Boobyhatch practice

Every once in a while, I practice for the mental hospital. I hope and pray that my days of hospitalizations are long since over and done with, but one never knows.

So I practice my answers to questions like, "Who is the President of the United States?" If I am ever hospitalized while the current occupant of the White House is in power, I shall say, "I slept through the last election. Did anything interesting happen?" Or I shall begin my rapid-fire recitation of the most recent presidents, backwards, for the span of one century:

obamabushclintonbushreagan.
carterfordnixon.
johnsonkennedyike.
harrytrumanfdr.
hoovercoolidgehardingwilsontaft.

Or, my answer to the other perennial question, "Can you count backwards from 100 by sevens?"

My answer will be in Italian: "Cento, novantatre, ottantasei, settantanove, settantadue, sessantacinque, cinquantotto, cinquantuno ..." Et cetera.

In the spring of, I think it was 2000, I was being examined for a possible hospitalization by a German woman doctor (Dr Eva Something-beginning-with-G) at New England Medical Center, and was asked, among other things, to "please write a sentence." The sentence I came up with was: "George Carey is the 103rd Archbishop of Canterbury." The doctor's eyes widened slightly while reading that relatively simple but grammatically perfect gem.  I was not hospitalized on that occasion!

But believe it or not, I practice my answers to boobyhatch questions. Which in and of itself is probably insane.

Dr Rowan Williams is the 104th Archbishop of Canterbury.

An Advent Sonnet (second draft)

Pale leaves cling fast to the wind-battered tree;
The autumn-craving flesh is deeply thrilled!
As dim as dreams, cloud-balked, the sun leaks through,
Spilling its feeble light upon the world.

The noise of cackling crows pierces the cold,
Presaging winter's nights of snow and ice:
November's stubborn flowers nipped and killed
By north-wind's stinging blast; skies gray as mice.

Some souls there are who watch for signs of grace,
Expecting love's fabled nativity
In a chilly and unfavorable place

Apparently unvisited by Him
Who makes all dying life rejoice anew:
Each human heart a cave in Bethlehem.

An Advent Sonnet (early draft)

(Dear Reader or Readers:  Be politely unsparing!  There's something not-quite-right about this poem, I suspect, but am standing too close to it to know precisely what it is.  It was, I should note, written just for practice' sake.)

Bleak leaves cling fast to the wind-battered tree;
This autumn weather thrills the sin-sick soul.
As dim as dreams, cloud-balked, the sun leaks through,
Spilling its feeble light upon the world.

The cackle of the crows pierces the cold
Presaging winter's stoic days (snow; ice;
November's stubborn flowers nipped and killed
By north-wind's stinging blast; skies gray as mice).

And yet some souls there are who watch for grace,
Expecting love's fabled nativity
In a chilly and unfavorable place

Apparently unvisited by Him
Who makes all dying life rejoice anew:
Each human heart a cave in Bethlehem.

Heather Greywolf answers my haiku

(i)


Perhaps it said "and ..."
Because it wanted to know
What would happen next!


(ii)


Leaves falling on me
Glad it is not the squirrels
They are heavier

Two quasi-haiku-type poems

(i)

Thrown on the bed,
why is my belt
an ampersand?


(ii)

Aw, sweet! --
straight outta Cummings,
"a leaf falls ..."

November

A ten-year-old attempt at a poem, recently re-worked and re-titled.

Draft of a sonnet

Cool air, the fragrance of dead leaves, the plume
From a live cigarette, the winds that blow
In late October, the glory and the gloom
Of seven thousand yesterdays ago --

The chronicle of transitory bliss,
The sudden gratifying memory
Of a passionate twenty-year-old kiss
From a girl who smoked and loved immoderately --

Now distant in geography and time,
But very near in thought, immediate
And intimate as trouble with the heart --

The brief joy cherished as a happy crime,
An injury both fierce and delicate
Healed not by length of days or surgeon's art.