Doubles

I miss you. I hark back to the friendship
we used to have, impromptu adventures,
knowing the everyday details of each
other’s lives, nights in watching trashy TV.

I’ve been there at 3am when you’ve clutched
my hand and explained he’s dependable
and he’ll make a great father. I want to
tell you that it’s the 21st century

but you don’t listen to me any more.
I am impeccably polite. I put on
a rictus grin when you spend an hour
discussing your wedding plans. I am

becoming a souvenir of your past life,
to be gradually discarded for
women you can play doubles tennis with.
I’m happy for you. But I wish you’d call.

From What I’m really thinking: the single friend.

Prescription for a creative burst

I want to sit out in privety
with my dressing-gown on
and nobody to see
but it must have a balcony.

Then I can finish my writing.
It’s a hundred-and-forty a night, with a hot tub.
That’s no good. I can’t write
with a fountainpen in a hot tub.

I wonder if there’s background music.
I can’t have the sort of music
that keeps you jumpin’ all the while.
There needs to be quiet.

The windows have got to open.
I must hear water all the time.
If I get a room that’s luxurious
I’ll get writing in half the time.

I want to see Rooms One and Eight.
I want to see if they’ll do.
I don’t need you to come with me,
but I’ll need you to move in with me.

It’s all sketched out already,
just waiting to be filled in.
I’m tense till I get this settled.
Can’t get my head round it till then.

Overheard in a hotel bar in Ludlow, Shropshire, 10 March 2013. By John Killic.

Richard Stallman’s rider 4

Food, or, You need to know what I dislike

avocado, eggplant, usually
(there are occasional exceptions)
hot pepper, olives, liver
(even in trace quantities)

stomach and intestine, other organ meats
cooked tuna, oysters, egg yolk
if the taste is noticeable,
except when boiled completely hard

many strong cheeses, especially those
with green fungus, desserts
that contain fruit or liqueur flavors
sour fruits, such as grapefruit

and many oranges, beer, coffee
though weak coffee flavor can be good
in desserts, the taste of alcohol
so I don’t drink anything stronger than wine

From the detailed requirements that Richard Stallman sends ahead of his speaking engagements.

Richard Stallman’s rider 1
Richard Stallman’s rider 2
Richard Stallman’s rider 3
Richard Stallman’s rider 5

Richard Stallman’s rider 2

Pets

I like cats if they are friendly,
but they are not good for me;
I am somewhat allergic to them.
This allergy

makes my face itch and my eyes
water. So the bed, and the room
I will usually be staying in,
need to be clean of cat hair.

However, it is no problem
if there is a cat elsewhere
in the house – I might enjoy it
if the cat is friendly.

Dogs that bark angrily
and or jump up on me
frighten me, unless they are small
and cannot reach above my knees.

But if they only bark or jump
when we enter the house,
I can cope, as long as you
hold the dog away from me

at that time. Aside from that
issue, I’m ok with dogs.
If you can find a host for me
that has a friendly parrot,

I will be very very glad.
If you can find someone who
has a friendly parrot I can
visit with, that will be nice too.

DON’T buy a parrot figuring
that it will be a fun surprise
for me. To acquire a parrot
is a major decision:

it is likely to outlive you.
If you don’t know how to treat
the parrot, it could be emotionally
scarred and spend many decades

feeling frightened and unhappy.
If you buy a captured wild
parrot, you will promote a cruel
and devastating practice,

and the parrot will be emotionally
scarred before you get it.
Meeting that sad animal
is not an agreeable surprise.

From the detailed requirements that Richard Stallman sends ahead of his speaking engagements.

Richard Stallman’s rider 1
Richard Stallman’s rider 3
Richard Stallman’s rider 4
Richard Stallman’s rider 5

Mother Tongue

John have you got your umbrella
I think it’s going to rain. Can you
come play with me? If I told you
once I told you a hundred times.

