This post only makes sense if you read the above post on another site. Ignore it and have a happy day or realize why it’s here and mock my lack of interneting ability. Either way, move along. There are some interesting sonnets in the post below if you’re looking for something to read.
[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]
“Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday” as usual and enjoy the weekend, but I got caught this week and ran short of time. This week’s is gonna be a quick one.
I was looking to do something on George Meredith’s sonnet series called Modern Love. He’s known for his novels. At least he was. I think The Egoist is the only one many would recognize these days, and I’ll wager few have read it. Modern Love is the story of a marriage as it falls apart told over the course of fifty sixteen-line sonnets. The story is engrossing as only the best soap opera like guilty pleasures no one admits to can be. I very much want to do a post on it in the future, but I got caught up by the idea of a sixteen-line sonnet. Can you do that?
I was of the impression that the sonnet was a set form. It’s usually a thought posited in an octave with a volta, or turn, taken in a sestet that may or may not resolve the thought. It doesn’t have to be laid out with a break that way. You can set stanzas in various ways or leave it all as one beautiful verse lump. There are plenty of rhyme schemes to choose from. The one thing I’d never seen as anything but a constant is that a sonnet has fourteen lines. When defining the form, length is the characteristic that first pops to mind. I’d be surprised if I’m alone in that.
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[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]
This is no time to be outdoors. It’s only 91° here in Alabama. I say “only” because we’ll settle into the mid to high nineties and see a hundred a few times before the summer’s gone, but this is the first time we’ve hit the nineties this year. I need acclimation time. This is regularly timed heat. It happens every year and we all know it’s coming, until it suddenly does.
There’s no easing into it. It’s not like a soothing warm shower where you can start at tolerable and slowly increase towards shipwreck-fog-thick steam (although it’s arguably as humid.) It’s not like a cold pool where you wade slowly in, brief tiptoe, and then settle. This is immediate and all the worse knowing how wonderfully air conditioning cools if only you were in it. It’s Tartarus.
Just a few days ago I wore a now unthinkable blazer. If you work outside, you don’t need convincing. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Get to shade. Save yourself. Whatever they’re paying you will be enough in a few days when you’ve had time to adjust, but right now, it ain’t.
Conversely, if you work inside you may wanna sit this week out. There will be other POETS Days and some people swear by deferred pleasure. You’re not sweltering. Stick around a while and make sure you’re seen. Maybe read a little verse.
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[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]
Paul Dean and his band were doing pretty well, but not headliner well. They opened for Kiss when that mattered and later opened for ZZ Top, which always matters. One night in Cape Cod, they went out in front of a crowd that was having none of them. The crowd wanted ZZ Top and had no patience for these appetizers on stage. They threw lighters, bottles, whatever was at hand. Dean and his guys gave up after four songs sung to boos and jeering and walked off stage.
Later, wandering an empty beach one afternoon he thought, “Where is everybody? Well, I guess they’re all waiting for the weekend.” His vocalist would change the phrasing and he and the rest of Loverboy scored a hit with “Everybody’s Waiting for the Weekend.”
Walk away from work. Think about the weekend. Profit.
Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Be like Loverboy. Skip out of work mid-afternoon and live on your own schedule. Enjoy POETS Day.
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[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]
We spent the last two weekends clearing bramble and mischievous growth. After a miserable bout of mimosa stump clearing, I asked a horticulturalist neighbor about tilling to make way for a flower bed. He warned me off it. There are some seeds—monkey grass was the pertinent one—that lay dormant for years or decades just waiting for an earnest attempt at rose bed preparation and once awakened are up for a drawn-out fight. He recommended we forgo the tilling workout and lay down cardboard, cover it with landscaping fabric, and then toss on mulch in lieu of laboring with a hand tool for untold hours in Alabama heat and humidity.
It’s as if he told me he had a failsafe, side effect free, weight loss miracle and handed me a box of Chips Ahoy. We did what he said.
