Sunday, April 14, 2013

A(n) (Un)Certain World

A poem titled ‘Winter Eve’ was featured at ‘Futility Closet’ on the 9th of April:

Drear fiend: How shall this spay be dent?
I jell you no toque — I do not know.
What can I do but snatch the woe
that falls beyond my pane, and blench
my crows and ted my briny shears?
Now galls another class. I’ll sit
and eye the corm that’s fought in it.
Maces will I fake, and heart my pare.
Is this that sold elf that once I was
with lapped chips and tolling lung?
I hollow sward and tight my bung
for very shame, and yet no cause –
save that the beery witchery
of Life stows grail. Shall I abroad?
Track up my punks? Oh gray to pod
for him who sanders on the wee!
I’ll buff a stag with shiny torts
and soulful hocks, a truthbush too,
perhaps a rook to bead — but no!
my wishes must be dashed. Reports
of danger shake the reaming scare.
Whack against blight! Again that tune,
“A gritty pearl is just like a titty prune”
blows from the fox. I canot bear
this sweetness. Silence is best. I mat
my mistress and my sleazy lumber.
I’ll shake off my toes, for they encumber.
What if I tub my stow? The newt
goes better fakèd to the cot.
I’ll hash my wands or shake a tower,
(a rug of slum? a whiskey sour?)
water my pants in all their plots,
slob a male hairy before I seep –
and dropping each Id on heavy lie,
with none to sing me lullaby,
slop off to dreep, slop off to dreep.
-Robert Morse

As you can see, the words of this poem just invite you to ‘correct’ them. So we indulged in moving some letters between such ‘inviting’ words to make the poem sound the same but still different. Here goes our version:

Dear friend: How shall this day be spent?
I tell you no joke — I do not know.
What can I do but watch the snow
that falls beyond my plane, and bench
my crows and shed my briny tears?
Now calls another glass. I’ll sit
and eye the form that’s caught in it.
Faces will I make, and part my hair.
Is this that old self that once I was
with chapped lips and lolling tongue?
I swallow hard and bite my tongue
for very shame, and yet no cause –
save that the weary bitchery
of Life grows stale. Shall I abroad?
Pack up my trunks? Oh pray to God
for him who wanders on the sea!
I’ll stuff a bag with tiny shorts
and hole full socks, a toothbrush too,
perhaps a book to read — but no!
my dishes must be washed. Reports
of danger shake the screaming rare.
Black against white! Again that tune,
“A pretty girl is just like a pretty tune”
flows from the box. I can not bear
this sweetness. Silence is best. I met
my mistress and my lazy slumber.
I’ll take off my shoes, for they encumber.
What if I stub my toe? The newt
goes fetter cakèd to the bot.
I’ll wash my hands or take a shower,
(a slug of rum? a whiskey sour?)
water my plants in all their pots,
sob a Hail Mary before I sleep –
and dropping each lid on heavy eye,
with none to sing me lullaby,
drop off to sleep, drop off to sleep.

It seems not all sentences have letters swapped and we  are not sure about the words in some sentences, like these two: “my crows and ted my briny shears” and “goes better fakèd to the cot”.

Ropefully, the headers can help!