Mike Keith

Anagrammy Awards > Literary Archives > Mike Keith

Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

A sonnet by a medieval poet of whom James B. Cabell was enamored (and so made translations of several of his poems into English). The anagram was a gift to my daughter, whose name can be found in the initial letters of its lines.

SONNET
by Nicolas de Caen

We are as harsh time molds us, lacking all
To change our humble fortunes, or contend
With grimly subtle Fates, who may not mend
The useless business of things temporal.
Thus stitch to shape the fabric, or let fall
A single line therein until, in fine,
This life bemuses, faith is overcast,
And utter darkness quickly swallows mine.
They once ordained much time to rhyme and sing
Of joys and kisses, days' remembered thrills,
To honor her with memoirs by the lake,
With ready love that paid tears o'er the hills.
Life hurries now, and leaves them shuffling
Beside the embers of a burned-out fire.

REFLECTIONS
by M. Keith

Dust into dust, and so shall be his name,
Impermanent and fleeting as the wind;
All finished with the fifteen minutes' fame,
No issue from the ramblings of his mind.
And yet, should he but think to try and tease
Just one small solace from the mournful chimes,
Elect would he for certain memories,
And two or three new readers for his rhymes.
'Neath this inverted bowl we call the sky,
Kings, sultans, princes, Omars - even I -
Establish tributes as they quickly pass,
Inscribe small legacies their whole life through.
Through all, dear reader, no one else but you
Has voice to say if they be gold or brass.

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Words heard, by accident, over the phone
Sylvia Plath

O mud, mud, how fluid! --
Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.
Speak, speak! Who is it?
It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles.
It is he who has achieved these syllables.

What are these words, these words?
They are plopping like mud.
O god, how shall I ever clean the phone table?
They are pressing out of the many-holed earpiece,
they are looking for a listener.
Is he here?

Now the room is ahiss. The instrument
Withdraws its tentacle.
But the spawn percolate in my heart. They are fertile.
Muck funnel, muck funnel --
You are too big. They must take you back!

Things seen, awkwardly, in her video phone
Mike Keith

O ice, ice, how knife-edged! --
Cold as the arctic winter, with but a hint of life.
Peep, peep! Who goes there?
I spy the heart-murmur, the lad playful.
He who has erupted forth as an ugly eyeful.

What belie these visions, these visions?
They melt as the polar ice.
So, shall the keyboard ever work again?
These graphic windows pollute my desktop,
seeking someone to liberate them.
Perhaps me?

The disk salivates. The machine's shell
Offers a directory,
But no single truth can be found. Daily her tally grows.
Base octal, base octal --
You are hurtful. You must now shut down!

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Four-Gram-Word Text (from Will Shak. play)

Ages of Man

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

MAN'S SAGA

Come, live.

Once born into this life, bawl.
Chew thin mush, then leak upon laps. Also shit.
Find tiny toes (even nine?), suck same.
Take naps, then sing. Itch. Snot.
Snag nail, bump shin. Wail with pain. Sulk... even sigh.

Rise, walk, jump, race, spin.
Lend toys. Wash sand from face.

Open mind, shun play, heed "Sirs". (Nuts!)
Work hard, read math (sine, atan, sinh, sign...),
then pass exam.

Meet thin girl, Anna.
She's some nice teen dish! Nice tits, even!
Date some, burn with lust, snag love.
Quip, "What stud!"

Shun sexy slut, then find wife, Gail.
Move into cosy home near high hill, tiny glen.
Have four sons, nine dogs.
Grab Dad's role. Weed lawn.

Hail cabs, dial inns, send scan.
Lend cold cash, fund Asia site, then make Yens.
Hold cash. Dare, defy, heap oath upon oath.
Diet.

Stay near nest till lean boys grow tall,
then play chic hero.

Coin neat idea:
Quit rush hour - even find Eden!

Rise near noon. Idly till land.
Heat hen's nest.
Tend hogs, iris, rose leaf, herb, tree, fern.
Darn rain!
Grow idle, shop 'flea sale',
Then soon come nigh "that hill".

Tilt with dull fate.
Die's cast:
Grow thin, drag self.
Grow gray, bald... then both.
Pine over past eons. Find heir.

(Alas, chin nods, life ebbs.
Body rots, cyst-rife.)

Walk away - rush over, shut, gone, near last gate.
Then join ill's ends: dust into dust.

Dies Irae.

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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