"Americans eat more fat... [and] they eat more sugar... than any other people on earth. Americans also experience more episodes of acute hunger each day than any other people on earth – many [Americans] eat 11 times a day... and Americans do less physical work per day than any other nation. We ride more and walk less than other people. Could it be this combination that is fattening up Americans?... Is America’s romance with fabricated foods killing her by degrees?"
~Paul A. Stitt, MS, Biochemistry, www.nutrition4health.org/nohanews/NNSp94AmericansFat.htm
"You want to know the real reason we have declared holy jihad? Celebrity Fit Club."
~Osama Bin Laden, private interview
The luxuriously lugubrious Philolexian Society cordially invites you to a debate:
RESOLVED: Everyone Hates America Because We Are Fat.
Come and show off those voluptuous curves.
When: Thursday Jan. 18th
9:00pm snacks and schmooze
9:30pm (sharp) - the debate begins!
Where: Broadway Room (2nd floor of Lerner, next to the piano lounge)
Be there or you won't get the exercise you so vitally need.
Surgam,
~the will o' the whip
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The Sensationalist Manifesto
The Sensationalist Manifesto
We declare that we are multitudinous in approach! We assume the role of many, the mind of the massive. We are tapped into the pulse of planet Earth, and we are only beginning to dig in our fingernails.
We believe in ideas and do not hold by beliefs. We are willing to defend what we believe (for the minute) to the death. We are willing to change any of our minds. We are desirous of having them blown.
We think the world is a macro-organism. We consider the emergence of a super-perspective. We know that brain cells communicate across a gap called a synapse, but nonetheless, they pass on information. We think we are neurons on a global scale.
We believe words only chip away at the truth. We think the truth is asymptotic. We recognize the inherent flaws in verbal and written communication. We consider words to be extensions of the ego. We love them anyway.
We believe in the truth of the singular experience. We think that numbers lie. We search for the kernel at the heart of subjectivity. We believe that everyone can understand anything, but not everything. We are eternally astounded.
We are vigilant for morsels of meaning. We see life as a canvas. We are blind artists with paint
All
Over
Our
Hands.
We see beauty in the fields and in the city. We search and we search and can not find the unnatural. We believe in consistency and artificial authenticity. We think evolution is the only measure of time.
We are becoming more and more convinced that we are nothing and everything all at once.
As above so below.
As above so below.
As above so below.
As above so below.
As above so below.
We think we are right. We know we are wrong.
We will accept the voice of one. We revel in the voices of the many. We resist the voice of the masses. We believe we exist to transcend. We think we are only just beginning.
We believe we can do anything if we try real hard. We inject new meaning if we say it with feeling. We correct punctuation as vigilantly as we check our facts. We think a misplaced comma can destroy the world. We believe it can be created again.
We believe in the energy. We believe in the verve. We believe sincerity is a virtue. We believe in feeling everything until it hurts. We believe we can separate ourselves from anything. We believe the truth is too great to be a weapon. We believe it is like shooting the president with dark matter, the space between stars.
We believe everything until we are proven wrong. We believe in Nothing, as a state of mind. We believe You can change our minds. We believe in You.
peace,
~mr_schwartz
We declare that we are multitudinous in approach! We assume the role of many, the mind of the massive. We are tapped into the pulse of planet Earth, and we are only beginning to dig in our fingernails.
We believe in ideas and do not hold by beliefs. We are willing to defend what we believe (for the minute) to the death. We are willing to change any of our minds. We are desirous of having them blown.
We think the world is a macro-organism. We consider the emergence of a super-perspective. We know that brain cells communicate across a gap called a synapse, but nonetheless, they pass on information. We think we are neurons on a global scale.
We believe words only chip away at the truth. We think the truth is asymptotic. We recognize the inherent flaws in verbal and written communication. We consider words to be extensions of the ego. We love them anyway.
We believe in the truth of the singular experience. We think that numbers lie. We search for the kernel at the heart of subjectivity. We believe that everyone can understand anything, but not everything. We are eternally astounded.
We are vigilant for morsels of meaning. We see life as a canvas. We are blind artists with paint
All
Over
Our
Hands.
We see beauty in the fields and in the city. We search and we search and can not find the unnatural. We believe in consistency and artificial authenticity. We think evolution is the only measure of time.
We are becoming more and more convinced that we are nothing and everything all at once.
As above so below.
As above so below.
As above so below.
As above so below.
As above so below.
We think we are right. We know we are wrong.
We will accept the voice of one. We revel in the voices of the many. We resist the voice of the masses. We believe we exist to transcend. We think we are only just beginning.
We believe we can do anything if we try real hard. We inject new meaning if we say it with feeling. We correct punctuation as vigilantly as we check our facts. We think a misplaced comma can destroy the world. We believe it can be created again.
We believe in the energy. We believe in the verve. We believe sincerity is a virtue. We believe in feeling everything until it hurts. We believe we can separate ourselves from anything. We believe the truth is too great to be a weapon. We believe it is like shooting the president with dark matter, the space between stars.
We believe everything until we are proven wrong. We believe in Nothing, as a state of mind. We believe You can change our minds. We believe in You.
peace,
~mr_schwartz
Experiments in Experimental Short Fiction
!) once i was a strip of wallpaper that was listlessly saying hello to the door and goodbye to the window. i miss the sunlight even though it dried me out.
@) a red ball launched, rebounding, bouncing off doors and lockers. aglets of chuck taylor sneakers click clacking their way down to the principal's office. a ferret runs free in the hall.
#) bubblegum snapping and girls deciding who is in and who is out. black is the new orange they say. who made them god?
$) oncewheniwasyounger
itriedtocirclemyarmsaroundtheoldelmtreeintheyard
andilaughedandsmiledandsquealed
butthenranawayattherattlingscamperofsquirrels.
%) his arms became fatigued earlier than he expected, and he starting getting short of breath. with every new lift of his increasingly heavy arms, he struggled to grasp those blessed vines. with the strength of atlas he managed not to ever ever look down to the ground where the little people lived. he had bigger dreams of the sky, but it was getting hard to breathe. the air is thinner in the clouds.
^) crash i never want to see you again whack bang thwok i mean it don't you ever step foor in this house again you bastard crash bang crash but i love you
peace,
~mr_schwartz
@) a red ball launched, rebounding, bouncing off doors and lockers. aglets of chuck taylor sneakers click clacking their way down to the principal's office. a ferret runs free in the hall.
#) bubblegum snapping and girls deciding who is in and who is out. black is the new orange they say. who made them god?
$) oncewheniwasyounger
itriedtocirclemyarmsaroundtheoldelmtreeintheyard
andilaughedandsmiledandsquealed
butthenranawayattherattlingscamperofsquirrels.
%) his arms became fatigued earlier than he expected, and he starting getting short of breath. with every new lift of his increasingly heavy arms, he struggled to grasp those blessed vines. with the strength of atlas he managed not to ever ever look down to the ground where the little people lived. he had bigger dreams of the sky, but it was getting hard to breathe. the air is thinner in the clouds.
^) crash i never want to see you again whack bang thwok i mean it don't you ever step foor in this house again you bastard crash bang crash but i love you
peace,
~mr_schwartz
Kilmer 2004
The Winner 2004:
(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)
or: deep thoughts on laundry
or: repeating random nouns and then attaching that same noun to some profound emotion is comedic gold, the gold of joy.
By Joshua Schwartz GS '08
Ahhhhh the taste of victory
I always imagined it would taste more like tiramisu
Or a cinnamon rugelach
Or the salty elixir squeezed from the saturated uniforms of the victims
Of my ring of white slaves.
Riding the roller coaster of love creates within my bosom
This pleasant buzz in my
Nether regions (the auxiliary nether regions I keep in my bosom)
Like if one were to sit on a blender
A blender of joy
Set on the puree
of bliss.
