B I R T H D A Y R H Y M E S F O R M A R G O ( 9 / 1 4 / ’ 2 1 )
The trigger trigs;
the hunter hunts.
Margo, I’ve only
met you once.
Trigger treat.
Dead or debt.
Margo, I shall
ne’er forget.
Catch a wave?
Congratulations.
Fourteen, by my
calculations.
Pay to play,
and play to lose.
Margo, have you
heard the news?
Just days before
you turned fourteen,
I bought a house
upon the green.
Margo, I just
bought a house!
And now must live there
with my spouse.
Now must think
(and must not say)
“Mostaccioli
popinjay.”
Must’ve been there,
must’ve gone:
Paint the porch
and mow the lawn.
Pat the pooch
and feed the cat.
Margo, is it
certain that
our paths will never
cross again?
Oh, say not so,
sagacious friend!
Say not sew,
magnetic needle.
Whip the egg,
and beat the beetle.
Break the bank
and mold the clay!
’cuz you’re fourteen
years old today!!
❧
Birthday Rhymes for Avi Hynes, Wednesday 26 May 2021, ætatis suæ XVI.
Four sets of four
in the Year of the Ox
you’re not the kind
the pet store stocks
An eight and an eight
in the Year of the Tiger
can’t get those
in the pet store either
Four fifths o’ twenty
in the Year of the Rabbit
your hat’ll fly off
unless you grab it
Two sets o’ twice-four
in the Year of the Dragon
Chairman Mao fixing
his little red wagon
Twice TEN minus FOUR
in the Year of the Snake
I pray the Lord...
oh, my mistake
Six and a teen
in the Year of the Horse
the match made in heaven
will end in divorce
Half thirty-two
in the Year of the Goat
and the shark grabs on
to the back of the boat
Quarter the way
to sixty-four
the Year of the Rooster
the Year of the Boar
A third the way
to forty-eight, flat
the Year of the Dog
the Year of the Rat
And this poem’s dad
in the Year of the Monkey
missed the ambassador,
talked to his flunky
And now I have gone
through the Chinese menu
chiming away
for a change of venue
A change of venue
in the Year of the Ox
fifty-two years
in the school of hard knocks
❧
Rhymes for the Day After Noni V. Chelko’s Birthday, 6.18.20. Aetatis suae viii, “Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn.” Assignment: ANIMAL: DRAGON; OBJECT: DRAGON SCALE.
The SCALES of JUSTICE are a mighty thing:
Held by a blind, and hooked to a ring.
And when the RED DRAGON mounts this SCALE,
The beam kicks up, and the coat of mail
on the chest of the KNIGHT begins to ruffle,
in the wind and the rain and the vast kerfuffle.
And when the RED DRAGON in time dismounts,
we’ll know his red weight, in pounds and ounce.
In sixes and sevens and eights and nines,
we’ll count up the forks—and each of their tines.
And we’ll know the red moon just as well as the EARTH may,
on the day and the day after Noni’s birthday.
❧
Birthday Rhymes for Elsa Díaz, Ten Today, 13 June 2020.
The number ten is not like nine:
For “10” you need two cyphers.
These rhyming precious words of mine
Are not for kids in diapers.
The number ten is not like eight:
For “10” you need two figures.
And, older now, you’ll come to hate
All penalties and strictures.
Today, you’re ten, I say again,—
We’ve just run out of fingers.
The concert starts, the moment when
They silence all the ringers.
So, silence, all! and clear the mall!
It’s time we made obeisance
To twice-five Elsa Díaz, bawl-
-ing out vituperations!
❧
Square Wheels
Mary had a little lam-
inating kit.
Hickory, dickory, doc-
torate.
Humpty Dumpty sat-
urated the media.
K-I-S-S-I-N-psych
lopedia.
❧
BIRTHDAY RHYMES FOR G.R. HYNES :: 5/14/2020
THERE IS NO SLEUTH COMPARES TO ME,
WHEN I TAKE ON A MYSTERY.
YES, NONE CAN SEE THE DEPTHS I DELVE.
THIS KID I KNOW IS TURNING TWELVE.
