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The Elephant Rhymes For God On World Poetry Day

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The elephant was contemplating his muse.
He was lying beside the river, trailing one of his big feet in the water.
He watched as the current rippled and sparkled past, and noted the occasional
leaping fish with bemusement.He looked across to the other shore with a sigh,
and then closed his eyes to more fully experience the race of the river against his toes.
After indulging himself in this manner for awhile, he flopped onto his back, so he could
look at the trees.
He traced their outline against the blue sky with his trunk, and followed
the curve of some branches overhanging the river with interest. He even smiled benignly as a family of monkeys clambered up one tree, leapt through the canopy of leaves, and

raced down another.

He suddenly slapped his forehead with his trunk, rolled over with such force that
he jostled a boulder with his flank, and began to emote.

“The monkeys, in the trees,
“Cause a breeze, when they sneeze.”

“Pardon me?” said the boulder.

“I nudged the boulder with my shoulder.
“It was older, and much colder.”

“Oh boy,” said God.

“I am a POET,” said the elephant.

“Oh boy, again,” said God.

“It is a stone, which has grown,
“In a zone, all alone.”

“Would that I were – alone, and away from the voices.”

“I’m expressing myself,” said the elephant.

“That is a statement of truth,” said God, “which does not contain the whole truth.”

“It is a thrill, to have free will,
“That is until, others say `nil’.”

“To be fair,” God stifled a chuckle. “You seem to have grasped the concept of
rhyme – although your reach sometimes exceeds it.”

“But that’s what heaven’s for,” pointed out the elephant.

“You’ll get,” said God, “no Browning points from me.”

“That’s not my last, don’t be so fast,
“My muse to cast, into the past.”

“You’ve heard about too much of a good thing?” asked the boulder, giving a nudge of its own.

“Yes,” said the elephant.

“Well – this isn’t it.”
“You don’t like the way I make the words dance?”
“I’d rather sit this one out.”

“In the misty morn, he sat forlorn;

“He wouldn’t adorn, the dance floor well-worn.”

“Oh boy,”said God.

“As you can see,” said the elephant. “I provide a lot of bon mot for each and
every occasion.”

“Such a threat is enough to make a boulder crumble,” said the boulder.

“The rock of ages, dissolved in stages,
“And proved the sages’, `noblesse obliges’.”

“Oy veh,” said God. “I’ve become a straight man for a stand-up elephant.”

“I could pack a hall,” said the elephant.

“You could pachyderm,” pointed out God.

“It’s just a guess, I do confess,
“That more is less, in the wilderness.”

“This could go on forever,” said God.

“You’re the expert there,” pointed out the elephant.

“Then I think I’ll repair to the forest,” said the boulder.

“He stood, in the wood,
“Where he could, do most good.”

The boulder rumbled with a voice which filled the jungle.

“Poems are made by fools like thee,
“But only I can make a tree.”
DE
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The Mask Of Death Leads To Sundry Places

[Death Mask of the Duke of Wellington]wellington-death-mask

My two gals, Alison Alexandra and her friend, Amanda, are on a sea voyage. A voyage via a freighter, and not a cruise ship. They stop in the ports where the freighter stops, and they take visits of the town if they so desire.

On one of their times on shore, they decide to visit a Police Museum. One of the exhibits is a Death Mask of a hanged murderer. They take great interest in this, noting the repose of the face.

This incident is based on an event in my own life. I melded parts of my experience into my characters afternoon visit during their day ashore. This had not been on my mind when I started this particular chapter.
I once taught a workshop on Supernatural writing. For my workshop I took advantage to take my students on a field trip to see the death mask of a historically known poet. The death mask was conveniently on view in a display case in a near-by building.

None of them had even heard of ‘death masks’, let alone seen one. I invited them to

incorporate the idea into their writing exercises. Some did, some did not.

However, it’s possible this visit to Death elicited the following story from one of my students.

My student and her husband had purchased a new house. Cleaning and renovations eventually took them to the back loft area, which was piled high with decades of accumulated detritus from a long life.

They cleared out beds, and boxes and newspaper piles, and magazines, and bundles of clothes, and on and on. Near the end of this process, my student noticed a “clump of something” on one of the wooden beams of the loft.

Getting ladder and flashlight, her husband climbed to see what it was.

It was the end of a number of knotted bed sheets.

DE
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Fame Helps Tie The Rope For Suicide

coiled-up-rope-with-hangmans-noose

Fame and suicide.

Suicide and fame.

The two flirt, and  consummate their relationship often enough to make others take note.

If someone gets everything they hope for,

or want,

or expect,

 there is not much left to live for. 

Boredom ties the rope.

There are other factors, of course. We can never know another person well enough to tell how they think or feel. The majority of famous people do not remove themselves from this earth. Indeed, a large number of them  relish the attention. More than mere success sent Virginia Woolf walking into the River Ouse. Ernest Hemingway had personal demons aplenty.

These days, Fame stalks those who are famous.

Although a famous author does not attract the attention of a famous entertainer, or sports figure, or politician, an author’s fame spreads beyond the usual world of books and readings and tours.