In my heart are the sprites of happiness and their laughter
Warms my cockles as only true love can
True love and microwave burritos.
Happy and bright:
Like the sun shining on the faces
Of my ring of white slaves.
While sitting on the dryer, I begin to
Meditate about death and the innate absurdity of life.
There is no hope and love is false, I cry
As I weep into the snuggles,
The snuggles of despair.
Like the despair that gives me joy that makes me curious that bit the dog that ate schroedingers cat
And killed god
when I see it on the faces
Of my ring of white slaves.
In deep thought, I return from the Laundromat of my soul
Where I pick up the blazer of my spirit and the khakis of my heart
And the afghan of despair
I realize:
I hardly knew my soul at all.
And he is Korean.
--------------------------------------------------------
Runner Up
The Childhood Memories and Songs of Experience of George Prescott Bush, the Young, Half-Mexican Grandson of President George Bush the First, Nephew of President George Bush the Second, and Possible Future First Latino President of the United States
by Edward Rueda CC '05
I remember the house of mi abuelo,
my grandfather Jorge, a large casa blanca,
a house as white as the supper's soft, white tortillas
I see my grandfather Jorge
strong as a bull in a bullfighting ring,
driving the English springer spaniels across the front lawn,
like soft tortillas across guacamole grass
I see my grandfather in his aviator glasses
hard, unbending, quite unlike tortillas,
I see him wearing an enchilada suit
as he spoke in taco shell press conferences
in the red mole rose garden
I see mi abuela, my grandmother Bárbara
standing next to mi abuelo Jorge
in the red mole rose garden
I see her soft, white, curly hair
and her soft, white, round necklace of pearls
like tortillas, soft, white, curled
and stacked on top of more soft, white, round tortillas.
My grandmother's skin is like tortillas,
soft, round, made of corn and flour from the earth
my grandmother Bárbara has the strength of the earth
in her hands, as she lifts fine china,
fine, tortilla-white china filled with dinnertime tortillas.
But mi abuelo Jorge has hard news to tell,
hard like deep-fried tacos is the news of war
war that must take place in the land of the tostados,
war that he planned with my uncle, Tío Cheney
I see my see my grandfather talking to my Tío Cheney
Tío Cheney, dressed in a black bean black suit
wincing from the plaque in his arteries
thick plaque, hard and white, like old tortillas.
My grandfather says this war may be bad, and not soft,
But if every man fought in the distant land of sand so white,
Soon peace in our world would come around,
a peace we could all look forward to, like our supper, like tortillas
After the news conference, my grandfather Jorge
takes off his aviator glasses, hard unlike tortillas,
sets me on his knee, a knee like a burrito
and tells me, "nieto, grandson,
you may one day run this casa grande, this casa blanca
and if you lead this casa blanca into war,
remember: God has made you a Jorge Bush
you are strong and solid like a burrito,
you are stuffed with good inside, like a burrito,
you have a tough skin, like a burrito
but most of all, you have a heart
that is strong and pure and white and good, like tortillas."
Now my uncle, Tío Jorge, runs the casa blanca,
strong like a bullfighter in a bullfighting ring,
he plays golf on the green guacamole grass.
I see my uncle Jorge, who's as fun as a fiesta,
giving a speech in the red mole rose garden,
now he must share words as hard as deep-fried tacos.
War must take place in the land of the tostados,
war that he planned with my uncle, Tío Cheney
I see my Tío Jorge talking to Tío Cheney
Tío Cheney, dressed in a black bean black suit
wincing from the plaque in his arteries
thick plaque, hard and white, like old tortillas.
Tío Jorge says that war is good,
good for lands so hot with sand so white,
hot, white, sand all around, hot and white, like tortillas.
After the news conference, my uncle Jorge
takes off his baseball sombrero, to say to me,
"Sobrino, nephew, you may one day run
this casa grande, this casa blanca
and if you lead this casa blanca into war,
remember: you are a Jorge Bush
you are not to be evil, like the burrito
you need to be stuffed with liberty and freedom, like the burrito
you need an evil-repellent skin, like the burrito
you need God to continually bless you, like the burrito,
and most of all, your heart needs not to be evil,
but soft and pure and white, like tortillas."
These words, made of corn, made of earth, are strong,
like a bull: big, strong, white, pure, round,
like tortillas.
--------------------------------------------------------
Runner Up
I Love Little Pussy
by Mike Ilardi CC '05 (With Illustrations by Edward Rueda CC '05)
What follows is a brief anthology of sequels to the 19th century nursery rhyme I Love Little Pussy, a piece intended to teach children proper care for their cats. Children today have all manner of exotic creatures in their care, so I felt it necessary to pen a few updated versions of the old classic. First, the original:
"I Love Little Pussy"
I love little pussy,
Her coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her,
She'll do me no harm.
So I'll not pull her tail,
Nor drive her away,
But pussy and I,
Very gently will play.
And now for the sequels:
"I Love Little Cock"
I love little cock,
His beak is so long,
And when I stroke him,
He does me no wrong.
So I'll not rumple his feathers,
Nor tug him too quick,
He'll come when I call him,
For I've named him Dick.
"I Love Little Beaver"
I Love Little Beaver,
Her fur is so wet,
And though she smells fishy,
She's so fun to pet.
So I'll not burst her dam,
If she gnaws on my wood.
Gee, little beaver,
you're always so good!
"I Love Little Bearded Clam"
I love little bearded clam,
Her shell is so tight,
And if I feed her,
she'll clamp down every night.
So I'll not pry her open,
I'll be kind instead,
I'll drape a pearl necklace
Over her head!
"I Love Little Trouser Snake"
I love little trouser snake,
He slithers up my pants,
And when I play my flute,
Trouser snake does his dance.
So I'll not tie him in knots,
Nor pull him too hard,
For my trouser snake
is nearly one yard!
(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)
or: deep thoughts on laundry
or: repeating random nouns and then attaching that same noun to some profound emotion is comedic gold, the gold of joy.
By Joshua Schwartz GS '08
Ahhhhh the taste of victory
I always imagined it would taste more like tiramisu
Or a cinnamon rugelach
Or the salty elixir squeezed from the saturated uniforms of the victims
Of my ring of white slaves.
Riding the roller coaster of love creates within my bosom
This pleasant buzz in my
Nether regions (the auxiliary nether regions I keep in my bosom)
Like if one were to sit on a blender
A blender of joy
Set on the puree
of bliss.
In my heart are the sprites of happiness and their laughter
Warms my cockles as only true love can
True love and microwave burritos.
Happy and bright:
Like the sun shining on the faces
Of my ring of white slaves.
While sitting on the dryer, I begin to
Meditate about death and the innate absurdity of life.
There is no hope and love is false, I cry
As I weep into the snuggles,
The snuggles of despair.
Like the despair that gives me joy that makes me curious that bit the dog that ate schroedingers cat
And killed god
when I see it on the faces
Of my ring of white slaves.
In deep thought, I return from the Laundromat of my soul
Where I pick up the blazer of my spirit and the khakis of my heart
And the afghan of despair
I realize:
I hardly knew my soul at all.
And he is Korean.
--------------------------------------------------------
Runner Up
The Childhood Memories and Songs of Experience of George Prescott Bush, the Young, Half-Mexican Grandson of President George Bush the First, Nephew of President George Bush the Second, and Possible Future First Latino President of the United States
by Edward Rueda CC '05
I remember the house of mi abuelo,
my grandfather Jorge, a large casa blanca,
a house as white as the supper's soft, white tortillas
I see my grandfather Jorge
strong as a bull in a bullfighting ring,
driving the English springer spaniels across the front lawn,
like soft tortillas across guacamole grass
I see my grandfather in his aviator glasses
hard, unbending, quite unlike tortillas,
I see him wearing an enchilada suit
as he spoke in taco shell press conferences
in the red mole rose garden
I see mi abuela, my grandmother Bárbara
standing next to mi abuelo Jorge
in the red mole rose garden
I see her soft, white, curly hair
and her soft, white, round necklace of pearls
like tortillas, soft, white, curled
and stacked on top of more soft, white, round tortillas.
