Friday, November 27, 2009

Two Triolets

Two triolets for my loyal readers.  The first is one written by Gail White called "Worker Bees":
Staring at fluorescent screens,
letting life pass by unheeded,
little better than machines
staring at fluorescent screens,
we’ll pass on our altered genes
to generations who’ll be seated
staring at fluorescent screens,
letting life pass by unheeded.
True story.  The second is my very amateur attempt at triolet poetry.  I call it "Loyalty":
I sit next to you,
And you sit next to me.
When storms are all a-brew
I just sit next to you.
We don't need the lee;
We enjoy the breeze
When I sit next to you
And you sit next to me.
 And there you have it.  I hope you enjoyed our little excursion into medieval French poetry.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Renewed Lease on Life

My computer is a couple of years old and can run very slowly at times.  I had to shut it down with difficulty several times in the past couple of weeks.  Rather than lament the state of the economy and my computer, I took charge.  I installed Xubuntu.  In fact, I'm typing this post from within Xubuntu right now.  So far, my only complaints are (1) no iTunes (so I have to borrow The Missus's computer for that) and (2) no Chrome.  Of course, the most important nice thing is that I am having (so far) super performance.  Who knew my old computer could go this fast?

I'll keep you posted, now that I can.

Saturday, November 07, 2009

2 out of 2 ain’t bad

The results are as yet unofficial, but the Baylor University School of Law is, so far as I know, batting 1.000 on the July 2009 Maryland General Bar Examination.  Congratulations are particularly in order for Mr. Dylan Q. Springmann, who rocked the sports law essay so hard they gave him a 7 on a scale of 6 and then counted it three times instead of the more typical two.

If you pass him in the hall, be sure to give him a high five.

Thursday, November 05, 2009

The World Has Turned and Left Me Here

Once again, truth, justice, and the American way give way to lies, favoritism, and the American way.  The Yankees won World Series CV, giving them a record 816 banners in their rafters.  Therefore, I present to you this beautiful poem by Robert S. Wieder, titled “Baseball”:

If this terse rhyme, about our pastime
Seems a little cranky,
It’s possibly because the writer
Hates the F&$%ing Yankees.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Soulmates: A Sestina

©2009 by Jeremy Masten

At six o'clock, I wake up to alarms
Wanting me to get up on my legs.
I'm missing one; I reach out for my crutch.
Aluminum is all the latest fancy.
I hobble to the bathroom, pull the cord
That lights the room, awaking and frustrating.

I hobble to my closet.  How frustrating
That all my clothes don't fit.  That fire alarm
That doused my clothes: it shrunk up all my cord's.
They once were long enough inside the leg
But now are short and ratty.  Stupid crutch
That makes me hobble keeps me free of fancies.

I used to think a woman was a fancy
Way to keep a man in line, frustrating
His ideas, acting like a crutch
When all he needs is truth, a rough alarm
To wake him up and put him on his legs.
She’s like, I thought, a pretty minor chord.

But women aren't instruments whose chords
Can be predicted.  No, they're much too fancy
For that.  I met a woman on her legs
Who found that I could be a bit frustrating.
The day we met, outside the school, alarms
Were blaring, answering my lifelong crush.

She probably wouldn't like me as a crutch;
She's probably good enough to find accord;
She wakes up on her own, with no alarm
And leads a life of art, of something fancy;
She probably never finds herself frustrated;
She knows exactly what keeps her on her legs.

And I'm afraid that I do, too.  Her legs,
So perfect that she doesn't need a crutch.
And what am I?  A burden, a frustration.
She knows this song and dance; she’s played the chords.
I've grown attached to her, I think I fancy
That she's what keeps me waking sine alarm.

So when I say that I don't need alarms,
And when you notice that I have both my legs,
And when you wonder whether I'm too fancy,
Remember I am just a man.  My crutch
Is she who keeps me walking, playing chords
That soothe and vent and cut off all frustration.

She's on her legs, she pulls the cords
That drag my crutch into my fancy.
No more frustration, no more alarm.

Monday, November 02, 2009

So much to live for

I read this today and thought you might like it.

A Ballade of Suicide, by G.K. Chesterton

The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours---on the wall---
Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!”
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay---
My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall---
I see a little cloud all pink and grey---
Perhaps the rector’s mother will not call---
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way---
I never read the works of Juvenal---
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational---
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small---
I think I will not hang myself to-day.


Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrels toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.