This Emily Chick is Sick!

This is a parody of "A Bird Came Down the Walk."

One dead slumped down the Walk—

He grunted so I saw—

He bit a mailman in halves

And ate the fellow, raw,

And then he drank from Lou

Who died within the Grass—

And shuffled sideways to the Street

To let this Slayer pass—

He peered with famished eyes

That wandered all around—

They looked like lifeless Orbs, I thought—

He stirred his Sagging Head

Like one dismembered, dying,

I forced in him a Blade

And he unleashed his entrails

And moaned him softer home—

Than Babes cry out when smothered,

Too gruesome for this scene—

Or Leftovers, left In the Pond

Float, lifeless after drowned.

A Darker Side of Emily

I like that title. Actually, I think I'll use it as a warm-up inspiration. Most who know my opinions of Emily Dickinson, and my "love" of mocking her and her style and her life (mostly those who took AP English with me waaaaaaaay back when Mr. M was diagnosed with cancer and we had that one really witchy sub while he was out for chemo). The aforementioned side-noted substitute worshipped the depressed ground that Dickinson false-hopefully walked on. All I could muster were C- papers that revealed my true interpretations of her poems. She was affronted that anyone could not adore Miss Spinsterly Recluse and her mastery of the language.

Now, before any of you send exploding hate mail, I must say that Emily could write; it just doesn't do anything for me. Then again, I don't think I was her target audience. However, I have now found another use for her.

At the CUWP reunion today, Chris Crowe presented something that I hold dear to my poetic heart--parody. I already have my students write one or two each year, but the exercise today of taking a famous poem and changing it hit home. Yes, this is Bad poetry, but it gets my juices going.
So, for the next while, whenever I need to loosen the joints and get the muse flowing through my veins (after feeding her), I am going to apply my mad zombie parody skills to none other than Emily Dickinson. I think it will be especially helpful (like right now) when I am supposed to be constructing a research paper (Barf!). And when I'm done with Miss Emily, or I get bored with this fad, I'll collect them and publish them under the title "A Darker Side of Emily" and play off the zombie-obsessed culture we live in.

If you have any zombie ideas, or requests as to which poem I parody next, send a shout out, and I'll work on it. I'm also open to other ideas for Bad poetry.

Here is the first installment (inspired by "If I Can Stop One Heart from Breaking"):

If I can't keep your heart from breaking,
I shall just eat your brain;
If it means my blood lust slaking,
or easing hunger pains,
or keep my rank-mouth slobberin'
upon your neck again,
You shall not die in vain.

Revision (If Anybody Cares)

Here is a newer version of the latest post. I'd really like more feedback. I can feel a gem here, but I'm still dissatisfied in general.

“Insights Coming from Observations While Focusing on a Pane of Glass at the Bus Stop”

(28 June 2011)

Shadows dance

across the glass,

intertwined

with the sun’s rays.

The panes reflect,

illuminate,

or sometimes distort the

images of passersby,

revealing reflections,

refractions,

interpretations of reality—

the bright

likeness

of a truck cruising

with more paint

and bling

and noise

than substance,

the darker slant of

a pony-tailed blonde,

hustling to class,

her teal shirt

attempting to mask

the worry

and doubt

seen only through the shadowy

reflection.

The breezes shift,

and the enhanced clarity

of the glass

captures her

exuberance

for life.

The shuttle pulls up

and blocks the play

of light

and dark,

freezing the moment,

eliminating

the shifting patterns of

shadow,

capturing a second

where the ever-

changing influences

of the winds

die.

This protected moment

shows the scene

for what it is—

no guesses,

no façade,

no deceit. But

when the respite passes,

when the bus pulls

away from the hard curb

of reality,

the endless possibilities

hidden in the

changing light

come alive.

Sometimes

nobody else notices

the flashes

of potential,

sometimes we try

to hide

in the inconsistent

comings and goings

in the breeze,

insecure

in the truth trapped in the

silence of the reflection;

although the stillness

is what

sets the truth

free.