After a much needed break from the pace of the 100 Days 100 Poems project, we return with something new and, to steal a phrase from the Pythons, with something completely different. Thank you for joining us.
Code Switching #13
In English we have the humble
to fart, the simple fart, the straightforward fart
a short sharp sound that, when silent,
and that four-letter, one-syllable word
doesn’t do much more than that,
though sometimes we fart around
which, luckily for bystanders,
isn’t often accompanied by the
burst of intestinal gas that can be
quite noxious, and sometimes
we talk about the old farts,
geriatric friends and not noxious fumes
aged like a sulfuric wine.
But in French,
oh the French,
you can péter or you can
faire un pet--imagine doing or making a fart
like a special project,
and in accomplishing it
you can be so full of yourself
that you’ll fart higher than your own ass
péter plus haut que son cul
and should that project,
in the greatest Franco-American GI liberation collaboration,
create a capitalist’s dream
you could péter dans la soie,
roll in money while you fart in silk
and péter, too, can mean
to blow up or to break
like we break wind
or blow it out our asses
and if our project above falls through
then notre projet de faire un pet pète dans nos mains
falls, no wafts, straight through our hands.
And should we get enraged
at the failed fart project
or the police farting around with people’s lives
then it’s a perfect time to
péter la gueule à eux, tu vois
smash their faces in, you see,
which means we’ve probably
pété des flammes, turned nasty they say,
which farting flames might do
and in so doing
we would péter les plombs
or péter un boulon
losing it like
nous avons pété un câble
gone off the rails because farting wire rope,
well, you know, a cable,
is the opposite of bursting with health
you know, péter la sante
and with all this farting around it’s hard to imagine we don’t end here
not trying to smash someone’s face in
but here, instead,
où on se pète la gueule
where we do smash our own faces--
with bottles of Bordeaux and cognac
and armagnac and champagne
because here at least we find the switch,
where getting smashed means the same thing:
a hearty Baudelairean call
to get drunk.
©David Siller – 2021
Let’s do one more #TantrumTanka. This is one tweet I’d like to see from the so-called Trumpet-in-chief.
I am FUCKFACE von
CLOWNSTICK and I am truly
#REALLYGREAT! I’m the
Original. Great. Orange. Hope.
© David Siller – 2017
For the first 100 days of the Trumpet administration, this blog will feature a new poem of protest, by my own hand and by others. They will be polished gems, or rough cut drafts of rage, or in process pieces searching for peace. They may be haiku or tanka, limericks or lyrics, verses free or fettered. If you would like to submit to this endeavor, please send an email, with poem saved as a word document (.docx) to waxyandpoetic AT gmail DOT com. All rights remain with the author. VISUAL ARTISTS ! Do you have something visually poetic that you’d like to submit? GO FOR IT!
Please address any formatting preferences in your email. I will post submissions time permitting, with at least one per day. Editing will be limited to obvious errors of spelling and the like.
Read, follow, share, re-tweet, submit, live, love, spread light! Don’t forget to use #100Days100Poems !
The following is an attempt at a sonnet in French (panic not! a translation, rough like sandpaper, follows). For those francophones who follow the blog, it is not really a sonnet in French, given the sketchy scansion and non-rhymes of some lines. So let’s call it a faux-sonnet, or a fauxnnet, shall we?
La Société Surréaliste
Les araignées et les citrouilles font la grève,
dans laquelle je vois des immeubles flambés,
allumés par les dalmatiens-pompiers.
Au jardin, un chameau lit un journal, fume, rêve
de l’avenir, de l’eau. Il feint d’ignorer l’élève
qui essayait de nouer un plan. Mais il s’est
noué dans ses idées. Et le chameau, il sait
libérer cette peste—ils s'associent à la grève.
Les araignées, les citrouilles sont sérieuses
bien que le chameau et l’élève dansent et chantent
en écoutant la musique des manifestants.
Je me demande: Comment on capte le merveilleux?
La télé montre cette spectacle obsolète
et n’importe où quelque dieu se gratte la tête.
The spiders and pumpkins are on strike,
in which I see burning buildings
lit by firefighter-dalmatians.
In the park, a camel is reading a newspaper, smoking, dreaming
of the future, of water. He pretends to ignore the student
who is trying to come up with a plan. But he's caught
up in his own ideas. And the camel, he knows
how to free this pain in the neck--they join the strike.
The spiders and pumpkins are serious
even though the camel and the student sing and dance
while listening to the music of the protestors.
I wonder: How do you get the marvelous?
The TV captures this obsolete spectacle
and where ever you like, some god is scratching his head.