpless boiling monsters
with their black holes open, perversely alive, impossible to satisfy.
_______

for Play it Again at Real Toads. I used Ella's visualization prompt. I saw a hawk with its wings spread.