Lamentation Number Forty Six

 

Poets and Storytellers United  Friday Writings #176 invites us to share our thoughts on Slices of Life - a challenge I accept in my usual pessimistic and doom-laden haiku form . . .

Various! Choose from

Bread saw, pizza cutter. Best?

Madame Guillotine

Sliced Kings and Princes,

Tax collectors, chemists(*). "Vive

La Revolution!"

(*) One victim was the French nobleman Antoine Lavoisier, the Father of Modern Chemistry.  Google him, or have a look at this sardonic account,

   

Eliot Didn't Know the Half . . .

"April" he said, "is the cruellest month," a statement so contentious that Poets and Storytellers United asks us to comment.

I know more about April's cruelty, its total disregard of the "still, sad music of humanity" than T.S.Eliot ever did. Why?  Because (see my Blog Profile) my field of study is things going wrong (e.g. spilt milk), all the way up to unprecedented disasters (e.g. writing poetry under a name that is an anagram of "Toilets.") 

I prefer the Eeyore take on life to the Pangloss every time.  One is less likely to be disappointed . . .

So -  a few haiku in support of April's cruelty:-

Lamentations Forty to Forty-Four 

April 1865

Lincoln was shot dead

watching a satire on the

Second Amendment.

April 1906

The folk of 'Cisco

woke to events that left them

shaking in their shoes.

April 1912.

The 'Titanic' sank

because her cargo holds were

crammed with excess ice.

April 1986

Staff cooking breakfast

in Cherbonyl's reactor

turned the gas too high.

April 2019

Notre Dame de Paris

knew God's wrath called for "A fire,

not a flood, next time!"

April - every year

sends all four seasons (*) 

in one day. Snow, sun, wind, rain -

Now that IS cruel . . .

(*) Well, it does where I live.

Stopping By Stuff . . .

Fly-tipping is a blight, a blot on the landscape and what's worse - in think you'd agree - fly-blogging is a blot on the blogscape.  So when I came across this fly-tipped couch/settee/sofa and easychair/armchair, depending on your country of origin and clahss -

 

 - I was (naturally) reminded (*) of a poem by Robert Frost, which I respond to here, prompted by this week's prompt on POEMS AND STORYTELLERS UNITED.

Whose couch is this?  I think it's lost.

Who chucked it out?  What did it cost?

It has not seen me stopping here.

It's arm-rest are all stiff with frost.

My little horse thinks I am queer

to stop because a couch is near.

He often does a double-take

when fly-tipped furnishings appear.

He gives his frosted rump a shake

to ask if I've made some mistake.

But frozen sofas make me weep.

I'd thaw them with a long, slow bake.

Its pattern's loverly!  Cushions deep.

A couch I'd really love to keep.

But - with miles to go before I sleep

I'll leave it for the rubbish heap.

(*) Not true!  In fact I stole if from another blog authored by a certain Dr.FTSE, who will - I know - forgive me because if he doesn't, he knows I'll tell all bogland WHO HE REALLY IS, WHERE HE LIVES etc etc!

Breaking News . . .

 Friends and Fans -

I have been unable to lament this last eighteen months or so.  The reason?  I have been in hospital (or, as our German allies say "Das Krankenhaus."  With your leave I will digress for a moment to point out that IMHO, 'Krankenhaus" conveys the nature of the building, and it's purpose, more accurately than "hospital." I mean, who would voluntarily go to a "hospital" unless they were krankened, afflicted with krankenitis, or temporary playing host to the socially embarrassing krankenohno virus?)

Where was I?  Yes, in das krankenhaus, struck down by a debilitating attack of  non-melancholic merrimentosis, (common name cheerfulness.)  But be sure, be very sure, I am now convalescing and, as one more famous than I said . . .

"I'LL BE BACK!"

and every bit as gloomy as usual. 

Lamentation Number Thirty Nine

Something puzzled me as a very small boy, and my confusion has deepened ever since.  I will try to explain the problem and at the same time respond (as I usually do, in Haiku form) to the the Poets and Storytellers' Friday prompt . . . 

WHY?

Why did the chicken?

It's said "Because the higher

the fewer." ??? Search me!

Reminds me of a verse from the Rubyaiyat of Omar Khayyham:

'Myself when young did oft frequent

doctor and saint, and heard much argument

about it and about. But evermore

went out by the selfsame door I came in.'

 . . . and I hope that makes everything clear.

Lamentation Number Thirty Eight

No Use Crying . . . 

Wrote love-letters. Spilt

black ink all over them. Stormed

out. (Fate always wins . . . )

This despondent haiku (5-7-5 syllables) is my response to Magaly's prompt on Poets&Storytellers United, where me were asked to reflect on Love, Ink and Storm.  What a recipe for heartache!

 

Lamentation Number Thirty Seven

Haiku In Memory

Girls in my youth wore

Blue Grass, Lenthérique. All gone!

(like my sense of smell  . . .)

