Pundits of Prosody

Castle & Sun by Paul Klee

Pundits of Prosody

“All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms

of prosody, is prayer.”-- Merriam-Webster.

Prosody has its

origins in Latin and

Greek; revered by some.

As if to

imply that “serious” poets must

study form like

Rabbinical scholars, like

medical students dissecting corpses to

understand Nature’s secrets.

Listening to linguists discuss poetics

saying that sans classical form-aesthetics

all verse pales, becomes almost pathetic,

to me is delusional, leagues from prophetic--

because poetry that finds its own way,

foraging through language, keeping form at bay,

can emerge as muscular, inspired, simply majestic,

                                                                 magnetic,

                                                               athletic,

                                                            frenetic,

                                                         kinesthetic,

miraculously just much more       energetic.

It is said/written that without adequate knowledge of the art of

versification, a poem can become barren, static, & soulless, like

a computer simulating music versus an accomplished musician

interpreting it emotionally, but speaking only for myself, to rely 

too heavily on pedantic parameters is stifling. In High School,

when it became apparent I had a talent for writing, my English

teachers complained:

“Glenn, you have already developed a writing style that violates

many of the rules of grammar even before you fully understand

them. You attack language like a berserk bear in a bakery. You

should not attempt to write like Faulkner or Ginsberg when you

are only 15 years old.”

Each time that I approach classic poetic forms

    & have to be concerned with tempus & morea,

               become obsessed with the prosodic principles

                     of feet, meter, & pernicious syllable count, using

                            the pyrrihic, trochee, spondee, dispondee, &

                     sapphic--merging into dactyls & anapestes, possibly

                morphing into the troglodyte state of being a hoary

           spiny-scaled pungent Dactylic Hexameter, 

my head swims with the artificiality

of the limp & lame language,

the hollowness of the murky mandates

& damned diatribes--                                 and my POEtic spirit

                         becomes enraged at the

                         claustrophobic characteristics

                         & the malicious manacles;

                   

because my poetry rises 

like dew on mountain meadows,

not from some fenced-off,

plowed, tilled, & sown parcel of platitudes;

it is written to be spoken, to be sung, & like jazz, it creates its own

measures during the act of creation--& I tell you enthusiastically that

when prose copulates with phonetics rather than merely being bound

by prosaic prosody, it embraces pitch, volume, tempo, & rhythm more

naturally, viscerally, & organically.

It is born.

It breathes.

It is alive. 

Although I respect

poets who study their art, still I

roam free, & off leash.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB/FFA

Our guest host at dVerse is asking for us to write with Prosody in mind. This 

poem is my maverick version of a Haibun, opening with a haiku, followed by 

two stanzas of Collom Lunes, followed by a stanza of rhyming verse, 

AAAABB, that becomes a sliding list of AAAAAA, followed by a pure prose 

stanza, followed by a dialogue stanza, followed by a Wave stanza, ebb & flow, 

descending & ascending, capped with creative spacing of line breaks and stops, 

followed by a straight-up free verse stanza, followed by another prose stanza, 

capped with an epilogue Haiku.

          

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The Ring-Tailed Gauntlet

image from animal.memozee.com

The Ring-Tailed Gauntlet

“God answers sharp & sudden on some prayers

--a gauntlet with a gift in it.”--Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

One does need to work,

both for livelihood & pride;

that’s not in dispute.

When you are

a wage slave for more

than fifty years,

if you’re smart, you will gain

              sustenance & provide tangible 

              sanctuary for your best 

              self from the 

              surreptitious application of your poetic view

within the ragged edges of the tedious rut. 

I was fortunate that my servitude 

was midst 300 acres of Douglas Fir,

hundred year old gnarled sentinels 

surrounding vast meadows of wildflowers

on the placid shores of American Lake. 

As a dedicated VA civil servant,

        I tended to arrive on the campus hours early,

                 so that I could sit & watch the sunrise over the water

                             with Mt. Rainier in stark silhouette, or listen to the

                                    rain when the marine flow left low clouds over the

                                            gentle rippled waves wriggling with the wind,

                                    or when it was clear I could thrill to the noisy flight

                              of ten kinds of military choppers, fighters, or cargo planes,

                   seeming to just hang in the crisp morning air as they

           circled the air fields at McCord AFB & Ft. Lewis, always

competing for the sky with eagles, Canadian geese, mallards & swarming

murders of crows.

