Linda's Literary Home

Tag: fiction

  • Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet 8 “What can I give thee back, O liberal”

    Image: Elizabeth Barrett Browning – Getty Images

    Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet 8 “What can I give thee back, O liberal”

    The speaker continues to deny her good fortune as she reveals her gratitude for the attention of her illustrious suitor; she begins to accept her lot but reluctantly.

    Introduction and Text of Sonnet 8 “What can I give thee back, O liberal”

    Sonnet 8 from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese finds the speaker continuing to doubt and deny her great fortune in attracting such an accomplished and generous suitor.  However, she is slowly beginning to accept the possibility that this amazing man could have affection for her.

    Sonnet 8 “What can I give thee back, O liberal”

    What can I give thee back, O liberal
    And princely giver, who hast brought the gold
    And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,
    And laid them on the outside of the wall
    For such as I to take or leave withal,
    In unexpected largesse? am I cold,
    Ungrateful, that for these most manifold
    High gifts, I render nothing back at all?
    Not so; not cold,—but very poor instead.
    Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run
    The colors from my life, and left so dead
    And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
    To give the same as pillow to thy head.
    Go farther! let it serve to trample on.

    Reading 

    Commentary on Sonnet 8 “What can I give thee back, O liberal”

    The speaker continues to deny her good fortune as she reveals her gratitude for the attention of her illustrious suitor; she begins to accept her lot but reluctantly.

    First Quatrain:  Baffled by Attention

    What can I give thee back, O liberal
    And princely giver, who hast brought the gold
    And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,
    And laid them on the outside of the wall

    The speaker once again finds herself baffled by the attention she receives from one who is so much above her station in life. He has given her so much, being a “liberal / And princely giver.”  The term “liberal” here means openly generous.

    Her suitor has brought his valuable poetry to her along with his own upper-class qualities and manners. She metaphorically assigns all of those gifts to the status of “gold and purple,” the colors of royalty, and she locates them “outside the wall.”

    The suitor romances her by serenading her under her window, and she is astonished by the good fortune she is experiencing.  She cannot comprehend how one so delicate and lowly positioned as herself can merit the attention she continues to garner from this handsome, accomplished poet.

    Second Quatrain:  Rejecting or Accepting

    For such as I to take or leave withal,
    In unexpected largesse? am I cold,
    Ungrateful, that for these most manifold
    High gifts, I render nothing back at all? 

    The handsome suitor provides the speaker with the choice of taking his affections and attentions or rejecting them, and she is very grateful for all she receives even as she regrets that she has nothing to offer in return.  She declaims: “I render nothing back at all?”  She frames her lack into a question that answers itself, implying that even though she may seem “ungrateful,” nothing could be further from the truth.

    The rhetorical intensity achieved through dramatizing her feelings in a rhetorical question enhances not only the sonnet’s artistry but also adds dimension to those same feelings.  The rhetorical question device magnifies the emotion.  Instead of employing overused expressions along the lines of “definitely” or “very,” the speaker uses the rhetorical question  to fuse the poetic tools into a dramatic expression that fairly explodes with emotion.

    First Tercet:  No Lack of Passion

    Not so; not cold,—but very poor instead.
    Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run
    The colors from my life, and left so dead

    The speaker, however, does not leave the question open to possible misinterpretation; she then quite starkly answers, “No so; not cold.” She does not lack passion about the gifts her suitor bestows upon her; she is merely “very poor instead.”

    She insists that it is “God who knows” the extent of her poverty as well as the depth of her gratitude. She then admits that through much shedding of tears, she has caused the details of her life to fade as clothing rinsed many times in water would become “pale a stuff.”

    Second Tercet:  Low Self Esteem

    And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
    To give the same as pillow to thy head.
    Go farther! let it serve to trample on.

    The speaker’s lack of a colorful life, her lowly station, her simplicity of expression have all combined to make her denigrate herself before the higher class suitor with whom she feels compelled to contrast herself.

    She is still not able to reconcile her lack to his plenty, and again she wants to urge him to go from her because she feels her lack is worth so little that it might “serve to trample on.”  Her hopes and dreams she will keep hidden until they can override the reality of her personal lack of experience and life station.

  • Emily Dickinson’s “I had a guinea golden”

    Image: Emily Dickinson – Amherst College – Daguerrotype of the poet at age 17, circa 1847 – likely the only authentic, extant likeness of the poet

    The speaker in Emily Dickinson’s “I had a guinea golden” is expressing melancholy at the loss of a friend, whom she describes metaphorically in terms of three dear objects: a guinea, a robin, and a star.

    Introduction with Text of “I had a guinea golden”

    This fascinating Emily Dickinson poem of loss offers quite a tricky subversion of thought.  The first three stanzas seem to explain the loss of three separate loved ones. 
    Then the final stanza packs a wallop unloading on only one “missing friend,” who has caused the speaker to create this “mournful ditty” with tears in her eyes.

    This poem demonstrates the depth of Dickinson’s education as she employs metaphors of the British coinage system and allusions to Greek mythology, which has been further employed by the science of astronomy to name stars. 

    Not only did Dickinson study widely in many subject areas, she possessed the ability to employ her learning in creative ways to fashion those beautiful flowers, allowing them to grow in her garden of verse.

    I had a guinea golden

    I had a guinea golden –
    I lost it in the sand –
    And tho’ the sum was simple
    And pounds were in the land –
    Still, had it such a value
    Unto my frugal eye –
    That when I could not find it –
    I sat me down to sigh.

    I had a crimson Robin –
    Who sang full many a day
    But when the woods were painted,
    He, too, did fly away –
    Time brought me other Robins –
    Their ballads were the same –
    Still, for my missing Troubador
    I kept the “house at hame.”

    I had a star in heaven –
    One “Pleiad” was its name –
    And when I was not heeding,
    It wandered from the same.
    And tho’ the skies are crowded –
    And all the night ashine –
    I do not care about it –
    Since none of them are mine.

    My story has a moral –
    I have a missing friend –
    “Pleiad” its name, and Robin,
    And guinea in the sand.
    And when this mournful ditty
    Accompanied with tear –
    Shall meet the eye of traitor
    In country far from here –
    Grant that repentance solemn
    May seize upon his mind –
    And he no consolation
    Beneath the sun may find.

    Reading 

    Commentary on “I had a guinea golden”

    Each stanza builds to a magnificent crescendo of outrage that allows the speaker to lavish affection as well as harsh rebuke to the one leaving her in a state of melancholy.

    First Stanza:  The Value of Small Things

    I had a guinea golden –
    I lost it in the sand –
    And tho’ the sum was simple
    And pounds were in the land –
    Still, had it such a value
    Unto my frugal eye –
    That when I could not find it –
    I sat me down to sigh.

    The speaker begins by referring to the coin “guinea,” which was a British coin manufactured with the gold from the African nation of Guinea.  The coin was worth 21 shillings and ceased circulating in 1813.   The speaker maintains the British monetary metaphor by referring also to “pounds” in the fourth line of the poem.

    Metaphorically, the speaker is calling her lost friend a “golden” coin, which she lost “in the sand.”  She then admits that it was a small loss for much more valuable moneys—”pounds”—were all about her.   Nevertheless, to her, because of her frugality, the value of the small coin was huge, and because it was lost to her, she just “sat down to sigh.”

    Second Stanza:  Missing the Music

    I had a crimson Robin –
    Who sang full many a day
    But when the woods were painted,
    He, too, did fly away –
    Time brought me other Robins –
    Their ballads were the same –
    Still, for my missing Troubador
    I kept the “house at hame.”

    The speaker then employs the metaphor of “crimson Robin.”  This time she is likening her friend to the singing robin who “sang full many a day.”  But when the autumn of the year came around, she loses this friend also.

    Just as other moneys were abounding after the loss of a simple guinea, other robins presented themselves to the speaker after she lost her robin.  But even though they sang the same songs as her lost robin, it just was not the same for the speaker.   She continues to mourn the loss of her robin; thus she kept herself harnessed to her house, likely in case her own robin should show up again.

    Third Stanza:  The Mythology of Science

    I had a star in heaven –
    One “Pleiad” was its name –
    And when I was not heeding,
    It wandered from the same.
    And tho’ the skies are crowded –
    And all the night ashine –
    I do not care about it –
    Since none of them are mine.

    The speaker then finds herself once again mourning the loss of a loved one.  This one she labels “Pleiad.”  Pleiad is an allusion to Greek mythology but also a reference to astronomy.  

    In Greek mythology, the seven daughters of Atlas went into hiding up in the sky among the stars to escape being pursued by Orion.  One the seven seems to disappear perhaps out of shame or grief.  

    In the science of astronomy, the constellation known as Taurus features a group of seven stars, but oddly enough only six can be seen, resulting in the same “Lost Pleiad” as exists in the Greek myth.

