It is perspiration season here on the prairie, its’ even hotter in other places. “To whit” (as he credits this moment) Yorick notes the pain, and remembers the burdens of flesh; and, even a skeleton appreciates certain contraptions.
If all goes well, and the fires don’t spread into prairie-digital worlds, then next Friday Yorick will provide an answer.
As usual, Yorick, (lacking the fleshy problem that leads to love poems) must utilize his romantic yearnings on utilitarian objects. Being a jester by character and profession he will leave you, just for a week, as you ponder this riddle.
A week from today … the answer.
The answer to last week’s riddle?
The Turn-Light Traffic Signal !
What you say, love poem? Yes, but only when it turns green, the color of life moving on. The other colors (and the winking) certainly means that someone must just want to look at me, and hold me stopped; their love possession. Alas, this may seem paranoiac but I like to think of the world as personal, not some random computer-generated authority. To whit, the anarchist out of step with Times.
Yorick once again considers the love of things, utilitarian things, and writes a love poem for your consideration. It is but a riddle, take heart!The answer will appear next Saturday…
Yorick again offers a love-poem for commonplace THINGS…
The answer next Saturday here at anachronisticanarchist.com.
Artists, this time of year, sit in garrets (if they can find one) or, more commonly, off in some corner table considering the splotched patterns of spilled coffee as the wind blows against the wall, just inches away .
It is March, the glum, gloom, precursor to Spring The Delightful and the most appropriate time for the poetic imagination (unfortunately often in the most prosaic pathetic pseudo-journalistic rant form).
Behind the cages of curled-up circus animals here at the tent and slightly upwind into the corners; the wail of the wind, grey of the sky, and general earthiness has encouraged poetic rants from those emotives who have wintered-over here.
While the jesters play with their jester’s sticks, taunting the winds and the windy-wise ones there are voices coming from the corners. “But, I didn’t…(followed by indecipherable words) came several times. “But, I didn’t…”. But, I didn’t…” (“didn’t” what, or to what end is not clear).
You have probably heard many similar expressions, repetitive, loud, hammered with an unceasing mechanical rhythm; but these are presently unadorned by electronic amplification and overwhelmed by the prairie wind and animal snoring.
It might be some marvelous insight predicted by how the coffee got spilt.
And so it goes, artistic inspiration. Oh, and the answer to last weeks riddle from Yorick?
Last weeks riddle answer – cartoon bubbles – what else would you think? Don’t you love ’em.
They carry the snippy-snippet word load, the work of thoughts from olden days, the morning pulp-print news and funnies. The bargain discounts, news, and obituaries all yellowed into past-time; but thankfully the cartoon bubbles hold ponderings and blunt statements, new for your perusal. And occasionally a bit of real humor.
But they lack the graceful, lyrical, thought carriers of Yorick’s times – banderoles – glorious gold and silken word captures in Latin, Greek, and oligarchy French (never sniveling crude and vulgar jokes). But alas (“alas” is a wonderful word for exasperating times don’t you think [?] … alas), but alas, we can’t read or understand Latin, Greek, and Frenchy-fied words.
So maybe there were some unseemly lines, some dash-out bits of adolescent smart-aleck.
But now it is best, into the foreseeable future, to put the snideness in a cartoon bubble.
On a different note. Yorick, five hundred years since love-poems would lead to a romantic consummation, still likes the form and applies it to riddles concerning commonplace things. Please enjoy the following and revisit next week to see if you have ascertained the right answer.
He and She, our volunteered docents here at the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture, have returned following last years “stress”. They are romantic and absurd, or (with some humor), absurdists grasping for that “romantic” ideal, ( the mainspring of their “stress” [?] ). All the while youngsters play, acquire skills; practicing with material portents of their own demise.
As this year begins, Yorick, has usurped the “greeter” role (a common occupation for the aging types), validating an anachronistic medieval jester’s anarchical behavior: loopy banderoles leak from his exoskeleton ( his soul … venting [?] ).
Containing the wit and wisdom of a half-millenium of experience, Yorick is given to pondering: arthritis remains whilst spewing and scribbling (a singular complaint living as a jumble of bones) however, poetic intellect enjoys the leanness, the empty aura of all flesh.
As with so many others who ponder and spout, ponder and scribble; Yorick is incomprehensible to those still fleshed out – and trapped in – glandular, hormonal, and sensory tangles, hours, minutes, and who “verily doest much stress”.
Riddles and romance poems were the joy of his bawdy troubadour youth, little valued in this age of cynical utility. With that joy, Yorick is modernizing love-poem riddles as an entrance challenge to the tent. Riddled words about common (sometimes loved) things.
You know what this is… just try…