by Philip Kitcher
(With thanks to Rupert Brooke)
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a Tulsa street
That is forever Trumpland. There shall be,
Lying beneath, a true Red heart, whose beat
Proclaims his glory; one that would agree
Not to disclose, never complain or sue;
But work undaunted for his victory,
Striving to stem the sinful surge of Blue.
And think this heart, transformed to higher state,
Its pulses quickened by the wondrous rays
Shed by his maskless Presence who once trod
These streets, throbs still to make our country great;
To lower taxes, purge the Dems and gays,
Ever to fight for Trump, for guns, for God.
by Dan Campion
“Jerome Powell Has The Most Humiliating Job In America”
—NPR
To say the chairman of the Fed
Gets least respect has no street cred:
He wears a suit and rep stripe tie,
And works inside—and gets to try
The patience of the Big Galoot
(In blue tie and Brioni suit)
Who’s perfectly obsessed with loot.
Our own affairs grown ticklish,
The rest of us can only wish
For Jay Powell’s access to the nerves
Of that Great Bundle whom he serves.
by Stephen Pisani
“Trump Boasts of Successful Walk Down Shallow Ramp Without Tripping”
—New York Magazine
The ramp says, “Ouch.”
Don barely moves.
He tries a crouch,
implants his hooves.
With one last slouch,
his gait improves.
The ramp exhales;
says, “Happy trails.”
by Dan Campion
“Buffalo protester shoved by Police could be an ANTIFA provocateur.”
—@realDonaldTrump
The Cheshire cat could be a plant.
A squid could be a Douglas fir.
A Buffalo could be my aunt.
But Martin, a provocateur?
The cops could be space aliens.
The President could be a cur.
Yahoos could be Pygmalions.
Gugino, though: provocateur?
Could be you’re proud you learned a word
That could be used to cause a stir.
Could be, though flipping France the bird,
You’re smitten with provocateur.
A tweet could be a senseless rant,
Brown dreck could be a gift of myrrh,
Your pet could be Nast’s elephant,
But spare us, boss, provocateur.
by Julia Griffin
“A towering statue of Confederate General Robert E Lee will be removed
as soon as possible from downtown Richmond…”
—The Guardian
“Belgians want statue of genocidal King Leopold II removed”
—Reuters
Lightly with Leopold, lightly with Lee;
Rope the high horses, let sunlight fall free:
See how they darken the heart of a town.
Take them down.
Lee fought a war for the right to keep slaves;
Leopold battened on Africa’s graves;
Blood’s on the stirrup and blood’s on the crown.
Take them down.
by Jerome Betts
“Thousands of people have gathered outside an Oxford college to demand the removal of a statue of imperialist Cecil Rhodes.”
—BBC News
The dons of a college called Oriel
With a statue of Rhodes as memorial
To his monetary gifts
Find it deepening rifts
Over issues much more than sculptorial.
by Brian Allgar
“Fake News! They say I’ve never read the Bible!
I’m gonna sue those journalists for libel.
That book is right beside me when I pray;
I read its name, ‘The Bible,’ every day.”
by Eddie Aderne
“‘She still lives!’ Famed Yellowstone bear emerges from winter—with cubs
A few weeks ago, a nature photographer who lives near Yellowstone national park
sent a four-word text message to Dr Jane Goodall, the British primatologist.
“Miraculously, she still lives!”
The photographer, Thomas Mangelsen, was referring to a grizzly bear known as “399”
[…]. At 24, not only is she one of the oldest grizzlies living outside a zoo, she has also
continued having cubs to a venerable age…”
—The Guardian
“The affair is over. Clarissa lives.”
—Samuel Richardson, Clarissa
She lives! The world of Yellowstone
Rejoices rightly in its own:
399, grand matriarch,
The grizzly glory of the Park,
Has reappeared, aged 24,
With one delightful litter more.
No wonder primatologists
Are waving flags and bumping fists
In honour of 399—
Though honestly, how anodyne
A name that is, and quite unfair
For such a venerable bear!
Let’s therefore try to celebrate
More fittingly. Though mortal Fate
So often takes, it sometimes gives;
Be thankful: Grizzalissa lives.
by Ruth S. Baker
“Saturn’s moon Titan is zooming away from its ringed parent 100 times faster than scientists
expected. … Previous research has suggested that the moon should be moving away from Saturn
at just 0.04 inches (0.1 cm) per year. But this new work suggests that Titan is actually moving
away from its planet at a whopping 4.3 inches (11 cm) every year.”