    Dickinson, who studied widely the subjects of mythology, history, and science thus alludes to the myth of the “Lost Pleiad” to again elucidate the nature of her third lost beloved.   She has now experienced the loss of money, a bird, and now a star–each more precious than the last.

    The speaker loses the star as she was being heedless–not paying attention.  In her negligent state, her star wanders away from her.  Again, although the sky is full of other stars, they just don’t measure up because “none of them are mine.”

    Fourth Stanza:  Admonishing a Traitor

    My story has a moral –
    I have a missing friend –
    “Pleiad” its name, and Robin,
    And guinea in the sand.
    And when this mournful ditty
    Accompanied with tear –
    Shall meet the eye of traitor
    In country far from here –
    Grant that repentance solemn
    May seize upon his mind –
    And he no consolation
    Beneath the sun may find.

    While wildly famous for her riddles, Dickinson often breaks the riddle’s force by actually naming the object described.  In the final stanza, she blatantly confesses that her little story “has a moral.”  She then blurts out, “I have a missing friend.”  

    It is now that the reader understands the loss is not three different loved ones, but only one.  She has thus been describing that “missing friend” using three different metaphoric images.

    Now, however, she has a message for this friend whose description has revealed multiple times how much she misses the friend and laments the loss.   After again rather baldly admitting her sorrow told in “this mournful ditty” and even “[a]ccompanied with tear,” she refers to that missing friend as a “traitor.”

    If this friend who has betrayed her happens to see this “mournful ditty,” she hopes that it will grab that individual’s mind so that the person will experience “repentance solemn.”  Furthermore, she wishes that the friend be unable to find any solace for the individual’s contrition no matter where that friend goes.

  • American Ballads

    Image: Thomas Thornburg, Back Book Cover American Ballads

    American Ballads

    Published by Author House, Bloomington IN, 2009

    Bag Ladies

    Bag ladies are this season wearing
    field-jackets gleaned from K-MART shoppers and
    KEDS cast off by charioteers
    on skateboards fleeing from the cops;
    hooded and rope-cinched at their waists
    (doomed matched pairs shuffling westward).
    vespers et matins in their quest
    they toss and comb the city’s trash,
    each empty can discovered, cash.
    Sometimes drunk they will confess it,
    and sometimes cough the alley retching
    pink spittle in their sad kermess.
    Sometimes we talk (they ask my pardon
    for sifting through these things discarded)
    for better homes and other gardens.

    Other Gardens

    When children, we dreamed
    Of sailing to Baghdad.
    Hoosier gardens teemed
    Like Iram; Kaikobad
    Led Persian cavalry
    Down to an inland sea.

    Those magic minarets
    Are with childhood hidden,
    Our children in the desert
    Killing children.

    Serving the South

    deadended on a siding in Midway, Alabama,
    stand 6.5 miles of RR cars.
    covered in kudzu and time, they stand,
    iron cheeks squaring their gothic mouths;
    they are Southern and Serve the South
    (hub-deep in red clay) this land,
    this ekkuklema of southern drama.
    still, it is Bike Week in Daytona,
    and the Lady is sold in yards from rucksacks
    where a tattooed mama fucks & sucks
    (her name is not Ramona).
    here will come no deus ex machina,
    this American South, this defeated dream.
    drunken, drugged, dolorous in their dementia,
    forbidden by Law to wear their colors,
    these cavaliers race their engines and scream
    where the marble figure in every square
    shielding his eyes as the century turns
    stands hillbilly stubborn and declares.
    heading back north having spent our earnings,
    honeyed and robbed we are fed on hatred
    cold as our dollar they cannot spurn,
    and we are in that confederate.

    For my commentary on this poem, please see my article “Thomas Thornburg’s ‘Serving the South’.”

    Twelve Clerihews and a Sketch

    Poor Eddie Poe
    collapsed in the snow
    and exhaled no more
    in old Baltimore

    Poor Mary Mallon
    wept o’er many a gallon
    of soapsuds, avoiding
    the cops, and typhoiding.

    W. B. Yeats
    believed in the fates,
    but on Sunday
    in Spiritus Mundi.

    . . .

    Koan

    Once in this journey, following the call
    I broke my bones falling
    Now I go hobbled to a distant star
    My shippe a heavy bar
    Friends come asking how we are
    My friends, my friends, we are alone.
    He who would know must break his own bones

    A Ballad of My Grandfather

    My grandfather was a Wobbly, sirs,
    And as such he was banned
    And blackballed from his daily bread
    Across your promised land.

    My grandfather polished metal, sirs,
    And ripped his skilly hands
    Whenever you allowed him to
    Across your promised land.

    My grandfather suffered somewhat, sirs,
    And worked till he could stand
    No more before your wheel; he loafs
    Beneath your promised land.

    My father walked a picket, sirs,
    In nineteen-forty-five,
    His son beside, and with them walked
    His father, man alive.

    That was a bitter solstice, sirs,
    The wind complained like ghosts,
    The cold struck home, the striker stood
    Frozen to their posts.

    The people in the city, sirs,
    Sequestered in their hate,
    Supped in communal kitchens there
    And massed at every gate.

    Consider all such service, sirs,
    Kindred to your time,
    A  long apprenticeship to cast
    Such mettle into rime:

    The pain these fathers weathered, sirs,
    The freedoms you forsook,
    Is polished into pickets here
    And winters in their book.

    to be continued, check back for updates

    Publication status of American Ballads

    Copies of American Ballads are readily available on Amazon and reasonably priced at $10.99, even offered as Prime.  This Amazon page features a commentary by the wife of the poet, who felt that the book deserved further description. 

  • Ron W. G.’s Prose “A Nightmare Comes True”

    The barn my grandfather built

    A Nightmare Comes True

    This is my experience of a recurring nightmare that came true.

    In 1970 I was 16 years old. We lived in a small town in Southeastern Indiana, in a little neighborhood just across the river from town. Our house was on the main road, and we had horses in a barn and pen area on the other side of the neighborhood. To get to the barn, we walked along a path that led past our grandparents’ house. The path led from our driveway, all the way across the neighborhood to the back road.

    On the way to the barn, our grandparents’ house was to the right, up a small hill past a yard with lots of trees and beautiful landscaping with flowers and shrubs.

    Grandpa Plowing the Garden

    On the left side of the path was a huge flower garden with a grape arbor and many shrubs, small trees, and hundreds of flowers that bloomed in spring and summer.

    Our Grandparents Loved Animals

    When we were very little, our grandparents always had ponies and horses, and many other pets and animals. Grandpa used to take us for pony cart rides.

    Picture of grandpa and us on a pony cart ride

    Our grandparents had passed away years ago. From them, we inherited our love for animals.  We usually had a couple of ponies and horses, as well as several dogs. I loved horses and everything about them, so one of my chores was to feed the horses every morning before school. In the winter, that meant that I had to walk along the path across the neighborhood to the barn in the dark. That didn’t bother me at all. I carried a flashlight so I could see, but I wasn’t afraid of the dark. We knew everyone in the neighborhood, and I always felt completely safe there.

    The Nightmare

    One night I dreamed that when I went to the barn to feed the horses, there was a man in the barn. In the dream, as I was giving the horses hay, a man came up behind me. It scared me, and I usually woke up right away. I didn’t think too much about it at the time, but then I started having that dream every night. It started to scare me a lot, so I told my mom about the dreams. I told her that I was afraid to go over to the barn. 

    We had three German Shepherd dogs at the time, and Mom said, “Well, take the dogs with you.” So I started taking the dogs with me every morning. The dogs loved the early morning trek to the barn, and they were always eager to join me. Once I started taking the dogs with me, the dream stopped.

    A few weeks later, I started having the dream again. In one of the dreams, when the man in the barn came at me, I grabbed a pitchfork and stabbed him. That only happened in one of the dreams. In all the other dreams, I just saw a man in the barn, it scared me, and I woke up right away.

    After a few more nights of these dreams, I told mom that I was having that dream again and that I was afraid to go to the barn even though the dogs were with me. Mom said, “Take Randy with you.” Randy, my younger brother, was 14 years old at the time. He wasn’t obsessed with horses like I was, and he wasn’t exactly thrilled that he had to go out in the dark early morning cold, but he went along anyway. He loved the dogs, and he enjoyed seeing how excited they were to go on our morning excursions.

    The Dream Stops for Awhile

    After I started taking the dogs, and my brother with me to feed the horses, the dreams stopped, and all was good for a while.

    Then one night I had the dream again. I didn’t tell Mom or Randy that I had had the dream again. I didn’t know what else could be done, and since I had been having the dream on and off for several weeks and nothing bad had happened, I wasn’t too worried about it.

    That morning as we reached the barn, we noticed that the dogs were excitedly sniffing at the barn doors and running back and forth in front of the doors. I thought that they had probably just caught the scent of an animal, maybe a rabbit or something. I slid open the huge double barn doors, and the dogs immediately ran inside barking and growling. Inside the barn toward the back was the haystack.

