Thursday, January 29, 2009

The Great White Wolf

The great white wolf bounds out over the field
And the vast herd of nimble russet deer
Fly with great graceful leaps before her: yield
To her bold brave passionate pursuit, their fear
Palpable, pervasive. Freckled fauns
Turn and flee, terrified, away: their doe,
White-eyed, drives them before her, for they know
The savage beast behind them masters all:
Her long white fangs, her tufted pelt, her claws,
Her terrifying terrier pursuit, her small
Strong canine ears, and rasping bark: she awes
Her trembling prey, however large, and they
All bound, as on springs, outrageously away.

Anissa Nedzel Gage copyright 2009

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

"Sonet to Kween Titanya" by Botum the Weever

My dear sweet readers, I have received this rhyme in a strange manner of Providence, and I consider it my duty to convey this poem to the appropriate public. The discovery of the piece was as follows: one golden-tipped June morning, around Midsummer's Eve, while walking in an abandoned garden in long grass, scattering the chilly pearls of dew with each step, I found a minute scrap of what appeared to be tattered parchment bound tightly to an apple twig with what appeared to be clematis tendrils. As I unwrapped the fragment, I looked down, distracted by the shattered petals falling; I noticed, with a shock, that I was standing in the middle of a fairy ring! Every tiny toadstool parasol was neatly plucked, and laid down head to stem in a cirque, and some indeed seemed to be decorated with tiny flowers, some of which were out of season! I realized that these were classic signs that the old neglected garden was visited recently by the wee-folk. Musing, I turned back to the tiny scroll, which I unrolled carefully, noticing what appeared to be almost microscopic marks inscribed on its inner surface. I ran into the house, got out my large magnifying glass from my condensed OED, and started to examine the document, realizing that it was obviously extremely ancient, yet due to some strange magic (or fairy-glamor) I could actually decipher it! The letters seemed to leap around pookah fashion, then settled down, till it resulted in this, which my gentle readers, with its full title, follows:


O if my pristeen dewey joy of yooth
Shood lose one drop of elipser deevine,
O if. Forsooth? Oh chance. Perhaps O trooth
O woe is me? She smuffer a deecline"
Then. I shall curse that dreadful dratted time
That dooms all dreamy dears to direful death"
And that my love, O love so sweeet sublime!
Has sailed the streems of Syx. and river Leth.
Due to so horrid concourse, then I'll die.
For surely her dispuse shall wrack me so
But not before with revelection high
In fine anigh immoral line she'll grow.

O grant A Muse so sune its not too late
That she should be embalmed in mireful date.

Botum, the Weever

Naturally, upon reading this I was thunderstruck. This proves beyond all questioning, that Shakespeare was one of the greatest fairy historians England has ever produced, along with C.S.Lewis and J.R.R.Tolkein and that magnificent Rawling.
It proves, without a doubt, that Midsummer Night's Dream is a seminal work of history. It also proves that time and location mean little to fairies, who can easily "put a girdle round the earth" etc.

Anissa Nedzel Gage copyright 2009

Portrait of a Cat:: Baby Boy Part Three

My baby boy! My Puss-in-Bootsky boy!
My silvery-bluesky snowshoe-siamese!
My,toosky, perhaps bitsky tonkinese!
My shoesky bootsky boy! My jiminy joy!

My bouncing baby boy! How I enjoy
Your long gray elegant nose! Yes, if you please,
It's swank and so svelte even if you sneeze,
My oriental lion from Illinois.

You have those almond aquamarine eyes!
My babykins, you're draped over my chest,
Your nose and paws entangled in the nest
You've made out of my hair: apologize!

My purring pouncing purrfessional puss
Who makes me such an amateurish wuss!

Anissa Nedzel Gage copyright 2009

Portrait of a Cat : Baby Boy Part Two

Well, first your widdle shoesies settled in:
Yes, they stayed white while your long legs turned blue;
And then your snazzy cravat seemed to win
A snowier hue, in place under your chin.

A lovely twilight color: snowshoe true!
O how you, though then bottle-fed, then grew!
With ever squeaky purr and murrp and mew:
A macho pussycat, so masculine!

With your long elegant poise and lovely line,
I tried the Earl of Aquamarine once:
You're such a cuddlepuss that just didn't fit,
You Puss-in-Bootsky! Baby Boy Feline!
So I now ransack all my rusty wit,
A great big unimaginative dunce!

Anissa Nedzel Gage copyright 2009

Portrait of a Cat : Baby Boy,

Sir Edmund Hilary was not as brave!
Paw over paw you scaled the mattress blue:
Your tiny claws like pitons, stave on stave:
A valiant heart, magnificent and true!

You were still white, from tip of nose to tail!
Your eyes not even fully open yet;
Although you turned your mama's whiskers pale,
Upon a polar expedition set,

You crawled up spring and mattress every night,
And every morn she kitten-napped you home,
While you put up a fuss, acted a fright:
I'm still so honored, little honeycomb!

How could I find a name for one so rare?
You purring puddy hamster in my hair!

Anissa Nedzel Gage copyrignt 2009