Romanian is so easy to love… especially when sung – so let’s!
… sure a few tips are in order and most called for:)
Domnişoară Timişoară Timisoara, lovely doll
Bine-ţi şade-n strai de gală as dressed for a fancy dress ball
De cu seară până-n seară as long as day in day out,
De cu vară până-n vară. summers in and summers out.
Buna Iarnă vine-ntr-o doară Mother Winter comes a-wink
Cu dor, dor de primăvară, ushering in precious spring,
Vara-i soare, toamna-i lungă sunny summer’n warm long fall,
Vântul norii ţi-i alungă, clouds chased away by the wind,
Domnişoară Timişoară. Timisoara, lovely doll.
Domnişoară Timişoara Timisoara, lovely doll,
Vremea trece, anii zboară! time so flies by for us all!
Tu, Prinţesă, ca-n poveşti You, Princess, by near and far,
Zi cu zi întinereşti. each’n very day younger are,
De cu vară până-n vară summers in ‘n summers out,
Ieri-azi-maine ca-ntâia oară yesteryear’n forever, no doubt,
Minunată ca o grădină gaudy’n flowery delight,
înflorită în lumină, beutiful in pure light,
Domnişoară Timişoara. Timisoara, lovely doll
Romaniţa s-o mărita Romanitsa will be a bride
Când războiul s-o găta. when she’ll have enough cried
Pân-atunci singură-şi plânge over this war breaking her heart,
Soarta-i grea ce sufletu-i frângewhen sweet peace they’re ready to start
Romaniţa s-o mărita Romanitsa will be a bride
Când războiul s-o găta. when she’ll have enough cried.
Romaniţa l-o aştepta When war is over she’ll be his bride
Pâna războiul s-o găta. surely having enough cried.
Noua mai si voua May 9th may be the bringer –
si lui si lor si ei, to us, to him, them and her –
aduce primavera of flowery spring and lambs,
cu ploi de flori si miei. of warm rain, ewes and rams.
In emisfera sudica All over the Southern Hemisphere
Baba Iarna-i pe drum! Mother Winter’s a-near!
In casa noastra Europa Over Europe, our home,
-i soare cald acum. the sun lights the heavenly dome.
M.A.Christi & artist Ramona Orban
Solness Publishing House,
We get to meet the little man in videogames. A place in indigo purples.
MOZARTEL THINKS OUTLOUD… OUT OF THE BOX!
Hi, there! My, my, how many of you here, tonight! All for to see Mozartel, the wonderful little man in the videogames, tell his story! Never ever in my whole life have I heard about any chap in any game get out of the box, to as much as say Hi! And… here he goes… let’s listen hard!
Can you see me? I bet you do! Amazing that I see you, too!
I could jump with joy, my dears! I am green behind my ears,
but I so wished upon my star to one day find out where you are!
None of my pals has tried before breaking through the bolted door
between this world side and that, given the game we are playing at –
IPod shut, you under cover, we, little men hidden like some lover
in the blue night, only seen when a moon crosses your screen.
Yes, my dears, you guessed right: it is miraculous delight
for us to chat, against all odds: no go-betweens, no refs, no mods…
I will tell my story true, if only you promise to
listen patiently, you do? What I remember, how I grew
through seven lives in my den, given that all videogames men
are what Great Will said, of old: babies first, then schoolboys bold,
now in love, next out of love, now under the radar, then above…
I and you are much alike, if riding a horse or a bike…
we, little men, hop, jump, run, skid… exactly as would any kid
in your world! We’re on display, do as told and willingly play
whenever you make us to, 24/7 plus all the night through,
happy that we’ve got who for! Amazing, as I said before,
that I can see you, and that… we get to meet and, see? chitchat!
Mozartel and the obliging Red Biers. Nursery room in many hues of red.
GENTLE RED BIERS NURSE BABY-MOZARTEL
At first, Mozartel (like any baby), sorts out what’s red, out of all things he runs into… so he vaguely remembers something like gentle motherly red roses biers nursing and hugging him, up to his feet. Let’s draw closer and see.
Here’s my room and there’s my cot. At first I slept and dreamt a lot,
on my red roses bed… and then I got this awesome yen,
to start crawling on all fours. Was I happy? I was, of course,
to be able to explore every square inch of my floor,
all the way window to door, skinning my knees and asking for more.
Next, pulling myself up by my hair… I walked! my arms beating the air,
wobbling and tottering some… then downright running myself numb.
My red roses were always there, as close as I could stand, and bear
to let them mother me and pet – they would so fuss about, and fret,
for me to learn my lessons well. No words were spoken, that I can tell.
Yet, acting Grand Ma and Grand Pap, as fencing against any mishap,
they cradled me in their arms, by daylight and by twinkly stars…
whispering into my ears wisps of words that I still hold dear,
maybe meaning we love you – I was a toddler, so don’t have a clue.
But even so they taught me joy, as they’d’ve taught their own little boy,
soul to soul like, somehow… as no one else ever did… till now:)
So when their day was done… they sort of looked like good and gone,
leaving me all to my fate: to gulp it down, or shun the bait,
as written in the cards dealt me. I let them go… they let me be.
Shadow theatre. A stage in loads of orange shades.
MOZARTEL KNOWS HIMSELF IN HIS SHADOW.
Mozartel gets a big scare to see his shadow like chasing him about… but soon he finds himself befriending the… thing… and stops feeling like he’s home alone till forever and one day.
By and by light grew so bright I had to keep my eyes shut tight
for a while… so when I got used to it, reopened them, bemused
at a funny kind of a… thing… always asway-aswing,
popping in (never knew why) when my sun was up in my sky,
and I looked the other way. Oddly, it showed only by day,
bending, curling, playing, weeping, twisting, looping, praying, sweeping
past, strutting, elbowing its way, brooding, asking me to play…
Watching close all things it did, I learnt from everything, indeed,
that it was given me purposely, for… my double!… actually
an orange shadow, for me to see that I am like it, and it is like me!
to ask myself who am I, truly? am I this little…guy … unruly?
I had no answer for a while. Bewildered, not even daring smile,
I begged to know, held out my hand… it crazed me to not understand
why it never ventured first! And things went from worse to worst…
until I said enough is enough! stood up the nights and had it rough…
so at long last it struck me that… it just followed pit-a-pat
wherever I may’ve been leading… and lead I started! All so willing
it laughed with me, that day, and danced! cheek-to-cheek like, entranced.
Speaking no words (I still had none), could tell that they’ll show up anon,
for my thoughts sparkled neat and clear, bitter-sweet, or plain, or queer,
at times as beautiful as stars, oftentimes sore like open scars.
It still follows me like a dog… but I lost interest, all agog
for the news in the cards dealt me. I let it live, it lets me be.
Mirror mirror on my wall. A realm in yellow tints.
A LOOKING-GLASS WORLD FOR MOZARTEL
Mozartel looks into a gold mirror, and thinks he sees (don’t we all) some kind of a… friendly brother, brighter too, teacher like… so it dawns on him how smart and resourceful we all are, videogames little men included.
