Sunday, August 26, 2007

To Wit's End, In Memorium

This was the view from Wit's End prior to the massive landslide.

I have long enjoyed the poetry of E.E.Cummings, in fact I read one of his poems to Mr. Wizard at our wedding some thirty years ago.

Here is an offering that reflects my feeling about the expanse of air that was once our farm:

nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born
failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville
perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve
like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a
highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
my Uncle Sol's farm
failed because the chickens
the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate
the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught
cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who'd given my
Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention
splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and
everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle
Sol's coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down
my Uncle
and started a worm farm)
-- E. E.

livingdominica: 'wonder if it is too late for a career in vaudeville...

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