Category Archives: Poetry

Yellow Bird

by Marilyn Keith, Alan Bergman, and Norman Luboff

Yellow bird, up high in banana tree,
Yellow bird, you sit all alone like me.
Did your lady friend,
Leave the nest again?
That is very sad,
Makes me feel so bad.
You can fly away,
In the sky away,
You more lucky than me.

I also had a pretty gal,
She not with me today.
They all the same,
The pretty gal.
Make’em the nest,
Then they fly away.

Yellow bird, up high in banana tree,
Yellow bird, you sit all alone like me.
Better fly away,
In the sky away.
Picker coming soon,
Pick from night to noon.
Black and yellow you,
Like banana too,
They may pick you some day.

Wish that I was a yellow bird,
I fly away with you.
But I am not
A yellow bird,
So here I sit,
Nothing else to do.

On a mostly unrelated note (it’s two for one day), Peopeomoxmox (Yellow Bird) was a chief of the Walla Walla tribe in the American northwest who met a tragic end after carrying a white flag to negotiate with settlers in 1855. He was taken prisoner, shot and then apparently mutilated by Americans:

That morning a raging battle with the Indians began, and it continued for several days. According to the stories of the soldiers, Peopeomoxmox and his companions began to shout encouragement to the Indians, and Colonel Kelly ordered them bound. As soldiers attempted to bind their hands, one of the Indians, indignant about being tied up like a dog, pulled out a knife. The man was shot, as were Peopeopmoxmox and the rest of the hostage Indians.

After the death of the regal old Walla Walla chief, the volunteers horribly violated his body. He was scalped, and his ears and hands were cut off. According to one account, “They skinned him from head to foot, and made razor-straps out of his skin.”

Peopeomoxmox had every reason in the world to treat the Americans with bitterness, but despite his own experiences, and to the day of this death, he remained a peaceful chief.

Anyone know a Yellow Bird story with a positive ending?

Forecasting Psychopaths

Bruce has a post called Forecasting Murderers, which has some insightful comments. Bruce himself says “Pretty scary stuff, as it gets into the realm of thoughtcrime.”

I was just reading an article by the BBC on a completely different project that seems to have a similar aim — forecasting psychopaths to figure out how to treat them or at least stop them before they can do harm.

The study monitored how the brain reacts when people see positive and negative expressions by others:

They can commit hideous crimes, such as rape or murder, yet show no signs of remorse or guilt.

It has been suggested that people with psychopathic disorders lack empathy because they have defects in processing facial and vocal expressions of distress, such as fear and sadness, in others.

That reminds me of L’etranger (published in 1942) by Camus…or that line in Killing an Arab (released in 1979) by the Cure:

Staring down the barrel
At the arab on the ground
I can see his open mouth
But I hear no sound

If a tree in an unprotected forest falls and no environmentalists are around…

The impossible question appears to be, I guess, whether someone’s abnormal behavior should be treated in and of itself as a security threat, or if it reflects a different perspective that could offer meaningful keys to unlock the secrets in your own world; or balance of the two.

And on that note, I feel like mentioning that while Rumsfeld was terminated for being a horrible listener (among other things) President Bush’s nomination for a replacement appears to suffer from some of the same “deaf-reckoning”…

Mr. Ford, 85, who worked at the agency from 1950 until the early 1990s, said he remembered Mr. Gates exaggerating Soviet misdeeds around the world. “He painted a dire picture of increased Russian pressure on Iran when the people who followed that issue were telling me the exact opposite,� he said.

Melvin A. Goodman, a former Soviet analyst for the agency, said on Thursday that during the 1980s, Mr. Gates acted as a “filter” for intelligence, trimming findings on the Soviet threat to match the hard-line ideological expectations of his boss, William J. Casey, then the director of central intelligence.

[…]

The study, by Raymond L. Garthoff, a former diplomat and arms control expert, finds that analyses of the Soviet Union in the Mikhail Gorbachev years were often withheld from policy makers by Mr. Gates “because he held a different view.” The study continues: “That was his right. But it was regrettable because the C.I.A. analysis was far more correct than the view he had.â€?

Sounds familiar. Bush seems to really dislike bringing people into his administration who will let the facts breathe, so to speak. Or perhaps he seeks people without empathy? Gates’ appointment will probably end up demonstrating as fact, if successful, that Rumsfeld’s idiocracy was no abberation. The continuation of a military-industrial complex model is kept alive by this group of men who are considered loyalists to the Ford and Bush Sr. administrations. Eisenhower must be rolling in his grave…

Game Poet Society

Maybe it is just because I do not have time to play video games any more, but so far the poems on the Game Poet Society site seem, well, how shall I put it…lame?

Take for example:

71r3d w17h 4ll 7h3s3, f0r r3s7full d347h I cry

Not sure what is worse about this poem. The fake-L337 speak or the attempt to show real feeling for a virtual fire-fight in a fantasy first-person shooter world. Then again, many poems are based on imagination induced by drugs, alcohol, endorphins, etc. so why not video games?

Each shot fired sang its own noise;
A forced cacophony of mottled sound.
Cracking the wood of his crate,
Squishing as they entered flesh,
Pinging high and low off concrete,
Echoes of gunfire pierced his skull,
And dulled the noise of men cursing their God in vain.

Dulled noise, mottled sound? The real meaning of this poem is that it is time for a sound-card upgrade. A little more power in the sound department could change this poet’s lament from “forced cacophony of mottled sound” to “full cacophony of crystal-clear sound”.

In fact, a true game-poet would upgrade this poem to “109dB SNR audio quality 64MB X-Fi Fatal1ty cacophany of CMSS 3D sound”. Yeah, that’s more like it. Now we’re talking game poetry!

And that’s just one line.

Oh, and I’d change the last line to “Game over” if not “Upgrade time”. I swear that the phrase “terrorists win” is becoming so sadly common-place that I am no longer surprised to hear it around American children who are playing. One day while I was launching my boat off the beach I was near a few kids kicking around sticks and stones in the water who said “Oh, no, the terrorists have blown up the tunnel, killing all the civilians. Terrorists win.”