That Green Eyed Monster, By Brian37(AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

Alabaster on one side
Ebony ink onyx raven
Feathers of Iago disturbing

Cassio got the job
And not that of he
Iago thought of him

Unqualified, not of
Bruises or scratches
Lead not legions

What was that Moor thinking
How could he overlook me
I am Iago, far better than he

I shall convince you
Your wife Desdemona
Is worthy by your hand

Ceasing of to breath
You shall make her beyond
Then be of deep regret

When you realize
What you you’d done
And turn that knife on me.

Then on yourself
Out of unimaginable guilt
Of your insidious deed.
(end)

Really really short plot summery of the play Othello, which I am reading right now. This is my take on the plot summery. I like to read those before actually reading the play itself. It helps keep me focused on who is who and what is what, because Shakespeare is so fucking hard to read, and with that it still makes it easier to keep up rather than simply reading it blind like some can go into for the first time. Not me. I need that cheat sheet to understand his plays.

But by this time tomorrow I will have completely read the entire play. Only my second. I read Macbeth for the first time a couple weeks ago.

An aside, this also brings up my malady of A.D.D. . For some stupid reason I at first saw the character name “Iago” as a lower case “L” or “l” and didn’t realize it was a capital “I” so I originally typed “Lago” which has since been corrected. I thought it was some stupid Medieval spelling. But that is corrected now.

“Anneplath” by Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

You read the title
You look perplexed
You don’t know exactly
What to make of it

Maybe, maybe,
I can explain it
It is a hybrid name
Of two poet’s fame

Anne Sexton’s first name
The prefix
Sylvia Plath’s last name
The suffix

What of this you ask?
Why did you do this
It looks silly to me
It makes no sense

You can laugh
You can scoff
I do not care in the least
Not one bit at all

The name is a new word
I created, to honor
Contribution to the arts
Of the world

The poems
Their stories told
All to be read
All to behold

Soaring into the sun
Envying the reaper’s robe
Tempest oceans
And sea coves

I marvel and wonder
Over their prose
Will this new name
I have proposed

Take on a life of it’s own
It means “Female Poet”
The power of her words
The talent they’ve shown.
(end)

Not that it will, but a new first name suggestion for a child, or pet. The name would simply mean “Poet”, or “female poet”.

And the explanation is in the title.

I’d suggest however, my preference of pronunciation would be like

“Little Orphan “Annie”-“Plath”. Or “Ann-a-plath” or “Ann-i-pleth” but spelled like the title “Ann-e-Plath”.

The lines “The poems
Their stories told” (was on purpose, not my malady, not an accident.)

Hullabaloo, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

When death is due
What of our fury
Our flurry, our hullabaloo?

Cancer may take you
Or maybe a mugger
Maybe a virus, six feet under

And what of you
Of you, this activity
Commotion, your hullabaloo?

Nothing at all,
You can do,
Delay at best, hullabaloo?

Wring your fist
Pound your chest
Kill your enemy, hullabaloo

They think they are
Better than you
Their social norms, labels too

Their skin tones
As white as bone
They founded America

And they killed you
They brought you on ships
And forced you

But they’re dead now too
All of that power
And nothing to do

Popping the corks
New Years too
All for not, this hullabaloo.
(end)

The oppressor dies as well as the oppressed. MacBethish on my part a bit I guess. But it is to say all of that power, squandered asserting some feigned superiority over other humans, and you still died anyway.

Pincushion, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

Like pirates we landed
And walk the plank
Landing on the beach

Half moon shaped
Glimmering glass water
We walked through the shark’s mouth

And we found a path
A bit sandy, and stony
We ended up at a gift shop

It had a tiny bar, t shirts
Flip flops, picnic tabletops
Knick knacks, magnates

We chomped down
Under the sun peaking through
The tropical greenery, trying to sneak in

And there was a small grassy lawn
Lining the path to our left
It dared not invade the sand

But through the lined garden
Of the path, and the lawn
Two our left,

This little lumbering thing
Wobbling while it was walking
Not a care in the world it seemed

It could have curled up
In a tiny ball, like a hedgehog
But it wasn’t one of those at all

It was no bigger
Than a mandarin orange
With an anteater’s nose

In miniature size
Looked like something
Mom pulled out of her sewing bag

Little cute pincushion
Not worried about us at all
Foraging through the grass

In the midday sun
I couldn’t think of any
Predators who would want one

I wanted to take you home
But my cat, I don’t think
He’d have been a fan of that.
(end)

My friend and I got to visit The Great Keppel Island just off the coast of Yeppoon in Queensland Australia. You literally have to walk down a metal plank onto the beach. And to get to the garden pathway to walk around the island, we had to go through a fabricated fake shark’s mouth.