My shadow’s grace taught me my place, so next I wished to see my face:
in case someone bumped against me, what – I wondered – could he see?
Which color my eyes? how sharp my chin? what was I like? to whom akin?
As many things I seemed to ignore, as many answers forgotten, nay, more!
Where do I come from, where to go? What do I say yes to, and what to no?
I knew I could answer all of those why’s, if I could look into my eyes.
So when I saw the looking-glass guy, I thought him an angel, and said Hi!
Then glanced again, and many a name we call things by, back to me came,
through the mirror like breaking free, clearly uttered: man, woman, tree,
birth, life, girl, boy, love, star, fate, sun and flower, dream, sleep and wait,
wind, water, fire, sky, cloud, bell… and Bingo! recalled my name: Mozartel!
Took two of us for that odd dance: we spoke taking turns, a fat chance
for me to evoke my red rose biers, how kind they were… and disclose
the way I met my shadow, now chiding next praising, and then how
I learnt to play its games in twos, and how my life was only good news.
Most amazing of all I saw, in that mirror, was how he’d draw
pictures of his golden age, where the words spoken by their sage,
as by all else, were the very seeds of such truly valiant deeds,
that dovetailed into a stairway rising high up in the air,
bridging over sky and earth. By contrast, I so could sense the dearth
ruling my box world! Had to beam myself out fast of his dream-
like realm, too high for me… who am as material as virtual can be.
I let him live his fantasy… plus let myself, and all things, be.
Dancing with a green dream. An arena in emeralds.
MOZARTEL WALTZES GREEN-DREAM AWAY
Already older and wiser by now, Mozartel can tell the difference between dream lives and live dreams. And yet… a dream is a dream is a dream, in all worlds, as all things that be start in someone’s dream.
And then I dreamt of a dream peer, who could be all I was not, so dear
to my heart that I may feel alive to have it near when taking 5,
when waltzing around my den, or whistling a melody, or when
spending long nights on my own, like fated to live all alone.
My second self burst in like spring (someone’d spied on me, sure thing,
but it’s all right – my wish came true, don’t care how) for me to woo,
‘cause it was a she, I later found out … she talked and talked! What about?
Everything, I tell you true, but mostly about… surprise! about… YOU!
Had no words on me, that night… she spoke Will’s words, wasn’t she bright!
what a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason
how infinite in faculty in form and moving
how express and admirable in action
how like an angel in apprehension
how like a god! the beauty of the world!
One more leap if I had leapt, one small step if I had stepped,
would have like vanished in thin air! Guess again – yes, I did dare
step the step, then let things be. Well, it was not in the cards dealt me
for us to play together, Sirs! neither in my game, nor in hers.
‘Cause I’m to be all yours, you say? 24/7 plus as many a day?
Maybe so, since I go by my script. Why don’t I ask why?
‘cause I already know my lot – I am your best man, am I not?
ready on call with a song or two, all set to always humor you,
as best any of us knows how… Dear one, farewell, for now!
I said, in tears, taking the fall… and almost did not cry at all.
Genesis in sky and sea azure. A time-place in virtual blues.
MOZARTEL WORKS OUT… HIS OWN MOZARTINO!
What would you say people most wish for? I mean ALL people, us and all other kinds, Mozartel included… Bingo! Of course, what else? to play house, being mother and/or father. Let’s watch him work that out.
I knew my mind, I knew my face, I knew my power, I knew my place…
so I thought they’d not deny me my top wish – that I… multiply:)
All I did next was just think hard… and there popped in a huge Joker card:
a Jack-of-all-trades, an expert ITist, a friend in need and a grand artist.
What, hologram? Dunno, nor care. Thing is… he deigned show up in my lair,
bagfuls of spares on him, top to toe, for the new baby-me game ready to go:
bolts and screws, plates and RAM’s, nuts and ROM’s and also DRAM’s,
processors and mother boards, led’s, lots of keys and keyboards,
carcasses, microchips and CU’S, transistors, printers and CPUs,
jacks and sockets, all type cards, tubes and cables, monitors, hards,
registers, memories, drives, AC’s, switches, ventilators, DC’s,
push buttons, loud speakers, sources, gates, ports, consoles, resources,
extensions, cameras, mouse and mike… and many, many more such like…
to fully understand my make, the new baby-me to awake
before my time is up, you know… before this Mozartel has to go
some place else (do you know where?) before he gets a chance to share
with you his own take on life… quitting this much too human strife.
Back at indigo purple square one.
MOZARTEL CALLS TIME.
I feel so grateful that you sit down there, to scan me, bit by bit!
Now that we have played this game… nothing’s going to be the same
ever again: the cat is out, and so am I, within and without.
Don’t you feel as happy as me? We have, at long last, let ourselves be
together, over this dream night, this once in our 7 lives, right?
A life of men so without wings, so equally pulled by parallel strings,
straight or winding, who knows why. I come in peace, I do not defy
my stars… there’s plenty of room for all things real, a rocket, a broom,
cats and suns, stars and mummies, people, turnips, teachers, dummies…
As long as we still believe in truth-goodness-beauty, and forgive-
forget by-gone’s… enough floor space to play all of our games apace,
never needing to say bye! I place my bet on saying Hi,
am I right or am I right?… if only you switched on my light.
* * *
this once upon a time
is but a nursery rhyme
about a man all-time
a little chap no-name
taking the usual game
for real, all soul and flame
Bastien and Bastienne
Gellu Naum (1963)
in English by M.A. Christi (2009)
Tenor Apollodor meaduors
Once upon a time, of yore,
there lived a penguin: born offshore
more exactly, in Labrador),
at Bucharest Mayfair’d labor.
“What was his name?” ”Apollodor!”
“What did he do?” ”Sang in a corps,
full time job, as a tenor –
an animator, a bit of an actor
on the ice rink.” He’d plump for
jugglers and clowns, as a chore.
Chubby tum, tails and (what’s more)
sleek and prim and charms galore…
that’s our chick, Apollodor!
Well… one day, sad Apollodor
(knowing they’d hear and abhor)
said: “You know I’m all for
acting tenor in a fair corps…
but I sooo miss my life of yore
(in Penguinese: meeaDuor! meeaDuor!)
dallying with brothers I adore…
on the North Pole’s frosty floe floor…”
And he meaduored, Apollodor.
Apollodor parts with friends
Kitten Tut saw him in tears,
and purred into one of his ears:
“Blubbering’s of no avail!
Phluck my hwhiskers, phull at my tail,
Pheck all the chream in the phet shop,
thwo phints… only do, phleease, stop!
C’mon, buddy, cry no more!
But he meaduored “…oh, life of yore
and brothers, back in Labrador!”
MisterPrickles gave him a spine,
for him to no more sigh and pine;
Ole Bruin blackberries would pick
fresh for him, dreaming he’d click;
Cotton Tail lettuce leaves bore
plus the crispest apple core;
(all colleagues of Apollodor,
all of them singers in that corps).