HE’S TWELVE YEARS OLD FROM HAT TO SHOES,
AND ONLY I CAN READ THE CLUES.
I USE MY MAGNIFYING GLASS.
I MEASURE VOLUME, WEIGHT, AND MASS.
AND SHERLOCK HOLMES BEGINS TO MOAN,
WHEN ONLY I AND I ALONE
INSPECT AND SCRUTINIZE THE SHELVES
FOR NINES AND TENS, ELEVENS, TWELVES.
FOR ALL DETECTIVES, ALL INSPECTORS
NEEDS MUST WEAR THEIR FACE PROTECTORS,—
BUT ONLY I CAN SOLVE THE CASE
AT BREAKNECK SPEED AND HECTIC PACE.
FOR ONLY I HAVE UNDERSTOOD
THE RULE IS SOUND, THE RULE IS GOOD—
“FOR EVERY PERSON UNDER HEAVEN:
WHO ONCE WAS TEN MUST TURN ELEVEN.”
AND EVERY KID WHO GOES THROUGH THAT
WILL KNOW JUST WHAT I’M DRIVING AT,—
WILL KNOW THE THING THAT’S COMING NEXT
IS FULL OF SPECIALTY EFFECTS,—
IS TWELVE, IS TWELVE, IS TWELVE, IS TWELVE.
IN SLEUTHING I OUTDO MYSELF!
AND SO CONCLUDES OUR ANNUAL POEM;
IN VALUE, NOTHING—FALLS BELOW ’EM.
❧
Birthday Rhymes for Mira Buffam Reddy, Monday 13 April 2020, Eleven Years Old.
Come Tommy, come Monica, Michael and Kevin.
It seems the young lady is turning eleven.
It seems that the question is not academic.
I’m writing these lines · amidst a pandemic.
I’m writing these lines with a bark and a shout.
Your father’s new book is about to come out.
Koalas are orange; flamingos are pink.
All I can think of is fountain pen ink.
All I can parallel park is a Jeep.
I won a cool auction, while I was asleep.
Better than summer and popsicle sticks:
An old Danish coin—1856!
Flannigan, Flanderson don’t understanderson.
Tell ya a smidge about Hans Christian Andersen . . .
The littlest match girl will addle their brains.
He was one of a handful of world-famous Danes.
Mohair and no hair and terry cloth, taffeta.
Another’s that woman who wrote Out of Africa.
Kierkegaard, Kierkegaard, kid and kazoo!
Tycho Brahe and Niels Bohr were famous Danes, too.
Astronomy, physics’ll fix up their brains.
That’s absolutely it. No more famous Danes.
Yet, there’s more than one way to get off of a bike.
Do you have any old coins? I don’t know what you like.
I don’t know what the aspen could say to the pine.
I been cloning this image; I saw it online . . .
A-Rock, and B-Rock, and C-Rock, and D-Rock.
It was a notebook, pretty as an African peacock.
The African peacock is king of all birds.
Must be twenty colors of ink, and nothing but words.
The peacock has wires with tufts for a hat.
Wanna catalogue my library, make it look like that.
These wannabes! poseurs! celebrity apers!
Anyhow I have to go; I have to grade all these papers.
If just one applauds, then perhaps the whole Earth may.
Wishing you the best, on your eleventh birthday.
❧
Birthday Rhymes for Lila Archambeau, Ætatis Suæ XI, Tuesday 4 February 2020
A birthday message
from Mr Madrid.
You are Robert
Archambeau’s kid.
YOU are suddenly
turning eleven.
Tell Costner and Spacey
and Bacon and Kevin.
Tell Aphrodite
to stifle her laugh,
while Hektor is breaking
a horse in half.
Let’s call to assembly
the humbles and prouds,
while little girl Zeus
is gathering clouds.
While Phœbus Apollo
is painting his nails,
we’ll storm the Bastille
and empty the jails.
Oh Lila, my Lila,
a mile a minute,
this poetry’s cultural
capital, innit?
Oh innit DIVINE,
being Archambeau’s daughter?
He orders a wine,
but they bring him a water.
A bucket of water
and a trek to the zoo:
Smiling-eyed Lila,
happy birthday to you!
