I murdered a metaphor
Crushed it after a long delay
I'll admit upfront, I was a repeat offender
And yes, my parole officer cautioned me about the terms of my probation
Severe he was, he reminded me about the restrictions on carrying weapons
And further advised me to not associate with writers wielding puns

But it was hard to resist the temptation
The twelve step program hardly had time to have an effect
Euphemism lingers in the body, I wondered if I would pass the drug test
Albeit irony works best at close quarters, I was afraid to use a gun
In the end it was appalling, I strangled it with my bare hands

I remember an earlier time when I didn't hesitate to plunge the knife
Trigger happy, I was especially fond of vicious verbal sallies
Flesh wounds, back then I was addicted to biting satire
The sting in the tail after lobbing hand grenades, double entendres
Or poisoning the well with exaggeration born of my misspent youth
After such lampooning, my many victims came to bloody ends

The teasing was drawn out in this case, it couldn't stand the torture
Begged me to put it out of its misery, I laughed while it murmured
As you know, in the torrid zone, many prefer the water treatment
I kept up the pressure, continued drip feeding wit for days on end
Believe me, with a steady diet of blood and sin, you get results
I tell you, the vivid scenarios I enacted, it was a veritable mess
You’ve, no doubt, heard in these parts of the heart of darkness

The ban on assault weapons had been revoked, I lived then in modern America
I'd sought refuge in wordplay, word fugitive, for such is my asylum
My predicament, internally displaced, it was a strange kind of life
I purchased soul insurance, prepaid the premiums due for the coffin
Literature only, funeral minded, it overwhelmed the senses

This, then, is my confession, it was not written under any duress
Mind you, I traffic in tall tales, I daresay I'm a recidivist
By the time you read this I'll have turned myself in to the authorities
To wit: yes, it was a dark and stormy night, in a far, faraway land
Something was in the water, when I murdered a metaphor again
At length I hammered away with my point and paid attention to the details
For when it comes down to it, to a writer, every story is a nail

Murder, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Murder She Wrote by Chaka Demus
• I've Committed Murder Macy Gray
• 10 Minutes of Murder - Black Thought Freestyle
• Out in the Street they call it Murder by Ini Kamoze
• Murderer by Barrington Levy
• I Can't Help It by Michael Jackson
• Lyrics of Fury by Eric B & Rakim
• Ain't No Half-Steppin' by Big Daddy Kane
• Irresistible by Miles Jaye
• Word Play by A Tribe Called Quest

See previously: Soul Inspiration and The Early Bird Catches the Poem

File under: language, whimsy, humour, metaphor, culture, observation, wit, poetry, toli

Writing log: February 5, 2023

The words write themselves
All of the things he was
The finest for all of us

Peerless yet unassuming
And a hard act to follow
The finest undeniably

No one worked harder
Yet it was always with such ease
The finest reliably

Tasteful and self contained
The tone, exquisitely poised
The finest most graciously

A twinkle in the eye
Delightful conversations
The finest effortlessly

The strategy was to redirect fools
Quiet laughter amidst this tolerance
The finest ever so gently

Reading widely, education was paramount
His learning had no boundaries
The finest, he charted new territory

In search of the new, an early adopter
But yearning for what actually worked
The finest, his passion for discovery

Bound in faith for all of us, a firm believer in family
A gift of love and concern, a trailblazer for our community
The finest spirit, he gave generously

The words write themselves
All of the things he was
We hold on to the memories

The finest we've known
The finest we've seen
The finest we'll remember





After Samuel Ofosu-Amaah

The Finest, a playlist

A soundtrack to this note (spotify version)

• Best by Far by Omar
• The Finest by S.O.S. Band
• A Wonderful Guy by Oscar Peterson & Milt Jackson
• I Was Doing All Right by Dexter Gordon
• Easy by Al Jarreau
• Sparkle by Cameo
• The Backbone by Dexter Gordon

File under: obituary, family, appreciation, personal, memory, grief, mourning, virtuosity, poetry, toli

Writing log: January 29, 2023

It was a question of nerve
  and, when it came down to it, the Wan blinked first
After their scribes threw in the towel,
  they succumbed to humanity's curse
In a moment, it seemed, they upended all their previous mitigations
Pivoting to the new normal, they said, they lifted all restrictions

That it was time to return to normalcy was the considered feeling
Truth be told, there was, in this, a large element of wishful thinking
And the evidence was clear, they'd been inadequate with this change of plans
The toll quickly showed they'd chosen a lower tier of soul insurance

For, beyond emotional vaccination, one needed inoculation effectiveness
Herd immunity was indeed a chimera,
  for now the whole land was a mess
It was every man for themselves, whiplash throughout the populace
Who would bear the heavy burden of the good scribes's mistakes

The historians would later ask, did they consider the alternatives?
The way these academics do, making hay at length about what ifs
They could have at least waited until after their lunar new year
What did they gain by so precipitously succumbing to fear?

