Type in words. For each line you type, this program will do its best to categorize the line by its pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables. It does this by retrieving the stress pattern or patterns for each word from an ordinary dictionary (maybe several dictionaries), and comparing all possible paths through the line to determine, for words with multiple possible stress patterns, which is most likely to be right. Or, which would lead to what patterns. [Aside: run spell checker before doing analysis.]
Oh, typing is getting me nowhere. Examles of desired behavior will do better.
At night I lie in the mountains. It's quieter when birds sing
Strangers aren't likely to approach this lonely wilderness
My car is cold. I'm lonely. My thoughts twist around
One day away from home is like ten months
Naturally, I wanted to reply in kind. My goal was to show I had grokked Chris's poem by restating its sentiments in different words.
In addition, I challenged myself to work within the constraints of a line-internal rhyme scheme: the 2nd, 4th, and 7th (final) syllables of each line all share an ending sound.
A certain Mr. Stasse (featured several times on this website) has temporarily withdrawn from society to live at a Buddhist retreat.
Original Title: 《老傻赐新隐士》
2020-10-13: On reflection, I dislike the third line and will probably change it. It's a leftover from the first draft, and out of place.
秋风摇树果不应
愿隐士身旁同赏
人生弯曲预无因
他稳似果拟之值
Rough translation (updated 2020-10-13):
Autumn wind shakes the trees, but the fruits don't go along
I wish the hermit was here to appreciate it, too
Life's twists and turns aren't worth guessing at
He is steady, like the fruits, and that's worth imitating
In September, Chris Stasse sent me a letter which concluded with his calligraphic rendering of "Countryside Pleasures No. 6" 《田园乐——六》, by Tang-era master poet Wang Wei. My reply to Chris included a parody of the same poem.
My version's title swaps out the third character, 乐 le4 "pleasure, happiness", for the rhyming word 恶 e4 "evil, vicious, harmful." Here is "Countryside Nastiness," by Wang Wei's little-renowned cousin, Wrong Wei.
桃红中坏烈焰
柳绿烧成灰柱
花落腾于热气
鸟啼出窝恐离
Translation:
Red peaches suffer from fierce flames
Green willows burn up into pillars of ash
Flowers fall, then rise on heated gusts
Birds cry, leaving their nests in fear
As I write up explanations and annotations for my poems, I find myself wanting to use lines and shapes to pick out particular areas of each work.
Here's a rudimentary prototype, drawing heavily on the LeaderLine library. Try clicking or hovering one of the bracketed sections.
I'm a fake poem, sure to spin
A top around its bottom
I am a fine explanation! And I am his lovable pal.
I'm not currently planning to turn my annotations into sidenotes or marginalia, but I'll certainly draw inspiration from the numerous attempts at that style of web design. I'll also be investigating annotation platforms like Hypothesis, which may have something to offer.
A late-night snippet imitating the chorus of Weezer's "Pork and Beans." For Hayley ("Bloo") to sing to Seth.
I've a PhD that I must pursue
There's neuroscience knowledge to accrue
With calves athletic and a belly lean
At times my swagger's known to cause a scene
Although I'm picky 'bout my repertoire
I'll practice strumming tunes that you adore
One look in our mirror and you know it's true:
I'm awful fond of being Bloo with you
(Hayley: AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. I’m not sure what the tune is (hint pls!!!) but I’m smiling ear to ear anyway <3 Me: It's 'Pork and Beans.' Hayley: OH FUCK YEAH)
This is a parody of "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea", the best-known song by 90s group Neutral Milk Hotel (NMH), feted for their otherworldly sound and surreal lyrics. I apologize to Jeff Mangum, Scott Spillane, Jeremy Barnes, and Julian Koster for perpetrating the following verses.
As always, I encourage you to sing along. A glossary follows.
This was commissioned by the Fruit Art Project, a group which develops creative projects that incorporate the history and geography of fruit cultivation. When I learned that wild bananas were originally tiny brown nothings, and that the wealth of modern cultivars are the result of intensive human breeding, I imagined what that breeding process would have looked like if it had taken place all at once, under the control of a 21st-century organization.
