While I was taking Betty for her walk this afternoon, the Swiss eccentric, Edouard, called out to us. He is a dog-lover, and wanted to greet Betty. She likes him too, and clearly considers him a friend. After giving her a lot of attention, he said "she probably smells wine on my breath." (He said it in Spanish, but I translate.) He showed me his tongue, which was purple from the fruit of the vine--he was obviously three sheets to the wind. He gave me the useful information that, in Germany, Johnny Walker Red is Johann Geht Rot. But he pronounce "geht" to sound more like the English word "get," so I guess that must be how it is in svitsdutch. About then an attractive young woman went by on a bicycle,and he followed her up the block with his eyes (actually, I think his whole body turned). He said, "for me, it's a memory--many years ago." "My bird is dead," he said. I guess he's in his sixties, and I'm in my seventies, so I probably know more about dead birds than he does. Sometimes there are ways to revive them, at least for a time. We commiserated a bit with each other, and then Betty and I had to go. Although Eduardo's property is filled with an incredible collection of junk,he's a friendly guy, and I consider him an asset to the neighborhood, dead bird and all.
28 March 2017
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
Monday, March 27, 2017
O Portunhol
[portunhol surenho]
Escrevo en idioma bastardo,
seguramente non é el mío,
escreverlo é desafío,
lerlo é un lío,
Qué infernal lunfardo!
I write in a bastard language,
it certainly isn't mine,
to write it is a challenge,
to read it is a hassle,
What a hellish slanguage!
Note: Rather than a single language, Portunhol is a dialect continuum that exists along thousands of kilometers of Brazil's border with its Spanish-speaking neighbors. My dialect, a work in progress, shares some of the features of the Portuguese of southern Brazil, as well as many features of the Spanish of Uruguay, where I live. It is not the same as the Portunhol of Rivera, or as that of Artigas. I believe the only dialect that has been formally studied is that of Rivera, Many dialects have probably never been reduced to writing, but I am trying to make a literary language of mine, which I call portunhol surenho. This poem is just humor; the truth is that I love the language.
Escrevo en idioma bastardo,
seguramente non é el mío,
escreverlo é desafío,
lerlo é un lío,
Qué infernal lunfardo!
I write in a bastard language,
it certainly isn't mine,
to write it is a challenge,
to read it is a hassle,
What a hellish slanguage!
Note: Rather than a single language, Portunhol is a dialect continuum that exists along thousands of kilometers of Brazil's border with its Spanish-speaking neighbors. My dialect, a work in progress, shares some of the features of the Portuguese of southern Brazil, as well as many features of the Spanish of Uruguay, where I live. It is not the same as the Portunhol of Rivera, or as that of Artigas. I believe the only dialect that has been formally studied is that of Rivera, Many dialects have probably never been reduced to writing, but I am trying to make a literary language of mine, which I call portunhol surenho. This poem is just humor; the truth is that I love the language.
A Curse on Spell-checkers
I know there was never a need
to separate practise from practice.
But "supersede" and "proceed"
are differently sourced,
and our hand should never be forced
by lexicographer praxis
or an ignorant spell-checker axis.
My language has been superseded,
and I know it well,
but spell-checkers,
ye little feckers,
can all proceed to hell!
27 March 2017
to separate practise from practice.
But "supersede" and "proceed"
are differently sourced,
and our hand should never be forced
by lexicographer praxis
or an ignorant spell-checker axis.
My language has been superseded,
and I know it well,
but spell-checkers,
ye little feckers,
can all proceed to hell!
27 March 2017
Sunday, March 26, 2017
Gardening
The sun warms
the back of my body,
as I trim back
tea-rose runners
that have leapt
over the wall.
Working my way
around the backyard,
I do the same
to morning glories
and the pink flowers
that also grow
over the wall,
increasing our privacy.
As I make my way
around the garden,
the sun warms
my other sides,
missing nothing.
I lop a few dead branches
from the palmettos
near the hammock.
Then I go around again,
loading the trimmings
into a wheelbarrow,
as I gratefully accept
the sun's blessing.
Taking the wheelbarrow
through the garage
and into the street,
I almost forget
to put on clothes.
the back of my body,
as I trim back
tea-rose runners
that have leapt
over the wall.
Working my way
around the backyard,
I do the same
to morning glories
and the pink flowers
that also grow
over the wall,
increasing our privacy.
As I make my way
around the garden,
the sun warms
my other sides,
missing nothing.
I lop a few dead branches
from the palmettos
near the hammock.
Then I go around again,
loading the trimmings
into a wheelbarrow,
as I gratefully accept
the sun's blessing.
Taking the wheelbarrow
through the garage
and into the street,
I almost forget
to put on clothes.
Soy un poeta naturista. Eso parece ser el nicho que me estoy tallando, y no estoy solo en ese espacio. Aquellos que tienen suficiente interés en mi poesía como para leer más que el posteo más reciente probablemente verán más que vería un mirón. Esto es como debería ser, y también se hace necesario por la censura infantil de la desnudez natural y no-sexual de parte de Facebook.
I am a naturist poet. That seems to be the niche that I am carving out for myself, and I am not alone in that space. Those who are interested enough in my poetry to peruse more than just the most recent post are apt to see more than would a gawker. This is as it should be, and is also made necessary by Facebook's childish censorship of natural, non-sexual nudity.
