A GREEN DANCE FOR NOSTRA DAVUS

 Thine cigarette acanthian danglus
Nether the helixed furrow,
The Tourettian maw, gorged angrus,
Dark fleuron horripilate a-skirrow –
AND a two-by-four in hand! Thus
The threat strident synopts Corinth rusts
To effluous exculpt Thermaeus, invidious
And ichor, unequal spirits agin enlists.

Beware! Thy crepidoma as asparagus
Be clast, be caesured! Inflame us
And decoct’ll be thy lance! Is Thermae pus?
Sewage? Septic cess? And yet may frank debase,
Unthrone Corinth – and, Ozymandius, at end: you’ll
Place your ASHO vis’ down to respect, with kiss, my Thermaenus!

Copyright © 1980, 2004, 2009 K’lakokum [3 versions]

Biographical notes: K'LAKOKUM AND JAYMES HEAD WEST [1968]

Four days after his 16th birthday, Kangaroo Poet K’lakokum obtained his driver’s licence, and immediately invested $25 into a 1958 VW Beetle. The car had no working starter motor, so it had to be parked on a hill in order to start by popping the clutch, or, alternatively, had to be pushed about 40 yards in order to get a running start. The car’s brakes were on their last legs, and the engine leaked oil hideously. No horn or right turn signal. Good to go! In the days before insurance, safety inspections and seat belts became required, of course. Fifty bucks for an “Uninsured Motor Vehicle Certificate”, twelve bucks for registration and plates, one buck for sales tax; $1.29 plus tax for a guest book to be signed by hitch-hikers -- total cost to get on the road: $89.35 [didn’t have to buy the pen to sign the guest book].
At the time, K’lakokum lived in a $14-a-week room above The Grab Bag in Yorkville. The room contained four mattresses wall to wall and nothing else except the seven other tenants. Those wall-to-wall hippies included Kangaroo Poet Jaymes, recently arrived after a difference of opinion with the Draft Board in Pittsburg.
Jaymes had a hankering to see his dinosaur relatives in Drumheller, Alberta, and K’lakokum had an interest in returning to his roots in the Okanagan, so the like-minded poets set out for The West.
Near Oak Lake, Manitoba, the VW’s engine gave up. Jaymes had a cursing fit – you should’ve added oil in Winnipeg! – grabbed his back-pack and started walking to Alberta. Two-and-a-half years before he was seen again.
K’lakokum sat on the shoulder of the Trans-Canada Highway and wrote a psalm.
Writing a psalm was necessary, because with less than 50 bucks in his pocket, and all his worldly possessions within the Beetle or tied to the roof rack [over six feet high!], the situation was critical. And the prayer received an immediate answer. A farmer on a tractor had been working in a nearby field and rode over to investigate. “She’s toast, piston’s right through the block” he advised. Noticing the VW back seat tied onto the top of the roof heap [K’lakokum had removed it to make more room inside the car for valuables], he said, “seat’s in durn good shape, I need one for my car. Tell you what I’ll do – I’ll give you $45 for the car, and give you a ride into town with your gear.” SOLD! This provided enough funds for a week at a cheap hotel room in Brandon, and some duct tape. K’lakokum got some empty cartons at a nearby Loblaws, packaged all his possessions, securely taping each carton, and walked these one-by-one across the street to the railway station for shipment to relatives in B.C.  Enough cash left over for tinned sardines, bare bread and an orange per day for a week. Lucked out getting a job the next day and ended up spending three months in that hotel room. The room was directly above the band-stage of the bar on the main floor, and JOE SOUTH was entertaining there. South’s theme song was Games People Play and he finished off every night with the lines
                                                

people are talking about you and me
     but I don’t give a damn
          damn damn damn

drumbeat for each damn, shaking K’lakokum’s room, grew to hate the song with passion, greatly relieved when the racket was finally over each night so he could get some sleep, early rise to go to work.

A POLITICALLY CORRECT POETRY CONTEST

The National Poetry Contest had come down to two semi-finalists: a University of Toronto graduate, and a Grade Ten drop-out Newfoundlander.  The contestants were given a single word and were then permitted two minutes to compose a poem which contained that word.  The word given was TIMBUKTU.  After the commercial break (the contest was televised), the U of T graduate stepped to the microphone and recited:

Slowly across the desert sand

Trekked a lonely caravan –

Men on camels, two by two –

Destination:  Timbuktu.

