by Orel Protopopescu

(with apologies to Robert Frost)

“Pence hits the campaign trail for Trump—and himself”
—Politico.com

Some say the world will end with Trump.
Some say with Pence.
From studies of the vacuum pump,
I hold with those who favor Trump.
But if more voters lose all sense
and waste their precious votes again
(from bigotry or ignorance)
on Trump, then Pence,
what’s our defense?

by Eddie Aderne

“A newly published letter, written by TS Eliot in 1960, has shed fresh light on the writer’s relationship with a woman he corresponded with for 26 years. …
Eliot wrote hundreds of letters to Hale while he was married to his first wife, Vivienne Haigh-Wood.
The letters were unsealed this week at Princeton University in New Jersey.
Their unsealing prompted the publication of Eliot’s letter, which he had said should only be released when his letters to Hale were made public.”
—BBC News

It has come to my ears that Miss Emily Hale
Is glossing my letters. Bad taste on this scale
Compels me to issue a record, although
I shudder to put what is private on show.
In Harvard at Graduate School, I declared
The love that Miss Hale has now vulgarly aired;
From Oxford in 1914, I addressed
Some letters where friendship alone was expressed.
The years wed to Vivienne Haigh-Wood I found
Sheer agony, but for the praises of Pound;
And yet, though the nightmare we jointly endured
Drove me to “The Waste Land,” and her to a ward,
She did let the poet inside me prevail,
And saved me from marrying Emily Hale.
I saw, with poor Vivienne sadly deceased,
I was not in love with Miss Hale in the least:
That what I had taken for love was, in truth,
A memory only of love in my youth;
And it was impossible not to divine
Her deafness to verse, in particular mine.
Though maybe she loved, my opinions meant less
To her than her uncle’s, whose mind was a mess;
Although Unitarian, still she’d prefer
The Anglican rites, quite improper for her;
And lastly (insensitive, surely, and coarse)
She did not respect my beliefs on divorce.
When Vivienne died, I observed that, at most,
My love was the love of a ghost for a ghost;
I hereby record this, before my decease.
We never had sex. May we all rest in peace.

* Italicized phrases verbatim from the letter.

by Ruth S. Baker

“We say: ‘I am not myself today,’ but we never say: ‘Myself is not my I today.’”
—Chris Evans in The Times

“Myself is not my I today”
Is something I would never say.
How could myself be otherwise?
It’s hard to think of alibis.
Though “I am not myself” may be
Conceivably expressed by me,
The coda’s easy to supply:
“Which nonetheless is still my I.”

by Julia Griffin

“A child stowaway has been found dead in the undercarriage of a plane at a Paris airport, officials said, having probably frozen to death or asphyxiated on the flight …
The child, aged about 10, had clambered into the underbelly of the Air France Boeing 777 in Abidjan, Ivory Coast. …
Temperatures drop to about minus 50C at altitudes of between 9,000 and 10,000 metres at which passenger planes generally fly.”
—The Guardian

“According to oral tradition … the name “Abidjan” results from a misunderstanding. When the first colonists asked a native man the name of the place, the man misunderstood and replied ‘M’bi min djan’: ‘I’ve just been cutting leaves.’”
—Wikipedia

So clearing out the landing gear, they found
(After the jet had safely reached the ground,
And temperatures had reached a safe degree—
No longer minus 50 degrees C—
With atmosphere and pressure back to suit
The needs of earthly life) a furled-up shoot,
Withered with cold, or choked for lack of air:
A rootless child, who no one knew was there.
What should we tell his mother in her grief?
M’bi min djan. Here is your precious leaf.

by James Hamby

If you’ve got lots of money to spend
And would like a new war without end,
Just look back to see
The plan from ’03
And then change the “q” to an “n.”

by Erika Fine

The news about a murder done by drone
Is ominous and chilling to the bone.

When news becomes too hard for me to face,
I read a book about another place.
I watch a film about another time.
I write a poem that doesn’t have to rhyme.

I reach a state that guarantees escape.
I take a winter beach trip to the Cape.
I buy a finer quality of wine.
I browse for things I’ll never need online.

I act as if I haven’t got a care.
Reality’s too harrowing to bear.
But sometime when I’m fully back on board,
You’ll fill me in on all that I’ve ignored.

by Ruth S. Baker

for Baby Yoda (properly known as The Child)

When the Clones rise, the cradle rock will:
With Jedi lore your downy head fill;
When the Sith strike, the cradle fall see.
Child, may great Disney’s Force with you be.

by Julia Griffin

“A viral Facebook photo shows two uniformed officers with cardboard signs taped together in what they called a ‘homeless quilt.”
—Vice News

We picked up two square miles of these
And made a quilt of cardboard. Please.
Help. Makes a kind of boring read:
Anything. Thank you. Hungry. Need.
Trying to make it. (Sure!) Will work.
(Yeah, right.) It’s like the Precinct’s perk:
The Comforter of Homelessness.
Happy New Year! Stay safe. God bless.

by Dan Campion

“Learning to fail is a skill like any other. Which means it takes practice.”
—“Here to Help” column in The New York Times

We learned to throw the towel in first,
Before the match begins.
My throw was judged by far the worst,
The champ of might-have-beens.