    A man jumped up out of the hay and yelled as the dogs were at his feet. I couldn’t tell if the dogs bit him, but they were loudly barking and growling. Randy and I screamed and ran as fast as we could back to our house. The back door of our house faced the south side of the neighborhood and it was closest to the barn. The back door opened directly into the kitchen.

    My horse in back of the barn

    Randy and I ran in through the back door, and we both screamed, at the same time, “There’s a man in the barn!” In the kitchen were our Mom, our older brother Chuck, and our little sister Faye. At this point, I didn’t know if the dogs were still over at the barn, or if they had followed us back home. Our older brother, Chuck, grabbed a baseball bat and said, “Let’s go.” I remember being very impressed that Chuck was so brave.

    The dogs had come home, and they joined us as we returned to the barn. When we got to the barn, the man was gone. We could see where he had been sleeping in the hay, and where he had taken a leak on the floor. I fed the horses and we returned home. Mom said that she had called the sheriff, and he said that it was probably a bum just getting out of the cold. Then I felt sorry for the man. It must have been horrible to wake up with dogs attacking you.

    I Had Told My Family and Girlfriend About the Dreams

    I had told only my family and my girlfriend about those recurring dreams. My girlfriend lived just two houses down the road from our barn, and she loved horses as much as I did.

    After school that day, I was walking over to the barn as my girlfriend was walking up the road. When she got to the little hill which was on the back road just in front of the barn, I said, “There was a man in the barn this morning.” She said, “I just pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.”

    The Dream Stops for Good

    I never had that dream again, and after a while, I no longer had to make Randy go with me to feed the horses. I did keep taking the dogs though since they loved going with me, and I enjoyed their company.

    I will admit that even though I wasn’t afraid anymore, I think that I was more alert as to my surroundings after that. I often wonder what might have happened if I had not had those dreams and if I had not told my mom about them.

  • Stephen Vincent Benét’s “The Ballad of William Sycamore”

    Image:  Stephen Vincent Benét

    Stephen Vincent Benét’s “The Ballad of William Sycamore”

    Not strictly a cowboy poem, Benét’s ballad, however, offers the mind-set of an individual close to the land, preferring the rural life to the urban.

    Introduction and Text of “The Ballad of William Sycamore”

    Stephen Vincent Benét’s “The Ballad of William Sycamore” features 19 rimed, stanzas of traditional ballad form. The subject is the rustic life of William Sycamore, narrated by Sycamore himself from just before his birth to after his death.

    The Ballad of William Sycamore

    My father, he was a mountaineer,
    His fist was a knotty hammer;
    He was quick on his feet as a running deer,
    And he spoke with a Yankee stammer.

    My mother, she was merry and brave,
    And so she came to her labor,
    With a tall green fir for her doctor grave
    And a stream for her comforting neighbor.

    And some are wrapped in the linen fine,
    And some like a godling’s scion;
    But I was cradled on twigs of pine
    In the skin of a mountain lion.

    And some remember a white, starched lap
    And a ewer with silver handles;
    But I remember a coonskin cap
    And the smell of bayberry candles.

    The cabin logs, with the bark still rough,
    And my mother who laughed at trifles,
    And the tall, lank visitors, brown as snuff,
    With their long, straight squirrel-rifles.

    I can hear them dance, like a foggy song,
    Through the deepest one of my slumbers,
    The fiddle squeaking the boots along
    And my father calling the numbers.

    The quick feet shaking the puncheon-floor,
    And the fiddle squealing and squealing,
    Till the dried herbs rattled above the door
    And the dust went up to the ceiling.

    There are children lucky from dawn till dusk,
    But never a child so lucky!
    For I cut my teeth on “Money Musk”
    In the Bloody Ground of Kentucky!

    When I grew as tall as the Indian corn,
    My father had little to lend me,
    But he gave me his great, old powder-horn
    And his woodsman’s skill to befriend me.

    With a leather shirt to cover my back,
    And a redskin nose to unravel
    Each forest sign, I carried my pack
    As far as a scout could travel.

    Till I lost my boyhood and found my wife,
    A girl like a Salem clipper!
    A woman straight as a hunting-knife
    With eyes as bright as the Dipper!

    We cleared our camp where the buffalo feed,
    Unheard-of streams were our flagons;
    And I sowed my sons like the apple-seed
    On the trail of the Western wagons.

    They were right, tight boys, never sulky or slow,
    A fruitful, a goodly muster.
    The eldest died at the Alamo.
    The youngest fell with Custer.

    The letter that told it burned my hand.
    Yet we smiled and said, “So be it!”
    But I could not live when they fenced the land,
    For it broke my heart to see it.

    I saddled a red, unbroken colt
    And rode him into the day there;
    And he threw me down like a thunderbolt
    And rolled on me as I lay there.

    The hunter’s whistle hummed in my ear
    As the city-men tried to move me,
    And I died in my boots like a pioneer
    With the whole wide sky above me.

    Now I lie in the heart of the fat, black soil,
    Like the seed of the prairie-thistle;
    It has washed my bones with honey and oil
    And picked them clean as a whistle.

    And my youth returns, like the rains of Spring,
    And my sons, like the wild-geese flying;
    And I lie and hear the meadow-lark sing
    And have much content in my dying.

    Go play with the towns you have built of blocks,
    The towns where you would have bound me!
    I sleep in my earth like a tired fox,
    And my buffalo have found me.

    Reading: 

    Commentary on “The Ballad of William Sycamore”

    Speaking from two unlikely locales, William Sycamore narrates a fascinating tale of a fanciful life.

    First Movement: Rough and Tumble Parents

    The speaker describes his parents as scrappy, rough survivors. His mountaineer father had fists that resembled hammers; he ran as fast as a deer, and had a Yankee accent.  His mother was merry and brave and also quite a tough woman, giving birth to the narrator under a tall green fir with no one to help her but “a stream for her comforting neighbor.”

    While some folks can boast of clean linen fine to swaddle them, Sycamores cradle was a pile of pine twigs and he was wrapped in the skin of a mountain lion. Instead of “a starched lap / And a ewer with silver handles,” he recalls “a coonskin cap / And the smell of bayberry candles.”

    Thus, Sycamore has set the scene of his nativity as rustic and rural, no modern conveniences to spoil him. He idealizes those attributes as he sees them making him strong and capable of surviving in a dangerous world.

    Second Movement: Fun in the Cabin

    Sycamore describes the cabin in which he grew up by focusing on the fun he saw the adults have when they played music and danced. Their visitors were tall, lank, “brown as snuff,” and they brought their long, straight squirrel rifles with them.

    He focuses on the fiddle squealing and the dancing to a foggy song. The raucous partying was so intense that it rattled the herbs hanging over the door and caused a great cloud of dust to rise to the ceiling. He considers himself a lucky child to have experienced such, as well as being able to “cut [his] teeth on ‘Money Musk’ / In the Bloody Ground of Kentucky!”

    Third Movement:  Tall as Indian Corn

    The speaker reports that he grew as tall as the Indian corn, and while his father had little to offer him in things, his father did give him a woodsman skill, which he found helpful. With his homespun gear, a leather shirt on his back, he was able to navigate the woodlands like a profession scout.

    Fourth Movement: A Sturdy Wife

    Reaching adulthood, Sycamore married a sturdy woman, whom he describes as “straight as a hunting-knife / With eyes as bright as the Dipper!” The couple built their home where the buffalo feed, where the streams had no names. They raised sons who were “right, tight boys, never sulky or slow.” 

    The oldest son died at the Alamo, and the youngest died with Custer. While the letters delivering the news of their fallen sons “burned [his] hand,” the grieving parents stoically said, “so be it!” and push ahead with their lives.  What finally broke the speaker’s heart, however, was the fencing of his land, referring the government parceling land to individual owners.

    Fifth Movement:  Gutsy, Self-Reliance

    The speaker still shows his gutsy, self-reliance in his breaking of a colt that bucked him off and rolled over him.  After he recovered, however, he continues to hunt, and while the “city-men tried to move [him],” he refused to be influenced by any city ways. He died “in [his] boots like a pioneer /  With the whole wide sky above [him].”

    Sixth Movement:  Speaking from Beyond

    Speaking from beyond the grave somewhat like a Spoon River resident, only with more verve and no regret, William Sycamore describes his astral environment as a fairly heavenly place.

    He is young again, reminding him of spring rain that returns every year, and his sons are free souls reminding him of wild geese in flight.  He hears the meadow-lark, and he avers that he is very contented in his after-life state.