My grandmother's skin is like tortillas,
soft, round, made of corn and flour from the earth
my grandmother Bárbara has the strength of the earth
in her hands, as she lifts fine china,
fine, tortilla-white china filled with dinnertime tortillas.
But mi abuelo Jorge has hard news to tell,
hard like deep-fried tacos is the news of war
war that must take place in the land of the tostados,
war that he planned with my uncle, Tío Cheney
I see my see my grandfather talking to my Tío Cheney
Tío Cheney, dressed in a black bean black suit
wincing from the plaque in his arteries
thick plaque, hard and white, like old tortillas.
My grandfather says this war may be bad, and not soft,
But if every man fought in the distant land of sand so white,
Soon peace in our world would come around,
a peace we could all look forward to, like our supper, like tortillas
After the news conference, my grandfather Jorge
takes off his aviator glasses, hard unlike tortillas,
sets me on his knee, a knee like a burrito
and tells me, "nieto, grandson,
you may one day run this casa grande, this casa blanca
and if you lead this casa blanca into war,
remember: God has made you a Jorge Bush
you are strong and solid like a burrito,
you are stuffed with good inside, like a burrito,
you have a tough skin, like a burrito
but most of all, you have a heart
that is strong and pure and white and good, like tortillas."
Now my uncle, Tío Jorge, runs the casa blanca,
strong like a bullfighter in a bullfighting ring,
he plays golf on the green guacamole grass.
I see my uncle Jorge, who's as fun as a fiesta,
giving a speech in the red mole rose garden,
now he must share words as hard as deep-fried tacos.
War must take place in the land of the tostados,
war that he planned with my uncle, Tío Cheney
I see my Tío Jorge talking to Tío Cheney
Tío Cheney, dressed in a black bean black suit
wincing from the plaque in his arteries
thick plaque, hard and white, like old tortillas.
Tío Jorge says that war is good,
good for lands so hot with sand so white,
hot, white, sand all around, hot and white, like tortillas.
After the news conference, my uncle Jorge
takes off his baseball sombrero, to say to me,
"Sobrino, nephew, you may one day run
this casa grande, this casa blanca
and if you lead this casa blanca into war,
remember: you are a Jorge Bush
you are not to be evil, like the burrito
you need to be stuffed with liberty and freedom, like the burrito
you need an evil-repellent skin, like the burrito
you need God to continually bless you, like the burrito,
and most of all, your heart needs not to be evil,
but soft and pure and white, like tortillas."
These words, made of corn, made of earth, are strong,
like a bull: big, strong, white, pure, round,
like tortillas.
--------------------------------------------------------
Runner Up
I Love Little Pussy
by Mike Ilardi CC '05 (With Illustrations by Edward Rueda CC '05)
What follows is a brief anthology of sequels to the 19th century nursery rhyme I Love Little Pussy, a piece intended to teach children proper care for their cats. Children today have all manner of exotic creatures in their care, so I felt it necessary to pen a few updated versions of the old classic. First, the original:
"I Love Little Pussy"
I love little pussy,
Her coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her,
She'll do me no harm.
So I'll not pull her tail,
Nor drive her away,
But pussy and I,
Very gently will play.
And now for the sequels:
"I Love Little Cock"
I love little cock,
His beak is so long,
And when I stroke him,
He does me no wrong.
So I'll not rumple his feathers,
Nor tug him too quick,
He'll come when I call him,
For I've named him Dick.
"I Love Little Beaver"
I Love Little Beaver,
Her fur is so wet,
And though she smells fishy,
She's so fun to pet.
So I'll not burst her dam,
If she gnaws on my wood.
Gee, little beaver,
you're always so good!
"I Love Little Bearded Clam"
I love little bearded clam,
Her shell is so tight,
And if I feed her,
she'll clamp down every night.
So I'll not pry her open,
I'll be kind instead,
I'll drape a pearl necklace
Over her head!
"I Love Little Trouser Snake"
I love little trouser snake,
He slithers up my pants,
And when I play my flute,
Trouser snake does his dance.
So I'll not tie him in knots,
Nor pull him too hard,
For my trouser snake
is nearly one yard!
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Kilmer 2006
The Winner
Psalm
by Yonah Lemonik CC '08
A Psalm of David:
1: O LORD, the firmament sheweth thine handiwork, and the heavens thine wisdom.
2: Your might exceeds the depth of the seas, O LORD, yea, your righteousness the vaults of the skies.
3: O LORD, have you ever considered the advantages of owning a really fine set of encyclopedias?
4: I mean this is a truly gorgeous set of twenty four volumes here, am I right?
5: For verily, O LORD, the wallpaper showeth thine good taste, and the bookcase thine worldiness.
6: And should the chicks see a really handsome leather-bound set like this one they shall surely dwell in the house of the LORD for the length of days... or at least the nights!
7: Eh? Eh? Eh?
8: No, no wait don't close the door, O Awesome LORD, do not cast me aside in this my hour of need.
8a: For Thou art a merciful LORD, and loving.
9: Yea thou art a support to orphans and thou lifteth up the weak.
10: O LORD, thou giveth comfort and sustenance to the poor.
11: Please, O LORD, be merciful, as you ride this subway to a warm home and loving family; remember there are those out on the streets less fortunate than you.
12: We can feed a family of four for only 79 cents, but tonight were going to have to turn people away. So please give generously, O Just LORD, do not turn thine countenance from us.
13: Well? What, nothing? You can't give even a penny, O Tremendous G-d?
14: Oh that's great, O LORD, you're just great. Thou art super fucking awesome.
15: O Mighty And Awesome LORD, thine voice convulseth the deserts and blabbity blah blah.
16: Even thine oh so holy angels tremble in thine August and Awesome presence, the pussies.
17: O Master of the Universe, I am sooooo scared of you.
18: Oooooh....
19: No wait, O LORD, I didn't mean to be nasty; you're a great guy.
20: And I like you, I just don't like you like you, y'know.
21: No, you're really a great guy, O Lord Of Jacob; thou judgeth the righteous with goodness and hateth the wicked.
22: Until a man's dying day thou waiteth for him to return.
23: And you're a really funny guy! Yes, yes, you are G-d.
24:
You created flamingos
brilliant touch with the pink there;
and the Black Death
greatest
practical joke
ever;
Menstruation?
hilarious;
The human condition is
pure comic genius.
25: C'mon, how bad can you be, O LORD? You do have complete dominion over the heavens and earth.
26: Yea, thou art ruler of the seas and king of the mountains.
27: Thou causeth the wind to blow and the sun to shine.
28: O LORD thou openeth the gates of dawn and ordereth the stars in their places.
29: Verily O LORD thou art powerful - you have thousands of workers reporting to you, CEO of a multibillion dollar multinational corporation, yes sir!
30: Yes sir, Yes sir, O LORD you're the most powerful man in America, yes sir.
30.5: Why that's a brilliant idea it is yes sir, yes sir!
31: No sir, O LORD, I'm not just being a yes man, yes sir!
32: Genius sir! If we sack the entire company we'll have no costs. Our profits will go through the roof yes sir! Genius, O LORD, yes sir!
33: Yes sir, Thou art truly a wondrous LORD!
34: Thou splitteth the sea before thine children, and feedeth them in the wilderness.
35: O LORD, Thou bringeth up beautiful flowers from the firmament and showeth the rainbow as a sign for the generations.
36: Yes, O Mighty and Awesome LORD, your hair is truly beautiful. And your eyes are like two stars shining out on a moonless night.