❧
For Roma Cady Macpherson Wilson, Sixteen Years Old, Thursday 2 January 2020
With green and blue,
With wiping tear,
The day we knew
Must come is here.
The hunter hunts,
He flips his wig.
And she who once
Was small is big.
But she is not
Averse to knowledge:
Smoking pot
And off to college.
Off the rack
And in the jar:
Turn your back,
She wrecks the car.
Inspects the net
And ducks the crisis.
She must get
A driver’s license.
Loads of stuff
She’ll learn by rote.
And soon enough,
She’s off to vote.
The Crack of Doom!
The plate of fudge.
The girl to whom
I’ve written much.
I’ve cleared the room.
It’s weird in here.
A girl to whom
I write each year.
The crack of dawn!
A brindled cow.
With blessings on
Your frosty pow.
Your Smoothie war,
Your gasoline—
You’re four times four?
I’m seventeen.
Thrice seventeen,
And never less.
I never no,
I always yes.
The Getting Rid
Is half the fun.
It’s what I did.
It’s what I’ve done.
It’s like I said,
And to the purpose:
I’m Madrid!
And at your service.
❧
Birthday Rhymes for Gillian Winer Fashing, ætatis suæ XIV, 21 December 2019. Winter Solstice.
Sapphire, sapphire,
Aquamarine.
It appears that today
You are turning fourteen.
A total eclipse
Of the solar plexus.
I’m writing these lines
In Victoria, Texas.
Latin to parse
And Greek to construe.
Last time that I saw you,
You were, like, two.
Catalogue, catalogue
Raisonné.
I wonder what
You are doing today.
Miss Whichit, Miss Whatsit,
Miss I-Don't-Know-When.
I appear to have stabbed
Myself with a pen.
A rabbit foot’s lost
In embraces and handshakes.
And Nadya’s currently
Making pancakes.
Necklace gone golden,
And bracelet beaded.
If I send you a book
Will you certainly read it?
Retreating from college,
Abandoned a book.
If I send you a drawing
Will you certainly look?
The stars are all ours
With a nod and a wink.
You know what I like?
Colored ink.
Colored ink
And little glass bottles.
It’s out of a theory
Of Aristotle’s.
I’m writing these lines
To send to Her Highness.
5:30 pm here:
I better sign this.
I better sign,
And you, comprehend.
Attaching a photo
Before I press SEND.
❧
CAMILLA ONE YEAR OLD: 10.16.19
I am biting into an apple;
You have a spoon of carrot.
You are the kid, saith Madrid,
Of my friend Melissa Barrett.
You are supposedly one today.
You need some assistance to eat.
You are the kid, saith Madrid,
Of Melissa's husband, Pete.
You have most likely forgotten
By the time you're reading this rhyme,
That you, as a baby, were possibly maybe
The greatest kid of all time.
You sat in the midst of a blanket.
You sat on a plastic seat
And pointed like Julius Caesar
At me and Melissa and Pete.
And when I got to the airport,
My watch could not tell the time.
I solemnly noted its crystal was coated
With baby saliva and slime.
I am wishing you happy birthday.
I am blessing your big round head.
With a hug to your mother or else to the other
Parental attendant instead.
Goodbye, my young friend, I am going.
But you are no baby for tears.
You are the kid, saith Madrid,
I'll be blessing for thousands of years.
❧
Birthday Poem for Noni Vivian Chelko, 6/18/19.
Child, I must say who I am.
A chopped-up pig is a ham.
A chopped-up cow is a beef.
I shall say who I am and be brief.
It’s I who constructed those drawings.
With all of their comings and goings.
A reactor gets hot at its core.
Last time that we met, you were four.
I have since found a job here in Texas.
Our motto is “No one respects us.”
The waiters say “No, Sir” and “Yessir.”
And I have become a professor.
My passion is bottles of ink.
A mental event is a think.
A slice of white cheese is a slice.
I tell everyone here you are nice.
I told all these boys you are good.
A section of pine is a wood.
A unit of mud is a dirty.
I’ve known your mom since she was thirty.
She may even have been twenty-six.
A beagle and chow is a mix.
