- 6 hours ago
Post Bloomsday Blues
And another Bloomsday’s in the books,
So, no more naughty, bad words, boo-hoo-hoo!
And no more goody prude-shoes’ dirty looks.
So, what’s a James Joyce junkie s’posed to do?
Get lit on today’s lit? What big stores sell?
Or run the marathon of Moby Dick?
Oh, no, without my Joyce fix, life’ll be Hell.
I want red-headed women’s donkey kick!
How ‘bout the Tower Academia?
No, I need nectar, the sweet streets of Joyce.
Don’t sour my hypoglycemia,
His blooming flower’s my sole drug of choice.
Now how do you suggest I stay less stressed?
Try summer school in James Joyce’s Trieste.
Art by Paul Cezanne,
Self Portrait with Bowler Hat, 1885
“Wise Bloom eyed on the door a poster, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves. Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all. Hair streaming: lovelorn. For some man. For Raoul.
He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat riding on a jaunting car. It is. Again. Third time. Coincidence.
Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the bridge to Ormond quay. Follow. Risk it. Go quick. At four. Near now.
At four she…”
- Ulysses, James Joyce
Today’s Ezraku:
On a Wall of the Glyptotek
Cezanne’s incomplete hat and shoulder: hurried or snow-flurried?
Beneath Bloom’s bowler: a brain blurried and completely worried.
April is the Foolest Month
No, April’s not the cruelest month, T.S.
And creepy winter never kept us warm.
Your Bloomsbury band bred some real B.S.
But worse, the crone Woolf froze her own art form.
The Book of Bloom was born without a bang
Or whiff of gold or frankincense or myrrh.
The anti-magi snarled with flash of fang,
The gifts they bared: scold, skank pretense, and slur.
The newborn thing lay unmourned all winter,
Never whimpered, named as a pariah,
Damned to Hell’s pit, even by the printer.
Till Sylvia Beach midwifed this new messiah.
When you gaze on wonders, be kind, not cruel
Lest they be wunderkind, then you’ll look the fool.