37: Your movements, O LORD, are like grace encapsulated, your voice is like a pure clarion call.
38: Thou hast a great rack, and voluptuous thighs.
39: And my ears are cold.
40: So why don't head back to my place, O LORD. I have a fine set of encyclopedia's to sell you. Rawr.
And let us say. Amen.
--------------------------------------------------------
1st Runner Up
Leftovers
by Jonah Bloch-Johnson CC '08 (as "Phillip Hutchinson") and Phyllis Ma CC '09
I like leftovers
Like my soul
which is the leftovers of your love
It could have been the pullover of your love
Soft, and cuddly
But instead you had to wear the button of hate and misery.
My heart is dribbling down my face
Like anchovies
That you reheat and reheat
Shall I compare thee – to the best minds of my generation?
Do I dare-to contradict myself?
To eat or not to eat now but maybe to take it home and stick it in the fridge – of history next to the gasket of time by the magnet of monogamy, under the freezer – of infinity.
Leftovers.
eftovers.
ftovers.
tovers.
overs.
vers.
ers.
rs.
s.
[high pitched noises]
broccoli
[high pitched noises and snapping]
coleslaw
[high pitched noises and snapping]
fried pus!
of destiny
--------------------------------------------------------
2nd Runner Up
Put your Pudding Where your Mouth Is
by Rob Frawley CC ‘10
--------------------------------------------------------
3rd Runner Up
Meditations from the Bottom of a Wells
by Maggie Lane CC '09 and Sasha Stewart CC '09
i. From the Well a Voice Cometh
Perhaps this well is my spiral
To a kinder hell
Except wells are cylinders
Dante was wrong.
Time trickles on like raindrops falling… into a well.
In this well
I will dwell
My heart doth swell
My thoughts, pell mell
My voice, a treble
My sense, of smell
My boyish form, so sup-pel
Around my neck, a lapel
Untold stories, I yearn to tell
I slipped on a banana pe-el
And into this abyss, I fell
This world of mine, a prison cell
Like a prisoner of war, named Marcel
Or Irish savior, lost Parnell
My soul I would sell
Or beg or plead or ped-del
Nails scratch and break and bleed and swell
Lessons are hard to learn
In the bottom of a well
ii. By the Well a Man Cometh
Is this my body?
No it’s a well
Is this my metaphor?
No it’s a well
Is this God?
No, it’s my voice from a well
Is this the Media Age?
I wish Lassie were here
Timmy? Timmy?
Too bad my name’s Tom
Should I throw pennies?
Food would be better.
Will you grant my wishes?
Only if your wish is to hear a voice from the well.
My wish! Granted! The well is magic! I must tell the others!
Oh go to hell.
iii. From the Well the Well Cometh
Stone, mortar, water, moles
Chipped nails, chipped souls
Of little forgotten boyos
Trapped in arroyos
Trapped in the chasm
Of my bosom
Forever singing their tales of woe
But do I listen? No
For I am a well
Powerful to beheld.
… Oh, Well.
--------------------------------------------------------
Honorable Mentions: Too Good for Kilmer Category
When the Economist met the New Yorker
by Eric LeSueur CC '06
When the Economist met the New Yorker, love was in the air.
They brushed shoulders by the Grand Central news stand
And after a few perfectly timed witticisms, the Economist took an unusually bold move and asked her to drinks at the St. Regis, because that is what a gentleman does.
When they met again, the Economist could not help but smile as the New Yorker looked down at her glass of Chardonnay, nervously rubbing the stem begin her fingers, and told him of her love of short fiction and her hobby of drawing single panel cartoons, which her friends nevertheless thought profound.
When she asked him about his own pursuits, he remarked that in his present career he performed forensic economic analysis, but that his true passion lay in the implementation of monetary policy. And he knew he had found someone special when the New Yorker thought that was interesting and amidst the candlelight placed her hand atop his, and asked him to tell her more.
Soon they could be seen holding hands as they walked down the Guggenheim, and kissing as the autumn leaves fell upon them in Central Park. And when they finally did spend the night together, the Economist saw the New Yorker as she laid in her languid prose, and smiled at the adorable way she marked repeating vowels and failed to italicize book titles.
One day, as they were watching “Terms of Endearment”, the New Yorker began to cry. Not because of Debra Winger’s performance, but because at long last, she was happy. “Things were never so good when I was dating the Popular Mechanic,” she said. And the Economist is not afraid to admit that even he shed a few tears, also not because of the film…
Indeed, it was the first time he had wept since Thatcher left office.
Sadly, my friends, the relationship, much like this poem, ran out of steam. This prospective merger, which had begun with such promise, concluded slowly and ignobly, as the Economist reached a conclusion that the marginal benefits were no longer meeting marginal costs. It was only afterward that the Economist finally realized, too late in fact, that some things in life, particularly love, could not be so coldly calculated. Though he is with Harper now, and she with some New Republican, the Economist often thinks fondly of the days of this youth, and the promise they held when he brushed shoulders with the New Yorker.
The only way to do this poem justice is by video, which should be coming soon! But for now the 'Libretto' with 'translation:'
ORFEO:
Selfone, ¿puedes oirme ahora?
Il’fierno es tant’oscuro
Siento tu dolore.
Espería que nos ’contraremos
Pero l’entrada de la tierra muerta
Tiene un señale
Qu’explica sencillamente que tengo
Que ’bandonar mi ’speranza.
VERIZONE:
Ay, mortal con tu Selfone, yakking!
¿Porque necesitas hablar constante?
Est’es il’fierno, yo soy Verizone
Opero un red pa’ los damnados.
Tú, quien huele com’los vivos
Piensas que’stas tan importante
Que to’los muertos tienen q’oirte
Y tu conversazion’arrogante
¡Como te odio!
ORFEO
Potente servicio
Cuyas palabras vienen desde l’India
Todos necesitan tu red incredible
Para comunicar con alguien.
Quiero extender la mano
Y tocar a mi querida Selfone.
VERZIONE
Tu voz es muy bello, pero tengo
Q’ablar con mi supervizore
Il reino del’fierno, Plutone
¿Tu nombre completo?
ORFEO [dueta]
Orfeo me llaman
Lo voy a deletrear.
Oh-Erre-Efe-Eh-Oh
VERZIONE [dueta]
Ay dio’sta ’jueputa no dej’ablarme.
Me siento más cansado cad’ minuto
Yo debería ser’l aburridoso
Y zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
ORFEO
¡Ay me! Él duerme.
¡Selfone, ya vengo!
ORFEO:
Selfone, can you hear me now?
Hell is so dark
I feel your pain.
I would hope that we will find each other
But the entrance of the Dead Land
Has a sign
That says clearly that I
Have to abandon my hope.
VERIZONE:
Oh, mortal with your Selfone, yakking!
Why do you need to talk constantly?
This is Hell, I am Verizone
I run a network for the damned.
You, who smells like the living
Think you’re so important
That all the dead have to hear you
And your arrogant conversation
How I hate you!
ORFEO
Powerful Service,
Whose words come from India
Everyone needs your incredible network
To communicate with anyone.
I want to reach out
And touch my dear Selfone.
VERIZONE
Your voice is very beautiful, but I have to
Speak with my supervisor
The King of Hell, Plutone
What’s your full name?
ORFEO [duet]
They call me Orfeo
I’m gonna spell that
O-R-F-E-O
VERIZONE [duet]
Oh, God, this sonofabitch won’t stop talking
I feel more tired with every minute
I ought to the boring one
And zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
ORFEO
Oh my! He’s asleep.
Selfone, I’m coming!
Psalm
by Yonah Lemonik CC '08
A Psalm of David:
1: O LORD, the firmament sheweth thine handiwork, and the heavens thine wisdom.
2: Your might exceeds the depth of the seas, O LORD, yea, your righteousness the vaults of the skies.