    Sycamore disdained the city, as most rustics do, so he uses his final stanza to get in one last dig: “Go play with the town you have built of blocks.” He then insists that he would never be bound by a town, but instead he sleeps “in my earth like a tired fox, / And my buffalo have found me.”  In his peaceful, afterlife existence, William Sycamore differs greatly from the typical Spoon River reporter.

    image: Stephen Vincent Benét – Commemorative Stamp 

    Brief Life Sketch of Stephen Vincent Benét

    The works of Stephen Vincent Benét (1898–1943) [1] have influenced many other writers.  Cowboy poet Joel Nelson claims that “The Ballad of William Sycamore” made him fall in love with poetry.  Dee Brown’s title Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee comes directly from the final line of Benét’s poem titled “American Names” [2].

    The book-length poem, John Brown’s Body, won him his first Pulitzer Prize in 1929 and remains the poet’s most famous work. Benét first published “The Ballad of William Sycamore” in the New Republic in 1922.    Benét’s literary talent extended to other forms, including short fiction and novels.  He also excelled in writing screenplays, librettos, an even radio broadcasts.

    Born July 22, 1898, in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania [3] Benét graduated from Yale University in 1919 where instead of a typical thesis, he substituted his third collection of poems.  His father was a military man who appreciated literary studies.  His brother William and his sister Laura both became writers as well.

    Benét’s first novel The Beginning of Wisdom was published in 1921, after which he relocated to France to study at the Sorbonne.  He married the writer Rosemary Carr, and they returned to the USA in 1923, where his writing career blossomed.

    The writer won the O. Henry Story Prize and a Roosevelt Medal, in addition to a second Pulitzer Prize, which was awarded posthumously in 1944 for Western Star.  Just a week before spring of 1943, Benét succumbed to a heart attack in New York City; he was four month shy of his 45th birthday.

    Sources

    [1]  Editors.  “Stephen Vincent Benét.”  Academy of American Poets. Accessed January 13, 2026.

    [2] Darla Sue Dollman.  “Buy My Heart at Wounded Knee and Stephen Vincent Benét.” Wild West History.  October 4, 2013.

    [3] Editors.  “Stephen Vincent Benét.”  Poetry Foundation.  Accessed January 13, 2026.

  • Original Short Fiction:  “Graveyard Whistler’s Fourth Flash Fiction Find” (4) 

    Image: “Whistling past the graveyard” – High Frontier 

    Original Short Fiction:  “Graveyard Whistler’s Fourth Flash Fiction Find” (4) 

    The Graveyard Whistler has become quite enthusiastic about “flash fiction,” offering his fourth installment of the little stories.  Stay tuned for a brief bio of “Belmonte Segwic” (aka “The Graveyard Whistler”) coming soon! 

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    Introduction by the Graveyard Whistler 

    Graveyard Whistler at it, again! I continue to find pieces of literature that just blow my mind, so I feel compelled  to share them.  Thus, I am continuing with this series of little narrations that have come to be known as “flash fiction.”  

    There are several online sites that offer this genre of literature, but most have upward of a 500 words or more.  These little gems that I found seldom break 50, including the title!  They exemplify an amazing feat and thus continue to fascinate me!  I think I am in love! 

    And now I am considering a new label for this very, very short narrative.  “Flash fiction” does not seem to fit.  I’ll get back to you on that.  Maybe I could run a contest to get help me rename this genre.  Maybe!  Maybe!  Maybe! 

    A Bit of Background 

    The following set of five that I offer here are reconstituted narratives based on a set I found on a site that no longer exists, “Stone Gulch Literary Arts,” also known as “Stone Gulch Literary Home,” whose owner has given me permission to use the literary offerings he had place on the site.  He lost his interest in literature and will likely become an attorney once he finishes law school and passes the bar exam. 

    Interestingly, “Stoney,” my nickname for him because he refuses to reveal his identity, sports a PhD in American Literature and serves as a full professor in the English department at a midwestern state university. He has given me permission to anything I want with his abandoned works.  

    And I might add, for my purposes, that lit site offers a treasure chest of goodies—from the flash fiction to highly sensual poems to short stories full of dark and dreary twists and turns to airy mystical stuff.  It even delves into some political treatises analysis that is quite fascinating even insightful. 

    Five Flash Fiction Pieces 

    So, I am continuing to share the flash fiction pieces. Here are the new five. Each story contains only five sentences. But each boasts an opening, a conflict, and a conclusion—a feat which I am finding fascinating! 

    Getting Forgetful 

    The unsigned  card arrived two days after Edna’s birthday.  The card was beautiful and very personal.  But it gave no clue as to who had posted it. Edna asked relatives and friends about the card.  Six weeks later, Edna’s mother remembered sending the card. 

    A Country Picnic

    I’ll bring the tea, and Sue can bring the cake. Where should we have our picnic this year? Same as last year, at Eddie’s Country Hide-a-Way. But Eddie sold that home. Yeah, I know; I bought it but kept the name! 

    Poems with Chunks of Ice

    Winton wanted so much to become a famous poet.  At college she became friends with Ashton and Flannory. Flannory became jealous that Ashton liked Winton’s poems. Winton had no interest in Ashton, Flannory, or their poems.  After graduation, Flannory left Ashton for a novelist. 

    Raising the Pane

    Lucette did not understand English well. She hired Johann to help her with her English lessons. Johann asked Lucette for a raise to keep tutoring her. Lucette put up the window. Johann jumped out and never returned. 

    Of Course, You Don’t Know Me

    Candy brought six pies to the reunion banquet at Chicago Town High School. Jackson brought his fiddle and played it for the dancing. Astrid danced and ate pie and conversed with everyone.  Martha finally admitted she did not know Astrid. Astrid finally admitted she had crashed the reunion and had actually graduated from a school in Toledo. 

    A Final Statement from the Graveyard Whistler 

    This installment features five of these flash fiction pieces. I’ll continue to add more later. But I’ll probably explore into other genres before I continue with these. 

    I am procrastinating hugely in writing my dissertation because at this point I am not finding as much information as I had anticipated on the topic of irony.  I am considering changing my focus to a simple ideas of “variety” in the literary world because I am finding that literature, both ancient and modern contemporary, does offer such a wide array of different topics, genres, issues, attitudes, and styles. I could likely revamp a whole new glossary of literary devices if I put my mind to it, and I might just have to do that! 

    My advisor is somewhat dismayed at my dilly-dallying but hey, it’s my life—not hers! 

    Later, Gator!

    Literarily yours,
    Belmonte Segwic
    aka Graveyard Whistler

    🕉

    You are welcome to join me on the following social media:
    TruthSocial, Locals, Gettr, X, Bluesky, Facebook, Pinterest 

    🕉

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  • Graveyard Whistler: A Political Poem Find,”Liberal Mud with Commentary”

    Image:  High Frontier

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    Graveyard Whistler: A Political Poem Find,”Liberal Mud with Commentary”

    Graveyard Whistler unearths a piece of doggerel that nevertheless caught his fancy, as it presented, in his opinion, a much needed corrective to the misuse of a beloved term.

    Foreword from the Graveyard Whistler

    Let me make it clear right away: I despise politics.  National politics, hate it.  Local politics, hate it.  Office politics, hate it the worst.  So I rarely delve into issues that might lead me to the necessity of discussing politics.  However, as I have so often touted the treasure trove from my old, late buddy Stoney’s Stone Gulch Literary Arts, I feel the need to address some political issues that Stoney addressed.

    At first, my inclination was to simply avoid all of his political scribblings, but then after I actually read this offering, I realized I had actually learned something, which has changed my view about political issues.  You will notice that it’s not just a poem—actually, it’s a piece of doggerel, as Stoney called it—but it has a commentary that is well researched with sources.  I’m still not allowing myself to become immersed in those issues, but I don’t feel that avoiding them completely does me or anyone else any good.

    You see, I’ve always considered myself “liberal”—that is opposed to stuffy conservative thought that disavows all progress, including science and minority rights—and until encountering this piece called “Liberal Mud,” I did not realize the difference between “classical liberal” and “modern liberal.”  To me, liberal was liberal which was a good thing, always. Full stop.

    As usual, Stoney has not made it clear that he wrote this piece; it just kind of popped up at the bottom of a clipping of Stoney delivering a speech to a college assembly.  How I would love to include that image of Stoney speaking—but alas! when he gifted me with his site-full of writings, he insisted he remain anonymous, so any image or even Stoney’s real name will never appear in my writings.

    Without further ado, I present the piece of doggerel—and that’s what Stoney called it—for what it’s worth:

    “Liberal Mud with Commentary”

    This piece of doggerel titled, “Liberal Mud,” is brazenly political; it focuses on the nature of the much abused term, “liberalism,” which denotes freedom from the overreach of governmental restraints.  

    The term, “liberal,” has been much abused. For example, in contemporary American politics, the party that claims the label of liberal is the party whose policies are formulated to control every aspect of life of the citizens of the United States from healthcare to business practices to what each American is allowed to think. That party even seeks to quash freedom of religion, which was a major impetus leading to the founding the country.