And the optics weren't good, the whole world would be disbelieving
Any statistics now profferred would be taken as those Wan deceiving
All we know was that they were finally going through their second wave
Although, with the kind of numbers affected,
  fortune would only favor the brave

Hastily abandoned, previous certainties were now summarily dismissed
Yet saving face meant that no one could admit that anything was amiss
A confusion of discarded policies that were no longer compelling
The official silence that reigned in those ghastly few months was telling

Leveling up - or down as the case really proved to be
Now there was no sanctuary on hand for the catastrophe
The whole world placed as it were in the thick of it
Global narrative collapse with its striking deficits

Ananse hankered down with his family,
  best to keep quiet and watch what would unfold
In the aftermath, there would be more opportunity,
  of this he didn't need to be told
The Wan, it seemed, had calculated
 and decided on what amounted to acceptable loss
As the old proverb went: one cannot separate fighting horses with millet stalks

Weary times would follow, the toll of those days was rather harrowing
When all around everyone in the grip of the gods' cauldron was suffering
Ananse beheld so many that were complaining of these significations and wonders
Perplexing given that they'd had the opportunity to prevent the earlier blunders

It was the inconvenience that was the prime bone of contention
The notion that it was no longer worth favoring prevention
The change of policy had scuppered any goodwill, crossing the spider
He never forgot a grudge,
 in good time they would have something to remember

And so zero tolerance would be a thing of the past
It was surely inevitable that they couldn't hold fast
Now that caution was foregone, in its place came laissez faire
We would have no more examples of humanity's strategic savoir faire

The last sanctuary, then, swiftly descended into upheaval
A return to the worst of plague living, echoes of the medieval
The Gods had put all to the test, even those without the wherewithal
And with no place to hide on earth. We would all face this free-for-all

Free For All, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Free For All by Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers
• Every Man For Himself by Coleman Hawkins
• Upside Down by Diana Ross
• Topsy Turvy by Earl Hines
• No Rules by Trini Baby & Robelto
• Topsy Turvy by Bud Powell
• Back at One by Brian McKnight

See previously: Shakedown

File under: humour, satire, culture, observation, folktale, Ananse, storytelling, whimsy, myth, coronavirus, pandemic, Social Living, Things Fall Apart, Observers are worried, Buyer's Remorse, hatchet job, covidious, poetry, toli

Writing log: May 27, 2023

The AI buildout is the largest capital expenditure in the history of the technology industry. The financial structure holding it together has a name.

The headmaster and the chaplain were suitably bemused
As I strode up the dais to collect my Divinity Prize
I guess it was the sight of the book I had chosen
With its cover of Fidel Castro and Ayatollah Khomeni
A touch incongruous, it would seem, for a fifteen year old
But they were consummate professionals and the mask didn't slip
They maintained typical English reserve, as they say, stiff upper lip

"Interesting cover." Mr Higginbottom harrumphed in his diplomatic way
The essay on Catholicism and African modernity that I had penned
Gave no indication about this curious direction of my reading
Modern Dictators, the bold red of the English edition, stared at me
Not your usual Visitation Day fare, it was creating quite a palaver
The chaplain was very intrigued, I think, by the sight of the Ayatollah
He couldn't but ask if I was trying to make some kind of statement
No sir, I'm simply fascinated by their brand of malevolence

On the right side, my crowd was making noise, disturbing tranquility
It seemed as if all of Ghana were attending, not just my family
Proper bright clothing, wax prints, boubous, that was my posse
Head wraps - gele, and loud whoops while gesticulating wildly
Mum had also invited her BBC African service folks, slightly more sober
But still enthusiastic, I could almost taste the feast we'd be having later

...

Afterwards, we gathered under the Eros statue, the replica of the original
They'd seen the Stanley Spencer painting earlier during their tour of the chapel
Grim viewing, truth be told, the scene set out the crucifixion
If you paused, you could almost hear Blake's sly intonation
Setting out at the sanctuary, the fair hills of our new Jerusalem
If this was our Babylon we could handle the ruler's burden
For visitation day at least, we could forget this blighted exile

...

So she works at the BBC, huh? That must be a blast
Indeed, it was rubbing off, the prestige quotient
Yeah, all this despite our previous precarity,
We were not your average desperate immigrant
Journalists remain firmly in the middle class
In my school blazer - black, double-breasted - I'd managed individuality
We all know our place, the sorting hat of this society.
Still, how very English to be so finely attuned to these hierarchies

...

Stu was also there, the first of his family to go to secondary school
His parents beaming at the thought of university looming
Stolid tradesmen of Hertfordshire still disbelieving
"Entrance exams for Oxford and Cambridge, imagine that
Instead of builder's hands, it'll be wine and port with the dons"
Stu gave a sharp look. "Next you'll be counting chickens"

...

