Today a little updating of Shakespeare “All the World’s a Stage” soliloquy similar to my last attempt (“To Blog or Not to Blog”) for your reading and commenting pleasure …

All the world’s a blog,
And all the men and women merely writers:
They have their posts and their reposts;
And one blogger in the Blogosphere writes of many farts,
His acts being seven ages.
Like a kid in fact, he spews and pukes on other’s blogs.
And then like the wine-drinking schoolboy, blogging with his Gallo
And red morning face, creeping like a drunk snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover, signing the girl’s privates guestbook, with a sad blog dedicated to T and A.
Then a soldier, full of Iraq angst and bearded like the bard, jealous of Petraeus’s seat, secret and quick in quarrel, seeking no trouble or reputation.
Even there be a sharp comment near Bush’s mouth.
Ah the justice, on a fat tummy, a capon (castrated cock),
With a tough guy visage and a bikers beard,
Full of shit and modern contrivances;
And so he writes in his blog. The next,
Old man, thin in fuzzy bunny slippers,
With spectacles on nose and paunch of belly,
His unyouthful member, Viagra driven, a world too long
For his shrunk shank; and his manly blog,
Turning toward kid again, music players
Crank out the songs. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful blog,
Is second childishness and the internet down,
Sans readers, sans comments, sans blogs, sans everything!

The question for today is which of the Bard’s seven parts (kid, schoolboy, lover, etc.) are you playing these days?

Oh yeah, here’s the original passage from “As you Like It” so you can see for yourself how badly I butchered it …

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

You cannot help but notice when that happens and you wince when you hear it. No, the breaking heart, from the perspective of the hapless bystanders hearing on, just beats near imperceptibly faster. And the faintest of tears registers, picked up possibly only by acute dogs without the capacity or reason to fathom what they have just heard.

Let us assume you are the breakee. For you it is a much different story. For you it is like death warmed over. The tiniest of fissures grows with the gravitational force a black hole. For a split second all the world’s light and love and beauty get sucked through to nothingness. The vacuum left in that wake creates an ache of devastating loss. It ranges from pit of your stomach to the nadir of your soul. That chasm grows ever wider and deeper.

You blame, you curse, but no one hears. You poke, you punch, but no one hurts. You seek solace. You seek that whole feeling again. Instead you find anguish. Instead you fall into that pit and wallow in your own sorrow.

Now let us assume for a moment that you are the breaker. For you it is easy. For you it is like a sunny walk in the park. You go about your life as if nothing happened. Like a molting snake you squeeze out of the skin that had been constricting your freedom. You come out all shiny and new and fresh. Your leavings draped across you ex-lovers lap.

You dance on their grave. You leap with joy. Little do you realize in those flush first few moments that a part of you died as well. That you, too, were fundamentally shaken to your core. Your recovery time is faster, but your scars will tell a far different story.

You see when two hearts come together and keep time they synchronize. Their fluids mix. They take on an auricle familiarity. So any separation process is bound to cause trauma, leakage, and pain. The leading cause of this separation is an imbalance in pumping power. This has to do with a mismatch in timing more than anything else. One heart invariably beats faster, stronger for the other.

As a result even the minutest of tears can lead to a painful rendering that produces the faintest of faint audible sounds, the sound of a heart breaking.

What is the sound of heart break to you?
Have you had your heart broken and how would you describe the experience?

Anyone done Donne?

Do you think love is more constant or ephemeral?  Lasting or transient? 

Ever had a transgender experience?

The original for your reading pleasure …

Go and catch a falling star by Johnny Donne

Go and catch a falling star,    

Get with child a mandrake root, 

Tell me where all past years are,    

Or who cleft the Devil’s foot;  

Teach me to hear mermaids singing,         

Or to keep off envy’s stinging, 

And find  what wind  serves to advance an honest mind.  

If thou be’st born to strange sights,  

Things invisible to see,  

Ride ten thousand days and nights    

Till Age snow white hairs on thee; 

Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me 
all strange wonders that befell thee,  

And swear nowhere  lives a woman true and fair.    

If thou find’st one, let me know;    

Such a pilgrimage were sweet.  

Yet do not; I would not go,

Though at next door we might meet. 

Though she were true when you met her,  

And last till you write your letter,          

Yet she  will be  false, ere I come, to two or three.

This is such an awesome poem.  I didn’t fully comprehend the depth of emotion when I read it in my youth.  It’s a poem you read several times and each time it reveals a bit more … skin. 

Ode to Grecian Toilet

Thou still unflush’d urn of quietness
Thou foster-pot of silence and slow time,
Porcelain historian, who canst thus expel
A smelly tail more stinky than our rhyme:
What seat-tring’d legend haunts about thy oblong shape
Of defecating deities or mortals, or from both,
In Tempe, Arizona or the dales of Arcadia, Texas?
What men or gods are these? What maidens constipated?
What sad kerplunk? What struggle to evacuate?
What pipes and hand soaps? What wild ecstasy?

Unheard splashes are sweet, but those heard
Are sweeter still; therefore, ye soft pipes, flush on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more rear end’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditzies of no tone:
Fair youth, upon the chamber pot, thou canst not leave
Thy toilet, forever while thy ass be bare
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou’st piss, Though
Winning near the hole – yet, do not grieve;
She cannot aid, though thou hast not thy piss,
For ever wilt thou grunt, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy logs! That cannot roll
Over at all, nor ever bid the Ring adieu;
And, happy kerplunkist, unwearied,
For ever piping leavings for ever doo;
More nappy love! More nappy, nappy love!
For ever warm and runny not to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting and for ever grunting;
All expelling human passion far below,
That leaves a butt low-sorrowful and soil’d,
A burning sphincter, and marching runs.

Who are these coming to the orifice?
To what white altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer blowing chunks in the bowl,
And all her silken dranks of long island iced teas ingest’d?
What riddle down by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied by this flush, this pious swab?
And, riddled brown chunks, thy treats for evermore
Will violent barfed be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art chocolate, eaten e’er day before.

O bowel shape! Fair platitude! with screed
Of marble hue and lengthy perfection sought,
With forest leaves, the deed to wipe;
Thou, silent form, dost tease out of us, snot
As doth eternity: Cold Latrine!
When old stench shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst never apropos
Than ours, a friend of the man, to whom thou bay’est,
“Turd is truth, truth turd,” – that is all
Ye know in the water closet, all ye need to know.

And the original …

Ode to a Grecian Urn

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

The Brytany
Brytany, Brytany, burning bright
In the nightclubs in plain sight,
What immoral hand or eye
Could feel up thy fearful symmetry?

In what deep fat-fryer lies?
Burnt food to show up on thy thighs?
With Kevin what kids doth thy sire?
What the band dare seize the liar?

And what boulder and what fart
Could pinch the nose – “PU’s” – of thy tart?
And when thy fart began to stink
What dread band and what dread lip-sync?

What the MC Hammer? What the Alice in Chains?
In what sternness was thy vain?
What the advil? What dread gasp
Dare its deadly voice rasp?

When the stars threw down their Spears
And watered heaven with their beers,
Did He test His work to pee?
Did He who ate the lamb roast thee?

Brytany, Brytany, burning bright
In the nightclubs in plain sight,
What immoral hand or eye
Could feel up thy fearful symmetry?

The Tyger
Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Why do you write blogs?
Why do you read them?

So i’m having trouble with my RSS feed and this is a test. I plan to render my spoof poems as podcasts so this will be podcasted once i get the technical chops.