    Under the guise of “liberalism,” that party claims large swaths of the citizenry who have fallen for the corrupt concept of “identity politics.” For example, the party claims huge numbers of African Americans, women, gays, and young voters. The party appeals to many of the uninformed/misinformed in those “groups” simply by offering them government largesse and claiming to represent their interests. 

    A common misconception is that the Democratic and Republican parties switched policies a few decades ago. That lie has been perpetuated by Democrat vote seekers because history reveals that the Republican Party has always been the party of freedom; it was, in fact, President Abraham Lincoln, the first Republican president, who issued the Emancipation Proclamation that freed the slaves during the American Civil War.

    As Rev. Wayne Perryman has averred: “Many believed the Democrats had a change of heart and fell in love with blacks. To the contrary, history reveals the Democrats didn’t fall in love with black folks, they fell in love with the black vote knowing this would be their ticket to the White House.” As they have experienced the result of luring the votes of black folks, Democrat politicians have worked the same old lie to get the votes of the other identity groups: women, gays, young voters.

    Originally, the term, “liberal,” indicated the positive quality of allowing freedom from government overreach, and generally those who wish to unleash themselves from harsh constraints on behavior that harms no one are, in fact, liberal. The American Founding Fathers were the liberals of that period of history. Those colonists who wished to remain tied to England, instead of seeking independence, were the conservatives.  In current, common parlance, there is a distinction between “classical liberal” and “modern liberal.”

    Whether an ideology is liberal or conservative depends entirely upon the status quo of the era. If a nation’s government status quo functions as a socialist/totalitarian structure and a group of citizens works to convert it to a republic, then that group would be the liberals, as was the case at the founding of the democratic republic of the United States of America. However, if a country’s governing status quo structure functions as a democratic republic, and a group of citizens struggles to change it into a socialist/totalitarian structure — a la Bernie Sanders, Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, or any other current member of the Democratic Party — then that group would be the liberals, however, mistakenly that term would be when applied to such a stance.

    Conservatism is the desire to maintain the status quo despite the nature of that status quo, but then again it is necessary to delineate what that status quo is. If the status quo allows freedom, then it should be conserved; if it does not, it should be liberalized. It is unfortunate that those terms have become so flabby, but then that is the nature of political speak: the side that has the lesser argument will always seek to convert language, instead of converting their feckless policies.

    This piece hails forth in the current acceptance of a liberalism that is anything but liberal:  modern liberalism vs classical liberalism. The piece (doggerel) might well be titled “Totalitarian Mud.” But part of the point is to report the denatured use of the term, “liberal,” as it decries the effects of that denatured term.

    Liberal Mud

    Every soldier takes to battle
    His duty for survival
    Marching against the rival.

    The enemy muscles the air
    Against all that is fair
    Against putrid politics.

    Liberal dust smothering light,
    Converts gloom against the fight
    To save freedom from the sand.

    Liberal breath pollutes the way
    Through politics that betray
    Their fellows natural rights.

    Liberal thieves convert the vote
    To steal the sacred note
    As enemies rise from hell.

    Licking their wounds, their paws,
    Leaving the press no answer
    Save all the fake men of straws.

    No hypocrite gives more haste
    Than a mind without a compass.
    It remains a terrible waste

    To slime the brain’s red blood
    In the bog pond of liberal mud.

    Commentary on “Liberal Mud”

    The fight for freedom never ends.  True liberal thought that leads to fairness must continually be pursued to avoid its opposite, tyranny.

    First Tercet:  Fight for Freedom

    Every soldier takes to battle
    His duty for survival
    Marching against the rival.

    These particular soldiers represent the fight for what is right, correct, that which gives the most freedom to the most people.  Modern-day liberals would take away these soldiers, the fight, and the freedom and replace them with goose-stepping thugs who would enforce totalitarian rule.  One need only observe examples of the Democratic party  such as the Clintons, and how they mistreated the military to understand the verity of this observation. 

    Lt. Col. Robert Patterson reports in his book, Dereliction of Duty: Eyewitness Account of How Bill Clinton Compromised America’s National Security, that Clinton’s kick-the-can attitude toward taking out Al-Qaeda and Saddam Hussein’s nuclear facility convinced Patterson that Clinton was the “greatest security risk to the United States.”  

    In Ronald Kessler’s book, The First Family Detail: Secret Service Agents Reveal the Hidden Lives of the Presidents, Kessler recounts how a simple greeting of “Good Morning, ma’am” to the First Lady Hillary Clinton would provoke a reply of “F*ck off!” from that future failed Democratic presidential hopeful.

    The Obama White House managed to behave no better toward the men and women in uniform, as President Obama continued to downsize both the troop strength and the pay and pension of each troop.

    Second Tercet:   Vanity Leads to Loss

    The enemy muscles the air
    Against all that is fair
    Against putrid politics.

    The great example of this claim is the winning of the War in Iraq by President George W. Bush, only to be squandered and lost under the vain, tepid, backward responses of President Barack H. Obama.

    Thomas Sowell has summarized the situation accurately stating:

    Despite the mistakes that were made in Iraq, it was still a viable country until Barack Obama made the headstrong decision to pull out all the troops, ignoring his own military advisers, just so he could claim to have restored “peace,” when in fact he invited chaos and defeat.

    Third Tercet:   The Glass Eye of Dictatorship

    Liberal dust smothering light,
    Converts gloom against the fight
    To save freedom from the sand.

    The dust of liberal thinking covers all the furniture of a republic.  Gouging out the eyeballs of freedom, replacing them with the glass eye of dictatorship.  Suspending industry, encouraging the sex-crazed lazy to spend tax dollars on abortifacients.

    Fourth Tercet:   Lies, Deception, Obfuscation

    Liberal breath pollutes the way
    Through politics that betray
    Their fellows natural rights.

    But somehow the putrid politics of the Democratic Party breathe on, polluting the environment with lies, deceptions, obfuscations that kill and maim as society turns violent in the wake of lawlessness.

    Observe Democratic Baltimore Mayor Stephanie Rawlings-Blake offering looters “space to destroy” by commanding law enforcement to stand down. Of course, after making such a ludicrous remark, she then lies and says she didn’t say that.

    Fifth Tercet:  Leading from Behind Is not Leading 

    Liberal thieves convert the vote
    To steal the sacred note
    As enemies rise from hell.

    The Obamaniacs’ “lead from behind”— the likes of fake purple heart winner turned Secretary of State John Kerry accepts a deal with a terror sponsoring nation that will lead to the obliteration of a neighboring democracy and encourage other dictatorships to go nuclear.

    Sixth Tercet:  The Birth of Fake News

    Licking their wounds, their paws,
    Leaving the press no answer
    Save each fake man of straws.

    Everyone suffers the abominations, and the corrupt liberal press continues to fail to hold to account those who are steering their country into a poverty stricken mess, too weak to defend itself, too dependent on government to know how to earn its own living.

    Seventh Tercet:  Mindless, Rudderless, Moral Mess

    No hypocrite gives more haste
    Than a mind without a compass.
    It remains a terrible waste

    The moral compass of the country has been hacked into a pile of unworkable fragments.

    Final Couplet:  Lack of Moral Clarity

    To slime the brain’s red bloodIn the bog pond of liberal mud.

    The final two movements echo the adage: “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.” And the minds of so many young folks have been wasted in the dumpster of fake “liberal” ideology.

    Applying the Lessons of History

    Poetry and politics are uneasy bedfellows.  They struggle to fall asleep, often simply through mistrust, but often because the nature of beauty remains deeply personal, and politics, by its nature, must look outward.

    Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, depending upon how one looks at it, all that can be done about “politics” — identity and otherwise — is to continue to debate the merits of each policy that presents itself.  One would also continue to hope that those debaters know their history and have some skill in applying the lessons of that history as they analyze and scrutinize each policy.

    Sources

    Afterword from Graveyard Whistler

    I know this entry must have seemed like a bunch of mud to slog through, and I promise I will not be engaging in this kind of rhetoric very often—I’m not swearing off entirely because Stoney does have a few other pieces that I think might help light up the political landscape.

    Anyway, I do hope you can find some benefit from following such a piece.  Stoney has an interesting mind, an expansive mind, so I feel it would not be fair to him if I just leave out whole swaths of his views.  Plus his writing ability remains unique in the annals of the world of literary studies.  While I do believe that poetry and politics make strange if not impossible bedfellows, sometimes it is necessary to give both their due.

    Until next time, I remain

    Literarily yours,
    Belmonte Segwic
    aka Graveyard Whistler

  • Graveyard Whistler Presents Verönique Flüres’ “A Tale of Political Intrigue”

    Image:  Donkeyspeak – Cartoonstock

    Graveyard Whistler Presents Verönique Flüres’ “A Tale of Political Intrigue”

    Fiction Alert!  For entertainment, not information!