Fame guarantees attention must be paid. The media makes Fame supersede the reason for the fame. Fame is the elephant in the room, always poised to turn rogue.

Creating is difficult enough.

Creating is time-consuming enough.

Creating is isolating enough.

Fame magnifies all these things, and sometimes ignites an unrelenting blaze.

DE

(image)http://www.catholicmannight.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/Coiled-up-rope-with-hangmans-noose.jpg

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Norway’s Trains and Fjords | National Geographic Expeditions

    • Journey across alpine peaks, emerald valleys, and sparkling rivers on five railway lines including the Flåm—one of the steepest normal-gauge railroads in the world.

http://www.nationalgeographicexpeditions.com/expeditions/oslobergen-norway-train-tour/detail?utm_source=NGdotcom-Adventure&utm_medium=Email&utm_content=20170309-Norway-Trains&utm_campaign=NGdotcom&utm_rd=68990#opi2353747359Source: Norway’s Trains and Fjords | National Geographic Expeditions

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A Woman Takes Control ~ From “Kafka In The Castle”

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Franz and his sister, Ottla

16 December 1917

I think it possible the women conspire unbeknownst to themselves.

It was Ottla’s suggestion that I walk Fraulein G home after dinner. She stayed well into the evening. She was good company and we all enjoyed ourselves. We even read to each other – I selected some work by Max. He will get double pleasure from that, as he likes to entertain the young ladies himself.

She helped Ottla with the dishes, and some other clearing chores. Ottla then produced a bottle of schnapps – something I didn’t even know was in the house. I thought it possible Fraulein G had brought it (I’ve found she is capable of such a forward gesture) but I also noted it was the type which father prefers, so perhaps Ottla brought it from Prague. (And perhaps father will be recounting his stock with some confusion.)

Ottla encouraged the consumption of a couple of small glasses. I will not tell Max that the appreciation of his writings was enhanced accordingly.

As I walked Fraulein G home, I could not shake the feeling that something was expected of me. Something more than my company along the darkened road.

Was I to take her arm, or her hand, or even put my arm about her waist? I felt an element of encouragement for some such action, yet wondered where such a thing might lead.

Further, perhaps, than just the door of her house.

But, as the wind was lively, I chose to take her hand, and she then chose to walk closely by my side.

And the lips which murmured “Thank you” at her gate, and chose to brush my own, no longer called me “Herr Doktor”.

DE

(image)http://www.thecultureconcept.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/Frank-with-Ottla-his-favourite-sister.jpg

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Hitler, Kafka, And Me

arton3192

I owe my life to Hitler, thanks to the Second World War, and my Canadian soldier father meeting my British War Bride mother.

I imagine it is too crass to say I have a soft spot for Hitler. I’ve studied his personal history, and know something of the man who was (admittedly) only a small part of the monster.

If he had been able to sell more of his paintings . . . who knows what might have happened?

And, I even managed to track down a connection between Hitler and Franz Kafka. This possible meeting  goaded me to write a stand-alone short story about Kafka, in addition to my novel about his missing diaries.  In the short story Kafka is implored to join the Austrian army in WW I so he can kill ” . . . the man who will kill your sisters.”)

In reality, before Hitler came to power, he lived in Munich. In the apartment building where Hitler lived, a cousin of Kafka’s was also a resident.  Nothing is known as to whether the monster met the cousin. Or if Franz visited his cousin. Or if Franz Kafka met Adolf Hitler.

But it would be interesting, a challenge – and even fun – to have these two men (virtual teetotallers and vegetarians both) meet in a coffee house. Or an Art Gallery.

Kafka saw monsters everywhere he looked. Why not give him a real one?

DE

(image)http://oeuvresouvertes.net/IMG/arton3192.png

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Gaelic Steak: Sauced with whiskey and heavy cream, the Celtic connection to prime beef | European Cuisines

Gaelic Steak

Ingredients:

2 8-10 ounce sirloin steaks at room temperature
1 teaspoon oil
1 tablespoon butter
1/2 cup Irish whiskey
2 1/2 cups heavy cream
Ground black pepper to finish

Pat the steaks dry with kitchen paper and season with pepper. Heat a cast iron frying pan or other heavy pan over high heat. When very hot, add the oil and butter. When the butter foams, add the steaks to the pan one at a time, and turn after 20-30 seconds to seal both sides. Lower the heat to moderate and complete cooking (3-4 minutes for rare, 4-5 minutes for medium, 5-6 minutes for well done). Leave each steak undisturbed on one side for half the desired cooking time: then turn. When finished, remove to warmed plates, and keep warm.

Add the whiskey to the cooking juices. Be careful if you are cooking with gas, as the whiskey vapor might catch fire. If it does, lid the pan immediately to stop the burning. Scrape the pan with a spatula to loosen the nice burnt bits and dissolve them and the meat juices into the whiskey. Allow to come up to a boil and reduce for a few minutes, stirring and scraping all the while.