3: O LORD, have you ever considered the advantages of owning a really fine set of encyclopedias?
4: I mean this is a truly gorgeous set of twenty four volumes here, am I right?
5: For verily, O LORD, the wallpaper showeth thine good taste, and the bookcase thine worldiness.
6: And should the chicks see a really handsome leather-bound set like this one they shall surely dwell in the house of the LORD for the length of days... or at least the nights!
7: Eh? Eh? Eh?
8: No, no wait don't close the door, O Awesome LORD, do not cast me aside in this my hour of need.
8a: For Thou art a merciful LORD, and loving.
9: Yea thou art a support to orphans and thou lifteth up the weak.
10: O LORD, thou giveth comfort and sustenance to the poor.
11: Please, O LORD, be merciful, as you ride this subway to a warm home and loving family; remember there are those out on the streets less fortunate than you.
12: We can feed a family of four for only 79 cents, but tonight were going to have to turn people away. So please give generously, O Just LORD, do not turn thine countenance from us.
13: Well? What, nothing? You can't give even a penny, O Tremendous G-d?
14: Oh that's great, O LORD, you're just great. Thou art super fucking awesome.
15: O Mighty And Awesome LORD, thine voice convulseth the deserts and blabbity blah blah.
16: Even thine oh so holy angels tremble in thine August and Awesome presence, the pussies.
17: O Master of the Universe, I am sooooo scared of you.
18: Oooooh....
19: No wait, O LORD, I didn't mean to be nasty; you're a great guy.
20: And I like you, I just don't like you like you, y'know.
21: No, you're really a great guy, O Lord Of Jacob; thou judgeth the righteous with goodness and hateth the wicked.
22: Until a man's dying day thou waiteth for him to return.
23: And you're a really funny guy! Yes, yes, you are G-d.
24:
You created flamingos
brilliant touch with the pink there;
and the Black Death
greatest
practical joke
ever;
Menstruation?
hilarious;
The human condition is
pure comic genius.
25: C'mon, how bad can you be, O LORD? You do have complete dominion over the heavens and earth.
26: Yea, thou art ruler of the seas and king of the mountains.
27: Thou causeth the wind to blow and the sun to shine.
28: O LORD thou openeth the gates of dawn and ordereth the stars in their places.
29: Verily O LORD thou art powerful - you have thousands of workers reporting to you, CEO of a multibillion dollar multinational corporation, yes sir!
30: Yes sir, Yes sir, O LORD you're the most powerful man in America, yes sir.
30.5: Why that's a brilliant idea it is yes sir, yes sir!
31: No sir, O LORD, I'm not just being a yes man, yes sir!
32: Genius sir! If we sack the entire company we'll have no costs. Our profits will go through the roof yes sir! Genius, O LORD, yes sir!
33: Yes sir, Thou art truly a wondrous LORD!
34: Thou splitteth the sea before thine children, and feedeth them in the wilderness.
35: O LORD, Thou bringeth up beautiful flowers from the firmament and showeth the rainbow as a sign for the generations.
36: Yes, O Mighty and Awesome LORD, your hair is truly beautiful. And your eyes are like two stars shining out on a moonless night.
37: Your movements, O LORD, are like grace encapsulated, your voice is like a pure clarion call.
38: Thou hast a great rack, and voluptuous thighs.
39: And my ears are cold.
40: So why don't head back to my place, O LORD. I have a fine set of encyclopedia's to sell you. Rawr.
And let us say. Amen.
--------------------------------------------------------
1st Runner Up
Leftovers
by Jonah Bloch-Johnson CC '08 (as "Phillip Hutchinson") and Phyllis Ma CC '09
I like leftovers
Like my soul
which is the leftovers of your love
It could have been the pullover of your love
Soft, and cuddly
But instead you had to wear the button of hate and misery.
My heart is dribbling down my face
Like anchovies
That you reheat and reheat
Shall I compare thee – to the best minds of my generation?
Do I dare-to contradict myself?
To eat or not to eat now but maybe to take it home and stick it in the fridge – of history next to the gasket of time by the magnet of monogamy, under the freezer – of infinity.
Leftovers.
eftovers.
ftovers.
tovers.
overs.
vers.
ers.
rs.
s.
[high pitched noises]
broccoli
[high pitched noises and snapping]
coleslaw
[high pitched noises and snapping]
fried pus!
of destiny
--------------------------------------------------------
2nd Runner Up
Put your Pudding Where your Mouth Is
by Rob Frawley CC ‘10
Have you ever eaten pudding
I mean really Eaten it.
Not a nibble, not a munch, not a chew or a crunch.
Have you ever let it envelope your mouth in cold gooey delight.
Have you ever moaned for your pudding.
Has your pudding ever moaned for you.
I dare you – eat your pudding
Become your pudding
Let the pudding flow from your every orifice and scream “I AM PUDDING”
And then, gently recede into your puddingness,
And let the pudding be.
I mean really Eaten it.
Not a nibble, not a munch, not a chew or a crunch.
Have you ever let it envelope your mouth in cold gooey delight.
Have you ever moaned for your pudding.
Has your pudding ever moaned for you.
I dare you – eat your pudding
Become your pudding
Let the pudding flow from your every orifice and scream “I AM PUDDING”
And then, gently recede into your puddingness,
And let the pudding be.
--------------------------------------------------------
3rd Runner Up
Meditations from the Bottom of a Wells
by Maggie Lane CC '09 and Sasha Stewart CC '09
i. From the Well a Voice Cometh
Perhaps this well is my spiral
To a kinder hell
Except wells are cylinders
Dante was wrong.
Time trickles on like raindrops falling… into a well.
In this well
I will dwell
My heart doth swell
My thoughts, pell mell
My voice, a treble
My sense, of smell
My boyish form, so sup-pel
Around my neck, a lapel
Untold stories, I yearn to tell
I slipped on a banana pe-el
And into this abyss, I fell
This world of mine, a prison cell
Like a prisoner of war, named Marcel
Or Irish savior, lost Parnell
My soul I would sell
Or beg or plead or ped-del
Nails scratch and break and bleed and swell
Lessons are hard to learn
In the bottom of a well
ii. By the Well a Man Cometh
Is this my body?
No it’s a well
Is this my metaphor?
No it’s a well
Is this God?
No, it’s my voice from a well
Is this the Media Age?
I wish Lassie were here
Timmy? Timmy?
Too bad my name’s Tom
Should I throw pennies?
Food would be better.
Will you grant my wishes?
Only if your wish is to hear a voice from the well.
My wish! Granted! The well is magic! I must tell the others!
Oh go to hell.
iii. From the Well the Well Cometh
Stone, mortar, water, moles
Chipped nails, chipped souls
Of little forgotten boyos
Trapped in arroyos
Trapped in the chasm
Of my bosom
Forever singing their tales of woe
But do I listen? No
For I am a well
Powerful to beheld.
… Oh, Well.
--------------------------------------------------------
Honorable Mentions: Too Good for Kilmer Category
When the Economist met the New Yorker
by Eric LeSueur CC '06
When the Economist met the New Yorker, love was in the air.
They brushed shoulders by the Grand Central news stand
And after a few perfectly timed witticisms, the Economist took an unusually bold move and asked her to drinks at the St. Regis, because that is what a gentleman does.
When they met again, the Economist could not help but smile as the New Yorker looked down at her glass of Chardonnay, nervously rubbing the stem begin her fingers, and told him of her love of short fiction and her hobby of drawing single panel cartoons, which her friends nevertheless thought profound.
When she asked him about his own pursuits, he remarked that in his present career he performed forensic economic analysis, but that his true passion lay in the implementation of monetary policy. And he knew he had found someone special when the New Yorker thought that was interesting and amidst the candlelight placed her hand atop his, and asked him to tell her more.