    Belmonte Segwic is a fictional character, created to explore the world of literary studies. Publishing under his nom de plume, Graveyard Whistler, he invents characters, events, and places—all fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or deceased, to actual events, or to real geographic locations is unintentional.

    Graveyard Whistler posts primarily what he discovers in his literary studies research.  But a politico, Verönique Flüres, sent him this piece, saying she thought it important to get this information out because she knows all the pertinent facts.  She changed names and dates to mask the guilty.

    A Pre-Foreword from Graveyard Whistler

    As my regular readers know, I plant most of my writings on my personal website, and I have gained a rather dedicated following.  However, one of my readers suggested that I might try posting articles on a site called Fulcrum Letters.

    The Fulcrum Letters outfit claims to be for writers and purports to feature only the best pieces of work in any field of endeavor and to pay writers for their efforts.  The reader/follower suggested that I might make a few extra dollars on my more worthy pieces.  I was skeptical but I thought I’d give it try.

    I discovered that the editors of the site have an obvious, political bias.  But more important was the discovery that they cannot distinguish between fiction vs non-fiction and literary vs expository writings.  

    Here’s how I know:  every article that I submitted that contained any negative view or refutation of their political bias garnered a red-flag, meaning they would keep the article up (because it receives lots of traffic and ad clicks), but they red-flagged them and admonished me to reconsider the “tone” and revise to a more “acceptable state of standard logic.”

    And that happened not only on expository pieces that did have an obvious political view, but even with literary fiction (even satire)—pieces that might have a character whose dialog identified him as leaning toward one end of the political spectrum.  

    In the “Conversations Area” of the site, I asked other writers if they had experienced such treatment, and many responded with the same complaint that I have, and some even stated that they actually had articles censored—poof, deleted from the site—even satire, that argued against or presented ideas against the bias of the FL editors.

    Of course, not all literary pieces are of equal value, but writers know their own works and when they see that their pieces are being unfairly criticized or censored, they know they are the victims of unfair bias.  

    I finally decided to remove all of my articles from Fulcrum Letters—close to 600 of them in all—and leave those biased editors to go after whatever it is they were chasing.  On the one hand, I feel guilty for allowing myself to engage in self-censorship, but on the other hand, I could not in good conscience allow my work to be used by those editors for their own financial gain, as I received just a pittance for my work. 

    Censorship is a travesty in a supposedly free country; unfree countries themselves are travesties.  But when we run up against any organization that engages in political bias and censorship, we must stand and push back against it.  

    Actually, political bias in and of itself is not the problem.  The problem is when editors allow their bias to unfairly criticize, denigrate, and censor their opposition.  We need to hear all sides of issues, and if we can’t, we don’t have enough information to make good choices.

    The piece I offer here—Verönique Flüres’  “A Tale of Political Intrigue”—is an example of that bad “tone” and “substandard logic” that the editors of Fulcrum Letters found unsavory.  After wiping it form FL, I revised it and am now placing it here on my personal site. Verönique Flüres wanted her message to get out, and I’m honoring her wishes.  

    Luckily, I don’t have to self-censor on my own site!  Have a happy!  And enjoy!  

    Foreword by Graveyard Whistler: On Verönique Flüres

    Customarily, I post things here only that I have encountered in my literary research.  But this gem came to me from a source, who says she just wanted to get this story out because she knows the true facts of the situations.  Still, she claims she has changed the names of people and places to protect the guilty.

    Her name is Verönique Flüres; she is a citizen of Lichtenbourg but has worked for three decades in Washingtown, Metropolis District, and traveled overseas often between that locale and Mukabull, Krimelin-in-Russha, and she may be the only person in the world who actually knows personally all of the people involved with those two political items in question:  the dossier and the laptop.

    The “Tin-Pot Dossier”—aka the “Tambor-KiR Conspiracy Report”—and the “Numrod Frake, Jr., Laptop”—aka the “Computer from Hell-Hole”—will likely remain two of the most controversial items to grace—or disgrace, as it were—the political scene:  one is authentic, the other could not be more inauthentic.

    So I turn the floor over to Verönique Flüres:

    The Dutiful Dossier

    In July 20–, after business tycoon Reynaldo Manuel Tambor, declared his intention to run for the office of President of the Principalities (POP), the world-famous Britnish scholar and humanitarian, Professor K. S. Timmpott, began an in-depth research project to determine the eligibility and desirability of the noted businessman and former silver screen celebrity to hold that high office.

    Timmpott found himself embroiled in an undertaking of a lifetime, and he was thrilled to find that high ranking Principalities politicians, including  former Underwriter of the Commonweal, Murftry Brainfree, and her political allies in the Demon-Run-in Party (DRiP) were eager to not only verbally encourage Timmpott’s project but more than willing to support financially that important research.

    Important Findings

    In record time with the assistance of lucrative financial arrangements from the Brainfree Conglomeration and the DRiP, which allowed the hiring of an army of research assistants, Timmpott was able to finish his project, which culminated in the famous Timmpott Dossier, aka Tin-Pot Dossier. 

    The final report appeared by January 20–, just in time to begin throwing monkey wrenches into the machine known of the Tambor Presidential Campaign.

    The dossier was released and the upstream media organizations then began the vetting process, and again in record time were able to corroborate the findings that Professor Timmpott’s work had produced. Key findings include the following:

    1. A high level cohort of Tambor campaign workers, including the Tambor family and Tambor himself, were exposed as agents of the Krimelin-in-Russha (KiR).  Tambor was revealed as a puppet of Vladivostok Kagebee, strong man and dictator extraordinaire of KiR.
    2. During federal police raids on the Tambor campaign headquarters in every major city of the Principalities, the top spy agency retrieved a treasure trove of names, dates, and strategies coordinated by the Tambor campaign and Krimelin-in-Russha (KiR) agents.  Many phone and texts message between Tambor and Kagebee were seized.  
    3. Records were found involving emails, text messages, photos, bank accounts, and many lists of KiR requests for Tambor once he was installed in the Ovalish Office, for example, one of the most damning requests directly from Vladivostok Kagebee, was that a newly elected POP Tambor was to hobble the progress of the weakened but struggling government of YiTrane, a neighboring country to KiR.  
    4. Tambor’s main messenger, coordinating many of the meetings and communiques between Tambor and Kagebee, was Karen Suss-Wage, a high level operative who traveled to KiR over 30 times between July 20– and January 20–.  It is expected that Suss-Wage will be one of the first Tambor campaign operatives to be tried for treason after Tambor’s presidential term has ended.
    5. Not only did the Tambor campaign collude with KiR to win the 20– election, it also sought to say mean things about Murftry Brainfree.  For example, it was revealed that Kagebee had suggested that Tambor continually refer to Murftry Brainfree as “Mad Money Murftry,” which the presidential contender then did at every one of his campaign rallies.

    Conclusion

    Despite the findings of Professor Timmpott’s thoroughly vetted and widely reported dossier, Reynaldo Manuel Tambor did succeed to the presidency because of the many acts of collusion with KiR.  Evidence has even been discovered that three out of five voting machines during the 20– election process had been hacked and votes changed by KiR computer specialists.

    While many citizens of the Principalities have remained nearly oblivious to most of the credible information offered by Professor Timmpott’s dossier as the upstream media has continued to protect and cover for Tambor, their favored candidate.

    That protection and cover remains even now moving into the next election season, sources say that after Tambor’s term is over, he and the Tambor family will all be arrested and will face charges of treason, along with all of the other campaign operatives including Karen Suss-Wage.  

    Tamborian opponents in the government are waging a campaign to re-instate public hanging as punishment for treason.  Very likely the entire Tambor family and all government officials, including High Court picks, will hang in the public square—likely in the courtyard of the Emancipator Memorial.  Tickets to view the hanging will be sold on eBay, and sources say they expect to sell enough tickets to pay off the entire national debt.

    The Lurking Laptop

    In April 20–, Numrod Frake, Jr., brilliant, accomplished son of the beloved former vice-president, Numrod Frake, Sr.,—who humbly declared that Junior Frake is the “smartest dude he ever had the acquaintance to”—took a laptop computer that his father had given him for Christmas to a LapTop Computer Repair Shop in — (city retracted to protect residents), to find out why the computer was running so slow.  

    The LapTopRepairman, Jeff Johnus, saw immediately that the LapBook had too many files on the desktop, an operation notorious for slowing down computers. The LapTopRepairman noticed some of the filenames and became suspicious:  things like “Pops and the YiTrane Prosecutor,” “Pops or the ‘big lug’ as I lovingly call him,” “Uncle Jock and the Ching-Chang Comm-Brunch date,” and “list of big bucks for each of us Frakes—Yay!”

