It seems I was most inspired to write these morphological masterpieces when I was experiencing incredible physical or psychological discomfort. For example, this first haiku was written in the seventh hour of my plane ride to Thailand:
The smell of old air,
Scattered packets everywhere,
I must wash my hair.
I think it captures the desperation of the moment in a succinct manner, but I didn't get to fit in everything. If I had been given one more seven-syllable line, I probably would have included "I must read 'A Jewel So Rare.'" For serious, my sister and I were reading it on the plane. Out loud. Sometimes salacious literature is best consumed within earshot of the elderly, ya know? And I know haikus technically don't have to rhyme, but it just turned out that way. I think it gives it a little something extra.
This next one was written about the pub on the kibbutz I stayed at in Israel. I was on an archaeology dig, so of course people got schwasted every night:
This next one was written about the pub on the kibbutz I stayed at in Israel. I was on an archaeology dig, so of course people got schwasted every night:
O bright light on the horizon,
Drawing me in like a moth to the flame,
You buzz me each time.
Clearly I was buzzed when I wrote this haiku because it in no way conforms to a haiku's structure. Gotta lock that 5-7-5 thing down.
This last piece is an ode I wrote to Mr. Speedo Man, the shameless European who swam at the hotel pool in Jordan every day. His scant Speedo alone might have made Paris Hilton blush, but the stretching he did by the deck, and eventual removal of said Speedo (on the pool deck) soon sent me and the gang into a tailspin of eye-clawing. The only way I could cope was to write an ode:
This last piece is an ode I wrote to Mr. Speedo Man, the shameless European who swam at the hotel pool in Jordan every day. His scant Speedo alone might have made Paris Hilton blush, but the stretching he did by the deck, and eventual removal of said Speedo (on the pool deck) soon sent me and the gang into a tailspin of eye-clawing. The only way I could cope was to write an ode:
To the man of the tiny Speedo--
You redefine the limits of Speedoian modesty.
Your legs ever pale,
Your face nonchalant,
Your posture unassuming
As you slip off what you are not.
Our looks of abhorrence
Bear not on your composure
As you casually cross your legs
Under your insufficient towel.
Your previous calisthenics
On the balcony in plain view
Were but a mere taste
Of the unwanted treat you would later provide.
Mr. Speedo Man,
Our Mr. Speedo Man,
We know we cannot change
Your free and open ways.
So if you must continue,
O Mr. Speedo Man,
With your cheeky displays,
At least keep your legs crossed.
For a second there, I thought I had also failed to write a real ode, but dictionary.com says an ode is of "enthusiastic emotion" and "irregular metrical form." Well, I *enthusiastically* requested Mr. Speedo Man keep his irregular form far away from me. Bam!
Travelers, be warned: a Speedo sighting can occur at any moment. Always carry pepper spray...for yourself.
Travelers, be warned: a Speedo sighting can occur at any moment. Always carry pepper spray...for yourself.
And make no mistake, I will continue to write abominable haikus full of awful-tude as long as I possibly can. Let's just hope I have less disturbing, more inspiring subjects in the future.