Our building, the Blind Rehab Center,

was furthest south along the lake,

with Ft. Lewis, all 75 miles of it, right there

over a low fence beyond the parking lot.

                 Deer would forage up from the forest

                 & leap that fence with ease, then graze

                 just outside our office windows; twice we

                saw black bear, & had to call for security to

                chase them back into the military reservation. 

                                    But like all gardens, all oasis, there were

                                    serpents to deal with, for we suffered a plague

                                    of raccoons, fed & cherished by the foolish.

Often at 5 a.m. as I                   hiked in from the parking lot,

                       passing through the darkness between

                  outdoor lights, thug-like raccoon muggers

              would leap out fearlessly from behind trees,

          demanding food as their tariff & tribute

for allowing you safe passage through their

          gauntlet of yellow eyes, twitching ring tails, snarls

               & sharp teeth. Since there actually had been some staff         

                      attacked, even bitten, over the years, I always felt

                            a little like Indiana Jones braving the fur gangs

                       of forty-pound rodents, yelling at them, hearing the echo

                of my anger as it shattered the quiet, sometimes having

          to take swipes at them with my cane, & hiss at them

like a two-legged tom cat, clutching at my lunch sack,

never turning my back on them

as I unlocked one of the back doors.           The VA would tirelessly trap

                                       dozens of then twice annually, & relocate them

                                       somewhere; but to no avail, because they always

                                       seemed to return in a few short weeks, bringing

                                       their whelps to teach them panhandling & mugging. 

Once inside my building, I became Master of the Watch, I owned the space

for an hour or so before the other staff members began to trickle in. I would

microwave my breakfast, brew up some coffee, click on my computer, & learn

to surf the Net; at least as much as the government overseers allowed. For 

years I was always there to greet the others as they arrived, some only minutes

before the start of business. This routine of arriving early, centering myself,

focusing my energy, meditating, & often writing poetry served me well, providing

me with the succor, joy, & enlightenment that was embedded in the outer
reaches of the often overlooked frame around each day. 

When the harness and

yoke are hung up at long last,

freedom blossoms bright. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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My apologies for posting the wrong recitation, hear it the correct one!

Blackthorne--Scene Thirty-Nine

image from fineartamerica.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Thirty-Nine

Fury

“The vitality of a new movement in Art must be gauged

by the fury it arouses.”--Logan Pearsell Smith.

1(traveling arc shot) a jagged rock coming from the crowd that

someone threw violently.

2(close-up) the rock striking the ebon mare on the haunch.

3(sound cue) French horn riffs over a horse scream.

4(medium wide shot) She exploded under him, rising high into the air.

5(sound cue) violin & piano.

6(wide two-shot; slow motion) the black lady landed on her front feet first

before her back feet touched down with a undulating jerking motion that

whipped Johnny’s head so violently that his hat flew off.

7(close-up) the mare stomping his hat.

8(overhead titan crane shot) The horse bucking, the onlookers hooting.

9(medium close-up) Graff, the foreman, grinning like the cat with canary 

feathers in its teeth.

10(medium two-shot; regular speed) She circled to the right, leaned to the

right, then bucked to the left, kicking her hind legs straight out; clouds of

dust swirled up. She circled to the left, then bucked both directions. Johnny 

lost his balance for a moment as she rolled out furiously to the right, & he

lurched suddenly forward with all of his weight down onto her neck.

11(sound cue) blues guitar slide.

12(medium wide shot; slow motion) Her hooves went out from beneath her

as she toppled into the alkaline haze, sliding down onto her left side.

13(sound cue) her breath expelling, her bulk hitting the ground over low strident

notes on the piano.

14(medium two-shot) Miraculously he got his legs clear & was tumbling away

from her as she scrambled to her feet, kicking air, screaming with rage & 

fear, bucking & snorting & colliding with the corral poles dumping several

cowboys over backward onto their butts.

15(close-up) Johnny Eagle: Who tossed that goddamn rock?

16( two-shot) Foreman Graff & a tall unshaven cowhand next to him,

who sarcastically inquired: Why, hell, what rock do you mean, breed?