Saddest, though, was… Camel Sandky
who sobbed, nose in her hanky panky;
like a mother she did wail –
why, she’d taught him his first scale!
But he meaduored “…oh, life of yore
and brothers, back in Labrador!”
Those colleagues of Apollodor
went up to Choir Conductor.
(velvety coat black like tar)
listened musing, and (before
he sat down’n clip his cigar)
he sighed: “My poor tenor
He’ll pall! that I can’t ignore…
Let him off, then… to Labrador”.
so.. he left, Apollodor.
Apollodor to Labrador
At first – piece of cake – he headed for
the North Pole in a plane, a-soar,
stuck to the double-engine’s floor.
But, pretty soon, Apollodor
stood up, looked round and (as before,
rememb’ring he was a tenor)
chirped his best… then, fishing for
kicks (naughty-naughty!) jumped
astride one plane wing, thumped
his tiny backpack… with a roar
scampered up and down… and bumped
his poor head, Apollodor,
(as, turning bill over heels,
got pegged, dangling, to the wheels)
against a stupid cloud
(reveals the story). So… Apollodor
slipped off the plane! Bye, life of yore!
Bye, penguins in Labrador!
At Cape North, at Cape North,
in a fjord, long-faced henceforth
and nippy, stood Apollodor
Brooding, on the North Sea shore.
Hushed… and puzzled at his tryst,
was our full-fledged tenor-artist:
parachute torn (bad, bad start!)
not a compass, no flip chart…
Round and round the tidal bore
whirled and howled like for ever more
which made him croon, Apollodor:
“Adieu, brothers of Labrador!
Adieu to you, my life of yore!
Mother Di knocks on my door…
Jack Frost comes to make me hoar…
a pity for such a grand tenor
as I, who so sang in that corps,
brothers of mine in Labrador!
Oh, brothers of mine in Labrador,
the sea will raise a coral tor
for me to hide in.. and then Thor
will lull me asleep, on the sand
gently washed by waves inshore,
foamy, sparkly…hugging land
of Sand Man, dusty and bland…
brothers of mine in Labrador,
Brothers of mine in Labrador!”
And he meaduored, Apollodor.
Apollodor on Meteor
But lo, penguin! cry no more!
here comes fishing boat Meteor
the beautifulest pescador,
Baltic Sea to Labrador:
The hooter hooted throaty, sore:
“What is your name?” “Apollodor”
“What do you do?” “Sort of explore!”
“And where d’you go?” “Up Labrador.”
“So why meaduor?” “’Cause nevermore
no one will help me – that’s what for!”
To hear such tantrum, in a corps
sea-dogs aboard the Meteor
yelled:” We’re game, Apollodor!
See for yourself: our Meteor,
is big enough for any tenor
your size! You’re sure, at least,
to get there! for we head East,
the longer route to Labrador.
Hop up, on our pescador…”
He jumped aboard, Apollodor
(hoping, tickled, it was worth
the try)… and chirped “So long, Cape North!”
Voyage was bliss – neither cloud, nor
fog on the water… the gulls bore
the breeze on their wings as they’d soar
over the icebergs’ peaks… which tore
the sapphire-silk water mirror,
quivering in Aeolian minor.
And how she sailed, ship Meteor!
A wonder gown of lights she wore –
you guessed right, of Northern Lights
winding straight to the sky heights
(you could tell) hankering for
those beams caught in high-class color…
waves flashed like jade and silver ore…
Afloat she was, ship Meteor,
wrapped in the glitzy lights she wore.
Gruff voices of many a sailor
rang loud in the dark night… but more
mind-boggling whizzed Apollodor’s –
(was he or wasn’t, a tenor?)
clapping seals drawing close, by scores!
Voyage was bliss, for Apollodor…
Behring Straits to Tunis
Well… she came to halt, at last,
and dropped her anchor, Meteor.
Off he got, Apollodor,
at Behring Straits… which, mighty fast,
he crossed, in an Eskimo boat,
wobbling his way to Labrador,
fidgety shining his coat,
’n chirping hearty chirps by rote.
Where he went… we couldn’t tell.
But (judging by word of mouth)
he must have stopped heading south,
to cross Alaska, tough and fell…
Leafing through his diary book
(all I’ve got is a few pages
that I haven’t read for ages)
see he climb Mt Tinkmerpuk,
cross a ridge, row down a river,
and befriend said Jaspal Beaver
(the name is twice underlined)…
next blotch-splotch is all you will find.
It would be normal, it’d be fit
if chroniclers had deigned a bit
more action to describe us, tell
it all in bold… and brighter lit
make it, even if writ pell-mell.
Tips add up to make us see
bit more: little Robin told me
she’d eavesdropped to a phone
call (long distance, collect fee)
some place along River Yukon…
Such things will get you to the bone!
Because the named Jaspal Beaver
told him up front: “In Labrador
no penguin lived, never ever,
but! a few Apollodors
did pass by… stayed most indoors
’cause one of’em was a diva,
’twas awesome she there you bore
… and (tipped me a little mole)
the flock is gone to the South Pole
some place neat, ’bout Gulf Terror.”
Little mole? Beaver ’d ransacked
old tracts, theses and tomes, in fact
he’d read whole manuscripts, compact
with quotes, foot-notes, end-notes… wrapped,
tied up in gold thread, then packed
‘n sealed in red wax from Drugstore.
“Wow… maybe!” thought, Apollodor
and turned his back on Labrador.
You’d have a hard time making out
his script: “Cross Canada. Abreast.”
“Iroquois tribe. Stopped to rest”…
wondering what’s all about.
A few words I ’most can dig:
“We’re floating on lake Winnipeg…”
Then… water spilt! smack to the core,
down to the diary heart’s lore.
Anyway… by word of mouth
We have it that he traveled South.
What a gale and what commotion
swept him off across the ocean?
What a wind swirled him amiss
to set in such locomotion,
(he’d even touched Syrthas Gulf,
on Africa’s coast!) then engulf
and spit him off near Tunis?
For all I know, the winds’ caprice
dumped him for as good as lost.
No one (upon inquiry)
can tell where, then, was it tossed,
his famous voyage diary!
Apollodor meets Auntie Camel
Since I’m such famed landscapist
I wish you’d let me here insist
bit more, telling you what bliss
is the sight of said Tunis.
If you look (from way up, high)
south, east, then across the sky,
for as far as you can see
there’s just this: the sheeny sea!
Ritzy frigates (check close-ups)
push on, like dainty crystal cups…
while, behind each one’s behind…
flimsy kayaks float like shined,
popping out like piebald gems,
trellis round their silvery hems.
Whereas, if northwards you stare,
you’ll see lots of mosques, so fair
and white, brewing in the sun…
and orange trees in bloom, anon.
There, on the Syrthas Gulf shore,
he found himself, Apollodor,
thinking (out loud): “This tropical
bliss is too hot, as topical
balm! I’m pooped… better stay put
rather than march like this, on foot”
Then, he saw (in tears, unclear)
an old camel… draw fast near
and ask:” What might your name be?”
