by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator
Besides the fact that when Donald Trump's lips are moving he is almost certain to be lying, he is also known for rambling on in excess, a practice that likewise tends to get him into trouble. As his handlers quickly learn, Trump is a hard man to control, especially when he thinks he is on a roll.
Donald John apparently thought he was on a roll two nights ago when he was addressing a crowd of his supporters in Wheeling, West Virginia. There, while apparently trying to define himself as a competent world leader, he let slip what he considers to be the secret of his success in dealing with North Korean dictator, Kim Jong Un. The secret ingredient in their special ability to bond so tightly is . . . love, actually.
That's right, love!
Donald Trump told a roaring crowd of a few thousand about his unusual relationship with his fat counterpart in North Korea:
One journalist commented that if Barack Obama had made that same statement, the Republicans would have crucified him. I would add that if Obama had made the statement in Wheeling, West Virginia, he probably would not have made it out of town that evening. I've been to Wheeling!
But, rancor aside, Trump and Kim fell in love. I could not find a love poem that seemed to fit the unusual pairing, but I did come across a work by the late Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, which does pay a sort of homage to the lovers themselves, even if not to their budding relationship. This poem discusses four trappings of dictators - death, hatred, a luxurious lifestyle, and even "the swamp."
Here, then, is "The Dictators."
The Dictators
by Pablo Neruda
An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence.
Poetry Appreciator
Besides the fact that when Donald Trump's lips are moving he is almost certain to be lying, he is also known for rambling on in excess, a practice that likewise tends to get him into trouble. As his handlers quickly learn, Trump is a hard man to control, especially when he thinks he is on a roll.
Donald John apparently thought he was on a roll two nights ago when he was addressing a crowd of his supporters in Wheeling, West Virginia. There, while apparently trying to define himself as a competent world leader, he let slip what he considers to be the secret of his success in dealing with North Korean dictator, Kim Jong Un. The secret ingredient in their special ability to bond so tightly is . . . love, actually.
That's right, love!
Donald Trump told a roaring crowd of a few thousand about his unusual relationship with his fat counterpart in North Korea:
"I was really tough and so was he, and we went back and forth. And then we fell in love, okay? No, really, he wrote me wrote me beautiful letters, and they're great letters. We fell in love."Ahhhh, ain't that sweet!
One journalist commented that if Barack Obama had made that same statement, the Republicans would have crucified him. I would add that if Obama had made the statement in Wheeling, West Virginia, he probably would not have made it out of town that evening. I've been to Wheeling!
But, rancor aside, Trump and Kim fell in love. I could not find a love poem that seemed to fit the unusual pairing, but I did come across a work by the late Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, which does pay a sort of homage to the lovers themselves, even if not to their budding relationship. This poem discusses four trappings of dictators - death, hatred, a luxurious lifestyle, and even "the swamp."
Here, then, is "The Dictators."
The Dictators
by Pablo Neruda
An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence.
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