17(close-up) the Eagle: What did you say?

18(voice-over) What fucking rock are you.....

19(medium close-up) before the ranch hand could continue, the Indian’s

fist collided with his chin.

20(medium wide shot) the ruffian was knocked backward off the fence, landing

into the crowd behind him.

21(sound cue) trumpet & mandolin.

22(wide two-shot) Johnny Eagle, like a snarling puma leaped up

over the corral poles, nearly knocking the fat man off. The puncher

got onto his knees & was gathering his legs under him.

23(sound cue) Johnny’s yell as he leaped from the fence,

24(medium close-up: slow motion) the Eagle aloft, dropping down

onto its prey.

25(two-shot) Johnny landing on the larger man’s chest as the hired

ruffian felt his lungs nearly burst,

26(sound cue) the impact.

27(ample two-shot) Johnny bounced to his feet as the thug twitched

on the ground, grunting & groaning & gasping for air.

28(sound cue) Indian branch flute twill. 

29 the cowpoke pushed himself up on one arm. Johnny kicked the arm

out from underneath him.

30(close-up) Johnny’s anger: Fucking borracho coward!

31(medium two-shot) The big man writhed in the dust, growling like

a badger, as the Eagle’s boot lashed out again--to the ribs, to the groin,

to the small of the back, to the side of the neck, & to the stomach; rapid  

jabs, his boot a blur of retribution, the powerful kicks splitting muscle

& breaking bones.

32(sound cue) fast strumming guitar.

33(medium wide shot) the bully-boy curled up in a fetal position, but

the Eagle only saw a snake in the coiling. He lifted the man’s head up

& raised a murderous tightly clenched fist.

34(sound cue) I wouldn’t do that, Johnny.

35(three-shot) the Eagle whirled around to stare into the barrel of a pump

shotgun aimed at his head.

36(two-shot) over Johnny’s shoulder, the sheriff’s deep blue eyes 

37(close-up) over Joe Hop’s shoulder, catching Johnny’s dark ones

& holding them.

38(close-up) Joe Hop:

--You don’t kill a man for throwing a damn rock.

39(sound cue) bass drum & tamborine.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets OLN

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Insomniac's Song

image borrowed from bing.

Insomniac’s Song

“Neon shines through smokey eyes tonight. It’s 2 a.m.

and I’m drunk again.” --Dave Matthews.

Five nights in

a row I was awakened

at 2 a.m.

Someone was softly saying my name,

like Sheldon repeatedly pounding on Penny’s door--

a female voice--Glenn, Glenn--Glenn.

I blink away the gauze of sleep,

staring at my electric digital clock,        red numbers on a black face,

            a tiny white noise gently whirring in the slit of night light;

                      always 2 a.m., exactly, & there never

                               is anyone there.

           

The night is never silent;

I can hear               the freezer & refrigerator keeping things cool,

                           cats scurrying after rats,

                       train whistles as the freight is hauled through town,

                  as forty boxcars slap at the iron rails,

               the old house creaking as ghosts dance upstairs,

           someone walking in heavy boots over the gravel in the alley,

       night birds hunting, courting, & serenading,

an electric garage door rolling open, then shut,

       a low rider cruising by with windows down & rap music

             playing loudly--love my hoes, mowing down pigs, hug my

                    niggahs, dancing witch-you,

just as some timely post-nasal drip

brings on spasms of dry coughing,

bringing my attention to a full bladder,

prompting me to shuffle through darkness

for a sit-down pee, dozing a little with

my pajamas around my knees,

& back to bed, blankets under my chin.

                 

                      So why am I still awake?

                      Is it almost daylight saving time?                            No.

                      Am I reacting to the Mexican food I had

                      for dinner--indigestion, acid reflux?                         No.

                      Is there still a tickle in my throat?                            No.

                      Did I nap too often yesterday afternoon?                No.

                       Do I need to buy some sleep meds?                       No.

                       Should I wear a silk sleep shade?                           No.

                       Do I need cognitive behavior therapy?                    No.

OK, OK, 2 a.m.--what the hell is the significance?