A jacket and tie is a clothes.
These couplets are right on the nose.
These couplets must come to an end.
Long poems are apt to offend.
So, remember me, tiniest Chelko.
From your fingers right up to your elbow.
From your octopus up to your squid,
I’m signing Sincerely, MADRID.
❧
Avi Poem 5/26/19
A section of milk is a quart.
Your poem this year will be short.
There is hardly a need for these pomes.
To the left of the lawn is the gnomes.
To the right of the king is the queen.
Our records show yóu are fourteen.
Are yóu still artistic and verbal?
A division of tea is the herbal.
A unit of bird is the dove.
By now you are tortured by love.
When I was fourteen it was awful.
A section of shelf is the novel.
A victim of trap is a mice.
You can write me if you need advice.
I am good, for I always write back.
A portion of print is a stack.
A chapter of spring is a snow.
What else shall I tell you? Don't know.
This poem is over, goodbye.
An "A" and a "V" and an "I."
An "H" and a "Y" and the rest...
Goodbye now; I wish you the best.
❧
Birthday Poem for Roma Cady Macpherson Wilson
2 January 2019, ætatis suæ XV
On beauty we must pay a tax,
no matter how much we’re earning.
If God gave the swallow nothing else,
he gave it swiftness in turning.
A boyfriend is a solemn thing.
His brain is bad; his clothes, mismatched.
In Ghana, Death is a skeleton, too,
but the ears are still attached.
Its ears are still attached, but that
does not mean you will hear it.
If you are an eat-by-myself type of girl,
you will not see a spirit.
Prizes are reserved for the defeated.
Punishments go to the winners.
Leopard skins are rare, and so
are never worked by beginners.
The plumber has come with equipment
to undo the emotional clog.
The lizard does not eat pepper
and sweat break out on the frog.
If a rat gets a hold of a fufu,
he will eat it; he does not steal the pestle.
The souls of all tormentors are soft
like the lead of an artist’s pencil.
A boyfriend yields a lesson like
“The Death of Ivan Illych.”
A snake is like a rope, and yet
you don’t use it to tie up a package.
The ukulele is a hollow fruit.
So, shake it and savor the sound.
Trees are a net: they stop bird bones
from ever reaching the ground.
Who stands wide awake in a darkened room
is apt to give people the shivers.
When a bird has a long enough bill, it has
no need of crossing rivers.
You don’t sit there making rope in front
of the animal you’re trying to catch.
And no one teaches an Egyptian cat
to look in a calabash.
Mother to child, and girl to boy,
the influence is corrupting.
When a hunter comes home with mushrooms, he’s
not asked for news of his hunting.
No child looks idly in the pot;
she expects to be given something.
If the fool knows nothing else, he knows
all about his plantain dumpling.
The Tathāgata never reflects.
The Tathāgata never thirsts.
By the time the fool has learned the game,
the players have dispersed.
The girl is fifteen, and sight unseen,
I gave her all I had.
All plants are medicinal but you do not know
and say this one is bad.
The ice cubes fight to get to the top.
They’re pushing and shoving, aggrieved.
She who does what is not usually done
perceives what is not usually perceived.
❧
Poem on 10/23/18, Camilla One Week Old
Good morning, tiny baby blob.
Uncle Tony’s on the job.
Uncle Tony saying hi.
Mama knows the reason why.
Mama knows and mama nurtures.
She is happy with her purchase.
Who can number all her kisses?
No one knows nor even guesses.
Someday, when you read these lines,
Think about those former times,
When your every yawn and sneeze
Was sure to fascinate and please.
❧
Birthday Rhymes for Margo Lucy Macpherson Wilson, 9.14.18
Whippoorwill or weeping willow:
one is a bird, the other a tree.
Two weeks into September, and so
it’s time you heard from me.
Tumbling tumbleweed, mumbling mouse:
one’s in the grille, the other the house.
Time is passing and I’m afraid
you’re in sixth grade.
Fidgeting flower and Vulture Peak:
one is a mountain, the other a pest.
It’s all I can do to suppress fatigue,
and so I take a rest.
Chicago saguaro and sorrowing snake:
one is a meal, the other a font.
