Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
Lipolation:
Between my index and my thumb
The squat pen sits, snug as a gun.
Beneath my window, a choppy, gasping sound
Of the swung spade sinking down:
My dad, digging. I peek out
And his back and backside in the bushes
bend down, come up two decades away
Stooping, swooping to the beat of potatoes
As he was digging.
The dense boot weighed down the spade, the shaft
Against the inside knee was focus and moment.
He yanked out the tops, sunk the shine of the edge
Deep, to put in potatoes we picked,
Hands touching, enjoying the stone skin.
By God, my dad could do with a spade.
Just as his own dad,
Who could cut twice as much peat in a day
As any young man out on the bog.
Once I went out to him with beet juice:
When he saw me, he stood up,
Downed it, then bent back at once,
Nicking neat gashes, heaving sods
Out, off, away, going down and down
To the veins of good peat. Digging.
The dank stench of potatoes, the squish and mush
Of soggy peat, the catch, cut of an edge
Past tufts and stalks awakens in my head.
But I've no spade to dig as those men.
Between my index and my thumb
The squat pen sits.
I can dig with it.
Heaney has a knack for imbuing seemingly repulsive images with a sense of wonder. The lines "The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap/Of soggy peat" are hardly pleasant, but vivid and strangely alluring. I can only hope that such sensory treasures have survived their lipolatory metamorphosis. ;^)
Time flizzes when I'm wrizzing —
some words are toomely long,
and so I merge and jummix
to squeet them in my song.
It's really not too diffcky
to get my words to scrush —
saves tromoil and timassle,
when in a hurrid rush.
There's only one small difflem
for my puzzizzy head —
I'm baffplussed and conboozled
by what it is I said!
Lipolation:
Time whizzies when I'm poeming —
some wases can be hong,
and so I foin and jummix
to squeet them in my song.
And it is not too diffcky
to get my poem to sqush —
saves bothime and exefftion,
when in an awcked push.
And I have but one diffsue
in my puzzizzy head —
I'm baffocked and bambused
by what it is I said!
Shoem = short poem
whizzies = whizzes and flies
wases = words and phrases
hong = huge and long
foin = fuse and join
jummix = jumble and mix
squeet = squeeze and fit
diffcky = difficult and tricky
sqush = squash and crush
bothime = bother and time
exefftion = exertion and effort
awcked = awful and wicked
push = pinch and rush
diffsue = difficulty and issue
puzzizzy = puzzled and dizzy
baffocked = baffled and shocked
bambused = bamboozled and confused
This portmanteau poem served as the main inspiration for using the terms 'blessay', 'quomment' and 'lipolation' — along with, of course, Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking-Glass. Portmanteaus are very useful for creating neologisms that are (relatively) comprehensible; I would like to see more of them in use! ;^)
‘Tis a day to which I’m partial,
Is old St. Patrick’s Day
When O’Ginsberg and Garcia’s
Join O’Malley and O’Shea
In seein’ proper deference paid,
And in wearin’ o’ the green,
And in marchin’ in a grand parade,
Cheered on by each Colleen.
From Mademoiselle O’De La Tour,
To Fráulein von O’Hess,
With a lilt of Irish laughter, sure,
And a shamrock on her dress;
With tall silk hats upon their conks,
It matters not if they
Are from County Down or County Bronx
On old St. Patrick’s Day!
Lipolation:
'Tis a day I quite enjoy,
Is fun St. Paddy's Day
When Kennedy and Smith and Foy
Join McSweeney and O'Shea
In joyous dance and happy singing
In hues of mint ant pea;
Now comes the pageant's noisy zinging —
And what a joy to see!
They dye the bayous shades so awing
Down in New Mexico;
And Connaght folk who dance guffawing
Sip sage shakes on the go;
In pointy hats and tight-fit jeans,
Each shouts and whoops as they
Come out of Down, Meath, even Queens
On fun St. Paddy's Day!