We stopped on our walk at a little bar/gift shop, it was about midday. We got done eating and my friend had his camera out taking pictures of the tropical flowers and he spotted an Echidna. Neither of us had ever seen one before. I thought it was absolutely adorable.

Goucher College, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

Everyone has
Some sort of Mecca
A bucket list
A pilgrimage

But you,
You denied me
I don’t know
If it would have mattered anyway

I did run into
Someone who
Lived next to you
Talked to you

They were around
My age back then
Just a kid, squandering
Wandering, playing

While you wrote of paintings
Of pain, of dogs, of Jesus
Of divorce, of fury
Of your lust of death

I can only listen now
On YouTube
A reading you did
Stuck in my head

Oh what it must have been
To be in that auditorium
Watching you
Put a spell on them

Poem after poem
Picture after picture
Using no camera
At all
(end)

This is a poem about a reading Anne Sexton gave at Goucher College in 1974 shortly before she killed herself.

Arora Borealis, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37)

Maybe he was a Gogh getter
Inspiring his “Northern Lights”
Was Anne Sexton possessing me?

When I laid eyes on his strokes?
The dancing Double Dutch neon
Tesla neon green plasma, dominating

The forest that does not exist
The forgotten peak on the horizon
Jealous of the dark forest I’m lost in

Poltergeist fog, hugging the ground
Undulating in and around no motion
No sound, but like the sky dancing

In isolation, and the sun,
Hiding in the background
It can’t compete with the dance it started

It can only watch from a distance
And the forest makes my skin crawl
I want nothing to do with it at all

It would be a great place to make a grave
For your victims, a nowhere place
Where screams can never be heard.

And the lights, ignore your fear
They know you are mesmerized
They know you can’t look away

The poltergeist white, makes you prey.
(end)

I just saw a wonderful painting by an Curt Pendley . It reminded me of Van Gogh’s “The Starry Nights” and knowing Anne Sexton wrote a poem about it, I decided to take a shot at this guy’s painting. I hope he likes it.

This wonderful painting is by the artist Curt Pendley “The Northern Lights Alaska”.

Update.

Sunday Mass, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

You could have been sitting next to me
It still would feel like the next galaxy
I heard the distant murmuring of the Father
Spilling the mutterings of dead language

Raising his chalice, and some round thing
But I did not care, not one bit
That wasn’t why I was there,
It was you, I pined for, nothing more

Your jet black hair, Annette Funicello
I wanted to be your fellow, but I was afraid
Deeply afraid to ask, fear of the tone of two letters
I could only pine, in secret, in longing

The pews could be as numerous
As the largest pro sports stadium
And I would still scout for you,
Sometimes a mere dot, up in front
When there was standing room only

And that Father, monotone, boring
Annoying, keeping me away from you
We’d all stand, kneel, recite the lord’s prayer
I’d do anything to be with you

Sometimes I would get lucky
And show up early, and sit behind you
That was the best I could do, then the Father said
“Let us offer each other a sign of peace”

You had no choice, and you never knew
You shook my hand, and I wanted you
I was nervous, and quivered and shook inside
Just the proximity was enough to scare me

Week after week, month after month
Year after year, pining in silence and fear
Finally, I had had enough of it, I had to try
So I employed my strategy of proximity

And there I was, sitting behind you, again
But this time would be different, I just knew it
And wouldn’t you know it, it was, not what I expected
I leaned over and asked you to go out with me

Finally for that brief second, I was relieved
I did it, I really did it, I was proud of myself
Did I mention, only for a second? Yea,
Only a second, she turned and cringed

And gave me that look of “What the”
And I picked a great venue, didn’t I?
Didn’t ask before, or after
But right in the middle

Smooth player I am. So much so
Walking through the parking lot
To cross the street, to my street
Her brother came up behind me

While he didn’t hit me, you can imagine
The choice words he had for me
I went home dejected, cried for hours
I had wasted all that time on her

Hormones suck.

Fragility, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

I see you’ve worked hard
On that Tinker Toy, Lincoln Log
On that train set, the details
Of the crossing lights, station house

The people milling all about,
You sit in your tree house,
You invite your friends
The tea party never ends

Easy Bake Oven, GI Joe
Your security blanket
The stuffed animal
Brings you slumber

Such confidence they give you
This innocent dream state
Is a wonder for many a parent
To watch over and foster

You care for such toys, and will
Fight in a sandlot, in your sheeted
Bedroom fort, scream, kick, punch
Anyone who damages your toy

Such a brave defender, I see your corpses
Littered through time, in petty confidence
Fragile narcissism, with amazing weapons
Not dreamed of yet, but competing for

And your soldiers have names, your dolls too
Allah, Jesus, Yahweh , Vishnu, live in your
Sandlot, your doll house, your train set
Your Tinker Toys, your Lincoln Logs

And you still get sick, you still die
You still hope for a hero in the sky
A night light, a security blanket
But it is yet only you, sucking on your thumb.