“Apollodor!” ”That cannot be!
Apollodor’s in Labrador!
My sis who lives in Bucharest
(on the Mayfair Circus Mart)
sent me word! She’s torn apart
over him, far-famed tenor
who walked off’n slammed the door
… just got the news… oh, how I’ve missed her!”
“Camel Sandky’s your own sister!?
like a Mom for me she’d wail –
she’d taught me my very first scale!
Sandky’d sing and beat the beats,
she’d take me out for ice-cream treats…”
He stopped and sighed, Apollodor:
”Guess this is my terminus role!
think how far I dogged my goal
up to the Syrthas Gulf shore!
guess I’ll never get no more
with my brothers, at the South Pole…”
”God! I cannot believe my ears!”
said the camel, moved to tears
”Don’t gimme no talk of such role!
Let auntie see you the South Pole!”
Camel knelt and… up! on her back
he nestled, as in a silken rack.
They swung their sides (so camels would),
crossed many a field, hamlet, wood…
as best they knew how and best could…
dragged on, dog beat yet unhurt,
to the doorstep of the desert…
…and stopped when no more could bear.
Camel said:”Lo! the Sahara!
all by the book… few will dare
cross it – hear and fear!
’cause in the Sahara, my dear,
water is more scarce than tears,
and you’re green behind the ears!
You can’t beat this sizzling strand –
it’s an oceanful of sand!
Said you had to go down south…
I may sound a bit uncouth
as a mom-camel to insist
that this pursuit you desist:
your life’s at stake! Don’t judge amiss,
much too soon me to dismiss…
let Auntie take you to Tunis!”
Replied to her Apollodor:
“Dear Auntie, I so have no choice
but to go south! I yearn to rejoice
my life and my brothers of yore…
meaduor meaduorr meaduorrr meaduorrrr!
my brothers’ call I must pursue!
anyway…thank you and adieu!”
And he hobbled south, once more…
Monkey business in the desert
Lemme tell you how haphazard
is this eerie thing, the desert,
lemme paint it in a few phrases
burning hot as het its sand is:
there is no tent, near and far,
no bus, no train, no bike, no car,
there is no monkey-bread tree
no Arab’s home for you or me –
no café, no bakery,
not even one juicery…
For as far as eyes can see,
no Coke fridge! ’cause all that strand
is just this: hot sun and sand.
Thereon marched Apollodor
awe struck thinking (out loud, for
us to hear) “Di ’s home the place is!”
When… guess what? A cool oasis,
leafy, shady … came in sight:
palm trees in full bloom and white…
jasmine buds the boughs did bring
and sweet water welled the spring…
…which he sipped, Apollodor,
back on cloud nine, like afore.
Well… so high hid you couldn’t see
her, on a branch of one palm tree…
first in awe, then downright spunky,
heard him peep… a little monkey!
Tweet-tweet chirruped Apollodor
sweet, as due when one’s a tenor.
So… a teeny weenie prickling
pricked her heart… an itchy tingling
like a tummy ache, a yen,
a frisson beyond her ken
as it rang deep down inside her
climbing ticklish as a spider…
the thing that they call amor.
Tail gracefully curled up, like drunk
she rolled down the palm tree trunk,
curtseyed and… all fuss and twinges,
bid him snatch her three oranges,
and a few nuts (from an almond tree)…
pouting coy “To you, from me,
grab them all, all!” she did plea.
Next… the same said scrawny monkey
(so, this time, even more spunky,
though somehow with a bit of shame)
asked… guess what? “What is your name?”
for, like any girl bit reagalish
she, naturally, spoke King’s English
Answered he: “Apollodor”
Then itsy bitsy girlie monkey
blushed and whispered (out loud for
us to hear)… gutsy, cool:
“I act sometimes rattling clunky
(I’m summer away from school)-
but I sure picked my walk of life:
I will be a tenor’s wife!
So… if passion does exist,
(not to would be too cruel a tryst),
for me no more sad to be
need to know: you marry me?”
Replied her Apollodor:
“I never thought the thought before!
Love at first sight sure does exist…
so here I am, penguin, to dash on
dating monkeys (shoo the tryst)
on all four popping the question!”
And… like decent little nestling,
bit prior to playing house,
they went ask their parents’ blessing!
the thing to do, for every spouse.
Daddy, Master Chimpanzee,
(bit tongue-tied yet resolute
true scholarly referee)
said:” Dear girl, we so salute
that you, love birds, do not ignore
us, doting parents. You do know
we look up to any tenor:
we hear music, we bow low…
barely one, I played my piano
in hope I could make a soprano!
I DO like Apollodor…
I am no tyrannosaur
got no cruel bone to extol
(for all I know)… I could play ball,
but!!! Milord from the North Pole
hurries down to the South Pole
(or so they tell me, one and all)!!!
Girl, you will freeze stiff and blue!
won’t pull through… and that can’t be!
they will blame your fate on me,
I CAN’T LET HIM MARRY YOU!”
Madam Chimpanzee, a mother
and a woman, chose to rather
shoot the final words abreast:
“I, honey-buns, with much zest
say just this: am, TOO… against!”
So, like nestlings well behaved
they took (why not better cast dice)
Mummy and Daddy’s advice…
bid their adieus, wet hankies waved,
and split. Off he was, Apollodor…
meanwhile, hid (so we can’t see
how she cried her heart and eyes sore),
there sobbed a weenie monkey wee.
Apollodor – Africa to India
For more than a year he thrashed
(coast-to-coast) Africa… dashed
to Capetown… and got lost.
Yet, in South Africa… a nude
was seen, a snapshot of a dude,
a penguin who looked like tossed
and plummeted awful crude,
as he had nothing on (but
as the say goes, his chimney pot):
male model with a similar butt?
In Cabo-Verde they saw him, hot
acting a porter, a drudgy pack
of figs and chick-peas, on his back.
Then… again we lose his track.
Later…it seems they saw the chick
in the rain forests of Mozambique.
And again the picture breaks.
Next buzz has it that it takes
looking up to him: like a star,
perplexing penguin tenor
was touring… Madagascar!
All the next six months, for fun,
he was a fakir… in India gone,
more exactly, Bangladesh…
where he actually would dash
for guitar solos! Hip tenor
like we know him, Apollodor
got his audience to bow low…
Actually he got to crow
down in the dumps… in black, too,
his plumage styled trendy as due…
wild guitar player through and through.
The next month… he spent in Tibet
lisping in numbers, like any poet…
and then, again, we nothing know.
But later, in two months or so,
a newspaper instilled the notion
he nuzzled in the Pacific Ocean,
into some isle, as a hot tycoon.
Wonders happen to croons that croon!
He’d found (in some dumping locks)
a fancy leather-bound suitcase
inside of which there was a box
sealed in wax, wrapped in a mac’s,
inside of which there was a lace
satchel, in ribbons tied, smart,
inside of which, hid with great art…
brilliant diamonds, two score!
Phone in hand, Apollodor,
lorded it, in his toys room, tops!