This was a country entirely suffused with historical settings
Like this school, barely aspirational yet dating back to 1597
Boasting those courts where we'd play Eton Fives
Arcane traditions, bewildering to these young eyes

We made a joyful noise, turning the place into a slice of Africa
It struck me that any achievement on my part didn't really matter
It was about finding our way out of ourselves, this exuberant celebration
For a few moments at least, forgetting the journey and praising the destination

...

Some things are long gestating, simmering in the psyche, becoming a part of you
Thirty years later, I came across chapter 11 of that selfsame visitation day book
And realized I'd just published a poem with the same title: The Ruler's Rules

Soundtrack for this note

• Old School by Lucky Mensah

File under: humour, memory, culture, England, observation, perception, immigration, school, class, poetry, toli

Writing log: June 17, 2023

Boris Dralyuk, an old bloggic friend (dating back to 2012), has an essay in Poetry about looking backward:

Pain is at the core of nostalgia, a term that a Swiss medical student coined in 1688 to diagnose a manifest malady, a homesickness intense enough to dysregulate the heartbeats of mercenaries serving abroad. Some of us are especially prone to such acute symptoms, but all of us, at one time or another, have experienced nostalgia as a proper ache. And yet, that isn’t what makes nostalgia a hard feeling to write about. There is often a sweetness to nostalgia, a sugar coating that, left unchecked, thickens until it obscures the 
painful kernel. The longing for a past purified of its faults—or a past we never knew firsthand, encountered only on the page, on the screen, or in tales told to us before sleep or from a podium—becomes an indulgence. What makes nostalgia difficult to treat honestly in poems is how easily some of us fall under its spell.

I am a nostalgist. More susceptible to the pull of the past than many of those around me, I am also aware of my condition, even somewhat ashamed of it. This inner conflict—my attraction to the past, my effort to remind myself that the past is always a dream—has guided much of my work as a poet and translator. I suppose I could blame my personal history. Uprooted as a child from my native town of Odesa, Ukraine, thrust into an alien culture, I sought comfort in memories: of playing in the park with herds of cats and one terribly loyal stray dog as the sun set, while old men swapped inflated war stories over games of checkers and dominoes; of racing back from the water of the Black Sea to bite into incomparably flavorful tomatoes sprinkled with salt; of listening to my mother’s guests crack jokes in our warm, sweet-smelling kitchen. The memories grew ever cleaner, ever more pillowy in response to my needs.

Surely the experience of immigration reinforced my predilections, but some people are simply born looking backward. When the theologian Ronald Knox was four years old, he had trouble sleeping. He never made a fuss about it, just stayed in his room. A guest at the house asked what the boy did all night, and he replied, “I lie awake and think about the past.” That was me from the start, and that is me now. Many of my poems are born as phrases that come to me as I do what little Knox did.

I frequently conjure up, as a sobering slap, the image of Edwin Arlington Robinson’s Miniver Cheevy, the smalltown lush who “missed the mediæval grace/Of iron clothing,” who “thought, and thought, and thought,/And thought about” the storybook worlds of “Thebes and Camelot.” That fourth thought, coming after the line break, sent Robert Frost and Ezra Pound into a fit of laughter when they first read it. What a terrific dig at the paralysis of the nostalgic. Of course, they knew what kept Cheevy planted on that barstool as well as Robinson did. For all his talk of making it new, Pound was forever digging in the past, forever scorning the present, and, at his canniest moments, mocking himself for it. His Hugh Selwyn Mauberley—“out of key with his time,” striving “to resuscitate the dead art”—is as much a half-
tender, half-devastating reflection of himself as Cheevy was of Robinson.

He goes on to discuss nostalgia in Marina Tsvetaeva’s 1934 poem “Homesickness” (which I too love) and Donald Justice’s “Dance Lessons of the Thirties” (which I was unfamiliar with). I love the image of Frost and Pound’s fit of laughter, and especially the four-year-old Ronald Knox lying awake and thinking about the past. And that Swiss medical student was Johannes Hofer, whose little pamphlet Dissertatio Medica de Nostalgia, oder Heimwehe (1688) you can read at Google Books or at MDZ; the word is introduced on p. 5:

It was translated by Carolyn Kiser Anspach in “Medical Dissertation on Nostalgia by Johannes Hofer, 1688” (Bulletin of the Institute of the History of Medicine 2.6 [1934]:376-391), available at JSTOR; she has an interesting paragraph about the title:

The first reprint of this thesis appeared in 1710, as part of the “Fasciculus Dissertationum Medicarum Selectorium” of Th. Zwinger (Basel). The original title is changed to “De Pothopatridalgia vom Heimwehe.” The text is almost identical with that of the first edition, although the term “nostalgia” is replaced throughout by “pothopatridalgia.” Zwinger also has introduced an additional case history between the fourth and fifth chapters, has revised and re-arranged parts of the text, and in his twelfth chapter mentions a sweet melody of Switzerland which tends to produce homesickness in everyone who hears it. He actually gives the notes of this “pathologic air,” which is called “Kühe-Reyen.”

I have a feeling “pothopatridalgia” was never going to catch on.