We wrote in cursive on the board.
They said mine was a fright.
In math was where I really scored.
Turns out I got none right.

At failure I’m a “prodigy,”
They say. I’ve got it made.
No need for practice, not for me!
They’re skipping me a grade.

by Ruth S. Baker

“Bonsai trees shaped like rats are popular in Vietnam ahead of Lunar New Year”
—CNN

It may be a hit in Da Lat,
But the one thing less charming, to me,
Than a tree that resembles a rat
Is a rat that resembles a tree.

by Julia Griffin

“Cats is said to be so ‘shockingly bad’ that it’s prompting walkouts from cinemagoers.”
—The Independent

Terrible Cats came out this week:
Terrible Cats have raised a squall.
Every cat has a weird physique;
Every cat makes your skin to crawl:
Cinema buffs can hardly speak;
Cinema critics are having a ball.

Old Deuteronomy’s wearing her fur:
It looks like a rug, more than something she grew;
Around it (creating a bit of a stir)
She’s wearing the pelts of ten other cats too.

The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious cat,
But there isn’t any need for me to scream it:
For he’s got fur but it’s not fur,
And let’s hope we never have to dream it.

What’s happened to Mr. Mistoffelees,
The Original Conjuring Cat?
His badger-in-lipstick look’s awful—he’s
Not magic enough to fix that.

Macavity the Mystery Cat
Is looking very raw:
That fur-cut’s simply criminal—
It’s really more a gnaw;
They’re baffled up at Scotland Yard:
There’s something nasty, yeah;
But if you know your Cats, you’ll know
Macavity’s not there.

Memory! Turn your face to the exit;
Just remember the good times—bid them sadly goodbye:
If you touch these, you’ll understand what none of us knows:
What’s the feel of CGI?

by Nora Jay

The Democrats are feeling smug and cozy.
The gavel’s down at last! Calloo, callay!
“He’ll be impeached forever,” quoth Pelosi.
It’s certainly felt that way.

by David Hedges

The clown car appears to be stuck in reverse,
And Ringmaster Donald can’t think what to do
But tweet hissy fits and relentlessly curse
As bozos bail out — oh, and call it a coup.

Ivanka, aloft in her glittering tights,
Sails on through thin air with the greatest of ease,
Expanding her graft to incomparable heights
By putting the squeeze on the well-heeled Chinese.

Don’s son-in-law, Jared, loan-juggler supreme,
Plays footsie with Salman, the Saudi crown prince,
And kowtows to Putin’s despotic regime
As qualified diplomats grimace and wince.

Rudolfo, the screwball Ukrainian freak,
Reprises the guiles in his vast repertoire,
A sideshow replete with the president’s clique
Of bootlicking sycophants, starring Bill Barr.

While Mitch cracks his whip in the off-center ring,
Republicans circle, performing their rounds,
Attached, trunk to tail, in an unbroken string,
Unable to utter articulate sounds.

Don Junior and Eric spout off on talk shows —
Imperious ham-handed rich little kids
Defending dear Daddy, whose nose grows and grows,
With plenteous pro quos and copious quids.

by Ruth S. Baker

“Prominent lawyer Jolyon Maugham clubs fox to death while wearing kimono.”
—The Guardian

A prominent lawyer named Jolyon Maugham
Has recently kicked up a media storm
By killing a fox. Was he dressed for it? O no:
Instead of buff breeches, he wore a kimono—
A skimpy affair that a geisha might shed,
Ill suited for knocking a fox on the head.
He tweeted these details to all on his feed,
In hopes of applause, which were punctured with speed;
The animal activists raged for the fox,
While satirists offered sartorial mocks:
Top law-men in lingerie fashioned for belles
Should not bash a fox! (Or do anything else.)

by Nora Jay

“Donald Trump Jr. kills rare endangered sheep in Mongolia with special permit.”
—The Guardian

Mongolia’s a wondrous place, and getting there’s not cheap,
But once you’ve done it, fancy! You can kill endangered sheep.
The name for them is “Argali.” They’ve quite stupendous horns,
And fleece which (once removed) will soothe the toughest hunter’s corns.
To slaughter this alarming beast you’ll need, of course, a gun,
A permit, and some proof that you’re a global leader’s son.
Equipped with these, come, blast away! By now you will have figured
That sheep, like other snowy types, are effortlessly triggered,
And soon you’ll have its lifeless head to hang up like a hood.
It may not look its very best, but you’ll look really good.