He owned a car, five candy shops,
he shot (for fun) a silver gun
and he only smoked cigars.
Sprawled on the sofa, chomping a bun,
chewing betel, pecking some coco,
he was such a snobber-upper
that no matter how near he’d go,
he would jump inside his chopper!
(all that said for you to see
he was changed as changed can be)
chic and sassy… for two years more…
when one day (on a Sunday? Monday?)
remembered he, Apollodor,
his brothers! meaduoring once more
he said: ”Adieu, coco-nuts and fops,
diamonds, cigars and sweets-shops,
white phones, toys, cars… all I doff
to go my way. I am, now, off!
Meaduor, my dears, meaduor! Good day!
And off he was, Apollodor.
Apollodor and Salliver Tom
Any knowledge, any notion
(of his trip across the ocean,
more exactly the Pacific)
we have learnt in great emotion
(scribbled like in hieroglyphic):
as likely as not, he next decked
a ship (leased to him for a while)
which, it seems, was shipwrecked
on some pebbly wasted isle…
wherefrom, one morn, dandy and fine,
he quit, in a submarine.
Not for long sailed he so fine,
for they crashed into a mine!
Yet he was saved by a dolphin
that took him across, to a gulf in
California’s coast… where he,
knocked out’n had a hard time be
coming round, beat by the brine.
So, out of the blue, this tenor,
looking for his pre-school mates…
woke up in the Unites States.
For a while (if news is no hoax)
he acted cowboy, Apollodor,
on some farm, The Foxy Ox…
attending cows and locking gates,
feeding the bulls and loading crates…
he had a pistol and, of course,
like any cowboy, had a horse.
So… what do you know? one Friday
a bandit showed around, a punk,
a cattle thief, a rogue on pay
a most disreputable drunk –
Tom Salliver by his name,
true gunman lose on the highway
who would even kill and gore
from up a-saddle, was his fame!
All jiggled as he rode and swore.
At this place, The Foxy Ox’s,
(quoting) he shot eighty oxes,
three cows, a lamb and a kitten.
And then, bellowing like smitten
round the farmyard, got off his horse
found a bust tub, inside he flopped…
and fell asleep, clean pickled popped.
Poor cowboys shook in their boots,
in the field they’d hid, all hoots
and sneaky whistles… no pluck,
knee deep in the dung! soft luck!
Whereat he spoke, Apollodor:
”That I won’t bear, nor never bore,
to keep myself mum, and duck
away from a shameless drunk ,
like you do, all meek and shrunk!
Hammer and three spikes, no more!”
he asked… then nailed up the tub lid,
and rolled away the tough guy,
topsy turvy bashed, my, my,
up to the City Jail , he did!
The loafers hailed him and did greet,
eating the dust under his feat.
They later threw him a grand treat.
”Do stay with us!” they would implore.
But, to their consternation
he declined their application:
”Can’t! Must off! I so meaduor
for missing my life of yore!”
So he was off, Apollodor.
Apollodor and Salliver Tom’s Dad
It was, trust me, no figs and dates
to reconstruct (by hearsay,
by notes fled each every way…)
his log book, of a runaway
about the United States.
Did he get whacked? Did he pay back?
In his own hand, Apollodor
put down some place: ”I watch my back!
He dogs me mad, he’ll bite my butt
given a chance, oh, what a hack!
this scally of Connecticut.
The other day I saw him strut,
shaggy fuzz glued onto his mug,
this crabby grouchy grumpy bug,
of a scally of Connecticut.
He had horsehair on his head,
dark and red, to make you cower
and he shot one guy per hour,
the scally of Connecticut.”
In that diary have I read
how it happened… all is said!
So let’s have a brief time-out,
for me to tell you all about
the way they met, he and the mutt
of a scally of Connecticut.
‘Twas on a train about to gut
herself to ash. Apollodor
acted lone wolf…when lo! before
him stood a stranger, a tough nut:
the scalawag of Connecticut
who gulped down one pint of rum
hollered, had a few more, yum…
“Me… Ole man of Salliver Tom.
You got him jailed. I pay back, scum!”
He took a pistol in his hand…
he had one more pint of rum,
then said: ”Off with your rags! Strip, bum!
Off of the choo-choo! Shoo… and land!”
And as he said he kicked, the brute
of a scally of Connecticut.
Ouch!.. oh, yes, it so did hurt,
but… he survived, Apollodor.
He only sprained an ankle bad
and got a (big) bumb on his head
and got a gushing scratch, no more –
as he could count, up from the dirt.
So he limped on, plop-plop, till night
bemoaning at each step his plight.
But what was that? Do the woods snore?
Yes, fretting, still. Plus (in no hurry)
slow slouching by the River Missouri.
There he halted, Apollodor.
His voice rang loud inside the night:
Apollodor bewailed his plight.
“He kicked my tush! He kicked my butt!
the scally of Connecticut…
Got flesh bumps, bruises black-and-blue…
South Pole, South Pole, where are you?
oh, South Pole, South Pole, where are you?”
Missouri sloshed… splashed… babbled, too,
as he blubbered himself wet through.
Apollodor – Chick from Mars
And when he halted, Apollodor,
the wind blew into his ear
the screech of some… odd thing a-near,
squealing in pains, like rotten to core.
By and bye he saw… her… a truck!
fuming smoked, number plates gone,
rickety-rickety, like a lame duck…
so he boarded her, on the run.
Hitting the road, Apollodor,
(rusty with smoke, dusty with rust
scorched by the sun, smoky with dust),
sprawled on the truck’s scrap-iron floor.
He wailed (what else?) Apollodor:
“I’m broke…and nude, and all so poor !
I’m heading for frozen South Pole…
though hot now, better be wise! ”
He looked around, all forlorn…
and eyed an armor, peppered but whole
that any knight’d’ve proudly worn…
can you believe! like cut his size.
Donning that armor, Apollodor
benighted himself… Lord Tenor!
But no later than a minute
a horrible hurricane broke
rocking him sooo cruel in it,
spinning him sooo high… that he woke
inside a cloud. “What a joke”
thought he “ fly like dandelions!
What howls – like a roaring lion’s!
Now I know I’m gonna Di!”
What the diary does write…
is that he dived head down, that is
crashed some street in Saint Louis
in a hullabaloo… by light,
so Savant Fergus Mac-Piggott
(famous scientist, bit bigot)
could clearly see… and yelled like shot:
”A satellite! … A satellite!”
But… had a summit behind bars
with the automaton-brain head…
and took it back! He snooty said:
”I take it back! It’s Chick from Mars!
And forty loafers, one like all,
shouted: “Long live! Hip Hip Hurray!
The Chick from Mars! Now come what may!”
He was so glad, Apollodor,
to hear them greet him in a corps.
And how they did bicker and gall!
those forty dropouts, one like all,
over Mars Chick Apollodor:
“Let’s vote him be a senator!”
“Better a boarding junior!”
“Why not a telivijn actor!”
“Why not a ’varsity doctor!”
Then Mayor Bigg of Saint Louis
stood up and took the floor… like this:
”All of the above I veto!