    Suspicious Repairman and the Malignant Mayor

    The suspicious LapTopRepairman hatched a plan to get into those files.  He’d heard on the conspiracy dabbling WOLFPACKnews Network that the Frakes had been pulling some shady deals in foreign countries to haul in big bucks by offering to those countries the influence of the big Frake name. 

    He also knew that the current president was finally being held accountable by being impeached for his quid-pro dealings with YiTrane.  So to get Junior Frake to leave his laptop, the LapTopRepairman told the brilliant but unsuspecting lad that he would have to keep the computer overnight so he could send for parts to help repair the slow-running machine.

    So Junior Frake leaves the laptop.   But then when he did not return the next day to retrieve it, the LapTopRepairman let the computer sit on his shelf for the 75 days required for considering the computer abandoned. After the 90 days, he tried to contact Junior Frake but was unable to locate him. 

    Waiting another week, he then tried to contact Junior one more time but again was unable to contact the very busy world traveling entrepreneur-now-turned Picasso-esque artist.  Then Jeff Johnus made several copies of the computer’s hard drive.

    Jeff Johnus, the LapTopRepairman, then decided to give the hard drive to a man named Cosmo Karakus, who had been the mayor of a large city, running that city into the ground—literally in that on one fine day in September some people managed to do something that exploded and brought down several of the tallest buildings in that city, killing over a million citizens and maiming many millions more for life.  

    So the disgraced mayor fiddled with emails, made them look like poor Numrod Frake, Jr., and his beloved father and world-class statesman, Numrod Frake, Sr., had done something mean.

    Conclusion

    The morally bankrupt mayor then peddled a concocted story to several smut magazines and waited for the stuff to hit the fan.  Of course, the stuff never did hit the fan because all of the legitimate news outlets were able to see that the stuff was just that—stuff, or more specifically “Krimelin-in-Russha disfornication.”  

    Thus, the country was finally made aware that Vladivostok Kagebee was still in charge of their country and likely would be until the country could safely elect Junior Frake’s beloved father as president—or perhaps evict the scoundrel Tambor, perhaps even installing the rightful heir to the Ovalish Office, the long-suffering Murtry Brainfree, who has sacrificed so much for her country.  

    The shame of all shames is that had Ms. Murftry Brainfree been elected and secured the Ovalish Office, none of the preceding would have even occurred.

    Well, that’s what I know for now.  I’ll report more as it comes in.

    Afterword by Graveyard Whistler

    Pretty bizarre story, but Verönique said she was glad to get it out there so folks can do with it what they will.  I’m glad I could be a platform on which she could offer her insights.  History is brimming with such subterfuge, and I am always glad that my concentration area is literature instead of hard history.  Too much politics for my blood!

    Literarily yours,
    Graveyard Whistler,
    aka Belmonte Segwic

    🕉

    Some good whistlin’ goin’ on!! Enjoy!

  • Graveyard Whistler on “The Lucy Light Letters”

    Image:  “Letters”   Photo by Ron Grimes

    Literary letters have always been a marvelous find in literature.  Graveyard Whistler found this series of letters and although they do not address his main interest in irony, they do offer an interesting take on some of life’s most intriguing conflicts.

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    Graveyard Whistler’s Introduction to “The Lucy Light Letters”

    As my faithful readers know by now, I am pursuing a PhD in literary history with a concentration on “irony.”  The thing is I am finding such marvelous gems that do not actually address the issue of irony but which are just so fascinating I can’t let them drop without exposing their emotional plights to light.

    This series of letters offers a delightful exchange between a professor and former student.  They are obviously very much in love but have much baggage that prevents their ability to requite that love, that is, until certain unpleasant facts of life are overcome. 

    I apologize ahead of time for not being able to offer a completely satisfying ending to this story.  I know my readers will be left with questions:  did LJ succeed in persuading JL to relocate to SoCal.?  does their love ever become physical?  do they resume writing that corroborative collection that seems to have started this whole thing?  and simply, do they live happily ever after?

    I know I would like answers to those questions, and I will certainly keep looking for them.  But for now, please enjoy the exchange.  Their writing includes some clever and quirky turns of phrase.  They both were definitely lovers of literary language, and they definitely loved each other with a rare love and affection that many of us only dream about finding on this fuzzy-mudded planet.

    Letter #1

    April 19, 19—
    Encinitas  CA

    Dear Jefferton,

    It’s still difficult to call you that, even though I know it would be ridiculous to call you Professor Lawrence, considering our past relationship.  I know you must be surprised getting a letter from me now; maybe you are shocked or annoyed, and are not even bothering to read this, so maybe I am writing in vain, but I will continue in the faith that you do still have at least a spark of interest in me and my life.  

    I owe you a huge apology for just vanishing the way I did, without one word of explanation or even good-bye.  I hope you will accept it and know that I am truly sorry.  I don’t really understand myself that well even now, but at the time of our relationship, I was thoroughly confused.  That confusion—or my desire to try to work it out—is part of the reason I am writing you now.  But there are other parts.  I hope I will be clear; I’m not even sure I can be.  

    Before I get into that, I wanted to tell you that when I saw your book on our library’s new arrival shelf, I was tempted to check it out, but then I rushed over to the bookstore and ordered my own copy.  You can be sure I will read it carefully and cover to cover as soon as it arrives.

    Well, there are some things I have to say, and I might as well jump right into them.  At the time we were working on that collection of poems, I was in a constant state of turmoil.  I had written what I considered some of my best poems for the collection, but I feared they were too revealing, I mean, I feared they showed too clearly how I felt about you, and our growing closeness.  I feared that if anyone we knew (your wife for example, and my parents and brothers) saw those poems, and saw that we, a professor and student, had authored them, they would make assumptions about the nature of our relationship.  I could not face that.  And I did not have the courage to tell you about my fears.  You had such confidence in me, and you thought I was so bright and sophisticated for a twenty-year-old, but I didn’t feel that way, and it scared me and upset me to have you find out.  I just couldn’t let you know how weak and insecure I felt, so I transferred to Miami to finish my BA in English.

    Living at home was hell, but I’ll tell you about that later, if you are still speaking to me or listening and you still care.  

    I had thought I’d tell you everything I had been doing and thinking lately in this one letter, but I see that it is getting too long.  And I really should not be so presumptuous as to assume you are still interested.  Instead, I will just come right out and ask you: Are you still interested in hearing from me?  Do you think we can be friends?  I have never forgotten you for a minute.  I really do love you, and I have missed our talks. 

    You were always so insightful; I look back now, and realize that I surely could have trusted you with my insecurities back then, but I just didn’t know it then.  I am learning, but I am still full of confusion.

    I hope you will let me know if it’s all right to write you more.  Please let me know soon.

    Your “Lucy Light” (I hope still)
    Lucinda Janson

    Letter #2

    21 May 19—
    Muncie, Indiana

    My Dear Lucy Light,

    I was delighted to get your letter.  I have wondered about how you are doing and where you are.  I have wondered if I had been the cause of your sudden disappearance and from your letter I gather I must bear some guilt in that regard.  I should have realized that you were too young and inexperienced to become equal partners in that endeavor of authorship.  But I will never take back what I said about your intelligence; you are still the brightest and most perceptive student ever to sit for my class in Mod Brit Poetry.  You are also one of the most creative.  I had occasion to teach a creative writing section last fall; as you know, I hated every minute of it, but at least now I know why I hate it so much.  Because I totally agree with Auden that artists who take academic positions should do academic work.  If I had my way, all creative writing courses would summarily be banished from the university.  I have gotten upon my soapbox, and now I shall descend again to finish my lecturing to you alone.

    Dear, dear girl—as you have apologized to me, let me say that if you truly think you owe one, then I accept it.  But let me apologize to you in return.  I am so sorry for what you have been through.  I am more than willing to do anything that you feel will help you; I am more than willing to accept you back into my friendship, and may I say this, without pressure, if you feel you would like to resume collaboration on that collection, I would be happy to do it.  I put the project away and have not had the heart to pick it up again, since my Lucy Light was extinguished.

    I am so glad you are going to read my book; it’s just one of those critical pieces that takes up much more time to write than it is worth.  But it did me favors when it came time to apply for promotion, which I did and won full professorship; now I have occupied the Glossmere Distinguished Chair in Rhetoric and Writing for the past five years.  Unfortunately, my share of committee work has not lightened, but I do intend to take steps to reduce all outside distractions, so I can concentrate on my own poetry.  I have published maybe five poems in the past two years, and I feel that is a disgrace, but as I said, I do plan to remedy that.

    So Lucy, as you may have gathered thus far, I will be watching my mailbox with a greedy eye for your letter.  Your place in my mind and heart has not been filled by another nor erased by time.  Come back into my life, and let’s make life brighter and fuller for both of us.

    I too have much news for you, but I wait for yours first.  I wait and watch.