Gardening turns out to be fun. In addition to our new rose plants (two Chicago, a Tropicana, and one with a missing label but we think it was De la Soul or something), an assortment of bright things inhabiting a broken Big Green Egg that’s now a planter, and some promissory edible flowers from Idaho, we have Lane, my Fresno Chili plant. If you’ve had children you know what it’s like welcoming a Fresno Chili plant into your life. Suddenly there are Epsom salts, 5-10-10 NPK orders, spray bottles, and sitters. It’s intensive, but there are only so many daylight hours.
Do the right thing. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Give your chili plant (or lesser garden thing) proper care. Slip out of work and start the weekend off a few hours before The Man’s scheduled time. Permission? You don’t need that. Not when there are crops to plant. Here’s a little verse to kick start things for you.
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[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]
I’m feeling older this week. My son is now a rising high school senior, though I don’t suppose the “rising” does anything as a modifier. I doubt many recent graduates are still calling themselves seniors so there’s no danger confusing rising college freshmen, graduates entering the job market, or enlisted men and women with disgorged prep school juniors.
He’s considering his future and colleges. Labs loom there. He fancies a career in research; biochemistry. That’s the current plan. He’s not old like I am and gets to change his mind. Is it too early to point out that some chemical reactions require babysitting? I don’t want to helicopter the kid, but he needs to at least consider the advantages of a career where a premature Friday afternoon exit has less chance of resulting in an explosion. But what do I know, right? I’m just the dad. “Ooh la-la.”
That’s kids, though. One track minds, blinders on, whatever the metaphor. You know what I’m talking about. This POETS Day, when you do the right thing – Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday – keep in mind that there are impressionable young kids on summer break, milling about town. They’re usually in school that time of day and might not know the importance of a wasted afternoon. Be seen. Mentor a kid by hitting a bar in view of a ballroom dance classroom window. If there’s a kid working a summer job at the market, be loud about why you need sunscreen when you’re supposed to be at work. Show him that shirking doesn’t hide in the shadows. Be a role model.
But first, a little verse to kick start your weekend.
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[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]
Last Saturday, 21 year-old Paul Skenes made his major league pitching debut for the Pittsburg Pirates against the Chicago Cubs. The top overall pick of the 2023 draft reached 100mph on seventeen pitches and struck out seven. He let Nico Hoerner get a homer off him and there was a runner on base in each of his four and some innings pitched, but it’s a pretty impressive first outing for a guy people have heaped lofty expectations on.
He was pulled after allowing two hits with no outs in the fifth and credited with a total of three runs allowed because those runners eventually scored, but that’s not a fair picture. What followed his exit was an inning of incompetence made all the more torturous because of a two-and-a-half-hour misery extending rain delay in the middle of it. The bullpen took the 6-1 lead with two runners on left them by Skenes, loaded the bases and walked six runs. Walked six runs. That hasn’t been done since the White Sox walked in eight in 1959. The inning ended 7-6.
The Pirates took back the lead and won the game; Skenes was awarded a no-decision. Bygones. But there are a few lessons here for the POETS Day reader. First, no one pitches a complete game anymore. Second, the people you work with are just going to screw everything up anyway, so you might as well get out as soon as the getting’s good. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Seize opportunities and save the workplace effort for when you’re not eager for the promise of a weekend.
But try a little verse first.
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I want to get a better sense of marjoram. I’m moderately familiar with it but only just begun spelling it with an “a” instead of a “u” if that gives you a sense of where I am. I’ve used dried and been – not underwhelmed. Underwhelmed would imply that I could pick it out at all. It didn’t distinguish itself from other herbs I was using.
It’s often confused with oregano and I’ve used it, again dried, in its place but that was as part of a larger recipe. The difference is that oregano gets it’s aroma from an oil containing the antioxidant called carvacrol and an antitoxin called thymol while marjoram smells as it does because it was handled by Aphrodite. Now my wife has a plant; a Mother’s Day gift from me in the tradition of my kids’ (when they were younger) “Let’s get something we can do together!” attempts to highjack other people’s present receiving.