Here is what we do: we spread
a tarp, wide… sew it in thread,
and raise a tent. On the Mart. Ditto!
Next: inside, we will install
for him a gaudy pedestal,
whereon, in chains, atop the stars
on the side… Ta-taa! Chick-from-Mars!
If you do good, you good must see!
Is Mars Chick glad? He’s too, Siree!
As glad will we, then, get to be:
you wanna see? You pay a fee!”
They did as told, no thing amiss,
by Mayor Bigg of Saint Louis.
Did that last long? Dunno (bet you
don’t either)… but the fact is
that in the town of Saint-Louis
Apollodor was… a statue.
Just as clear is the fact
that Savant Fergus Mac-Piggott
probed the chick’s hide (next what not)
and wrote a thesis, no farce!
i.e. Famous Chick from Mars
(whereof we quote an extract)
THE CHICK FROM MARS
by Fergus Mac-Piggott
All Mars chicks – slim, stout or wide
are rolled inside many a hide:
first and foremost, one mean, evil…
screechy metal (I have tried
it myself, on) – Maddy-Evil!
[Cut-price models, our own pride,
are in sale at Th’Ideal Hide!]
We double-checked and did measure
(in our shop-time and leisure):
Mars is far; how far we ignore.
Any Mars chick is a tenor
and jabbers about the North Pole
more, Alaska less (there’s the hole
they come smack through, for pleasure).
[Any Mall that can afford
markets items branded Ford.]
THROUGH THE END
With my genius and my worth
(and so on, and so forth…)
Many times I have reread
this fad before I went to bed.
But… let’s just hear a bit more
of Saint Louis and Apollodor.
Winds blew with zestful intent,
ruffling the grisly spooky night,
as he stood in chains, upright,
on his pedestal, in that tent.
Was barely brooking, wee and weak…
when the door flew wide aside
and forty masquerees burst inside,
in that darkness. Mute and meek
he eyed those foul gunmen on pay
who searched the place each every way.
Those glum dogs who showed no fear,
grinning grim, ear to ear,
were headed thither by the rot
scalawag of Connecticut.
Couple of them grabbed him tight.
(clean chicknapping, Apollodor!)
while the rest were heard to roar:
“Move it! Fast! Don’t take all night!
They tied him up in cotton rope,
then hurled’m inside some hardy sack…
and jerked’m bad, from back to back,
down jagged roads ( my my, what pains)
and heinous lanes with wicked names.
He’d lost all hope as the rogues stopped.
The tower clock struck half past three.
And there they were…and so are we.
In front of this mansion they dropped
him… window panes were gleaming sly,
gates gripped in ratty locks, awry,
door bells jittery (you could tell
by how they yelped)… A dangling pan,
scribbled in chalk, could still read well:
“Headquarters of the KU-KLUX-KLAN
(Hush-Hush Top Secret Cartel)
The forty masquerees petered out
inside the belly of the mansion,
like bats passing up attention.
He felt carried in by… some mutt…
right again! who else? no doubt:
the scally of Connecticut.
He found himself, Apollodor,
beaking the flowers of the carpet,
chucked off the sack, on the floor
of a grand hall (kind of a cockpit).
And of masquerees… there were more,
now some beastly fifty-six… and,
hidden behind masks (less risky!),
sulking, blue, pistol in hand…
pretty run down, given how they
were slow sipping their whiskey.
Then they mumbled the night through,
whispered whispers, beak to ear,
did sign language, wink and coo…
that’s why none of them did hear
it all… so what I’m telling you
(maybe not quite crystal clear)
is my copy-paste solution
from following resolution:
«We, Gatherees of Saint Louis,
in the due hurry and scurry
met… and wrapped up: he who is
Perpetrator that We worry
about (for he dealt a hard blow
to Our Fellow named below,
eminent Salliver Tom)…
so… this midget no-name gnome
gets to be shipped to the Moon.
He can’t be back any day soon,
so he’ll breathe his last those spaces
which is nowhere near our places,
no skin of ‘r teeth, not of’r own.
Compact Logistics to be had:
inside our hanger Spacely Flights,
Department (quoting) Moony Kites,
there’s one spaceship, busted bad
good to split off in, neatly hollow…
one of those they call Apollo.
Therefore We, Undersignees,
of the Clan, We, Gatherees,
canvass a boss for one full year,
for a Big Chief, to steer Us clear
among rapids, far and near
best Boss in all Connecticut.»
At dawn they set out, two by three,
(the chosen few were due, you see)
hoods pulled low over their faces,
pistol in hand… passed by places,
reaching Spacely Flights – my, my,
how Apollodor yelled Bye!
Now I’m surely gonna Di! –
hush hush headed by the mutt
of a scally of Connecticut.
By and by they reached the roomy
hanger hall, murky and gloomy…
and lo! behind the front door,
pickled in the mud she’d wallow
smug in for ages… ship Apollo!
They shut in there Apollodor,
in the main flight cabinet,
turned the key twice… and the motor
started purring. What did follow
next is so mind-boggling, that
for you to judge, I simply choose
to copy-paste, for you… the news:
SUICIDE IN SAINT-LOUIS
«At five past five sharp o’clock,
by bip-bip-bip and knock-knock-knok
we learnt that in Saint Louis,
in street (no-name), number 6 bis,
Mars Chick did himself right up!
Pecked the dregs in his poison cup,
next – off his rocker, as inspected –
gibbering wild – as expected –
the stiff set out for the Moon,
inside some ship. So, pretty soon
part of Saint-Louis was steaming
splitting hairs, even creaming…
while, at jinx hanger Spacely Flights,
(that is Department Moon Kites,
where all this happened, this… havoc)
the mob is in a state of shock.
Savant Fergus Mac Piggott,
come to see, said: “I know now
what happened: chick ran somehow.
One thing is not clear, though,
namely: this stiff we saw go
off like crackers, was he, or not,
our Mars Chick, that we got
to statue for us, in chains and tails?”
And pigs fly! Savant Fergus ails!
Will be back later with details.»
Here I stop quoting the news
spread around in Saint Louis,
by that useless paper. Nor
will I say what’s known for ages,
’cause we’re in luck! Apollodor
wrote, for us to read, two pages:
“Wanna know’ bout gravity?
What’s it to you? enough to say
that I’ve lumped it, the hard way.
I crashed on the Moon. Was brave.
Passed up all of goings-out,
like for walks. Yes, I did crave
to see what it is all about.
Moon is a hot spot to scout.
Had a helmet and a radar.
Had cameras. Had a car.
Had a biscuit in my pocket.
Had powder milk in a locket.
But! temperature was sub-zero!
had no coat, was not a hero.
So… I pondered and slept on
it, then touched a little button…
and found myself heading home.
To the marrow in each bone
felt happy… boy, how I did croon,
to know that I will touch Earth soon. “
That’s some footage, level-zero,
straight from the beak of Chick-Hero
We ought to act that meek, we ought!
