“The Great Gatsby is out of US copyright and fans of Fitzgerald’s novel have rushed to pay tribute
with new books and fanfiction. What does it mean for the novel’s legacy?” —The Guardian
Yes, Gatsby has turned out all right:
Released from the copyright blight,
More Daisy, more Jay
Are flowing our way;
We rush to this longed-for green light,
And so we beat on, every mast
Submerged by the current at last:
However we mourn,
We’re sure to be borne
Back ceaselessly into the past.
“Discoveries at the edge of the periodic table: First ever measurements of einsteinium” —Phys.org
While politicians haw and hem
And talking heads lace into them
As [bleep] fan ups in rpm,
Some chemists make, far from that scrum,
New measures of einsteinium:
E.g., “bond distance,” which may yield
Yet further breakthroughs in the field.
We ought to celebrate, I’d say,
The scientists who spend their day
Sequestered from the common fray
And hearken to the different drum
Of measuring einsteinium.
“Dante’s descendant to take part in ‘retrial’ of poet’s 1302 corruption case
Seven centuries after guilty verdict in Florence,
Sperello di Serego Alighieri [noted astrophysicist] to help test whether poet’s conviction would stand today” —The Guardian
At slightly more than midway through man’s life
(I’m sixty-nine), I feel it time to clear
My forebear’s honor, smeared through Guelphic strife.
Ah, probably the journalists will sneer,
But Alighieris don’t forget a wrong.
This now has passed its seven hundredth year:
The Empire’s gone (alas, the Pope’s still strong),
And still that vile conviction shames and brands—
And Florence the Ungrateful goes along.
Well, his descendant, as of now, demands
That right be done. It isn’t hard to parse:
Judges, great Dante’s name is in your hands!
Fighters, he wrote, find Paradise on Mars:
At least a heaven-gazer understands
That cosmic stubbornness that moves the stars.
It’s Valentine’s Day, should I buy you more flowers?
Red roses can cost quite a lot.
A poetry book? Stolen kisses in bowers?
Or something that grows in a pot?
If you weren’t on a diet then candy would do.
Yes, candy’s the best, it would be
The perfect expression of my love for you,
Because then you would share it with me.
As Boris Johnson reveals that the new “made in the UK” strain of coronavirus “may be” 30% more deadly, the nation wonders what to do with that information.
Should I tighten my mask by three notches
and scrub til my palms are gone?
Should I cut down my frivolous outings
by a third of precisely none?
Should I distance by eight foot, not six foot
and then firmly resolve to be
more scared in the still before sunrise
by a factor of 1.3?
Should I ramp up the size of my sourdough?
Go from three mugs of wine to four?
As I juggle the schooling and Zooming,
should I shrivel inside some more?
Should I work more at missing my mother
and then firmly resolve to be
more cross with the wankers of Whitehall
by a factor of 1.3?
“Goat Attacks Man, Lurks in Background As Paramedics Help Victim in Video Footage of the incident … showed ambulance staff attempting to get the man
onto a stretcher, as the goat quietly lurked in the background. … It remains unclear whether the goat was provoked.” —Newsweek
I find, when human beings irk,
It’s best to lunge and then to lurk.
I butt them, yes; don’t think I shirk;
But lurking too is vital work.
So was this incident a quirk,
Or automatic fetlock-jerk?
Was I provoked, or just berserk?
Here’s all you need to know: I lurk.
“Crochet artist turns viral Bernie Sanders image into a doll that sells for $20,000” —The Guardian
Since the viewing public loves
Bernie Sanders’ woolly gloves,
Surely more than mere glad-handers
Would enjoy a woolly Sanders?
It’s the finest gift purveyed:
Crotchety Old Man, Crocheted.
“A man photographed wearing face paint and a horned headdress during the Jan. 6 insurrection at the U.S. Capitol said he would be willing to testify at former President Trump’s impeachment trial” —The Hill, January 28th
“A young, woolly rhino has been thawed whole after as much as 40,000 years frozen in Siberian permafrost.” —New York Post, January 26th
After what seems like 40,000 years,
A horned and hairy beast has been unfrozen,
And means to testify, it now appears,
Against the alpha-beast it has unchosen.
Reclaimed from QAnon and permafrost,
The woolly one concedes that Trump has lost.
I’m coming to Congress to carry a gun;
If somebody murdered your daughter or son
At school, that’s a hoax and I’m calling it one.
I’m a heat-packing, Trump-loving QAnon queen.
I’m Marjorie Taylor Greene.
I hate Muslims and Hillary Clinton and Jews;
I know Fake News lies, I know Trump didn’t lose;
On Facebook, I like kill-the-Democrats views.
I’m a star on the race-baiting, truth-hating scene.
I’m Marjorie Taylor Greene
“Facebook apologises for flagging Plymouth Hoe as offensive term” —The Guardian
Drake he’s in his hammock, or so his agents say,
(Capten, art thou trendin’ there below?)
No one’s goin’ to answer, though you mob the house all day
An’ try to get a quote on Plymouth Hoe:
Did they meet through Stormy? Did she work for Bill?
Was she friends with Paris, Kim, and co?
Were there bedsprings smashin’ with #passion?
But Drake his only comment is a legalistic No.
Drake he’s at his lawyer’s now, a-signin’ of his writs
(Capten, folk are talkin’ even so!)
Bein’ used to pirates, he is hirin’ Dershowitz,
Who charges even more than Plymouth Hoe:
Call him on his cell phone, call him over Zoom,
Call him on the newest apps you know;
Where the old trade’s flyin’, old Facebook’s spyin’,
And you’ll find him dumb and mute as any big-shot married beau.