80 years and a day ago was this poem published! It is another one showed to me by my grandmother’s friend, Edith; it comes from an old edition of The New York Post Scripts of The Saturday Evening Post. It is a shame that this Irish poet who emigrated to America has been forgotten by the majority of people, because this is truly a beautiful piece of verse. While I do consider it unfortunate that St. Patrick himself is often overlooked on his holiday, this day of joyful celebration is a welcome break from the all-too-common bleakness of life in the Age of Trump. Everyone comes together — no matter what background they are from and what their identity may be — celebrate a country that was once strongly oppressed and widely overlooked. This poem perfectly captures that uplifting, 'melting pot' feeling that characterises the occasion. I hope that the Tikki Troops enjoyed the poem, and that you all had a good Saint Patrick's Day despite the circumstances! If you are looking for more poems about Irish saints, take a look at my blessay on poems celebrating Ireland’s (sadly) lesser-known female patron saint; I am certain that you will love it! ;^)
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
Lipolation:
And now I stand and go, I go to Beiginis,
To make a tiny cabin, just wood and mud and me:
To see to nine bean bushes; to sit and watch the fish
Beside the hive of the honey bee.
And I can have some peace then, as peace comes seeping soft
Seeping down the sunshine as the cicada sings;
That noon is set by sun, and night by moonshine quaffed,
And evening takes on the finch's wings.
And now I stand and go, as with each night and day
My Beiginis is singing; its voice that I know best -
As I stand on the pavement, and face each day's dismay -
Comes in the beating of my chest.
One of the most famous Irish poems of all time! I of course had to change location, but I think that the island of Beiginis is a suitable choice, especially since it is of personal importance to me. ;^)
I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I've got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The cane to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.
Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.
Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
'Til I can rest again.
Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight.
Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You're all that I can call my own.
Lipolation:
I've got the kids to tend
The outfits to mend
The house to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to cook
The baby to tuck
I got company to feed
The patio to weed
I've got to feed the pups
Put tea into cups
The cane to cut
I gotta dust this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.
Shine on me, sunshine
Humidify the day as you do,
Then bestow heaven’s dew on me
And abate my body’s heat again.
Tempest, come down on me now,
With a huge savage gust,
Take me high to the doves
So I can sit down again.
Come down with ease, snow
Sink me in white
Nippy icy kisses and
Have me sit down tonight.
Sun, snow, bending sky
Mountain, oceans, daisy, stone
Sun’s shine, moon’s sheen
Just you and house jobs to be my own!
I must present my sincere apologies to all the loyal Tikki Troops for not posting quite as often these days as I usually do. I have been struggling with sicknesses and have had very important assignments from work. I hope that this poem by Dr. Maya Angelou will constitute an appropriate apology gift! At first glance this poem may look easy to lipolate, but it has proved highly difficult. Weather is problematic to get around and I did not want to lose those atmospheric images that are so important to the poem. I also found the last line particularly difficult, so I decided to go in a more bittersweet and playful direction with it. I think it works well with the tone of the poem and it’s always nice to end on a happier note. ;^)
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Lipolation:
The fog comes
on tiny kitten feet.
It sits gazing
at the docks and city
on hushed haunches
and then moves on.
This little poem is reminiscent of a longer passage in T. S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, in which a similar feline metaphor is employed. My lipolation is softer, cuter than the original — some might accuse me of undue manipulation of the source material, but I think that this is an interesting way of looking at fog! :^)
Luke never met either Finn or Poe
So what they do behind closed doors
I guess I'll never know...
But I would like to also note that love is love
Whatever floats your boat.
Lipolation:
I did not once meet Finn and Poe
So what the two might be up to
I cannot say I know...
But I should note that it is not my business
What sex you want to hex.
A lovely message of solidarity with the queer community from Hamill! The poem features an interesting rhythm and a satisfying use of assonance and internal rhyme — great is the versificatory power that comes from being one with the Force! ;^)
We cap off Christmas week with a monumental lipolation longer than many a blessay. I hope you will appreciate the time and effort that went into lipolating one of the best christmas poems of all time! ;^)
To each Who
Down in Who-town
Xmas hit just the spot...