But, since such gutsy bravery
(surged from uncanny knavery)
remains totally ignored,
(a thing in due time I deplored)
not even being broadcast,
(a mistake that will doubts raise!)
I rolled up my sleeves… and fast
wrote to Him a Hymn of Praise.
HYMN OF PRAISE
FOR APOLLODOR THE 1ST
May He live eternally,
Him, as brave as brave can be,
Who flew into the outer space,
Him, Who all weather did embrace,
whether hungry or fed up,
shut, all alone, in His fit-up,
Him, The Ist Chick on the Moon!
May She live eternally,
Her, Who did his old Ship be!
Praise to Her, engine real plucky
Who took Him away, so lucky!
Glory to Him, Apollodor,
Who steered clear of the stars
(and even of planet Mars!)
Glory to It, species Beast, more
especially It Which Him bore,
Him, Glory to all of His Kin,
Who brought Him up from next to naught,
Him adroit, Him smart, Him shy,
Glory to It, the starry Sky!
Praised Him be, Apollodor,
Praised the Weather, praised His Boat,
Praised His Radar, Which played Ball,
Praised His Screws, praised His Call,
Praised His Milk Dust, praised His Locket,
Praised the Absence of His Coat,
Praised His Biscuit, praised His Pocket,
Praised His Button so hot called for,
Praised His Helmet…PRAISED BE All!
Apollodor down the Mississippi
Old Mississippi. On their back,
adrift on a log raft, why slack
it, River Jim and River Jack?
The raft floats slow among the stumps
of dried out willows, cracked by gales
The dirty yellow water hums…
I wonder who’s to hear those tales?
Why beam so and why rack
it, River Jim and River Jack?
Because… they got one wet-back,
fished out dripping, poor soul,
dropped down from up there, quack-quack
quacking south pole…south pole…pole
Filling his pipe, River Jack,
(with fine tobacco from Drugstore),
he asked (to set him back on track)
“What is your name?””Apollodor!”
They shared their fish with him, and
gave him a calico vest. Black.
They smiled, kept mum and looked bland,
both River Jim and River Jack.
Apollodor and Cyrus Smith
We miss, again, a page or two,
to tell this story whole and true.
How far he reached, Apollodor,
where’d the raft go… we clean ignore.
As for Jim, and his chum, Jack…
well, such news we also lack!
A piece of paper is all we got,
torn out of his note book (or not?)
room enough for all of our lore:
“…was slouching, beat, in New Orleans,
on scrap tar lain with sacks of beans,
as the captain, Cyrus Smiths
(a drunk’n loafer like you don’t see,
the one-eyed beast in the old myths)
called out: <You’ll be my tyro –
got sesame seeds from Cairo
for you to unload… right, for free!
Don’t like my mug? Don’t look at me!
Was once a grand sight to see,
old salt, big jaw, ocean to ocean…
just looking brutish by this cut –
he scarred me by his yataghan
as I sailed way to Yukatan,
the scally of Connecticut…
I hate his guts… son-of-a-gun!>
Soon later we left New Orleans.
Now I feed up this ship, with coal.
I’m sweaty, smelly, I’m no prince…
but it’s all right, we near South Pole.”
And crossing for a few days more
the Antilles Islands and oceans,
he sailed his full, Apollodor,
on the mains of the Caribbeans…”
Emerald like was the sky,
you’d say a balmy lukewarm dish…
a-glitter! and do you know why?
’cause waters teamed with jellyfish.
What of Cyrus Smiths? His Lordship
dozed and dreamed, his upper lip
pushed high, to snore a lofty snore.
Meanwhile, deft Apollodor
grooming and steering the ship.
And she glided… hardly fluffing
at all those sleek waves, a-puffing…
the sea felt tender like a muffin…
So grand a show you felt at a loss!
Deep in the sky, an albatross
flapped round, south of the Barbados;
and deep down, there flashed by, bad,
gangs of sharks, bound for Trinidad.
As for Cyrus Smiths, the captain…
told you: snooze and snore, he kept on.
Then heat stung… like a swarm of bees,
the air’d seethe, the water’d smolder…
there was no cloud, no wind, no breeze…
the ship was walking the equator.
And some time later, Apollodor,
as he watched the sunset (unable
to make out that it looked like gore,
for beat up) he got this cable:
(through cable jam)
«Hey, Cyrus Smiths, ya old salt,
still booz’n snooze, ya do, or what?
Mind ya well, if ya take aboard
a penguin, dropped in a fjord
smack from the sky, a dandy
dupe… ya give’m poison candy…
then… good riddance! feed the fish
his carcass, for a measly dish…
…or else! mind ya do that, mutt!»
Signed: Master of Connecticut.
As for Cyrus Smiths, his Lordship
snoozed and dreamed, his upper lip
pushed upper, to snore bust the ship…
Just fancy poor Apollodor
live through that… him, famed tenor,
groom ship for his foe, low-cut
of a scally of Connecticut…
and slave the one-eyed beast in myths,
the loafer, drunkard, Cyrus Smiths,
paid by the very Ku-Klux-Klan…
Loopy mad at such tough luck
he picked up pluck, went up to captain,
and yelled: “You conned me…schmuck!”
As for Cyrus Smiths, his Lordship
snored put out, his upper lip
pushed high… counting leaping sheep…
did not so much as jerk in his sleep!
What a pity, what a pity,
no camera was in his ditty-
box, so he’d shoot, Apollodor,
a reel on how, all on his own,
flashed round the ax… the ship flew blown
a mile away…probably more!
Seven times as much a pity
that no camera (no ditty-
bag was there, either) did shoot
weighty tragic magic minute
when the ship shook all things in it,
capsized and went down like spooned…
like a shark that’s been harpooned…
as for Cyrus Smiths… they say
that, at the time he passed away,
was in deep sleep, his upper lip
pushed high, to snore bust the ship.
What a pity, what a shame
no film was shot! yet who’s to blame?!
Apollodor in Uruguay
Well then, bit south of Ecuador,
he floated, somehow, Apollodor…
Long would he have (remember why?)
but he was fished (and did not Di)
by Pescador, from Uruguay.
Him (hungry as a wolf, a-drip)
they took south on that wretched ship,
shared with him their lowly meal
made him drink bitter teas, to heal
(’cause he was down with flue, poor guy)
and in a hammock swung him feel
in sky six… up to Uruguay.
We miss, anew, one page or two
to tell his saga, whole and true.
But (pure guesswork), given that
they raise livestock in Uruguay,
we wouldn’t wonder that much at
him on horseback, Apollodor,
ride like no chick rode before.
So, saddle-sick, Apollodor,
close to south-end of Uruguay,
stumbled on a home nearby…
owned by Carlos Alfandor!
A fan of his, um Profesor –
what do you know? an ex-tenor,
part-time. Apollodor halted. Some.
Could’ve lorded it long, the bum!
For doting Senhor Profesor
mollycoddled him like treasure
“’Tis my duty (and my pleasure)”
said he “that you get a future!
When I’m dead, this hope I nurture
that you allow and be my heir!”
Say silver-lining… see a black cloud!