Friedrich Nietzsche’s trying to make
you clear your mind of Kant.
Comma and colon and question mark:
two in the middle and one at the end.
Plummeting monkey was heard to remark:
“I understand you’re ten.”
❧
Rhymes for Dina Naomi Nathan :: one today, 6/25/18
Some kinds of birds are hoppers.
Others will break into a run.
It’s the twenty-fifth day of June:
Today you’re 1.
I saw a petrified tree in Yellowstone.
We have no such trees around here.
You were born on exactly this day,
Last year.
A bison will savor a dust wallow.
For a male bison, a wallow is heaven.
Your mother’s name is Sharon.
Your dad’s Evan.
Antelope are not all that interesting.
They look away and act all indignant.
I took a long walk with your mom
When she was pregnant.
The western tanager is a kind of bird.
It’s a rainbow from its nose to its knees.
Your dad’s on the roof fixing the gutter.
Your mom reads Chinese.
I saw a couple of black bears in Yellowstone.
Everyone finds them entrancing.
Last time I visited, I saw a video
Of you dancing.
We hit a tumbleweed with the Honda.
It exploded into toothpicks! That was fun.
It’s the twenty-fifth day of June, now.
And suddenly you’re 1.
❧
Rhymes for Noni Vivian Chelko :: six today, 6/18/18
I now contrive
to stir the mix:
no longer five,
she’s all o’ six.
This lit-tle chick
with attitude,
she puts a pic-
ture in a tube.
She puts a field
below her foot.
The tube is sealed;
the stamp is put.
We move along
a crooked track:
the thing is wrong;
the tube comes back.
O Richelieu
and skating rinks!
She fits in-to
her dainty pinks!
Her pinks are red;
they raise alarms.
Above her head,
are both her arms.
A lit-tle crown,
a frilly ruff.
She settles down:
she’s had enough.
And possibly,
all down the aisles,
are fam-i-lies
of crocodiles,—
are unicorns,
and on their butts,
a horse performs
the you-know-whats.
And you-know-which
is on his head!
But here’s the hitch:
he’s gone to bed.
And only now
the tube arrives!
We must allow
that both our lives
have changed since when
the tube was sent.
The days are ten
that came and went,
and years contrive
to play their tricks:
you sent at five;
it comes at six.
And all the angels
gather ’round.
They shift and change
without a sound.
They watch as tape
and tube are popped:
the angels gape;
their hearts are stopped.
And out the hole
is something new:
a sacred scroll
for me to view!
These lines to you
your mother reads,
and serve, it’s true,
no other needs
than on this day
to wish you well:
Champs-Élysées
on carousel.
❧
Rhymes for Elsa Diaz :: eight today, 6/13/18
Elsa Diaz, turning eight.
How’s she feelin’? Feelin’ great.
How’s she doin’? Doin’ fine.
Next year she’ll be turning nine.
Elsa D. should have a look!
Draw a picture, read a book.
Read a book and turn the page,
Raise the curtain on the stage.
Stage is set and table too.
Label fastened on with glue.
Ladle, ladle, little soup!
Spiral into loopty loop.
Elsa Diaz, be as good:
Comprehended, understood.
Elsa Diaz, be as fast:
Top and bottom, first and last.
Bottom got ’em, last and first:
Final verse is not the worst.
Final verse is this’n here:
Love enough for all the year!
❧
Poem for Roma Cady Macpherson-Wilson, 2 January 2018
The horse is suddenly vertical.
He almost stepped on a snake.
You are turning fourteen today:
It’s Winter Break.
The snake’s skin is made out of paper,
Like a tiny magazine foldout.
You’re in the middle of eighth grade:
It’s freezing cold out.
The sea turtle scrambling seaward has to
Content himself with a maybe.
The last time I ever looked at you,
You were a baby.
All sea birds enjoy the privileges
Accorded the high and the flighty.
I’m not fond of handing out homework,
Yet I hope you’ll write me.
The elephant is her own shower head:
She can lock it and load it and drench.
In an earlier version of this poem,
The first line was in French.*
Aristotle was a subtle marmoset.
He invented the enthymeme, he did.
