Melanie the Red-Haired Troll

This is the story of Melanie the red haired troll.
Melanie may not seem to be a scary name
You may even have a favorite relative named Melanie
For all I know You may even know a Melanie
You could even be a Melanie
But if you're a troll
you don't want to have a name like Melanie

Melanie the red haired troll
also had red hair
not ketchup red, nor fire engine red
just plain old red hair
There's nothing wrong with red hair
but there are very few trolls with red hair
so Melanie the troll
became known as
Melanie the red haired troll

Melanie the red haired troll
hid all the gold stickers
from the handsomest prince in all the world
which made all the children of the world very very very sad
because the handsomest prince in all the world
would give them out to all the little children
to hang up in the sky at night.

So when you see a night sky without a star
you know that Melanie the red haired troll
has hidden the gold stars
from the handsomest prince in all the world
and all the children are very very sad
sometimes Melanie the red haired troll
makes them so very very very sad
that they cry throughout the night

This tale of caution is to make you aware of
Melanie the red haired troll
But Melanie the red haired troll is in disguise
Most trolls are knee high to you as you are to me
Melanie the red haired troll however
is a giant troll
and giants trolls are as high as you and almost as high as me.

Calavera

    Ahi viene el agua
    Por la ladera,
    Y se me moja
    Mi calavera.

    La muerte calaca,
    Ni gorda, ni flaca.
    La muerte casera,
    Pegada con cera.

I, of the Storm

Dark, the thunderous skies
erupt into light and sound
the heavens open up
and the rain begins
to pour down

Lightning strikes the tallest tree
bolts of fire fall into the sea
Immersed in the darkness
of the clouds
the sound of danger
all around

Thunderous skies
fierce, blinding light
trees falling down
from the winds
all around

- Charles Longstreet

First Lines Second Thoughts - Paul Clifford

It was a dark and stormy night;
the rain fell in torrents,
except at occasional intervals,
when it was checked by a violent gust of wind
which swept up the streets
(for it is in London that our scene lies),
rattling along the house-tops, and
fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps
that struggled against the darkness.   

- Edward George Bulwer-Lytton   

First Lines Second Thoughts is a look at the first lines of well known literary works.
On second thought, do these opening words stand alone as poetry?

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

- Edgar Allan Poe

Crustacean Migration

Along the fence in our backyard is a smattering of tunnels. The entrance holes are about the size of a baseball. I am unfamiliar with native burrowers indigenous to this area. The possibility of what kind of critter might emerge from the dark passageway was unnerving.

Could it be a mongoose? Maybe a meerkat clan had set up camp - there is a show called Meerkat Manor. If you have never tuned in, the show is an Animal Planet documentary. It follows day to day foibles and pitfalls of the Whiskers family. They are one of a dozen families of meerkats in the Kalahani Desert. The fact that Barra de Navidad is not a desert and is about 20,000 miles from Africa, did not persuade me to discount this possibility.

Meerkat Manor does not sugarcoat the animals less than cuddly habits of infidelity, abandonment of young and occasional cannibalism; hence the subject matter bears a remarkable resemblance to another Discovery Planet program called Jon and Kate Plus 8. The problem is that I get all emotionally involved in their drama.

On one episode, the matriarch of the family, Flower, could be seen peeking her adorable little ferret-like face out of the den hole. Then a quick ‘up with the periscope’ look-see and she and her mischievous brood were outside hopping and bouncing about, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings. Suddenly, a dark shadow loomed above. “Run Flower, Run!” I shouted at the television screen. “Grab your kits! There is a ginormous hawk circling overhead and you are in its radar. Run for your life Flower. Go back to the burrow!”

If I was the camera person filming this show and they made me boss, I would throw Wild Kingdom protocol to the wind and intervene with Mother Nature. But I guess birds of prey would die of starvation and the meerkat population would run amok. As it was, Flower foiled the hungry hawk, but died from a snake bite in the third series.

So, after a torrential rain, I discovered the mysterious occupants of the subterranean tubes in my Barra abode. There were no cute, furry mammals living in the tunnels. I walked outside and discovered cangrejos. Land crabs. Armies of them fearlessly scurried sideways like drunken sailors down our walkway. Click, click, click.

Our yard looked like a crustacean Woodstock. Their attitudes were positively contrarian. Defiant pink pincers rose like fists, defying me to come closer. They were ready to rumble. Then with a sideways swagger, they indignantly returned to the tunnels.