The studio audience cheered wildly.  Surely, the Newfie would not top that effort.  There was a hush of anticipation as the latter calmly made his way to the microphone to recite:

Me and Tim a-huntin’ went,

Met t’ree gals in a pop-up tent;

Dey was t’ree, an’ we was two,

So I bucked one, and Timbuktu.

The Newfie won.

NORM ON THE NATURE OF THE POET

I suppose every person interested in poetry has their own concept as to what poetry is. For me, it is a means of communication. The most easily understood poetry (and to that extent, the best) must be in contemporary language. Rarely used and archaic words, though they may attest to the writer’s erudition, seldom contribute to the clarity of the message. A successful poem is one which communicates most gracefully and skillfully with the greatest impact. Good poetry does not arise from trite or trivial concepts. An inconsequential message is just that. A memorable poem must be one that treats the subject more deeply or deftly than has been done before. The more convinced a poet is that she has the truth in her grasp; the more likely she is sucking her own thumb for sustenance. If truth is so easy to perceive as some bland verse would have, we should all have long since been redeemed. For a poet, the paradox affirms the essential mystery. Poets of the clearest vision do not trot happily along the paths of dogma. They are doubters. They constantly strive to reach the misty heights, which are seldom attained, yet shimmer in the distance.

Norman Jakob Craven    Dec.6, 1974

HANS BIOGRAPHICAL EXCERPT FROM NEBIRU THIS WEEK (Christmas, 2004):

[FROM A REVIEW OF GEORGE ORWELL’S ANIMAL FARM]

……..Peter Worthington recently (Oct. 8^th, The Toronto Sun) referred to George Orwell’s Animal Farm as “…the most thorough (and effective) indictment of totalitarian horror ever done” and Peter’s view is held by many others of the over 3 million past purchasers of that book.  This is a view shared by Kangaroo Poet Karol Hans Jewinski, although having met Eric Blair (Orwell’s real name) in 1922, Hans was always puzzled as to how Orwell could have written such a masterpiece.  In 1922, the 18 year-old Orwell joined the Indian Imperial Police and while in training, had a brief chess and conversation relationship with the 16 year-old Hans, refugee via Afghanistan to India from the Russian Civil War, with the latter practicing his newly-acquired English, and the former practicing his French.  Hans talked about his personal experience of the horrors of the Bolshevik Revolution, but could not dissuade Orwell from what became life-long socialist views.  These were so strongly held that Orwell later fought on the socialist side in the Spanish Civil War.  Although he wrote two worldwide best sellers [Animal Farm and 1984] against totalitarianism, and quite clearly diagnosed the techniques and flaws of totalitarianism, Orwell remained such a socialist idealist, that he was unable to connect socialism with totalitarianism.  In his personal philosophy, he could not see that he was just like his pig-character, Napoleon, who felt that he knew better and was capable and justified in making decisions on other people’s behalf.  There is a very fine line between the voluntary socialism practiced by, for example, the early Christian Church, and the compulsion issuing forth from modern socialist governments.  Hans spent 88 years of his long life actively battling every form of totalitarianism, and this book comes highly recommended by him in spite of his personal doubts about the author……..

[NOTE: this item provides some of the clues needed to win free books in our LUCKY 13 contest.  See http://kangaroopoets.blogspot.com/2011/03/win-100-bucks-in-store-merchandise.html  ]

REINCARNATING THE LOST CONTINENT

The conversations around game play by the Kangaroo Poets, as they tinkered in 1970 with a runic game invented by K’lakokum, demonstrated that all of the Poets had an interest in reincarnation.  By 1979, all had gone through past-life regression to obtain more information on their personal histories, and it was discovered that eight of the Poets had lived before, in Atlantis.  JDC and Andrea had been siblings, but none of the other Poets had met in those previous lives.  Six of the Kangaroos had been animal-people, enslaved by the better-people [cf. Joseph Reiss and Edgar Cayce] at the time of the species and race wars when Atlantis went into rapid decline following extra-terrestrial invasion.  There were four distinct humanoid types embattled for control of the planet, and the weapons of their warfare were not carnal.  The reptilians won and have remained in control of the planet.  Of which Charles Fort [see Book of the Damned] comments that we (humans) keep cattle; who keeps us?  Three of the invading species raptured off the planet, abandoning homo sapiens to reptilian metaphysical re-engineering.  It was at that time that K’lakokum became the first Royal Librarian in the capital city of Atla (on the ley-line intersect which is now at Sao Miguel in the Acores).  Prior to the re-engineering which de-activated 10 of our 12 DNA strands, reading and writing were unknown and unnecessary.  We all used telepathy to communicate – letters, e-mails and cell phones did not exist.  If anyone needed particular knowledge, they were able to withdraw it from The Field – research, education (programming) and memory were unknown and unnecessary when everyone was able to access the Akashic Record.  The point here being:  all of the Kangaroo Poets have an interest in Atlantis which is reflected in their poetry.