    Yours for the works,
    JL

    Letter #3

    May 30, 19—
    Encinitas CA

    Oh my dear Distinguished Professor,

    You have made me so happy for accepting my foolishness and forgiving it.  Now I feel relieved and confident that I can tell you my reasons for contacting you.

    Do you remember Nathan Glass?  He was a student in the Mod Brit Poetry the same semester I was.  And maybe you remember that he and I were dating off and on, while you and I were working on that collection.  Just before I transferred to Miami, Nathan asked me to marry him.  I told him I couldn’t marry him because I was in love with someone else.  And he pressured me to tell him who it was, but I never did tell him.  

    Without my knowing it, he was watching me; he contacted me at Miami, and insisted I see him, and when I did, he told me he knew that you and I were having an affair.  I denied it, of course, but he said he had pictures of us.  Well, I laughed in his face because I knew that was impossible, but he showed me pictures that looked exactly like us entering the Bevon Motel.  He said it didn’t matter if they were real, because they looked so real, real enough to get you fired and divorced.  Anyway, he insisted I marry him or he would show those pictures to your wife and department head.  So that’s what I did, I married him.  I hated him; I feel so guilty now, but I hated every minute of being married to him.  Every time he touched me, I wished he were dead.  He raped me; he never ever made love to me; he raped me, and he’d call me whore, slut, bitch, in love with that prig of professor, here bitch take this.  That’s what he’d say.  He would never leave bruises on me, and he bragged that I would never have any proof that he continued to rape me and curse me.

    That went on for three years.  I was working on my masters at the University of San Diego, and he was an assistant professor in history.  At the beginning of last year, his department head gave a party for the new members of the department.  It was some kind of record; they hired something like five new members, and they had many more new TAs than usual, so they wanted to celebrate.  The department head held the party on his boat, and everyone got real boozed up.  Nathan usually never drank, except for beer, and he had told me he was allergic to vodka; this is why I feel so guilty.  The bartender set out on a tray three glasses of drinks, two had gin in them, and one had vodka;  I picked up the one with vodka and took it to Nathan, and I said, “Here’s your gin.”  He was talking to one of his colleagues and didn’t pay any attention and just drank it.  About a half hour later, there was a big commotion and people looking over the side of the boat.  And a couple of TAs jumped in.  I rushed over to see what it was, and it was Nathan in the water.  A female TA said he tried to unhook her bra, and she slapped his face, then he told her to watch, he could walk along the edge of the boat like a tight rope, but he couldn’t, and he fell in.  They pulled him out, and he was dead. 

    Oh, Jefferton, I hate myself for these next words, but I can’t help them:  I was so relieved, so happy.  I cried and cried for days; of course, everyone thought I was crying in mourning for my dead husband, but I was crying in relief for myself.

    Of course, I don’t miss him and I’m still glad he’s out of my life, but I also know that I never wished he was dead.  I just wished he were a decent human being.  But the guilt is eating me up.  Jefferton, help me, if you can.  I have no friends here yet.  I am teaching two classes of composition at MiraCosta College in Oceanside, and I also work as a waitress in a natural foods restaurant.  They think I will eventually get hired full time in both jobs.  But for now, all I have is two jobs, and I need a friend with some advice. 

    LJ

    Letter #4

    1 September 19—
    Indianapolis  IN 

    Dear Lucy,

    I must apologize for not answering your last letter sooner.  After I recovered somewhat from the shock of your plight, I discovered that Marie has been having an affair with—well, never mind with whom—but the horrific scene that played itself out at our home on the third of July this year has left me a shambles.  I don’t want to go into the details of that yet though, because I know I must attend to your request.  Let me just add that Marie and I have finally decided to end our thirty year marriage; you must have noticed my address change.  I can no longer live in the town where I was born, the town where I fell in love, the town where I grew to manhood—leaving only to pursue my graduate degrees, and then returning to the town I had taken to my heart for what I thought was a lifetime.  No, the very trees here mock me that my Marie would deceive me so, and so I have moved to Indianapolis and become a commuter to my beloved Ball State to finish out my days as Professor of Rhetoric and Writing.  I cannot leave my undergraduate alma mater, the university that took me to its bosom to allow me to blossom in my career as professor of English and now Distinguished Professor of Rhetoric and Writing.  No, I shall live those fifty miles away and drive to my university every day, and leave as soon as my teaching and other duties are over.  

    One other thing—Martha-Marie Vandover Lawrence will never teach at this university again.  Over and over I thank my God in Heaven that we bore no offspring to suffer this slice of hell on earth.

    I just re-read this opening paragraph, and I am tempted to delete it, but no, I want you to know my state of mind, so that you may better judge any “advice” I give you.

    First, you are not guilty of anything.  That lout simply got what he deserved and in that, you are getting what you deserve:  to be rid of him.  Yes, I remember that knot-head.  His putrid essays left a stench on my fingers; I hated having to mark them, and how I would have reviled having to discuss further with him any point I might have marked, and if I had marked any of his inanities, he would have engaged me after class to elucidate further stupidities.  So I always marked him A and let it fall at that, no comment, nothing to invite his further attention. 

    How I would give anything had you told me that that bastard was blackmailing you.  Oh so many years between that blackguard’s deeds and now—but I would not have allowed him to get away with it.  Still, nothing we can do to remedy that, except that I convince you that you have no reason for guilt, and you must know that—I insist.  Of course, you did not wish him dead, and you did not kill him.  His own perversion killed him; his overweening pride, his misogyny, his blatant disregard of decency and humanity.

    Lucy, if you could come here I would so cherish a visit from you.  I have my own confusions.  All the years of my marriage I was never unfaithful to Marie, though I have found out that she was unfaithful many times.  But she claims my infidelity was mental and emotional, and she found your letters, and uses them as evidence I was just as guilty of infidelity as she.  Maybe I am just old and out of touch, but I do not see it that way.  To me there must be a physical consummation to constitute marital infidelity, and you know that we never so much as held hands. 

    Dear Lucy, if there is anyway you could travel back to Indiana, I would cherish a visit from you.  I feel that we both need a balm that we cannot hope to receive from anyone other than each other.  I simply must convince you that you must leave any guilt for that villain’s death to the wolves.  You deserve to make your life a haven of peace.

    I will be waiting for your response with prayer that we may meet soon, resume a blessed friendship, and find the strength to live out the rest of our lives in harmony with each other and the world.

    In love and friendship,
    JL

    Letter #5

    September 5, 19—
    Encinitas CA

    Dear Jeff,

    How to express the relief I feel from your kind words!  No, I cannot.  I am overwhelmed by the invitation to return to Hoosierland.  You can be sure that I will begin immediately making preparations for that return.  

    It’s all so breathtaking—it makes me dizzy.  My work here is not without its perks, and I do love the climate.  A thought, maybe a crazy thought!, just popped into my head:  how might I persuade you to relocate to southern Cali?  No, we can jump off that bridge if and when we come to it.  But just maybe your love for your school and native state has run its course?  

    Now, I am off to make a flight reservation.  Before I go further than that, I feel we need to reconnect in person to discuss all the details of my relocation.  Please know how grateful I am to you, and that I so look forward to seeing you, listening to your sage advice, and just generally unburdening myself of cares and issues that I know you have the wisdom to address.

    I will let you know my flight information as soon as it is confirmed!

    Thank you again, dear Professor!

    With love and gratitude,
    LJ  

    PS/ Just in case, here is my phone number (760) 701-4619.

    Letter #6

    Post Card
    15 Sept 19—
    Indianapolis IN

    Lucy—

    Our talk left me stunned and so grateful for our re-connection. Oct 7 cannot come soon enough.  See you at the airport! 

    Always,
    JL

    Final Word from the Graveyard Whistler

    This couple remains a mystery.  I wonder if they really re-connect and what re-connecting really means to them.  Will they remain professor and student?  Will they write and publish works together?  Will they begin a steamy affair?  Will they marry?

    That’s the intriguing feature of this sequence: that it heralds more questions than answers.  I guess the true value of studying this sequence of letters rests in analyzing the styles of each writer.  The professor, for sure, has a unique voice, and the student, his “Lucy Light,” brings off some unique features of her own.

    Interestingly, I did not revise a single word in this sequence of letters.  Except for blocking out the date, I have left everything exactly the way I found it. I have been asked where I found these letters, but revealing that location would prove problematic for I don’t know if these people are alive or dead.  

    By the dates, they could very well still be living, and they would be quite old now, and if they happened to learn that their letters were now being spread all over the Internet, they might not approve, and they might even be hurt. So I simply must refuse to divulge the exact source for these letters.

    Again, my purpose in publishing these letters is simply to reveal what I think is an interesting, unique professor-student relationship that is conveyed in unique literary language.  Who they are is not important for the purpose.  If I ever hear from anyone who knows who these people are, I will divulge whatever that individual will allow about the issue.

    Literarily yours,
    Belmonte Segwic
    (aka Graveyard Whistler)