I want to use it in the sauce I posted for pork Milanese (recipe here) in place of thyme. I’ll hold out bay leaf too just to be sure I know what I’m tasting. The issue is that I know nothing about the plant. As you can see it looks spindly. I don’t know if it is. When I search for images I see big bushy things, but does that means my plant is lesser or do people who aren’t me only post pictures of blue-ribbon plants?
I want to pick a few leaves for dinner but in its state am I stunting future growth? This ends with me obsessing. So far, I’ve learned that Shakespeare called it “the herb of grace” but Elizabethans were more likely to call oregano marjoram than to have real marjoram and St. Hildegarde thought it caused leprosy.
Should I harvest now or wait until the plant has filled out, assuming this is a plant that will fill out?
[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]
Andrew J. Offutt was a science fiction and fantasy writer, respected in his field, very prolific, and who served as President of the Science Fiction Writers of America from 1976 – 1978. He also wrote more than four hundred erotic novels under the names Farrah Fawkes, Opal Andrews, Turk Winter, and fourteen pseudonyms.
Some years ago I read, “My Dad the Pornographer,” an article his son, Chris Offutt, wrote for the New York Times Magazine in 2015. It’s behind a paywall now but the gist of the article is that the author’s dad died and left him a house full of binders filled pre-written sex acts. Apparently, Andrew Offutt would jot down any mechanics that came to him and when he needed to move a plot along (I know, but…) he’d reach for a readymade lewdness.
If I remember correctly, Chris wrote that his dad crossed out the ones he used with magic marker so they wouldn’t make a second appearance. Can’t have Farrah plagiarizing Turk. In some cases, there were sections of paper gone where naughty bits were literally cut out to be pasted into a working manuscript.
Andrew turned his down-low side hustle into an assembly line. If a scene occurred to him, he wrote it and found a use for it later. I think that’s brilliant and wish I’d been doing the same with POETS Day opening commentary so when I’m done with the main part about the week’s poet or poem I could reach for a binder filled with the joys of skipping away from the office or worksite for mid-afternoon weekend-style tomfoolery and presto, done. But I haven’t and I’m pressed for time.
Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday, get out of work and all that.
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[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]
Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Cool is turning into hot, but humidity is still a few weeks away. This is prime seer-sucker time. Parks where ice cream vendors hang out are calling. Edwardian style military bands don’t play in gazebos anymore like they’re supposed to, but cell phones are everywhere and Amnesty International says cobalt used to manufacture yours may have been mined by children, but the chances will drop considerably by 2025 if the Democratic Republic of the Congo keeps their word and ends the practice by 2025. I’m just messing with you. Nobody thinks about that anymore.
Fire up your music app and stream something you’d think Sgt. Pepper’s would play if they weren’t The Beatles. Oompa band stuff. Fly a kite. Get a hotdog and wish you had one of those hats that feel like they’re made out of rice cakes and have a red, white, and blue band; the ones old politicians pretended they always wore.
Howsoever you spend your POETS Day afternoon, take a minute for a little verse. It’s good for you.
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Matthew Arnold’s father, Dr. Thomas Arnold, stood as headmaster at Rugby School and took it as his mission to “change the face of education ‘all through the Public Schools of England,’” according to the anonymous biographer at poetryfoundation.org. He was a moralist and a strict Christian who was so identified with his school that when Thomas Hughes wrote his classic novel set at Rugby, Tom Brown’s School Days, he didn’t bother to fictionalize the headmaster. The Doctor was an unavoidable presence at the school during his time and as much a part of the institution as the Old Quad Buildings. That means that in Hughes’s telling, it was Matthew Arnold’s father who expelled the bully Harry Paget Flashman, OBE, Victoria’s Cross, Knight Commander of Bath, Knight Commander Indian Empire, Congressional Medal of Honor (USA), Southern Cross of Honor (Confederate States of America), etc.
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The Columbo Game 