In which We Throw books and Slam Poetry at der Hut des Jaeger

Last night I had the pleasure to attend my first Poetry slam at der Hut des Jaeger in Winterfell Absinthe .  Miss Rae and I arrived at about 5:00pm SLT and were warmly greeted by Captain Velesjaeger Munster and Miss Annechen Lowey.  We were soon joined by Miss Emilin Nakamori who shared with us a marvelous new creation of hers called a Chain Drive.  I enjoyed a cup of the famous Spark Roast coffee while others arrived, including the illustrious Dr. Darien Mason, the lovely Miss Emily Orr and  an exotic looking Miss Searra Weatherwax.  Dr. Mason informed us that a new physician, Hope Greier, has set up an infirmary in Tanglewood.  She is apparently Gorean, but of the enlightened sort.

Miss Nakamori started of the evening with a Haiku

Concrete, glass and steel
As far as the eye can see.
Spring still brings flowers.

Since this was my first attendance at one of these events I was surprised by the storm of books that suddenly went flying through the air and filling up the Hut.  Apparently book showers serve as applause at a Poetry Slam.  Great fun certainly, but I think Sir JJ would not approve. 

Next up was Captain Munster with a piece that a time traveling girl of his acquaintance told him was written by Jaegers in the future.  It is called, “Der Green Hillz uf Orth

De arching schky iz calling schpazemen beck to dheir tradez
“All hendz, schtend by, free-falling!” und der lightz below uz fadez.
Out ridez der sonz uf Terra, far drifez der t’undering jetz
Out leapz der raze uf Orthmen, efer far und onvard yet.

Ve pray for vun lazt lending un der globe dot gafe uz borth,
Let uz rezt our eyez un der fleezy schkiez, und der cool green hillz uf Orth!
Ve’fe zailed de endlezz vaccuum, zeen menny vonderouz tingz
From der harsche bright soil uf Luna, to great Zaturn’z rainbow ringz
Ve’fe tried each schpinning schpaze-mote und reckonned itz true vorth
Take uz beck aggen to der homez uf men, und der cool green hillz uf Orth.

My final vatch iz ofer, my trevelz nearing dheir endt
Und my only vische iz to feel home zoil beneat’ me vunze aggen
Let der schveet fresche breezez heal me, az dhey rove aroundt der girth
uf our luffly Modder Plennet, uf der cool green hillz uf Orth.
Ve pray for vun lazt lending un der globe dot gafe uz birth,
Let uz rezt our eyez un der fleezy schkiez, und der cool green hillz uf Orth …..

There was a chorus in a language with which I am unfamiliar called Esperanto that Captain Munster left out.  An appreciative hail of books followed the recitation.

Next, Miss Lowey favored us with a selection from Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Hymn To The Earth

Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the mother,
Hail! O Goddess, thrice hail! Blest be thou! and, blessing, I hymn thee!
Forth, ye sweet sounds! from my harp, and my voice shall float on your surges–
Soar thou aloft, O my soul! and bear up my song on thy pinions.

Travelling the vale with mine eyes–green meadows and lake with green island,
Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing in brightness,

Thrill’d with thy beauty and love in the wooded slope of the mountain,
Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on thy bosom!
Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through thy tresses,
Green-hair’d goddess! refresh me; and hark! as they hurry or linger,
Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical murmurs.
Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest sadness
Shedd’st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy and the heavenly sadness
Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and the hymn of thanksgiving.

Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the mother,
Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the Sun, the rejoicer!
Guardian and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom the comets forget not,
Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again they behold thee!
Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of creation?)
Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon thee enamour’d!

Say, mysterious Earth! O say, great mother and goddess,
Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was ungirdled,
Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he woo’d thee and won thee!
Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes of morning!
Deep was the shudder, O Earth! the throe of thy self-retention:
Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at thy centre!
Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience; and forthwith
Myriad myriads of lives teem’d forth from the mighty embracement.
Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impell’d by thousand-fold instincts,
Fill’d, as a dream, the wide waters; the rivers sang on their channels;
Laugh’d on their shores the hoarse seas; the yearning ocean swell’d upward;
Young life low’d through the meadows, the woods, and the echoing mountains,
Wander’d bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossoming branches.

Much book throwing and applause ensued.

Feeling a bit in the spirit of the occasion I offered up a small bit of impromptu verse inspired by the discussion surrounding the immediately preceding missive.  With apologies to the Bard.

To blog or not to blog — that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outraged readers
Or to keep ones thoughts to oneself, unsaid
And by remaining silent never hear.

A good thing I was sitting in a sturdy chair else I would have been swept away by the books hurled my way.  Around this time Baron Wulfenbach had joined us.  Captain Munster favored us once again with a piece from Leonardt Cohen

“My lady ken schleep
Upon der hendkercheif
Or ef it be Fall
Upon der fallen leaf.
.
Hy haff zeen der hunterz
kneel before her hemz.
Efen en her schleep
Sche tornz avay from dhem.
.
De only givt dhey offer
Iz dheir abiding grief
Hy pullz out my pocketz
For der hendkerchief, or leaf.”

Next up, my love, Miss Rae, with Robert Frost’s TO EARTHWARD

“Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air
That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of- was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Down hill at dusk?

Caladon Rae: -I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they’re gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.
I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.

Now no joy but lacks salt
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain
Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.

When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,
The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length”

I had no books to hurl, wo I threw her a kiss instead.  And then bade her duck behind my chair to escape the biblio-storm.

Feeling rather mischievous at this point I considered quoting Vogon poetry.  But, upon being threatened with thrown bottles and such to make me stop, decided to go with Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky instead.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
 And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
 The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
 The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
 Long time the manxome foe he sought —
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
 And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
 The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
 And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
 The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
 He went galumphing back.

“And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
 Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’
 He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
 Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
 And the mome raths outgrabe

I think this must have been very well received; because, besides the books I was also pelted with watermelon chickens and Miss Orr’s special combat cupcakes. “Chocolate ones. With just the merest touch of the bones of fallen enemies for spice.”  It seemed only proper to accept such accolades by scooping up one of said cupcakes and consuming it. 

After the mess was cleaned and all the cupcakes and chickens and books put away the Poetry slam concluded as most of the attendees had pressing business elsewhere.  It certainly was an extraordinary and delightfully fun event.

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Published in: on 29 May, 2009 at 8:30 PM  Leave a Comment  
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