I don’t know about everybody else, but Argentinians would be livid.
And what is “a thermal spring”?
A warm, possibly sulphurous, water source?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh, I thought it was spring like in season.
Oh I kind of like Brian Bilston’s poetry (including this poem). I don’t think he’s a huge poetic genius or anything but he’s interesting. He does a lot of word play and exists on the edge of the silly, the sentimental, and the stark. He’s sort of like an updated Stevie Smith.
I never heard of him before. But I can’t fail to be defensive on behalf of Argentinians who flip out like a nuclear bomb when anybody mentions maradona’s hand.
\ Argentinians who flip out like a nuclear bomb when anybody mentions maradona’s hand
Why? I googled and thought Maradona was a good football player.
You’re not supposed to use your hand to score goals in soccer, so for an Anglo to mention is lowkey calling Argentines cheaters.
But his scored his most important goal with his hands.
He supposedly scored a goal with his hand. That’s a moment in soccer that Argentinians perceive as deeply humiliating. If you want to bug an Argentinian, there’s nothing better than bring up the famous “hand of God”, which is how Maradona excused scoring with his hand.
It’s still better than Singapore Mary…
Here’s some worse much more pretentious poetry.
starts playing bongos & a cello while holding a mike at open night, it’s spoken word
America is a gun
and Florida–its barrel.
The world policeman without a beat,a reason.
So it turns on itself, ceaselessly between infomercials & breaking news.
“Dance! Dance!” says Yosemite Sam,
“Dance, dance, revolution!
says Emma Goldman.
“Ghost dance!”says Wovoka.
Tweet tweet goes the President.
Tweet tweet the scared birds scatter at New Year’s Eve into the cold
the 4th of July into the heat
and little Bobby’s fingers into the grass.
3-2-1 weeks, months, days
between abandoned backpacks
and cellphones ringing without pause
only to find a dial tone
a relic for time travelers
looking for the nearest phone booth.
Superman can’t save you now & Special Ops is busy.
“All our operators are standing by.”
“Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled “My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles” when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save humanity, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings (Paul Neil Milne Johnstone) of Redbridge, in the destruction of the planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison.”
h2gt2g Douglas Adams – Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
At least this poem rhymes and has a repeating cadence, which is more than you can say for the so-called free-verse “poetry” that appears in “The Atlantic” magazine every month.
If you look at today’s poetry magazines, most will scoff at rhyming poetry.
I personally love nothing more than a well-executed rhyme and a poem with great cadence, but sadly that’s very much out of fashion these days.
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