So, please lemme know if you need anything.
Signed with love,—Anthony Madrid.
❧
__________
* It began:
Alors, ma bichette
I’m not done with you yet…
Poem for Matthias James McDonough Howell, 12/31/17
The iguana is a rocky planet:
He gets his heat from the sun.
It’s the thirty-first day of December.
Today you’re one.
The eagle refuses to sell:
She’s considered an implacable holdout.
It’s the thirty-first day of December.
It’s freezing cold out.
The bull is an able attorney:
He can settle your case for a fee.
Your mother is a good friend of mine.
Her name’s Marie.
By the time you’re reading this poem,
The iguana, the eagle, the bull
Will all be in animal heaven unless
The parking garage was full.
The ostrich is proud of her feathers:
She’s busy, so she has to run.
It’s the thirty-first day of December.
Today you’re one.
❧
Birthday poem for Margo Lucy Macpherson Wilson, 9.14.17
Today, the DOUBLE DIGIT.
Tomorrow, the COMMON APP.
The Lay of the Land is immidget-
-ly clear when you look at a Map.
Today, the DUAL CYPHER.
Tomorrow, the Campus Green.
A Tooth for a Tooth, and an Eye for
What others consider obscene.
May every TRANSACTION be memorable,
Margo, the Day of your Birth.
For you’re surely the greatest Ten-Year-Old
To be found on the Face of the Earth.
❧
Six Stanzas Written on Delta Flight 48 to NYC
24 May 2017 :: for Avi Hynes
Avenue! Avenue!
Twelve years old.
It's something new but haven't you
Already been told?
It's something new but that's the way
The kid turns twelve.
It's Friday into Saturday
So help-a yourself.
Slaughter-pole and water-pole
And whudja wanna do?
We're taking out the casserole
In Lincoln Park Zoo.
In Lincoln Park and pink and dark,
Piano out of tune.
The archer ’bout to miss the mark—
A rabbit on the moon.
Rabbit on the moon base!
Camel in the sun!
Take a nap at noon, face
The rhododenderon.
I'm at an end, I'm pressing SEND,
I praise the mighty day.
We all intend to recommend
The twenty-six of May.
❧
Birthday Poem for Gabriel River Hynes
Nine Today, 14 May 2017
The kid is nine:
open the wine,
dig in the fork,
and pop the cork.
Pop the cork
and pour a glass:
forty-eight yards
on a forward pass.
Pabriel, Gabriel,
Riverboat Hynes
held out a fork
to count the tines.
Count the tines:
it’s sevens and nines,
Gabriel, Pabriel
Riverboat Hynes.
Middle o’ May!
and it’s Mother’s Day:
others will say it’s
OK, it’s fine,—
if the kid is nine,
we open the wine:
he’s getting his,
so I’m getting mine.
And the poem ends
on the very next line:
The poem ends
on the very next line.
❧
Birthday Poem for Mira Buffam Reddy
Eight years old today, 13 April 2017
It seems to be true,
what I’d only heard:
that eight-year-old Mira’s
turned into a bird.
It seems to be true,
what I’d only guessed:
that Mira bird, Mira bird
sits on her nest.
Whenever the Mira bird
stands on one leg,
there starts to appear an
immaculate egg.
The heart of that egg
is nucleic mystique.
And the Mira bird’s picking
her little brown beak.
Oh it seems to be true,
what I heard on the boat:
that eight-year-old Mira’s
turned into a goat.
A little white goat
with a bell and a bleat
and a great roaring foursome
of shoes on her feet.
Now a little white goat
will stick out her pink tongue
and baa in complaint
if she wanders among
the children, the farmers,
the milkers of goats,
for Mira don’t like their
unmusical notes.
Oh I think it may be,
if it’s not a mistake,
that eight-year-old Mira’s
becoming a snake.
Is she eager to do it?
Or doesn’t she wanna?
Now eight-year-old Mira’s
become an iguana.
The iguana is often
ashamed of her wings,
and goes into hiding
whenever she sings.
Iguanas are secretive,
cunning and sly,
don’t want you to see ’em,
when they’re gonna fly.