To the Ginch,
Who was just outside town,
It did NOT!
The Ginch hated Xmas! The fun Xmas time!
Now, don't ask me why. It's as asking a mime.
It might be St. Nick once beat him in a fight.
It might be he found his two shoes a bit tight.
But I think that the most fitting option would be
That what beat in his chest was the size of a pea.
But,
What might be the why,
The beat, his two shoes,
He stood up on Xmas Eve, hating the Whos.
Pouting up in his cave as he stood gawking down
At the shine of the windows in the joyous town.
As he knew that each Who down in Who-town today
Was busy now hanging a poinsettia bouquet.
"See them hang up the stockings!" he shouted at noon.
"The next day is Xmas! It's coming so soon!"
Then he snapped, and jumped up and down, in the snow numbing.
"I MUST find some way to stop that Xmas coming!"
As the next day, he knew...
...That the Who -ettes and boys
Would wake up at seven. They'd dash to the toys!
And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!
That's one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!
Then the Whos, young and aged, would sit down to a feast.
And they'd feast! And they'd feast!
And they'd FEAST!
FEAST!
FEAST!
FEAST!
They would feast on Who-pudding, and the Who-baked-beast
And the Ginch, who was vegan,1 couldn't stand so much yeast!
And THEN
They'd do something
Upsetting his hiney:
Each Who down in Who-town, the big and the tiny,
Would stand one by one, with the Xmas chimes dinging.
They'd stand hand-in-hand. And the Whos would be singing!
They'd sing! And they'd sing!
AND they'd SING! SING! SING! SING!
As he thought of the noise of the Who-Xmas-Sing,
The Ginch shouted out, "I must stop this mad thing!
"Why, five decades and half I've put up with it now!
"I MUST stop this Xmas at once!
...oh, but HOW?"
Then he got an idea!
A nasty idea!
THE GINCH
GOT A NASTY, FANTASTIC IDEA!
"I know just what to do!" he guffawed as a goat.
And he made up a quick Santy hat and a coat.
He guffawed and he said, "I'm so Ginchy and quick!
"With this coat and this hat, they should think I'm Saint Nick!"
"Now I need me a moose..."
And the Ginch gazed about.
But, with no moose in sight, he had no hope, no doubt.
Did that stop the mean Ginch...?
No! The mean Ginch just said,
"If I can't find a moose, I should make one instead!"
So he summoned his dog, Max, who jumped out of bed
And the Ginch tied a stick on the top of his head.
THEN
He packed up some bags
And a few empty sacks
And a big wooden box
And he hitched up his Max.
Then the Ginch said, "Giddap!"
And they came speeding down
To the homes of the Whos
In the big snoozing town.
The Whos' windows stayed dim as Max dashed in the snow.
Each Who was a-snooze as the scheme was a go.
The Ginch came to a house with a faux "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
"This is Ginchy stop one," the defiant Ginch hissed
And got up on the house, empty bags in his fist.
Then he squeezed down the chimney. A bit of a pinch.
But, if Santa could do it, then so could the Ginch.
The Ginch said goodbye to his speedy moose mutt,
Then he stuck his head out of the deep chimney soot.
He saw the Who stockings hung up nice and neat.
"You, stockings!" he said, "Meet the taste of defeat!"
Then the Ginch stepped about with a sneak and a shift,
He went off to the bush, and he picked up each gift!
Pop guns! And pink bikes! And bongos to beat!
A big Seussy poem book!2 Hot Mince pies! And sweets!
And he stuffed them in bags. Then the Ginch, oh so nimney,
Stuffed each big bag, one by one, up the chimney!
Then he sneaked to the icebox. He took the Whos' feast!
He took the Who-pudding! He took the baked beast!