Soon they could be seen holding hands as they walked down the Guggenheim, and kissing as the autumn leaves fell upon them in Central Park. And when they finally did spend the night together, the Economist saw the New Yorker as she laid in her languid prose, and smiled at the adorable way she marked repeating vowels and failed to italicize book titles.
One day, as they were watching “Terms of Endearment”, the New Yorker began to cry. Not because of Debra Winger’s performance, but because at long last, she was happy. “Things were never so good when I was dating the Popular Mechanic,” she said. And the Economist is not afraid to admit that even he shed a few tears, also not because of the film…
Indeed, it was the first time he had wept since Thatcher left office.
Sadly, my friends, the relationship, much like this poem, ran out of steam. This prospective merger, which had begun with such promise, concluded slowly and ignobly, as the Economist reached a conclusion that the marginal benefits were no longer meeting marginal costs. It was only afterward that the Economist finally realized, too late in fact, that some things in life, particularly love, could not be so coldly calculated. Though he is with Harper now, and she with some New Republican, the Economist often thinks fondly of the days of this youth, and the promise they held when he brushed shoulders with the New Yorker.
L’Orfeo y Selfone – the Lost Monteverdi Opera
Translated by: Edward A. Rueda (CC ’05) Musically Reconstructed By:
The only way to do this poem justice is by video, which should be coming soon! But for now the 'Libretto' with 'translation:'
ORFEO:
Selfone, ¿puedes oirme ahora?
Il’fierno es tant’oscuro
Siento tu dolore.
Espería que nos ’contraremos
Pero l’entrada de la tierra muerta
Tiene un señale
Qu’explica sencillamente que tengo
Que ’bandonar mi ’speranza.
VERIZONE:
Ay, mortal con tu Selfone, yakking!
¿Porque necesitas hablar constante?
Est’es il’fierno, yo soy Verizone
Opero un red pa’ los damnados.
Tú, quien huele com’los vivos
Piensas que’stas tan importante
Que to’los muertos tienen q’oirte
Y tu conversazion’arrogante
¡Como te odio!
ORFEO
Potente servicio
Cuyas palabras vienen desde l’India
Todos necesitan tu red incredible
Para comunicar con alguien.
Quiero extender la mano
Y tocar a mi querida Selfone.
VERZIONE
Tu voz es muy bello, pero tengo
Q’ablar con mi supervizore
Il reino del’fierno, Plutone
¿Tu nombre completo?
ORFEO [dueta]
Orfeo me llaman
Lo voy a deletrear.
Oh-Erre-Efe-Eh-Oh
VERZIONE [dueta]
Ay dio’sta ’jueputa no dej’ablarme.
Me siento más cansado cad’ minuto
Yo debería ser’l aburridoso
Y zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
ORFEO
¡Ay me! Él duerme.
¡Selfone, ya vengo!
ORFEO:
Selfone, can you hear me now?
Hell is so dark
I feel your pain.
I would hope that we will find each other
But the entrance of the Dead Land
Has a sign
That says clearly that I
Have to abandon my hope.
VERIZONE:
Oh, mortal with your Selfone, yakking!
Why do you need to talk constantly?
This is Hell, I am Verizone
I run a network for the damned.
You, who smells like the living
Think you’re so important
That all the dead have to hear you
And your arrogant conversation
How I hate you!
ORFEO
Powerful Service,
Whose words come from India
Everyone needs your incredible network
To communicate with anyone.
I want to reach out
And touch my dear Selfone.
VERIZONE
Your voice is very beautiful, but I have to
Speak with my supervisor
The King of Hell, Plutone
What’s your full name?
ORFEO [duet]
They call me Orfeo
I’m gonna spell that
O-R-F-E-O
VERIZONE [duet]
Oh, God, this sonofabitch won’t stop talking
I feel more tired with every minute
I ought to the boring one
And zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
ORFEO
Oh my! He’s asleep.
Selfone, I’m coming!
Kilmer 2005
The Winner:
Lamentation Upon Surveying the Destruction of a Battlefield
By Everett Patterson CC '06
O Ares, cruelest of the gods!
Are man and thee somehow at odds?
That thou this curse of war should rain?
Upon these men before me lain?
O Zeus! O Jupiter on high!
That thou should let our young men die
And Hermes, swift as lightening struck
It's not your fault, but you still suck.
Judeo-Christian God, you too!
Don't think I have forgotten you!
Betrayed us, whom we once did praise,
So don't start up with your "mysterious ways."
O Death! O Death! O Deathy Death!
That thou should snatch this soldier's breath!
Thou hast with bony finger stung
The diaphragm beneath the lung.
Nay never shall they breathe no more
Nor beat their heart at bosom's core.
Their brains no waves; their veins no pulses
And in their esophagi no peristalsis!
O Vocative! O Vocative!
Not nom'nitave or locative!
That I, to distant concepts cry
To abstract nouns personified!
O Letter O, most foul vowel!
That thou should be the sound I howl,
Instead of "Ah!" or "oooh" or "Aye!"
But no, it's "O," and sometimes "Why?"
Why, ye gods of Rome and Greece?
Shall war and horror never cease?
O ye Roman gods and Greek
That I in the subjunctive mood should speak!
--------------------------------------------------------
1st Runner Up
Slumming it with the Metaphysicals--------------------------------------------------------
By Yonah Lemonik CC '08
O Beloved, who stands so resplendent,
Heavenly form, with pleasures attendant.
To thee I sing, with passions ascendant,
O Beloved, you glow so transcendent!
May I unhook your bra?
Oh, so you just want skip straight to the sex?
No?
Do not judge me, nor set me defendant.
Who has set you over me an intendant?
Are we both not of Adam descendant?!
Of original sin do not be so repentant!
Just cop me a feel of what framing that pendant.
I see I have shocked you O Venus Divine
But mustn't we tow the natural line?
Did not Eve become Adam's, as you become mine?
For procreation, the Lord did to us assign.
So do you want to have my children?
Okay, then can we just practice?
I'll rhyme you into fucking whether you want to or not.
For me to conquer you seems my heavenly lot,
Even though you aren't particularly hot,
And I could easily move on having missed my first shot,
It's just that I'm really quite lonely and desperate for human contact but
due to low self-esteem I am only able to communicate with women in
offensive and crude pleas for sex that scare them away before they can see
my inner beauty... ot.
Anyway.
I see now that to woo you my words must be sweeter,
Even though to my side you are starting to teeter,
And will join me in bliss like a lotususus eater.
But who knew better than Shakespearereater!
For clearly to win you, needs iambic pentameter.
O lovely, thou art crowned with golden tufts,
O lovely, may I use your thighs as earmuffs.
Still nothing? C'mon, that was stuff was golden,
You're not too good to put out for a sonnet.
I mean that would've gotten Queen Elizabeth out've her pants
and they named Virginia after her-
VIRGINia – not BARSLUTnia.
You know what? You're not enough good enough for this stuff.
I'm not going to waste it on you, not one single stich
Not one rhyming couplet, you dumb slutty bitch.
And now I'm alone, bereft of a lass...
But what is that I see, in that female morass?
Empty of contents, a double shot glass!
In the hands of a skank who is lacking in class.
Verily tonight, I'll be getting some ass.
(For I will approach her with standards descendant,
And say to the face of the drunken endendant)
“O beloved who stands so resplendent.
To the I sing with passions redundant...”
2nd Runner Up
The Five Degrees of Unavailability
By Michal Richardson BC '06
Our sad tale begins with a girl you've not met--------------------------------------------------------
But whose plight and ill fate I impart with regret.
Should it ring any bells, either literal or mental,
I assure you that this is quite coincidental.
Our heroine spent her nights bawling and pining,
For what starts as desire ends up sounding like whining
That fills listeners with despair and fatigue.