Oh I think it may be!
I believe it’s the truth:
that Mira Iguana
has only one tooth.
I think it’s the case,
for I saw it online:
she’s just like a fork
that has only one tine.
I heard the report!
I sat through the news!
and eight-year-old Mira
took off all her shoes.
She spread out her wings,
she brushed her one tooth,
and polished her bell
with the ardor of youth,
and put out her tongue,
with an egg on her plate,
for today she has traveled
from seven to eight.
❧
Poem for Amelia, age 4
I get it, I got it, I feel ya
I’m writing this out for Amelia
Singles and triples and doubles
Her friend is a penguin named Bubbles
Doubles and triples and singles
Cheetos, Doritos, and Pringles
Some of her, more of her, all of her
Her brother’s a penguin named Oliver
❧
The Little Ramayana, April 13, 2016
The day is just begun, the clock
is standing at eleven.
MADRID is very good, so he’s
ascending into heaven,—
rewriting the RAMAYANA,
while MIRA’s turning seven.
There is a little MIRA, who
has often heard the tale.
She knows the crown will tend to go
to first-born handsome males.
But this is where the story’s always
going off the rails.
Unfortunate! the good old king
has made a solemn promise,
which Queen KAIKEYI wants fulfilled,
lest he be thought dishonest.
The people all get so upset
that everybody vomits.
KAIKEYI wants the first-born son
to light out for the trees,
the better that her own dear one
enjoy the royal ease.
But RAMA’s wife and sidekick beg:
Can we go with you, please?
And so where once they pillows had
are only mossy rocks.
And dishes that had been delish
are only fit for fox.
And where their shoes had been of silk
are only gruesome socks.
And meanwhile on the other end
of all this cosmic spectrum,
the demon monarch RAVANA
plays vina with a plectrum.
He rules by warlike stratagems—
’cuz nobody expects ’em!
He soon gets wind a lady and
a douchebag pair of brothers
are wandering the woods alone—
they’re not with any others.
Two stupid human mortals who
were born from different mothers!
The DEMON KING sets out at once:
his gross erotic errand,
a trick quite in defiance of
all substantive and gerund.
A deer runs interference while
he steals the girl to MARYLAND.
Now, RAMA was a perfect son:
he was to peace inclined,
and when he lost his kingdom, he
was easily resigned.
But now his SITA’s gone, the man
has nearly lost his mind.
The only thing to do in cases
anything like this
is mass a MONKEY ARMY to
put right the thing amiss,
befriend a monkey General, and
ignore all prejudice.
It’s true a MONKEY ARMY has
a number of small vices.
They like to smash up vineyards and
they haggle over prices.
People think they’re bears ’cuz they
are not among the nicest.
But, meanwhile, back in Baltimore,
the DEMON KING abuses
everybody’s patience; SITA
sturdily refuses.
He begs, he pleads, he yells at speeds
that frighten off the Muses:
he’s pretty good, but goodness knows
Pure Virtue has its uses.
Here HANUMAN stands up ’cuz he
with indignation trembles.
Resolves on leaping oceans cold
as Michigan Decembers.
(But why he doesn’t fetch back SITA
nobody remembers.)
He leaves her there in wicker chair
and leaps back in a smidge.
He tells the others: “There’s no time
to take apart the fridge!!
It falls to us, O mighty host,
to build a GIANT BRIDGE.”
Across the waves they pitch a road,
an arching steady structure—
and, waging war on Baltimore,
they rip it up and rupture,
with RAMA leaping to and fro
at this important juncture.
The first-born son and demon king
can smell each other’s breath.
With weapons sharp, they slash away
as if on crystal meth.
’Til Rama throws down Ravana
and TICKLES him to death!
“The war is done! It sure was fun!”
the happy monkeys cried.
Yet, shockingly, the perfect son
is not quite satisfied.
He wants to know if Sita has,
uh, anything to hide.
The perfect man, who once had been
expelled all hot and sweaty,
kicks out his wife, and she, fed up,
sinks down into the jetty.
The tale is not uplifting, though
its atmosphere is heady,—
But that’s the way the story ends,
dear Mira Buffam Reddy.
❧