A scandal, upright and outloud,
he grew in his house, Alfandor:
a Jumbo Computador,
(a terror for Apollodor),
that never stopped computing, nor
could take a hint! Profesor
fed him soft (hard didn’t know:)
and piped glad, as quoted below:
”Today, my beloved tenor,
time-table’s a dream, a stupor,
at eight – meet tailor at silk store
at nine – curl dawn and die it d’or
at ten – we hear folks sing in a corps
one p.m. – lunch (a cabbage core,
baked in the oven, best less than more)
two – us two sing, we have the floor!
three – we go walk our dog, Azorr
(a most retrieving Labrador)
six – weave a mat for the back-door
seven – on TV, Crime and Amor,
eight – hit the sack, whether tired or
not yet, there’s a good tenor.
That’s what he says, Computador,
you do today, to suitably score.”
Days rolled out like peas from the pod.
And he hurt so, Apollodor,
thinking: ”How happy we’d be, God,
one day without Computador”.
Say cloud… is this gold lining or
what? for same Senor Profesor
grew good news, too: a Robot!
could wash, cook and make your cot,
little angel on juiced motor,
neat, nice, smiley and –what’s more,
of all things…Ta-taa! a tenor!
He got his fun, Apollodor,
with Robot around (a stupor).
Now and then this gifted Robot,
would feed him pine-apple compote,
he’d even bathe Apollodor,
or maybe knit him socks (to store,
for weather as cold as Labrador),
tugged him in bed and also hugged…
A sweet soul-mate, smartly jugged,
a guardian angel never bugged.
Well, one day, Apollodor,
(his butt on a hot radiator,
legs crossed and arms akimbo
on a mat, as if in limbo,
‘cause so said Computador)
shook his head, sighed a sigh…
looked pal Robot in his one eye
and said: “I’m done! I’m cheese pie!
Can’t bear that, nor never bore!
Feel packed in, can’t breathe, I heave…
will conk out if I stay more…”
Robby bleeped … and said: ”So… leave!”
He looked stunned, Apollodor…
then came round… and feeling better
acted like no Computador
him computed: he wrote a letter!
”Querido Senhor Profesor,
naturally I owe you more
than words can say. But I bore
it enough, I must off. I deplore
to push my ways so… and implore,
you, Father, on all of my fours,
allow: CAN BE NO HEIR OF YOURS!
‘cause I meaduor my life of yore!
So he was off, Apollodor…
’n Querido Senhor Profesor
computed (on Computador)
his own self! and saw, candid,
that he could marry! Which he did,
then got one heir… then a few more.
Home sweet home
How far he reached, Apollodor,
is no one’s fault that we ignore.
The road, say. Well? had it been a
dread? he flopped in Argentina?
Did he maybe bruise his feet
crossing campos Patagonite?
He halted where? How many a morn?
Was it an isle? Was it Cape Horn?
And did he maybe, Apollodor,
find a new ship and left the shore…
or did he stay inland and march?
This I know: ‘twas the month of March.
The wind was blowing mighty cold,
the blizzard roared at sea, and bold
snow flakes flew like nuts, like sleet…
when he eyed, Apollodor,
past some iceberg… the Antarctic!
How puffed-up did feel, the chick,
to strut on floe of Gulf Terror!
All of the clan Apollodor
gathered together to meaduor
and greet their lost sheep of yore
just disembarked at Gulf Terror:
(the wisest oldest penguin)
and Mom, Apollodorika,
(tiny, about as wise, but meeker)
and Dad, Apollodorell
(puny, bald… but feeling well)
and Uncle Apolodorini,
all tenors and tenorini,
neighbors, too… when rang the bell…
and they all peeped in a corps.
But hark! they heard, Apollodor,
(cov’ring them all) plentiful pour
well trained trills, unheard before.
Wonderful voice, magic tenor!
They partied all day on the shore
of so meaduored Gulf Terror.
How did he feel, Apollodor,
on the dear floe of Gulf Terror?
Unspeakably! “Tis sheer horror!
Fridges are heaters – I’m freezing more”
thought wretched chick Apollodor
“Such blizzards I knew not, before…
I so meaduor my Circus… of yore”.
For he recalled, Apollodor,
hid brethren, singers in a corps,
like they marched in, by the front door:
Cotton Tail offered, once more,
his lettuce and crisp apple core…
Kitten Tut creamed his whiskers licked…
Sandky’d no more, in hankies, wail,
for she taught him a brand new scale…
Ole Bruin gave him berries picked
in the woods near-by, and winked…
Prickles offered him spines, pricklish,
and yarn, with loose ends so ticklish….
And he also seemed to see
beyond the floe, over the sea,
(donned in velvet black like tar,
score sheets peeping out of his pocket),
smiling and pulling hard at his socket,
seated smack there, right on the floor,
asking: ”D’you miss us, Apollodor?
On the floe of Gulf Terror
he sighed and sobbed, Apollodor,
while Dad, Apollodorell,
and Uncle, Apollodorini,
and tenors and all tenorini
crowded him over like pest,
flew fish at him, gave him no rest…
”Have this babe, there’s plenty more!”
”Can have them all, we love you best!”
”You mope no more, Apollodor!”
Sighed and sobbed, Apollodor:
”I wish I was in Bucharest!”
(remember? the wise penguin)
thought a bit, jerked up his chin
then firmly croaked: “OK. You win.
I know what’s like to sit on a pin,
I know what’s like to toss and spin,
fry alive eaten with unrest.
Much better leave for Bucharest!”
And he was off, Apollodor.
How far he’d reached, dear tenor?
Pushed back to square one? or more?
Did he sail around the world,
taking Magellan at his word?
beat the waters, far and near?
crossed the southern hemisphere?
Or did he maybe, with less pain,
choose to fly over, in a small plane?
got lost anew, as went the word?
trotted anew the African world?
Did he halt on lands called the Ghanas?
Did he steer through Islands Bahamas?
or Bosphorous? crossed th’Indianna?
Dunno. Got no thing to lure,
you with! The end! No more!
Anyway, one thing is sure:
Apollodor climbed every crest
Till he got back to Bucharest.
Enough he’d knocked about the world…
The meeting went without one word:
showed in his old coat black like tar;
Cotton tail held out bit more
lettuce (still one apple core);
Ole Bruin (who had berries picked
in the woods), now winked;
and Kitten Tut hugged him so hot,
wailing and mewling like shot;
and then happy Camel Sandky
smiled, her muzzle in her hanky…
Guess what? meaduoring in a corps
their all-time greeting of yore:
“You’re welcome back, Apollodor!
Sighed he: “I’m home! I am my best!
What bliss to be in Bucharest!
Ever since…on the circus floor
you can find Apollodor…
In Mayfair Mart does not labor,
nor on their skating rink, no more.
He moved out. Whatever for?
Told you what: a different circus!
Piece of cake finding the place,’ cause
it’s dear Bucharest State Circus.
There he labors. As a tenor
One more thing I still ignore:
WHAT does he SING, Apollodor?