Mimsy Memories, Jabberwocky Options

[jerryk]

Mimsy Memories

Nonsense words gyre through my mind,
galumphing to a whimsical rhythm.
“All mimsy were the borogoves,
and all the mome raths outgrabe.”

There is my dad, reading Jabberwocky
to my small son. He reads those frabjous
chortled words that he so clearly understands;
for he himself had been a child, and therefore
knows his grandson's mind and how he views
the Borogove, that most-strange scruffy bird,
and Rath, the greenish pig-like being—and then
the frumious, rubbernecking, snappyjawing
Bandersnatch, and how all fare in Jabberwock's
so weird domain—Oh, the Jabberwock—
the Jabberwock with such cruel claws and greedy maw!
Will all evade the fangs of this fierce beast?
If so, then surely just by the breadth
of Alice's cat's finest hair….

Now and then, he looks up with a mien that,
to a child, may seem as though he had put on
an actor’s face of utter fear. It coaxes bursts
of laughter from my child’s mouth.

Dad halts in mid-sentence, juts his jaw,
and I hear him heave a suppressed sigh.
Mom glances up, and then, in a hushed voice, she
sets out to explain the poem’s riddles to my son.
“No, no,” Dad very softly says. “No need for that.
It’s the boy who is quite apt to see these verses'
mysteries.” And then he continues reading, filling
my son’s mind, and mine, with—Jabberwocky.

But would my child of four years know of the pain my father
fights and hides behind a mask of playact fright?
Dad reads on: Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Calley!

We lost Dad to the whiffling “Jabberwock.” It burbled
forth from deep within, before the surgeon's vorpal
blade could smite it with the quickest snicker-snack.

[Psyche]

Oh my, Jerry, I don't know where to begin praising and/or nitting this incredible poem!
I believe I may have reminded you of Jabberwocky in some previous comment, elsewhere. I knew it by heart...LOL...
Let's see whether I have anything useful to add.

Mimsy Memories

Nonsense words gyre through my mind,
galumphing to a whimsical rhythm.
“All mimsy were the borogoves,
and all the mome raths outgrabe.” <<<<<I certainly can't recite this by heart anymore. A shame!

There is my dad, reading Jabberwocky
to my small son. He reads those frabjous
chortled words that he so clearly understands;
for he himself had been a child, and therefore
knows his grandson's mind and how he views
the Borogove, that most-strange scruffy bird,
and Rath, the greenish pig-like being—and then
the frumious, rubbernecking, snappyjawing
Bandersnatch, and how all fare in Jabberwock's
so weird domain—Oh, the Jabberwock—
the Jabberwock with such cruel claws and greedy maw!
Will all evade the fangs of this fierce beast?
If so, then surely just by the breadth
of Alice's cat's finest hair…. <<<<< Love this!

Now and then, he looks up with a mien that,
to a child, may seem as though he had put on
an actor’s face of utter fear. It coaxes bursts
of laughter from my child’s mouth.<<<<< Here one suspects that all is not right. So sorry...

Dad halts in mid-sentence, juts his jaw,
and I hear him heave a suppressed sigh.
Mom glances up, and then, in a hushed voice, she
sets out to explain the poem’s riddles to my son.
“No, no,” Dad very softly says. “No need for that.
It’s the boy who is quite apt to see these verses'
mysteries.” And then he continues reading, filling
my son’s mind, and mine, with—Jabberwocky.

The Harry Potter series have proven that modern children fully appreciate this style of fantasy, full of weird beings of varying shapes and personalities. Good, bad and middling, or all together. Got them reading again.


But would my child of four years know of the pain my father
fights and hides behind a mask of playact fright? <<<<<He wouldn't know in a rational way, but at that age children realize intuitively or sense these things. Agreed?
Dad reads on: Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Calley!

We lost Dad to the whiffling “Jabberwock.” It burbled
forth from deep within, before the surgeon's vorpal
blade could smite it with the quickest snicker-snack. <<<<<< I'm assuming that this is your family's experience. The loss of your own Dad. I appreciate the way you've told it, "wrapped up" in Lewis Carroll's fabulous imagination in conjunction with yours. Ah, sad memories...

I'm so glad you're posting your pieces here, Jerry. It's rather lonely at MM. Where have all the lilies flown?
Cheers, Syl***
PS: I'm afraid I shall be posting stuff dealing with death, as well. Good thing you can use humor so deftly. I can't when dealing with present events.

[jerryk]

Mimsy Memories

Nonsense words gyre through my mind,
galumphing to a whimsical rhythm.
“All mimsy were the borogoves,
and all the mome raths outgrabe.”

There is my dad, reading Jabberwocky
to my small son. He reads those frabjous
chortled words that he so clearly understands;
for he himself had been a child, and therefore
knows his grandson's mind and how he views
the Borogove, that most-strange scruffy bird,
and Rath, the greenish pig-like being—and then
the frumious, rubbernecking, snappyjawing
Bandersnatch, and how all fare in Jabberwock's
so weird domain—Oh, the Jabberwock—
the Jabberwock with such cruel claws and greedy maw!
Will all evade the fangs of this fierce beast?
If so, then surely just by the breadth
of Alice's cat's finest hair….