I no longer live in Portland, but I know many people there. This was written to bolster the spirits of three good friends who informed me they'd be participating in the ongoing courthouse protests.
Sundown. My latest letter is complete:
I post it to the madman's house of black.
His call for correspondence thus fulfilled,
White ink on parchment fuligin comes back.
The auto-philosophe greets me with cheer.
He's scoured my tubes; he's scanned my public face.
"Your site's delightful" — so reads his review.
No lesser turbo-hermit has such grace.
I swear I see him through Eye Number Three:
Thin fingers, stained with e-ink, sweep the keys
That lock him to the ever-growing Book
Of Life, which he attends on hands and knees.
From ones and nones, h0p3 builds a prophesy,
And from his labors may he never tire.
In 2020, Montaigne essays on.
His precomputed smile floats down the wire.
This is a parody of Leonard Cohen's famous song "Hallelujah". When my friend Matt mistook a haiku for such a parody, I knew I had to make it real. Consider this a companion piece to "Hakuna Katana".
These verses are parodies of the song "Hakuna Matata", from Disney's animated film The Lion King. I wrote the first two stanzas on 2018-01-14, and the other two on the publication date above.
I stepped outside to take the air, but stopped short when I heard
A squeaking cry, as issues from a wounded, bleeding bird—
Or rather, from no bird at all, but from an injured bat;
The wingéd mouse, the flying shrew, the aviating rat.
The sound came from the corner of the garden, past the gate.
I went inside to fetch my coat—we've had a chill of late.
Beraimented, I crept along. The batlike wail grew near.
On garden path I crept, until the screeching filled my ear.
And ... what found I? A broken bird? A bat, brought down to ground?
'Twas neither thing that drew me there by way of eerie sound.
I took a knee to do some work. The squeaking went away.
No longer will that broken sprinkler keen like dying prey!
I rambled through a grid of streets which I thought I knew cold
The street lamps turned to will-o-wisps, alluring balls of gold
I lost my bearings wandering—I got all turned around
But I'm OK. I found my way, and now I'm homeward bound.
I got disoriented on the roads I walked of old
I took some time to cogitate—I knew I wouldn't fold
The path that I was seeking is no longer sought, but found
I'm A-OK. I found my way, and now I'm homeward bound.
Surveying my surroundings gave my instincts purchase-hold
Rearmed with subtle pointers, I grew confidently bold
Old landmarks shuffled out to say, "You're on familiar ground"
I'm A-OK. I found my way, and now I'm homeward bound.
The next upgrade I have planned for this site will incorporate poems into the blog, so I don't have to make announcements like this one -- but the Poems page, as a collection, will remain a nonlinear rumpus. This is in keeping with the idea of "multiple views onto material" which I expressed here.
[2020-02-09: the aforementioned upgrade has been made. Poems now get their own pages, and are incorporated into the blogfeed.]
While corresponding with Kicks Condor, I realized I didn't have a snappy, instantly-recognizable definition for a drongo. To fill that need, I began this poem in December 2019, edited and extended it over the next couple months, and pronounced it finished on 2020-01-29, around 23:33.
A Star Wars parody of the classic Dean Martin song "That's Amore".
When you pull a tight spin
Without losing your grin—
That's podracing
When the chance cubes are rolled
And you have to be bold—
That's podracing
Racers bring
(Bring a ling a ling, bring a ling a ling)
Pods together in battle
Watto squirms
(Squirmy lurmy lurm, squirmy lurmy lurm)
Only Shmi left as chattel
When you feel in command
Soaring over the sand—
That's podracing
When a man screams "poodoo!"
As he cedes ground to you—
That's podracing
When foes swear in Huttese
As you place first with ease—
That's podracing
When announcers go wild:
"Anakin, the slave child!"—
That's podracing
Racers bring
(Bring a ling a ling, bring a ling a ling)
Pods together in battle
Watto squirms
(Squirmy lurmy lurm, squirmy lurmy lurm)
Only Shmi left as chattel
