Dynamics Imaged

O haggis, hunkered halfway up the hill,
uneven legs in fore-and-aft matched pairs,
each to the other skewed like stick in plaice
before the batter’s up in golden ducks,
attend right-thinking running, circle up
or down the slope until the golden mean
of altitude, corrected for spare crags,
prevails, and you proceed goat-like to graze
at ease and restfully, your haggis rules
OK, exemplifying strange attractors,
repelling border colleens, collies, kilts,
and robber burns on ceremonial night.
And, haggis, try to live as if you’ve got
the grit required to stomach Mandelbrot.

IF the weather is nice where you are, please by all means go out and play. But if, as here, the sea is too cold and petrol prices are STILL too high for happy Sunday motoring, perhaps you could help me with these footnotes.

FOOTNOTES (so far, so good, so what <s>):

1. ‘haggis’ — A delicate, delicious smallish creature hunted in the Highlands for its meet and for the hill of it. Pulled more successfully than birds by Dawkins shellfish jeans to the extent that its right legs (called Bermudas) are shorter than its left (called Levis).

2. ‘hunkered’ — Squatted down close to the ground, but not as in a squat. Unclear as to why this footnote is needed at all, except that one would have to renumber the rest (except one, ‘1’) were it taken out.

3. ‘skewed like stick in plaice’ — An impossible situation, like the impossible animal that exists (footnote 1), since a stick that is IN a plaice (large edible flat-bodied fish Pleuronectes platessa in European seas) can NOT be skewed (neither parallel nor intersecting) to said plaice. Cf. Macbeth: Act 1, Scene 7, Macbeth’s castle:
MACBETH: If we should fail?

LADY MACBETH: We fail!
But screw your courage to the
sticking-place,
And we’ll not fail.

4. ‘before the batter’s up in golden ducks’ — Before all the batter (for the plaice) has been used up playing with our food, making little golden-fried ducks. Alternatively, for those who find the first explanation not cricket, before the batsman’s or batswoman’s turn is up by being out with a nil score (from a ‘duck’s egg,’ shaped like a zero). There is of course a third and very important possibility relating back to the skew framework of the poet’s mind [sick? sic?] of batter as a transitive verb for building a wall or similar so as to form an upwardly receding slope ‘The Haggis Hunting Ground,’ but by now this footnote itself is getting battered beyond all redemption.

5. ‘attend right-thinking running’ — Admonishing the haggis to pay attention to conventional ideas of morality, propriety, and decorum whilst ALSO running to the right (otherwise it would turn its short legs to the downside of the hill and fall into the hunters’ sacks) and whilst ALSO concentrating to avoid coming too close to the perpendicular (and falling into the hunters’ sacks).

6. ‘circle up / or down the slope until the golden mean / of altitude’ —Advising the haggis (so that it may avoid falling into the hunters’ sacks) to find and keep to that aesthetically pleasing and just-right height (which the haggis computes on the trot, the ratio of the whole line to the larger part being exactly the same as the ratio of the larger part to the smaller part) where its leg-length challenge matches the mountain’s slope-flat challenge.

7. ‘haggis rules / OK’ — Reminiscent of the wonder which led one seeker of truth to The Linguist List, Eastern Michigan University dash Wayne State University to ask, on Saturday, 11 September at 09:22:06, ‘I’ve seen several British spray-painted slogans of the form “X rules OK” on walls and other outdoor surfaces. Can someone explain the syntax to me?’ He didn’t seem to get an answer.

8. ‘exemplifying strange attractors, / repelling’ — Attractors and repellers are, of course, WHAT THE WHOLE POEM IS ABOUT <s>

9. ‘border colleens, collies, kilts,’ — Since this is simply about complexity and chaos, it follows that we mix up the Borders — Scots going to Ireland, Irish girls coming back to Scotland, etc.

10. ‘robber burns on ceremonial night.’ — In Dutch ‘robber’ means ‘seal’ which is a red herring of another colour. The line itself should have Robert Burns whirling in Dumfries, which is only fair seeing how many poor little haggis have been hunted down over the years to accompany the mashed turnip, mashed potato, and mashed whisky at Burns Suppers. O, Immortal Memory.