This week, Rosemary invites us to write about fragrance, perfume, all that delights (or dismays) the olfactory sense. Alas . . . age has reduced mine to almost zero.  As noted here.

Lamentation Number Thirty Six

A Sundered Haiku 

Marriage to divorce,

from triumph to disaster -

win-win for lawyers.

Always good to see Divorce triumphing over the disaster of Love gone wonky, so here is an illustration of the idea in response to the Poets and Storytellers weekly prompt.

Lamentation Thirty Five (*)

A pessimist's response to Poets & Storytellers asking for our 'muscle memories.'

Haiku(s) In Memoriam.

Verses

In times past muscles

served me well. Swung hammers, dug

ditches, built railroads.

Then I took to drink,

Swapped my six-pack for tinnies

Swing the elbow now.

Can still crush empties

with one hand, (though not full ones

like weightlifters can.)

Punning on 'can' there!

Did you note? 'Cans' and 'Tinnies'?

(I'll get me coat)

Chorus. (Sing after each verse)

Biceps, triceps, quads and pects

all reduced to flabby wrecks

(*) Followers, friends and fans might be wondering what happened to Lamentation Thirty Four.  '34' is one of the gloomiest integers in the number field from minus to plus infinity, along with 369 and 1000000000000066600000000000001(**)  I'm sure you can work out why.  Thus it seemed prudent to miss 34 out.

(**) Known as 'Belphegor's Prime.'  It is too!  It's prime!  Check it out. Also - 2 sequences of 13 zeroes and 'the sign of the beast, 666' in the middle, AND it's palindromic.  If that doesn't depress you . . . 

Lamentation Thirty Three

 A Spongee(*) Haiku for a Cake With Teeth

Had my cake. Ate it.

From inside cake cried, "I'll get

back at you for that!"

(*) A 21st. century development of the 'spondee,' a two syllable poetic foot with equal stress on the syllables.  Not much used now that 'free verse' has sidelined poetic rhythm.

e.g. Spondee: Bus stop: Heat pump: Friday: Toothache: Football: Get It?

Posted in response to Rosemary Nissen-Wade's dietary supplement HERE

Lamentaton Thirty Two

A Laugh or  Craiku Haiku

Troops to Grunt who fell

On his own sword, "Does it hurt?"

"Only when I laugh."

Inspired by Magaly Guerro’s prompt on Poets and Storytellers United where we are invited to play along with Oscar Wilde who said, "Surely no one can read the death of Little Nell(*) without breaking into tears of hearty laughter."

(*) "The Old Curiosity Shop" (Charles Dickens)

Lamentation Thirty One

Shoplifting again!

They got me, bang to rights. Hope

they don’t lose the key.

 Inspired by Magaly Guerro’s prompt on Poets and Storytellers United

and the first line of Arthur Koestler’s bleakly dystopian novel "Darkness at Noon"

“The cell door slammed behind Rubashov." 

Lamentation Thirty

An intriguing picture from Ms. Kincaid brings me out of retirement  . . .

Life's No Picnic Haiku

"No picnic's complete

without maple syrup?  Now

there's wasps in my sock."

Visit The Mag for other folks' views

Lamentation Twenty Nine

In response to the picture prompt for Mag 206 from Tess Kincaid.

Kiss Me Quaiku.

"If the wind changes

that face will stick," Mummy said.

 "You glad it did, Dad?"

Follow the link above the title to see other Mag entries.

Lamentation Twenty Eight

Haiku for Summers Past.

"The Mill" Andrew Wyeth 1964.

In such cold weather

what warms the heart more than a

cartload of ice cream.

My response to the prompt for Mag 204 from Tess Kincaid at Willow Manor.

Lamentation Twenty Seven

The Icecutters' Lament: A Hiceku

Thick ice, very cold.

Very thick ice hard to cut

and we're cold. Very.

The picture above, (The Ice Cutters, 1911, Natalia Goncharova) is Tess Kincaid's prompt for Mag 198

Lamentation Twenty Six

A Haiku for Lovers

The Moth and the Lamp, Cesar Santos 

The moth says "Your love

sets me aflame." The flame says

"Yours suffocates me."

This Cesar Santos picture is Tess Kincaid's prompt for Mag 187.

Lamentation Twenty Five

A Haiku in Passing

Two cars crash head-on

in the passing place. Too much

courtesy can kill.

Tess Kincaid's prompt this week invites disaster. (Mag 183 is here.)

Lamentation Twenty Four

A Snapped Elastic Haiku

You think I enjoy

standing like this?  If I don't

my knickers fall down.

The prompts from Willow Manor are unfailingly entertaining.  Mag 181 is no exception.

Lamentation Twenty Three

Haiku on Two Manuals 

Drawing Hands, 1948 by M. C. Escher 

For once the right hand

knows what the left hand's doing . . .

And it's off the cuff!

Thanks to Tess for this Mag 180 prompt, shown HERE.