(Beth Berube - our very own Erma Bombeck - writes short, humorous stories about a big city gringa who relocates to a small town on the Pacific coast of Mexico. You can check out Barra Beth's stories at www.barrabethsblog.com. Her writing has also been featured in El Ojo del Mar.)

It's Not My Birthday - Kerouac Still Dead

The bloated corpse of Jack Kerouac was rushed to a hospital in Florida on October 20, 1969. Still breathing, he expired the next day. His death was attributed to natural causes - a lifetime of heavy drinking. Elsewhere in the cosmos a five-year-old boy sat at the bottom of a staircase in tears. Left in the care of an alcoholic World War II veteran and a German shepherd. The stairwell was his refuge.

The author of On the Road had one more road trip in him. A return to his birthplace in Lowell, Massachusetts. Jack had come full circle in 47 years. Driving through the denuded trees in northern Ontario in a mad dash to futility The Driver laughs, takes a hit and presses onward. It is now 2010.

Another country, another roadtrip and another bloated corpse. If autumn is the season of death, October finds The Driver surrounded with reminders of the living. Between last week and this he's dropping birthday greetings like hits of acid on the Great Gazoo - who shares a date with the Professor of Phun, Chatty Cathy, Tomorrow Girl, Uncle Wastecase, Sharon Sharealike, My Moto, and other portraits that feed his word count.

The Jetta Warrior stays on the rails, rolling over pavement cleared of fallen leaves that swirl around in its wake. A bottle of wine is spilled along with three other offerings from the dollar store wine rack. The Eternal Sunshine will awaken with a hangover and curse The Driver's existence. He does this alone as The Driver is back on the road. A trip to the zoo with Momma Bear and Poppa Bear followed by drinks with a ghost - it was worth it to say, "Thank you."

"Why do you show me these pictures from my home?" asks La Chica. "You are making me homesick." Her plea falls on deaf ears, The Driver doesn't answer her. The Translator brings out his humidor and a second vino is uncorked. The Driver passes on the Dos Equis but lights up a Romeo y Julieta - his first hit since a Christmas spent at the Mason's lodge in Brooklyn. The Driver continues to click through  memories from Patzcuaro, Sayulita, Tenacatita, Morelia and other stops from a not to distant road trip. La Chica tells The Driver that he has seen more of her country than she has. He's never had a bout of the Mexico City blues and he promises to visit her familia manana.

The Jetta Warrior has been good to The Driver and he climbs back aboard his steed after the 11 o'clock news  - do you know where your children are? - and heads out into the night. He quickly pulls over and greets a couple of the local hookers. They're getting luckier than they thought and he tosses them a spliff and drives on. The rains begin to fall before he makes it to the highway. Will he outrun the impending storm? Will the rain change to snow? Will The Driver - with his tail between his legs - take the divided four lane roads or follow the blue highways that Least Mean Moon spoke so elegantly about?

Eight hours into a five hour trip The Driver pulls into a driveway and crawls into bed. The trip back was uneventful except for the survival component. His mind kept thinking of Hawkestone Blackie and Blackie's off-road adventures from the week before. It would serve The Driver right if he did end up in a ditch. Methinks he laughed too hard at Blackie's misfortune. He's still paying the price and Blackie is still without wheels.

Birthday greetings fill The Driver's inbox - I'll address them later, he says to himself. he's back home, but home now is but a pitstop on another road trip. Alejandra Ribera beckons him to Honey Harbor. He'll sit in rapt attention as she plucks the strings of  her guitar and serenades him en espanol. Her voice sure to touch his soul, sending shivers down his spine. "Escuchame," she will say. The Driver will then pack his bags and start a new chapter in Chicago.

A tear ago this week The Driver was knocking back tectonics with The Shepherd debating the existence of The Scripture of the Golden Eternity. The Shepherd won that round and the Dharma Bums of Barra de Navidad had their first unoffical meeting. In attendance was The Shepherd, The Driver and the ghost of Ti-Jean himself.

Much like the tides, the group ebbed and flowed over the coming months as hipsters, travelers, lovers and dreamers came and went. In coming up with an online presence The Driver was left pondering the meaning of life by Facebook. It wasn't so much the meaning of life but he stared back at a screen that wanted to know the birthdate of the Bar None Group. Can a group be born?