11. ‘the grit required to stomach Mandelbrot’ — Somewhat at ‘out of the mouth (stoma) of Benoit’ but not very. More at ‘Fractal, fractal on the wall.’ I rest my case of Jacques Denials.

Teatime at Guinness Outpost

My spelling checker flips to Rorschach mode.
‘Cremates’ was its suggestion for ‘cream teas’
when I typed ‘creamteas’. The ill this flip must bode
is the basis for my trembling as I ease
a first Guinness from the sideboard, let it chill
down to the temperature of the room
I pretend is British but comes from the bill
for heating that I swept with a new broom
into the fireplace where I store the wood.
I could not pay. When I told that to the gas
man, he said, ‘I did not think you would’.
Read and tremble at what comes to pass
when poets stoop to identicals to rhyme
and chat with spelling checkers till drinks time.

Inn Fashions

The old man doffs his nightingale and whinnies.
Aware from stares that his garb is wrong, he waits
near the entrance, while his hostess sets him straight.
‘You’re adorned in bird, as we all are on Wednesdays

but it’s Tuesday! Tuesdays tout le monde wears cow
in pieces on our heads and hands and feet.
And we don’t speak horse on Tuesdays, we all tweet,’
she trills, thrilled seeing he remembers now.

Itinerant Bon Mots Balls

Poem fragments form the flimsiest bon mots,
Being foreign-born moths, unused to English sun,
they mistake it for the moon and navigate
most erringly and end up waxing wroth.
No dotage-hampered colt whose race is run
nor any whinny-jaded reprobate
anticipates a moth preserved as Goth.
There are none here: no mots preserved in amber.
They ambled, rambled, flew the coop and went
back where they came from or straight on to Ghent.

Were Worthy Were

‘Which words resemble me?’ I asked.
The Red Queen answered, ‘None.’

‘Is that use or mention?’ I inquired.
‘Do no words look like me?

Is “None” my doppelgänger, Ma’am?’
There was silence in the Hall.

When someone laughed, ‘Off with his head!’
was what the Red Queen screamed.

Her liveried rabbits strode my way
and pointed tungsten pikes

at what I hoped was someone stood
behind me, and it was.

It was my password Were who laughed:
it was my old friend Were.

Were simpered still, subjectively.
The Red Queen rose, irate,

and ripped a pike from a rabbit’s hands
and smote Were on his pate.

And what was Were right up to then
went weirdly inert.

From the nose bleed nudged by queenly pike
rose flowers on Were’s shirt.

I wished no more that I were Were;
were that so I’d be dead.

I woke and wept for Were who wasn’t
anymore, and left.

Schnidly’s Gasconade Gas

His gasconade, his stock in trade,
pretending catachresis
is what he meant in lines he’s rent
asunder in his thesis,

makes Schnidly head of his Sixth Form’s
poetic blunders study
where his mix of misty metaphors
has drove his tutor nutty.

He lets the runner in his ode
fly to the Finnish line
to stub his toe on Maginot
and tentatively entwine

his privates with his general quarters
whilst striking up the band
which gets him reprimanded
by a mandrill Genghis Kahn.

Schnidly is three wines into Monday
when elevenses are served
and he’s sure the Candy Stripers
on his ward think he is perved.

He enrols in near-rhyme sonnets
cause he’s been banned from dizains
and he craves Alsatian curry
when he gazes at Great Danes

like his Hamlet who’s been hamstrung
by Schnidly’s lame production
of Shakespeare’s classic tragedy.
He has brought the Bard destruction.

Clarity Begins at Home

Eurasia is an island of such grand impressive size
we say it’s not an island. But it is.
If you’re not there, and want to be,
somewhere you have to cross some sea
so QED the OED decrees Eurasia too must be
as insular as Maui, Crete, and Capri
unless we trash consistency
and rule exceptions set us free
of meaning anything when we
presume to name what we discern
and what we don’t. We never learn.

Not Much Speak Of

Two languages, two accents, neither mine.
I can do them both, not adequately but so
you’d recognize their traces in my whine
and bark and stops for glottal. Travels sow
the seeds for weedy puns and frontiers grow
so porous that they’re more honoured in the breach
than in the competence I nearly reach.
Occasioning confusion, stares and glee,
I am grateful that despite my slanted speech
the natives here, and there, are kind to me.