Now and then, he looks up with a mien that,
to a child, may seem as though he had put on
an actor’s face of utter fear. It coaxes bursts
of laughter from my child’s mouth.

Dad halts in mid-sentence, juts his jaw,
and I hear him heave a suppressed sigh.
Mom glances up, and then, in a hushed voice, she
sets out to explain the poem’s riddles to my son.
“No, no,” Dad very softly says. “No need for that.
It’s the boy who is quite apt to see these verses'
mysteries.” And then he continues reading, filling
my son’s mind, and mine, with—Jabberwocky.

But would my child of four years know of the pain my father
fights and hides behind a mask of playact fright?
Dad reads on: Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Calley!

We lost Dad to the whiffling “Jabberwock.” It burbled
forth from deep within, before the surgeon's vorpal
blade could smite it with the quickest snicker-snack.

Hello again, my faithful Sylvia, :)
I'm always delighted when my poems bring a smile to your face, but once in a while, I too must reflect on my own grief--in this case my father's demise quite a number of years ago.
I'm really thankful that you always take the time to comment so extensively, especially since you must carry your own burden that weighs heavily on your mind. I'm sorry about that.
About my humor? Actually, that's the quality that sees me through life's circumstances--which aren't always as rose-colored as I might let on in my poems.
Well, let me move on to your poem and see how I can comment. Thanks you so much Syl, and I wish you happier days. Take care,
Jerry

[Maureen]

I admire anyone who can write in this format - it takes a special skill to keep that flow going. Well done

[jerryk]

I admire anyone who can write in this format - it takes a special skill to keep that flow going. Well done

Hi Maureen;
thanks so much for your nice comment. To rhyme or free-verse, that's the question. Glad this write pleases you. I was pleased to see my Appaloosa poem published, too. Thank you.
Jerry

[Psyche]

My new comments are down under, Jerry.

Mimsy Memories

Nonsense words gyre through my mind,
galumphing to a whimsical rhythm.
“All mimsy were the borogoves,
and all the mome raths outgrabe.”

There is my dad, reading Jabberwocky
to my small son. He reads those frabjous
chortled words that he so clearly understands;
for he himself had been a child, and therefore
knows his grandson's mind and how he views
the Borogove, that most-strange scruffy bird,
and Rath, the greenish pig-like being—and then
the frumious, rubbernecking, snappyjawing
Bandersnatch, and how all fare in Jabberwock's
so weird domain—Oh, the Jabberwock—
the Jabberwock with such cruel claws and greedy maw!
Will all evade the fangs of this fierce beast?
If so, then surely just by the breadth
of Alice's cat's finest hair….

Now and then, he looks up with a mien that,
to a child, may seem as though he had put on
an actor’s face of utter fear. It coaxes bursts
of laughter from my child’s mouth.

Dad halts in mid-sentence, juts his jaw,
and I hear him heave a suppressed sigh.
Mom glances up, and then, in a hushed voice, she
sets out to explain the poem’s riddles to my son.
“No, no,” Dad very softly says. “No need for that.
It’s the boy who is quite apt to see these verses'
mysteries.” And then he continues reading, filling
my son’s mind, and mine, with—Jabberwocky.

But would my child of four years know of the pain my father
fights and hides behind a mask of playact fright?
Dad reads on: Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Calley!

We lost Dad to the whiffling “Jabberwock.” It burbled
forth from deep within, before the surgeon's vorpal
blade could smite it with the quickest snicker-snack.

Hello again, my faithful Sylvia, :)
I'm always delighted when my poems bring a smile to your face, but once in a while, I too must reflect on my own grief--in this case my father's demise quite a number of years ago.
I'm really thankful that you always take the time to comment so extensively, especially since you must carry your own burden that weighs heavily on your mind. I'm sorry about that.
About my humor? Actually, that's the quality that sees me through life's circumstances--which aren't always as rose-colored as I might let on in my poems.
Well, let me move on to your poem and see how I can comment. Thanks you so much Syl, and I wish you happier days. Take care,
Jerry

Your poems merit thorough reading, Jerry. And reading about other people's experiences is always helpful. Sort of consoling.
And yes, humor may conceil sadness, distress and so on. For the Ancient Greeks, it was as cathartical as tragedy. As well as a great way to criticize politicians under a veil of sarcasm mixed with jokes, carefully written to escape punishment. Hail humor, therefore!!

There's also the "sad clown" adagy. Charlie Chaplin was the epitome of that. His private life was a mess and he had many enemies because he always spoke his mind, unnecessarily...mostly. But perhaps you don't like C.C.'s movies? My own Dad didn't, but I've a DVD collection of them!!

Yes, my burden is especially heavy now. Today I was with my hubby and he was being given oxygen (just a mask, I won't allow artificial respiration machines), as well as a nasal tube to hydrate him. He was breathing with difficulty and there were two assistants busily trying to make him comfortable. He recognized me, in spite of the fuss. So I was able to give him his strawberry yogurt, which he appeared to enjoy.
After that, as he was getting agitated again, he was given a light sedative thru' the tube and I tiptoed away when his eyes became droopy.
One doesn't expect these things to happen, especially to one's spouse. It's been 14 years!
Parents grow old and we care for them, but the chronology is more normal, so to speak.
Not really complaining. I've had my share of rose-coloured years...
Cheers, Syl***