      What’s it all about? I do know that it is

             a Korean heavy metal band,

             a 1993 jazz album by saxophonist Theo Travis,

             a 2014 album by Adrian Marcel.

             an Iron Maiden song from X-Factor.

             a Teddy Pendergrass ballad,

             a Barry Manilow tune from Paradise Cafe,

             a song from an Anna Nalick album. &

             a 2006 Indie movie about five guys closing down 

             an Irish Pub in Dallas, a video game, & oh yes,

there is something on Yahoo called the

Drunk Shopping Service that allows insomniacs

to buy all kinds of useless shit at 2 a.m.

But hey, now the clock reads 6:30 a.m. & the dream I am exiting was

macabre & disturbing; my wife had stepped into the shower while a pair

of young Mormons in their black suits & skinny black ties stood in the

hallway, both smiling at me while one played an upright honky tonk

piano, some George Gershwin tune, just as our basement began flooding

despite the ungodly howl of our twin sump-pumps. I yelled at my wife, &

she came out to investigate wearing an evening gown covered with golden

sequins as the water disappeared--Go back to bed said she, & I did, only

to be awakened by someone playing a ukulele, to find seven middle-aged

women telling me they loved my open mic spoken word performances at

the BSharp Coffee House as I headed upstairs to find a half dozen County

Jail prisoners cleaning the rugs & furniture, “I got them from a Work Release

Program,” my wife said on her way out the door to work. “Good Bye, I love

you!” I yelled after her; Good Bye I Love You chanted the prisoners, laughing,

telling me I was pussy-whipped. Then I noticed that one of them was a

chimpanzee.

It’s two a.m. in the

morning, & my mind is just

squirming like a toad.

                  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Verisimilitude Versus Veracity

image from supermarkethq.com

Verisimilitude Versus Veracity

“We have done so much, for so long, with so little, now

we are qualified to do anything with nothing.”

--Konstantin Jirecek.

Regardless of our pitiful need to attempt

         control over chaos, we discover various guises

                    of antithesis at their duty stations reinforcing the

                             powerful parameters of personal white light within,

                    like capturing fireflies in a flesh Bell jar, like harnessing

          lethal U235 within the molecular skein of lead;

The omnipresent yelping Yahweh,

the reigning monarch of our universe within,    

acknowledges 

                                       the existence of opposing forces

                                  that assist in maintaining its axial status,

                           much like those invisible gravitational

                     bands of energy that prevent Earth from

             flying to pieces, & further allowing other planets

       in our universe to coexist, to share the space

while creating orbits, tides, balance & order.

We may believe

that if we can inhabit the eternal 

Now, we will

be free of

the antithetical, find peace with turbulence--but

what could be                                                                  further from the truth?

                   

                   Sure, we can manage living a lie

                   & actually be ignorant of its falseness,

                                 but the jack-booted storm troopers

                                 of spontaneous reckoning will march

                  into our sphere when least expected;

              we cannot successfully reside in a vacuum

         without a thorough understanding of the opposing

energies that allow it to happen.

          We are taught to live our lives, not

               toil in lethargic inactivity, spinning our appendages

                     statically in a home-grown quagmire.

                           Passion for living springs from need, fueled

                                 by depletion, misfortune, depression & 

                                          misguidance as we seem to notice

that which is broken

as we are propelled by

the

things that

still work, find

ourselves very attracted to

the sensual beauty of human form

while disregarding the darkness within its

heart, tend to honor the warriors who protect us

as we give less credibility to the pacifists among us that

advocate more peaceful paths; cursing at the complicated cloverleafs

that slow our volition, craving unrestricted spurts of speed

along sensuous straightaways.

Damn foolishness to some

is the breath of life to others;

for every tall person who feels superior

there are five more that just want to fit in;

deviate sexual behavior does not seem strange

to those who are drawn to it, seek it out;

listen to all voices in diverse Babel-tongues,

endeavoring to respect their views, but only

respond to those whose message resonates

with your own values.

Can there ever be

                 wisdom without ignorance,

                  beauty without ugliness,

                     hope without despair,

                     night without day,

                    clarity without distortion,

                   growth without sustenance,

                         joy without anguish,

             happiness without pain.

                  actions without consequences?

Hell, no--of course not,

so get a grip, because

unsolicited shit happens,

ready or not.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

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