WIN 100 BUCKS IN STORE MERCHANDISE!!

The 13 Kangaroo City Poets are all guests at an out-of-town wedding, and register at the same hotel. Using the Lucky 13 clues and other information within my blogs [click on my profile picture for links] or on the NEBIRU CROSSING Facebook page [remember to ‘like’ it!], determine the order in which the 13 Poets checked in to the hotel. CLEARLY PRINT your answer, using the designated initials of the Poets from the list below, in the order of their arrival, and CLEARLY PRINT your name and mailing address on a postcard, and mail it to 

NEBIRU CROSSING
74—150 Clark Blvd.,

Brampton,  ON,

CANADA L6T 4Y8

If you are unable to solve the logic puzzle, you can enter anyways for a consolation prize, by printing LUCKY 13 instead of the answer on your postcard.

Every participant will receive a small prize in the mail; one person per hundred or part thereof of correct entries will receive 100 Nebiru Bucks redeemable for store merchandise.

THE POETS in alphabetical order by first name:

ARL...Andrea Riel-Lean

BS...Bernhardt Schmidt

HSPF...Helen Saint Paul Franklin

JG...Jaymes Gormann

JDC...John David Caveney

JHM...John Hanley Morgan

KHJ...Karol Hans Jewinski

K...K’lakokum

NJC...Norman Jakob Craven

RD...Rabin Duff

RW...Robbin Warde

SBL...Sydney Barak Lynt

WNM...William Nathaniel Morris IV

LUCKY 13 CLUES:

1] Only one of these statements is not true.

2] A murderer who never wore nylons arrived between poets of the same first initial, equi-distant from woman and priest.

3] The gay ones were first and last to arrive.

4] The 6th arrival has never been in Afghanistan.

5] The Poet who beat Eric at chess arrived close to the middle of the pack.

6] The ordained arrived in alphabetical order.

7] The third “J” to arrive was followed immediately by the fat one who truly weighs an architect and a shaman in number.

8] The Unitarian said grace as Paul started hosting a BBQ before any of the shaman poets arrived.

9] The glassmaker, stargazer, and canoeist arrived in alphabetical order.

10] The red head arrived after all those with “J” in their name.

11] The architect followed immediately the priest.

12] The ‘A’s and ‘E’s of the cook’s name, number his arrival.

13] The last of the “J” poets arrived after the triplets.

TWENTY-ONE TAXI SALUTE

Kangaroo Poet Sydney Barak Lynt is a professional photographer in St.Catharines, Ontario, where he was born and has spent most of his life, and also has a studio in Brampton, Ontario.  One of his many hobbies is Bob Dylan – Syd has attended over 300 Bob Dylan concerts. One of Syd’s quirks is that he refuses to own an automobile.  As a result, he takes a lot of taxis, and has had a special affinity for cab drivers ever since he was one himself while a student at the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology.  Many cabbies are moonlighting musicians or starving artists, and Syd collects their music and art.  He also takes up public issues raised by cabbies. The current issue is one raised by Brampton taxi driver Donald Low, who is one of twenty-one cabbies, and the protagonist, named in the poem below.

TWENTY-ONE TAXI SALUTE

A dam, broken only once (the foal

A damsel fair), her mare material goal

A lexicon of all desire and fame:

A runner for her purse – took that same tame

Normal Clydesdale sire first victim of her

Con; radiantly gelding his resource.  He sure

Missed her odd jersey’d ride when whip nor

Jimmy could crack her saddle’s door;

Computer passworded to prevent all re-

Lease, a freshening of any kind.  Will she

Mar your manger’s low feasts, your new

[                                                     ]

Dill on cheese on rye?  “Yes, she is to

    Moan easeily, but never neighing for bust

    Me.  Shell out instead!!  Cussed,

    Roger those fares!  My trip sheets now must

    Surge far fatter furlong funds.”  Just

    Share “E” for “emptied” of that lust

    Stevedore or sailor is said to trust:

    Wend your weary way to dust!