—Space.com
Saturn’s moon Titan is zooming away,
Responding to nothing his father can say.
Saturn sits wretchedly wringing his rings.
“Well,” rumbles Neptune, “it’s one of those things;
Titan’s a teen (in billennial terms);
One word of rotation, he fidgets and squirms;
Helium bores him, he wanes all he can—
Just try to remember, a moon’s his own man.
Children today—there’s not much to be done,
But back them, and hope they’re not rude to the Sun;
Pull all you like, you can’t hold him, my dear.
He’s leaving, at 4.3 inches per year.”
by Nora Jay
“Seattle protesters take over city blocks to create police-free… ‘Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone,’ or ‘Chaz’…”
—The Guardian
They’ve nixed the old rules in Seattle,
And long may true justice be done!
Yet shaking around in my head, like a rattle,
Is Animal Farm—chapter 1.
by Catherine Chandler
Here are five clerihews
Based on the news
Of this past week
Which was dark and depressing and scary and bleak:
1.
Trump tweeted: “Sleepy Joe” Biden
Is in a basement room hidin’!
But guess who rushed like hell to hunker
Down in the White House bunker?
2.
Trump put up an 8-foot fence
When the protests got intense.
I call this the politics
Of shitting bricks.
3.
Melania is the paragon of style.
But when Donald commanded her to smile
At the Shrine to Pope John Paul
Her grin went AWOL.
4.
Justin Trudeau . . .
Twenty-one seconds too slow—
Reluctant to dump
On Donald J. Trump.
5.
Ivanka’s Bible-toting Max Mara purse
Is the subject of scorn and nonsense verse.
But her daddy’s faux-righteous pose
Speaks louder than volumes of prose.
by Nora Jay
“Gun owners are taking photos of themselves pointing weapons at their genitals with the safety off”
—The Guardian
Here’s what you need to understand:
A guy ungunned’s a guy unmanned;
So when I point at this with that
It shows you I’m no scaredy-cat.
I’ve got them both between my legs
As mighty as two tinder-kegs;
Safety’s for sissies! that’s our cry:
Trust Trump and keep your powder dry.
by Julia Griffin
“Covid-19 expert Karl Friston: ‘Germany may have more immunological ‘dark matter’
[He explains this:] “people who are impervious to infection, perhaps because they are
geographically isolated or have some kind of natural resistance. This is like dark matter
in the universe: we can’t see it, but we know it must be there to account for what we can see.”
—The Guardian
Though concealed from human sight,
There’s some Angelegenheit
Giving virus contravention
For authentic deutschen Menschen.
Every parent, aunt, and uncle
Has some substance, real though dunkel,
(Not mere mask or hasty hanky)
Keeping them from getting krank(y).
While we’re puking and/or mewling,
They therefore can savor Frühling;
While our health or incomes slacken,
Watch them Spaziergang machen!
Does some natural selection
Make them stärker als Infektion?
Is it geographic distance
Granting them this odd Resistenz?
Maybe there’s a magic circle
Drawn by their angelic Merkel;
Let’s just say (abjuring malice):
Deutschland’s scoring über alles.
by Bruce Bennett
A belch in a mask is quite hideous.
The stench that it makes is insidious.
But if, when it’s off,
You happen to cough,
The looks you will get are invidious.
by Julia Griffin
“Speaking at the Hay literary festival, which is entirely online this year due to the coronavirus
pandemic, the Wolf Hall author said the Tudors ‘were very good at quarantine in those days.
They took it very seriously. I think [Thomas Cromwell] would have locked us down for a bit longer’.”
—The Guardian
He, Cromwell, skims his spies’ communiqués,
Absorbing all he needs. French numbers down,
But Muscovy’s are up. The lockdown stays.
Great merchants are protesting, but the Crown
Supports him still. He questions, making sure
(He, Cromwell), and the grave physicians nod:
The pestilence persists, there is no cure
But vigilance. They put their trust in God,
And in him, Cromwell. Let us keep indoors,
Therefore, to worship, for it needs no priest;
Confine all travellers from foreign shores
Till Lammastide, or two score days at least.
He smiles. Should any venture to be lax,
He, Cromwell, has the dungeons, and the axe.