"I can't have him," she'd cry,
He's so out of my league!”
They say two's company, and bad things come in threes --
But heartbreak, my friends, comes in five degrees.
The first degree starts with deep infatuation
But ends, as you've guessed, with dark humiliation.
And not one that fades with a hearty, drunk recap --
No, this haunts you and taunts you, like a shattered kneecap.
After weeks vascillating, one night in a groove,
She called up the boy and she made her bold move.
But as all "good ones" are, unless I'm mistaken,
The lass's first love was regrettably taken.
It takes nine for a ball club; fours always trump threes,
And heartbreak, dear friends, comes in five degrees.
She fell for her best friend from childhood, who
Liked everything she liked, from films to shampoo.
Their dialogue, swift, and as perfect as canon,
Hit her over the head like a playful Biff Tannen.
"Hello, McFly!" said she to herself.
"Tell him you love him, or stay on the shelf."
He had to talk to her, too, said the young man that day,
And promptly he shared with her that he was gay.
It takes two to tango, in times such as these --
When heartbreak, I'm afraid, comes in five degrees.
The only boy who could ever reach her
Was the sweet-talkin' son of a preacher man,
A gentle soul and a caring creature,
He loved her as, perhaps, no one else can.
The event that preceded the couple's demise
Happened when her folks looked into his clear blue eyes
To which she gave a resigned sigh and an, "Oh, sure,
At least he never questions if I'm keeping kosher."
And so shaiketzes, plentiful as fish in the seas,
Make a grave number three in our five degrees.
A new category sprang when our favorite lass
Trudged one September morn to her first day of class,
To discover with horror her passion's successor
Was taken, not Jewish, gay, and her professor.
How she toiled, embroiled with this odd contradiction!
This truth stranger than what the man taught,
Which was fiction.
If I may interject, lay down one solid rule,
Don't start diggin' on faculty members, you fool!
Not this one, with four symptoms of our dread disease
Which nears us to the end of five tragic degrees.
The man's four out of five, if you're tuning in now,
Were: taken, gay, not Jewish, faculty. ... Wow.
And yet Mondays and Wednesdays, at ten thirty-five,
The pitiful damsel'd never felt so alive.
Till the last "Unattainable" clause crossed her head:
To be more out of reach, he would have to be... dead.
Though designs on deceased make good citizens tremble,
Alexander Hamilton groupies, assemble!
Sing it, sisters and brothers and all, if you please,
Of the most icky of these five cursed degrees.
Fear not, our tale ends not in murder cold-blooded;
The girl's full young heart one day simply flooded.
She joined a support group to mend her transgressions,
Fell in love, of course, with the man running the sessions,
But she got over this one, for she's growing stronger
And her attention span's gotten just that much longer.
Time to time, the old suffering she'll pause to acknowledge
There's nothing better to do - because, hey, it's college.
But sure as my piano has sixty-four keys,
Heartbreak, patient friends, comes in five degrees.
3rd Runner Up
A collection by Amitai Schmonz GS '09
Untitled
Girl from Nantucket
Tired of your crap limericks
Prefers haiku, thanks.
Three poems in the style of Ogden Nash
I. The Punther
Ogden Nash writes like a poet,
Except tersely, so you can stow it.
Should you behold a Nash oeuvre,
Prepare to swevre.
Better yet, if you’ve a question for Nash,
Don’t ash.
II. New York Real Estate
Often newcomers find that space is an issue.
To be able to turn around or stretch without punching a neighbor’s wall
might wissue.
But look on the bright side: at least when you’re home potential visitors
can’t missue.
Too large a flat and when your spouse goes on an errand on his or her way
out he or she won’t go to the effort to find and kissue.
Besides, you can make anyplace livable with a dash of creativity,
Or by purchasing expensive contraptions designed to add livity,
Or by holding a very small housewarming party and relying on guests’ givity,
Or, for those with a practical bent, oblivity.
Rich folk keep spare houses in Connecticut,
But you can’t just go off and buy one, it’s bad etiquette,
Unless you have the requisite breeding as predicate.
Does it truly matter? You betticate.
And the commute? Forgetticate.
In summary, if you want to live in the city it’s a matter of dealing with
small apartments and don’t even think about houses,
You’ve done well if you don’t sleep directly atop your neatly folded
trousers.
III. Reflections on Modern Prosperity
Dutch
Is clutch
But English
Is blinglish.
Ode from a Grecian Urn
O please, doth chill out. I’m a fucking urn.
O geez, I think that was pentameter.
Goddammit. See, you’re messing with my head!
Alone, I’d never mastered metric foot;
Your florid verse has elbowed its way in
And now I feel an ass. No, not that way,
Don’t be a perv. I don’t have any hands
Or really any apparatus for
The sensing of sensations in that sense.
What’s worse, I sense I lack your sense of rhyme.
--------------------------------------------------------
A Personal Favorite
Canadia
By Joshua Schwartz GS '08
Canadia, I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
Canadia, eleventeen dollars and seventy twenty cents, January 17, or whatever heathen calendar you use there
I can't stand all your moose(s)
Canadia, when will you give up the delusion of your sovereignty?
Go fuck yourself with your hockey stick
I don't feel warm. Don't bother me.
I won't write my poem 'til I'm in my right mind.
Canadia, when will you be civilized?
When will you take off your flannel?
When will you look at yourself through the mocking eyes of everyone else?
When will you be worthy of your twelve citizens?
Canadia, why are your libraries full of books?
Canadia, when will you send your Mounties to Iraq?
I'm sick of your inexplicable existence.
When can I go to the black market and buy what I need with my real money
Canadia, after all, it is you and the Dutch who are weird, not the normal world.
Your moose are too much for me.
You made me want to be a hockey star.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
McGill is in Montreal, but I don't think anyone goes there, it's deserted.
Are you being serious, or are you some cosmic practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
Canadia, stop pushing, I know what I'm doing.
Canadia, the pine needles aren't falling (that's why they call them "evergreens!")
I haven't read a newspaper in months, do you even have a written alphabet?
Canadia, I feel sentimental about the moose.
Canadia, I used to be dyslexic as a kid, and I'm not rosy.
I drink maple syrup every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and try to make sense of your existence.
When I go to Montreal I get laid but never in English.
My mind is made up; there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me listening to Alanis Morisette.
Canadia, it's them bad mooses.
Them mooses, them mooses, and them maple syrups. And them mooses.
The mooses want to eat us alive. The mooses are power mad.
Canadia, I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel-eh?
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Kilmer 2003
The Winner:
The Ballad of Sweet Donna Lee
By Everett Patterson CC ‘06
Draw hither, my brethren, and listen to me;
I’ll sing you the Ballad of Sweet Donna Lee
The saddest of ballads shall leave you in tears,
So sit on your asses, and lend me your ears.
T’was nary two weeks and a fortnight ago
That we all didst behear of this tale of woe
Whose rumor did fly like a dandelion spore
Through the halls of our school on th’Fair Hudson Shore
In Carman lived Maxwell, a fine freshman boy
Whom Cupid and Venus conspired to destroy
And their arrows of passion stuck deep in his heart
Like a poisonous, venomous, poisonous dart
O Max, whom to death Aphrodite hath led,
Would that I had thy fate than to see thee thus dead
To have loved and then lost is the best kind of strife,
But she didn’t love you, and you lost: your life
Thy puddles of tears tied a noose round thy neck-
Get on with the story? Just give me a sec-
I’m setting the mood here, and then I’ll proceed
With the miserable Ballad of Sweet Donna Lee
Max went out one day, when the skies were so blue,
He saw folks saying “hi,” saying “how do you do?”