Don Low’s issue is that Revenue Canada no longer accepts legal tender in payment of taxes!  Yes, you got that correct – the Government of Canada no longer accepts its own money!  Taxi fares in Canada include the 6% Goods and Services Tax, which all cabbies are required periodically to turn in to Revenue Canada.  This no-currency policy, implemented by RevCan on August 13, was adopted because of declining volumes of cash payments.  Out of 18.3 million payments received in the first six months this year, only three-tenths of one per cent were made in cash, so RevCan has decided they no longer want to count your cash, in the interests of "improving payment efficiency".  [And they'll also have a paper trail to follow via your cheque to confiscate more of your money.]

Copyright © 2003, Syd B. Lynt    [previously published in South of Tuk]

THE KANGAROO POETS PLEDGE, 1970

We believe that love and knowledge are the twin and intertwined strands of Life, our most precious possession;

that we should mobilize all the forces of creation against all the forces of death;

that voluntary co-operation one choice at a time, rather than competition, is the path for the advance of humanity;

that we should preserve the physical resources of our planet as a heritage for those to follow;

that, in consequence, we should avoid the pollution or destruction of our water, our air, and our own bodies;

from which follows that we shall eat only fresh, natural, pure and wholesome food [spiritual and temporal] free of chemicals and artificial processing, and shall live a simple, natural and creative life-style, absorbing all that we can from the sources of love and knowledge in and around us;

that we shall endeavour to be in harmony with all life;

we specifically agree that we shall live in each other’s thoughts, and freely grant the use of our thoughts from each to all, from all to each;

we believe the advance of humanity begins with each of our individual efforts, each being one necessary part of a whole body;

we believe that whatever is physically possible and morally right can be made financially possible;

we believe in the Fatherhood of God, the Motherhood of Nature, and the Brotherhood of Man

AUGUST 28th: FOR A SON ON HIS BIRTHDAY

AUGUST 28^th: FOR A SON ON HIS BIRTHDAY

your mother was a teen-age single night

a rumour fading fading

to the remembered gleam

the well coming warm wetness

the satin skin

the snow blowing ice hammers

against her pane

where we were both as young and warm and safe

as nursing kittens

that winter day

and i was thinking of rosie it was

her fourteenth birthday

i was thinking of the sound of music

on wholesome okanagan hills

perhaps that’s why

you had her eyes her song your aunt

was the first thing i noticed

in your face

at the detroit airport

first son

when you met me face to face

first time

you were born on goethe’s birthday

on tolstoy’s birthday too

it could have been so significant

to live longer than jesus

if you had not acquired

immune deficiency syndrome

the fourth time face to face

was the face of death

withered and empty

in the soul-less casket

we never knew each other

or of each other

until freedom of information

made us prisoners of curiosity

the state of wisconsin

the province of ontario

co-operatively unraveling

our history

tying the umbilical threads

together for you

you found your mother’s teen-age single night

there was a record

of the rumour fading

drifting out good-bye

you she safe-deposited

and lost the key

i never knew to wonder

but had the magazine

(she was behind yoko ono once

in a photograph)

you wanted a white wedding

and biological assurances

your only yearn

for the missing persons

of your blood

face to face

i thanked frieda and bertholdt

that chose you to be son

doubly german-american

you ate all your vegetables

you hammered your motorcycle

over a cliff

broke half your bones

on river rocks

the red cross blood saved you

for a while

for eight years

until long death was discovered

in the gift of life’s

short aids

face to face alive

three times

about nine hours

five hundred minutes

not enough to be father and son

but longer than the teen-age single night

of snow blowing ice hammers

against her pane

where we were young and warm and safe

as nursing kittens

Copyright © 2000, K’lakokum

The three boys born on August 28, 1968, referred to in the comments at http://nebirucrossing.blogspot.com/2011/03/if-only-apprehended.html

all died tragically.  K’lakokum’s poem refers to his natural son, David Peter Scholtz, conceived November 13, 1967 (the poet’s sister’s birthday).  David was placed for adoption, at birth, by his mother, and was adopted August 31, 1968 by Frieda and Bertholdt Scholtz.   David died of AIDS on April 4, 2000, long after being infected with HIV+ blood in several transfusions which followed a 1988 motorcycle accident in Pittsburgh.