That question lead to many others and he typed in October 21, 1969 as the date of record. The date of Kerouac's death would be a date of celebration for the Dharma Bums of Barra. Facebook had one more question for The Driver - his name. Curiously, he typed what was asked.

October 21, 1969 is not The Driver's birthday and somehow, someway he's going to have to find a way to tell, Piper, Jill, Brenda, Francois, Shirley, Chynna and Teresa how Kerouac's death day became his birthday and how Mark Butkus ended up with a Facebook page to begin with. But that's a challenge for another time. The Driver is bereft of ideas and The Red-Haired Troll has arrived. It's Friday at Barn One.

The Translator sent The Driver off with a bottle for Sharon Sharealike's birthday. They shared that last night. They shared another earlier in the year on May 25. The Driver's mother knows that day well, but she doesn't know Jack. When Kerouac was lowered into the ground his mother wept. She had survived all her children. She had survived all of their dreams.

Augustino and the Choir of Destruction - A Review

In a deliberate attempt to weed out the undedicated reader, this 300 page meditation by Marie-Claire Blais is a work of art. For those brave enough to take on the challenge of pushing through this unbroken monodiatrialogue of words, feelings and descriptions, a warning must be issued.

Blais gives you a rare opportunity to genuinely set the pace, the tone, and the mood for this story, translated from the original French. Read it with a clear mind and by the end of your visit, you will have found that this book has become either your friend or foe.

This is a unique read that a proper review will not be able to do justice to. That being said, if nothings else, this book stands to rejuvinate ones love for proper grammer. 

(Mandy Hutter, the author of this review, is a Grassroots Environmental Educator soon headed to Guantanamo, Cuba to further her humanitarian aims.)

Jacobson Wins Booker Prize

London author and columnist Howard Jacobson was named the winner of the £50,000 Man Booker Prize for Fiction on October 12,  for The Finkler Question, published by Bloomsbury. Jacobson has been longlisted twice for the prize, in 2006 for Kalooki Nights and in 2002 for Who's Sorry Now?, but has never before been shortlisted.

The Finkler Question is a novel about love, loss and male friendship, and explores what it means to be Jewish today. Said to have ‘some of the wittiest, most poignant and sharply intelligent comic prose in the English language', The Finkler Question has been described as ‘wonderful' and ‘richly satisfying' and as a novel of ‘full of wit, warmth, intelligence, human feeling and understanding'.

Funny, furious and unflinching, The Finkler Question is a scorching story of friendship and loss, exclusion and belonging, and of the wisdom and humanity of maturity. Julian Treslove, a professionally unspectacular former BBC radio producer, and Sam Finkler, a popular Jewish philosopher, writer and television personality, are old school friends. Despite a prickly relationship, they've never quite lost touch with each other - or with their former teacher, Libor Sevcik. Both Libor and Sam are recently widowed, and with Treslove, his chequered and unsuccessful record with women rendering him an honorary third widower, they dine at Libor's apartment. It's a sweetly painful evening of reminiscence in which all three remove themselves to a time before they had loved and lost; a time before they had fathered children, before the devastation of separations, before they had prized anything greatly enough to fear the loss of it.

Sir Andrew Motion, Chair of the judges, made the announcement, which was broadcast by the BBC from the awards dinner at London's Guildhall. "The Finkler Question is a marvellous book: very funny, of course, but also very clever, very sad and very subtle," commented Motion. "It is all that it seems to be and much more than it seems to be. A completely worthy winner of this great prize.'

Over and above his prize of £50,000, Howard Jacobson can expect a huge increase in sales and recognition worldwide. Each of the six shortlisted authors, including the winner, receives £2,500 and a designer-bound edition of their book. Sales of the books longlisted for the 2010 Man Booker Prize have been stronger than ever before, with sales over 45 percent higher than last year.

An award-winning novelist and critic, Howard Jacobson was born in Manchester on 25 August 1942 and read English at Cambridge under F.R. Leavis. He taught at the University of Sydney, Selwyn College, Cambridge and Wolverhampton Polytechnic - the inspiration for his first novel, Coming From Behind. He has been longlisted twice for the Man Booker Prize for Kalooki Nights in 2006 and Who's Sorry Now? in 2002. Other novels include The Mighty Walzer and The Act of Love. Howard Jacobson writes a weekly column for the Independent and has written and presented several documentaries for television. He lives in London.