Add the cream, lower the heat slightly, and allow to simmer for a few minutes and reduce further. Check the seasoning (you may find that you do not need salt for this dish: don’t just season it without checking). Having seasoned the sauce to taste, pour it over or around the steaks, as preferred, and serve immediately.

French fries / chips are a good accompaniment for this, as are fried mushrooms, and a fresh green vegetable like new peas.

Source: Sauced with whiskey and heavy cream, the Celtic connection to prime beef | European Cuisines

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Of An Age And Still Keeping On Trucking

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I wrote the previous blog  about Bertha Klausner a little over a year ago. I found it interesting (indeed, find it interesting), to have some connections to a more distant literary tradition – no matter how tenuous.

So, maybe I come close today, as I just had a response by another literary agent. I had no idea of his tenure in the fields of getting the written word published. Not that I still would not have sent the query letter.

Dear Dale,

Thank you for submitting your materials to *********** for review.  However, after considering them, we have decided that your project is not something we can successfully represent at this time.  At 85, *********** needs to be selective about the projects he takes on and he has more than enough on his plate.  But I wish you good luck finding representation and a publisher for this. 

All the best,

********* (assistant)

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eleanor Roosevelt,Upton Sinclair, Fidel Castro & Me

While reading some literary site about Amazon, I came across the fact that “Harriet Klausner, an esteemed Amazon reviewer who wrote more than 31,000 book reviews, died”. All power to her, thought I, that is quite a feat. However, I took more note of her last name, one I had not thought of for a long time. Eleanor Roosevelt,Upton Sinclair, Fidel Castro & Me

In my tenure as an author in the world, I have had four or five agents. And I am currently looking anew. At the far beginning of my time, before I was published, I had the New York agent Bertha Klausner – at the start of my career and near the end of hers. She started her agency before I was born and was working two months before she died in 1998 at the age of 96.

Back in those over the transom days, one stuffed typed pages into an envelope, sent them off with return postage on another envelope, and waited up to three months for a reply. And when it came back, you sent it out again. One of my envelopes went to the Bertha Klausner Agency.

However, when it came back, it had other people’s manuscripts in it, and (to my memory) little hand written notes politely saying no. Mistakes happen even at revered agencies, so I sent it all back explaining what had happened. She replied, with neither apology nor thanks, annoyed that mistakes do happen and adding, “Say, you must have something. Do you want to send it to me?” Which I did. Again.

As I said, communications were through slow mails (slow on her side, as with literary agents to this day).  I now assume she initially was both being polite, plus did see some promise in what I had. But after a year or so she said – in effect – ‘thanks but no thanks’, and I sent things to other agents, and eventually had my first novel sale by, indeed, sending it over the transom directly to an editor in New York, who purchased it.

I don’t think I knew that Bertha Klausner had such a stellar career until I looked her up. An agent for decades, she had famous names like Upton Sinclair, Israel J Singer, Eleanor Roosevelt and Fidel Castro. She even represented actor Basil Rathbone.

I imagine I would have become a lost tale.

DE

(image)https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/ea/31/e6/ea31e6ab3e7ec52fc033935fe3c02d14.jpg

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Coffee To Go – No Strings Attached

northern_shores_coffee_shop

I was standing in line in a coffee shop, waiting to place my order. I was third in line, the end in sight.

A voice came in my ear.

“Thanks, Man. It was kind of you.”

I turned, cautious and obviously puzzled. A clean-shaven and well dressed middle-aged man was not exactly in line behind me, but more to my shoulder.

“I appreciate the help.”

I didn’t feel overly anxious in the midst of a well-peopled coffee shop, but I was glad he didn’t look unhinged. I was wondering what obvious response to make: “Pardon me?” “I think you’re mistaken.” “Can I help you?” But then he spoke quickly.

“You helped me out back there.” He pointed to the street. “Up on the corner. You gave me money.”

I had had no such encounter, and was concerned that any sort of response might elicit offence. Plus, his stability now came into question.

“Wasn’t that you?”

“Sorry. You are mistaken.”

“Looks like you.”

“Then he’s a lucky fellow, whoever he is.”

This did get a laugh. Then, though I might have been expecting many things, I did not anticipate what he did next. He took out a gift card for the Coffee Shop we were standing in.

“Hey, can you give me $5 for this. A lady gave it to me earlier. It’s real.” We both moved forward as the line moved. “I don’t need coffee, but I need strings for my guitar. That’s how I make money on the street.”

As soon as he said this, I remembered someone playing a guitar across the street I had been on. There was no way I could tell if this fellow was him – but what are the odds?

“I can’t play without strings.”

I did not know at the time, nor do I know now, if this was a well-honed and practised routine to get some money. But it was only $5, I’d soon know if the card was real, and if it was a fraud I figured he’s earned $5.

So I gave him the $5.

“Thanks, Man. I swear it’s real. I play along here all the time. I can’t risk my reputation.”

A couple of minutes later I made my purchase. I used the card for part of it.

It was real.

DE

(image)http://champ.d.umn.edu/sites/champ.d.umn.edu/files/styles/hero_interior_710x326/public/umd_interior_home/northern_shores_coffee_shop.png?itok=SorWnqf6

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