Now I am the bad guy, evil skeptic
Out to barbecue your kittens, I must be,
I must want you arrested, tortured, for what?
And this is the rich part, picking on your God?

I thought I was a midget, a toadstool, pond scum
I thought there was nothing I could do to hurt him?
Didn’t he tell you he had infinitely huge muscles?
Couldn’t he quite easily make quick work of me?

And that Kung Fu grip, and cartoon abs, he could
Most certainly bench press infinity times nothing
Yet you still get mad. Is that Tinker Toy rusted?
Did I tip over your Lincoln Log, your sand castle?

Mean, vindictive, bully you call me? Ok fine
Lets assume that for a second. How about this?
What if, you had a family member or friend
Who went around every day, claiming this?

“Serena Williams beat the Chicago Cubs
In the Stanley Cup”, wouldn’t you ask them
“What’s up?” Wouldn’t you be the slightest curious
Of such repetitions of the absurd and spurious?

I am fine with toys and sand castles, and dolls
Up and until the adults infect lawmaking with them
To the point since they are on a diet, I have to be too
No, not in a free society, then it is not up to you

I will not live under your Barbie, or GI Joe
I will not live in your sand castle, simply because you dig it
I do not have to sleep with your stuffed animal
I do not have to ride your train, your toys belong to you

But they do not, and will never , write our laws.
(end)

Like many of my other blasphemous poems, this is not saying I hate all religious people. It is aimed at the theocratic bullies. The theists who insist you live under their religious laws. And yes, know it can even offend my liberal theist friends too. But even then, I don’t want you looking at this as hate. More like having a best friend, or a family member or a co worker, who says something that makes you want to pull your hair out, not because you hate them, but you are miffed, even when you love them.

I think most human beings are good. But as I keep saying, just because one thinks a religion does good, it at the same time, causes far too much division, even under the same umbrella label between different sects. Human rights will always be a given to me, but claims do not deserve taboo status to never be questioned.

“Question with boldness even the existence of a God, for if there be one, surely he would pay more homage to reason, than to that of blindfolded fear” Thomas Jefferson.

“I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do, because I always notice it coincides with their own desires.” Susan B. Anthony.

Mistakes, Yes, I Spilled That Rite By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Titter)

It was supposed to be “With me”
Instead I submitted “We me”
Maybe some find that funny
But for me, it makes me extremely angry

At myself. I want throw things, anything
Against the wall, my laptop, my coffee mug
I want it to be full of mistakes I can sweep up
Mop up, and throw away, forever

But no, the keyboard calls me, dares me
Laughs at me, knowing I will make a fool
Of myself. MISTAKES DAMN IT, MISTAKES
My fingers defy me, my brain hates me!

I want to amputate my head, cut it off
It is beyond useless, it is a sunken ship
That is so broken, not even sea life
Want to call it home, it can never be a reef

It is truly a landfill, of desire, and desperation
Self loathing, writhing in acceptance, reluctantly
Clinging, to some reason not to quit, I cant quit
I am not going to let this malady take me

Mistakes? Yes, I spelled that right, this time
Way after “We me” was up for hours, it towers
Over me, taunting me, haunting me, killing me
Embarrassment, harassment, self inflicted.
(end)

I typed a short poem, but instead of typing “With me” I typed “we me”. I don’t want any fucking advice. I have heard all of it before, “Just do this, just do that” “slow down” “take your time”. That is not how my brain works. That is not how you fix something that is a malady. Some things you can only cope with, but never cure. It is still frustrating. I wish I could win the lottery, and have a fleet of editors to view my work before the public sees it. But my pockets are not deep.

The title was on purpose, but even in this poem, I had to come back and take out an extra word I missed and left in by mistake. It truly gets me really depressed sometimes. No matter how hard I try.

Heads up folks, you are going to be hearing a lot of shout outs for now, about Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton as I read them. I am no good at multi tasking an their works are monumental, so I want to focus on them for now. I will be frequently commenting on their poetry and or Plath’s Bell Jar, which I am loving to bits so far beginning chapter 6 now.

I just read an Anne Sexton poem “Racoon” and of course it is metaphor for her relationships with men, or how she views how men behave, or at least, that is my take on reading it. I also like her poem “Your Face On The Dog’s Neck”.

I am in love with their works so far, not very much I don’t like. So much so I have ordered 6 Sylvia Plath frig magnets and also getting an Anne Sexton magnet and mug. I’m surrounded. Books, mugs, magnets, I am being wonderfully held hostage.