Things here just aren’t the same without
Mother, I will now sign your
affectionate brother James. Oh
what am I going to do? So

I said to her I said if he
thinks she’s going to stand for that but
then there’s his arthritis poor thing
and no work. I love you. I hate

you. I hate liver. Joan dear did
you feed the sheep, don’t just stand around
mooning. Tell me what they said, tell
me what you did. Oh how my feet

do hurt. My heart is breaking. Touch
me here, touch me again. Once bit
twice shy. You look like what the cat
dragged in. What a beautiful night.

Good morning, hello, goodbye, have
a nice day, thanks. God damn you to
hell you lying cheat. Pass the soy
sauce please. Oh shit. Is it grandma’s

own sweet pretty dear? What am I
going to tell her? There there don’t
cry. Go to sleep now, go to sleep….
Don’t go to sleep!

From a commencement address given by Ursula le Guin at Bryn Mawr College, 1986. By Jim.

No Comment

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A spam comment from the blog SmyWord.

Growth of a Poet’s Mind

We had hurried to the shelter of the alders
alongside the river Derwent, as dark clouds
drifted across the sun and a rain squall
swept through the valley. It passed in minutes,
soon followed by shafts of sunlight that pierced
ever-widening gaps between clouds whose
racing shadows traced the contours of the fellside.

As the wind subsided, the descending scales
of willow warbler song began again
and bumblebees emerged from shelter to feed,
shaking raindrops from the last of the bluebells
and newly opened wood crane’s-bill flowers,
a floral succession that marks the transition
from spring into summer in these woodlands.

Down at our feet a male ghost moth had emerged
from a brown chrysalis half-buried in the soil –
not without struggle judging by the damage
to one of its wings that had still not fully
expanded. It took its first uncertain
steps across wet grass towards the bracken
fronds, where it would remain until nightfall.

Ghost moths are unusual in engaging
in communal courtship displays at dusk,
drawn together in leks by emitting
come-hither scents that are reminiscent
of the aroma of goats. They hover
just above the vegetation, swaying from side
to side as if dangling on the end of a string.

From Country Diary: Blanchland.

Corpses To Remember Him By

I hope I shall not offend you; I shall
certainly say nothing with the intention
to offend you. I must explain myself,
however, and I will do it as kindly

as I can. What you ask me to do I
am asked to do as often as one half-
dozen times a week. Three hundred letters
a year! One’s impulse is to freely consent,

but one’s time and necessary occupations
will not permit it. There is no way but
to decline in all cases, making no
exceptions; and I wish to call your

attention to a thing which has probably
not occurred to you, and that is this: that
no man takes pleasure in exercising
his trade as a pastime. Writing is my

trade, and I exercise it only when
I am obliged to. You might make your request
of a doctor, or a builder, or a sculptor,
and there would be no impropriety

in it, but if you asked either for a
specimen of his trade, his handiwork,
he would be justified in rising to
a point of order. It would never be
fair to ask a doctor for one of his
corpses to remember him by.

The typewritten message Mark Twain would send to autograph seekers. By Marika Rose.

Where Is Thy Sting?

Sweat bee; light, ephemeral, almost fruity,
a tiny spark has singed a single hair
on your arm. Fire ant; sharp, sudden, mildly
alarming, like walking across a shag
carpet and reaching for the light switch.

Bullhorn acacia ant; a rare, piercing,
elevated sort of pain. Someone
has fired a staple into your cheek.

Bald-faced hornet; rich, hearty, slightly crunchy,
getting your hand mashed in a revolving door.
Yellowjacket, hot and smoky, almost
irreverent, imagine W. C. Fields
extinguishing a cigar on your tongue.

Honey bee and European hornet;
a matchhead that flips off and burns on your skin.
Red harvester ant; bold and unrelenting,
somebody is using a drill
to excavate your ingrown toenail.

Paper wasp, caustic and burning. Like
spilling a beaker of hydrochloric
acid on a paper cut. Blinding, fierce,
shockingly electric, a running hair drier
has been dropped into your bubble bath.

Bullet ant; pure, intense, brilliant pain.
Like fire-walking over flaming charcoal
with a three-inch rusty nail in your heel.

From the Wikipedia examples of the Schmidt Sting Pain Index.