He emptied that icebox in a disgusted dash.
Why, that Ginch even took the big can of Who-hash!
Up the chute went the food with a mighty big push.
"And NOW!" beamed the Ginch, "I should stuff up the bush!"
And the Ginch took the bush, began to push and shove
And then came an odd sound as the coo of a dove.
The Ginch stopped the shove, and he saw a shy Who!
Tiny Tikki-Too Who,3 who was not even two.
The Ginch had been caught by this tiny Who being
Who'd got out of bed in the need of a weeing.
It gawked at the Ginch and said, "Santy, but why,
"Why do you have Tikki's Xmas bush? WHY?"
But you know that the Ginch was as wise as Saint Nick,
He thought up a fib, and he thought it up quick!
"Why, my sweet tinsy tot," the fake Santy hoodwinked,
"On the Xmas bush one of the candy canes pinked.
"It cannot be eaten in that shade, my honey.
"I can fix it at my shop using just my own money!"
His fib duped the Who. Then he patted its head
And he got it a cup and he sent it to bed.
And when Tikki-Too Who went to bed with the cup,
HE went to the chimney and stuffed the bush up!
As he went back he took
The big stick in the chute!
Then he went up the chute, thinking he was quite cute.
Not a thing stayed behind, not a sock, not a boot.
And the one speck of food
That had stayed in the house
Was so tiny it wouldn't feed even a mouse.
Then
He did the same thing
To each of the Whos' houses
And specks stayed,
Much too tiny
To feed the Whos' mouses!
It was ten past dawn...
And the Whos stayed a-bed,
And the Whos stayed a-snooze
As away the Ginch sped,
His sack packed with the gifts! And the paintings! The books!
The tags! And the cakes! And the hats! The toy ducks!
Five thousand feet up! Up the side of Mt. Mumpit,4
He sped with his sack to the tiptop to dump it,
"Pooh-Pooh to the Whos!" he stood ginchy ginch humming.
"Now to see them find out that no Xmas is coming!
"See the Whos waking up and then see what they do!
"See those mouths hanging open a minute, no, two!
"See the Whos down in Who-town shout out BOO-HOO-HOO!"
The Ginch thanked his Max and commended his Fitness.
"Now this is the noise" he said, "I have to witness!"
And then did come a sound down among the Who bushes.
It began to get big as it came up in hushes...
But the sound wasn't sad!
Why, this sound sounded happy!
It couldn't be so!
It was happy and sappy!
He gawked down at Who-town!
The Ginch popped his eyes!
Then he shook!
What he saw sent him up to the skies!
Each Who down in Who-town, the big and the tiny,
Was jumping and singing and shaking its hiney!
He had NOT stopped the coming of Xmas!
IT CAME!
Somehow and someway, it came just the same!
And the Ginch, with his Ginch-feet so icy in snow,
Stood asking and asking; "How could it be so?"
"It came without gifts! And it came without tags!
"It came without packages, boxes and bags!"
And he thought and he thought, but ideas had few.
Then the Ginch thought of something so stunning and new!
"Maybe Xmas," he thought, "is not something to buy."
"Maybe Xmas... is not just a pain in the eye!"
And what happened then...?
Why, in Who-town they say
That the beat of his chest
Went up five times that day!
And the minute it stopped seeming so tiny-tight,
He whizzed back with his sack in a fantastic sight
And he gave back the toys! And the food of the feast!
And he...
...HE, THE GINCH...!
Joined with a vegan beast!
This interpretation of his motives may be judged slightly controversial, but I think it is a worthy addition to the poem. ↩︎
Dr. Seuss's modesty clearly stopped him from inserting himself directly into the poem, but I amend that omission because I think that he deserves to feature here, being such a famous and talented poet. ↩︎
The incident described here is only semi-autobiographical. ↩︎
I initially simply removed the 'R' from the original "Mt. Crumpit", but I realised that this approach gave a name which might not be appropriate in a children's poem. ↩︎