And he thought to himself “what a wonderful world;
How I wish I could hook up with some random girl”
He remembered he had to buy books for a class,
So set out for that edifice, concrete and glass,
Like a Titan o’erlooking th’Fair Hudson Shore,
In the basement of which was a book-selling store
He descended those stairs, but he just might as well
Have descended the stairs to the bowels of Hell,
For there, with security guards congregated
The furies and fates by whom Maxwell was fated.
At the counter he saw her, selling some books
She worked at the register, selling the books
The name on her nametag was Francis Dupuis
But they called her, for some reason, Sweet Donna Lee
Her cheek and her lips were a fine crimson hue
And her eyes were a shade of the most verdant blue
And her hair shone with rays of the most verdant sheen
And her ears were like gems of a deep azure green
A great swell of music arose in his breast
His heart, like an alien, leapt from his chest
His soul, like a joy-bomb, exploded with joy
At that moment, gladdest of all freshman boys.
“O who is this beautiful goddess?” he cried
“This emblem of beauty confronting my eyes?
O who is this Helen? O who this Adonis?
Oh, wait, that’s a guy. I meant this… Madonna.”
So he screwed up his courage and waited in line
With some things he had never intended to buy
With the hopes of approaching this delicate flower
He stood there in line for 56 hours
In the first week of classes, the lines are quite long,
So he passed the time writing a beautiful song
To be sung to that girl who instilled him glee
And he called it that Ballad of Sweet Donna Lee
All day and all night then, his thoughts dwelt on love,
As a minister’s thoughts dwell on heaven above
And an ornithologist’s thoughts dwell on doves
And a guy who makes gloves’s thoughts dwell on gloves.
But when Max reached yon counter, his mouth was sealed shut
His lips pressed as tight as British Guard’s butt,
His tongue tied in knots that had never existed
Like twisty-bag ties when they’re overly twisted.
When she flashed him her chompers, he couldn’t respond
He just gaped like a gerbil, his confidence gone
When she asked “Are you paying with cash or with flex?”
He knew, at that moment, they’d never have sex
….er, I mean fall in love. He knew then that their love could never exist, y’know?
He left that dread bookstore a sad, broken man
With a copy of “War in Medieval Japan”
And some souvenir mugs and Columbia pencils,
And various similar cheap non-essentials.
“Alas,” bellowed Maxwell, “how cruel is my fate!
To be haplessly silenced after so long a wait!
How am I expected to woo or to dote
When my words, like popcorn, get caught in my throat?”
“O discomfort supreme; I am vexed and frustrated!
Why’d she have to go and make things so complicated?”
He knew what to do; he could stand it no more
He would cast himself off of th’Fair Hudson Shore
So he wended hi way out towards Riverside Park,
His humors were bilious, physiognomy dark
He walked across Broadway, his countenance drab,
But he didn’t look first, and was hit by a cab.
My brethren, I found myself once in the backseat
Of the man who was driving that very same taxi
Named Jacob Mohammed Siddhartha O’Sherman
Whose race and religion could not be determined.
“Mustafa,” he told me, “you know what he said?
In those pitiful moments before he was dead?
His very last words, which whispered to me, were:
“Help, I’m dying! I’m bleeding to death! CAVA!
Where the fuck is CAVA?! They’re just two blocks away!”
But just before that, his penultimate words
Was the saddest of Ballads that’s ever been heard
Shut up now, my Brethren, I’ll rap them at thee-
I’ll sing you the Ballad of Sweet Donna Lee.
The Ballad of Sweet Donna Lee
By Everett Patterson CC ‘06
Draw hither, my brethren, and listen to me;
I’ll sing you the Ballad of Sweet Donna Lee
The saddest of ballads shall leave you in tears,
So sit on your asses, and lend me your ears.
T’was nary two weeks and a fortnight ago
That we all didst behear of this tale of woe
Whose rumor did fly like a dandelion spore
Through the halls of our school on th’Fair Hudson Shore
In Carman lived Maxwell, a fine freshman boy
Whom Cupid and Venus conspired to destroy
And their arrows of passion stuck deep in his heart
Like a poisonous, venomous, poisonous dart
O Max, whom to death Aphrodite hath led,
Would that I had thy fate than to see thee thus dead
To have loved and then lost is the best kind of strife,
But she didn’t love you, and you lost: your life
Thy puddles of tears tied a noose round thy neck-
Get on with the story? Just give me a sec-
I’m setting the mood here, and then I’ll proceed
With the miserable Ballad of Sweet Donna Lee
Max went out one day, when the skies were so blue,
He saw folks saying “hi,” saying “how do you do?”
And he thought to himself “what a wonderful world;
How I wish I could hook up with some random girl”
He remembered he had to buy books for a class,
So set out for that edifice, concrete and glass,
Like a Titan o’erlooking th’Fair Hudson Shore,
In the basement of which was a book-selling store
He descended those stairs, but he just might as well
Have descended the stairs to the bowels of Hell,
For there, with security guards congregated
The furies and fates by whom Maxwell was fated.
At the counter he saw her, selling some books
She worked at the register, selling the books
The name on her nametag was Francis Dupuis
But they called her, for some reason, Sweet Donna Lee
Her cheek and her lips were a fine crimson hue
And her eyes were a shade of the most verdant blue
And her hair shone with rays of the most verdant sheen
And her ears were like gems of a deep azure green
A great swell of music arose in his breast
His heart, like an alien, leapt from his chest
His soul, like a joy-bomb, exploded with joy
At that moment, gladdest of all freshman boys.
“O who is this beautiful goddess?” he cried
“This emblem of beauty confronting my eyes?
O who is this Helen? O who this Adonis?
Oh, wait, that’s a guy. I meant this… Madonna.”
So he screwed up his courage and waited in line
With some things he had never intended to buy
With the hopes of approaching this delicate flower
He stood there in line for 56 hours
In the first week of classes, the lines are quite long,
So he passed the time writing a beautiful song
To be sung to that girl who instilled him glee
And he called it that Ballad of Sweet Donna Lee
All day and all night then, his thoughts dwelt on love,
As a minister’s thoughts dwell on heaven above
And an ornithologist’s thoughts dwell on doves
And a guy who makes gloves’s thoughts dwell on gloves.
But when Max reached yon counter, his mouth was sealed shut
His lips pressed as tight as British Guard’s butt,
His tongue tied in knots that had never existed
Like twisty-bag ties when they’re overly twisted.
When she flashed him her chompers, he couldn’t respond
He just gaped like a gerbil, his confidence gone
When she asked “Are you paying with cash or with flex?”
He knew, at that moment, they’d never have sex
….er, I mean fall in love. He knew then that their love could never exist, y’know?
He left that dread bookstore a sad, broken man
With a copy of “War in Medieval Japan”
And some souvenir mugs and Columbia pencils,
And various similar cheap non-essentials.
“Alas,” bellowed Maxwell, “how cruel is my fate!
To be haplessly silenced after so long a wait!
How am I expected to woo or to dote
When my words, like popcorn, get caught in my throat?”
“O discomfort supreme; I am vexed and frustrated!
Why’d she have to go and make things so complicated?”
He knew what to do; he could stand it no more
He would cast himself off of th’Fair Hudson Shore
So he wended hi way out towards Riverside Park,
His humors were bilious, physiognomy dark
He walked across Broadway, his countenance drab,
But he didn’t look first, and was hit by a cab.
My brethren, I found myself once in the backseat
Of the man who was driving that very same taxi
Named Jacob Mohammed Siddhartha O’Sherman
Whose race and religion could not be determined.
“Mustafa,” he told me, “you know what he said?
In those pitiful moments before he was dead?
His very last words, which whispered to me, were:
“Help, I’m dying! I’m bleeding to death! CAVA!
Where the fuck is CAVA?! They’re just two blocks away!”
But just before that, his penultimate words
Was the saddest of Ballads that’s ever been heard
Shut up now, my Brethren, I’ll rap them at thee-
I’ll sing you the Ballad of Sweet Donna Lee.
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