Here’s another edition of my ersatz column. I’m working on compiling these more often.

First, presenting Seamus, a wolverine who outsmarted a team of scientists.


By Martin Robards and Tom Glass, Wildlife Conservation Society

“Because he was first caught on St. Patrick’s Day this year, we named him Seamus. After we collected data on Seamus and fitted him with a GPS tracking collar and a small ear tag, we released him back into the wintery landscape. Our team did not expect to see him again anytime soon; he’d just be a series of new dots on a computer screen each day. However, he circled around to another trap some 15 miles (24 kilometers) away and was caught again four days later, on March 21.”


“He had traveled great distances in order to enjoy a free meal from our box trap and, as a result, found himself caught in the name of science until we found and released him back into the wild.”

They caught and released him twice more, and after that fourth free meal and nap, they moved him twenty miles away. He hasn’t been found in a trap but was tracked by satellite with a lady Wolverine. They should collect his DNA. Other wolverines avoided the traps after their first capture.

Here’s Seamus


From England, a fish story.

My Fun With News Humble Pineapple Edition  tells how a pineapple placed on a table at an Art Exhibition at Robert Gordon University for a joke was put in a case and treated as an exhibit.

Now, from another museum in Albion, the Hayward Gallery:


By Mindy Weisberger, Senior Writer 

The artwork in question was a rotting fish covered in sequins and put in a plastic bag.

“‘The installation — a piece called Majestic Splendor by Lee Bul — was part of an exhibition of the Korean artist’s work, scheduled to open at the Hayward Gallery on May 30. Then, hours before the show’s first preview, the gassy art blew up, causing a fire that damaged part of the gallery,’ Artnet News reported.”

Majestic Splendor was removed from MOMA (Museum of Modern Art) in 1997 when a refrigeration unit failed and it stunk up the place.

When the exhibit was moved to England, Potassium Permanganate was added to curb the scent. Unfortunately, PP is very reactive. When gases from decomposition hit the PP, the work of art went boom.


Now, emojis


By Rachael Rettner, Senior Writer

“The original set of 176 emojis, first developed for cellphones back in 1999, now has a place in the contemporary artistic canon — becoming part of the collection at New York’s Museum of Modern Art (MOMA).”

But do you know what an emoji you’re looking at signifies or means?

“A new study finds that people often interpret emojis in different ways. For example, the researchers found that people who looked at the exact same emoji disagreed on whether the picture expressed a positive, neutral or negative feeling about a quarter of the time.”

The question is what you are seeing them on.  A study “showed that interpreting emojis could be particularly problematic when the sender and the receiver are using different mobile platforms (for example, when the sender has an iPhone, but the receiver has a Samsung phone). That’s because each platform has its own versions of emojis.”

So, I don’t know. I prefer words.

Here’s the MOMA emojis.

MOMA emojis


That’s that for this This And That.



And burgle any syllable I want

And then went down to the sea…

Stop that!


Why are you fucking up a poem?

Set keel to breaker on your ass

And see how Pound is doing it again.


I will not even think to make this rhyme

Or know what I am doing with this poem

Except that I am feeling lines to come

Perhaps from being stalled on Gunhill Road

Awaiting here two others for their ride.

I now am in the mumble state it’s Pound

Who’s forcing up contractions I can’t stop.

I now have time to poke about myself

Make mock of silly nonsense I support

But who can see the banners that I raise

For causes too ephemeral to fade

Surviving in the shadows of the day?

And ah, we had our dreams and crazy hope

Our picture of a world that couldn’t be

(The Bus)

A man with a terrarium got on

Opaque inside a massive plastic bag

(How I can take in all while on a bus)

Within the tank some lizard or a snake.

Are these content to live in glass

Content enough with water, stones and food?

As we, within that bubble of our times,

Those days when we were all that world and not.


I forgot what I’m needing for this poem


From Pound the Cantos this is mine.

Am I beyond the gondolas this year?

I sat on steps

While everything was all too much this year

And I am seeing rainfall now.

Clearer than solidly as air

The gods in air as Pound described

And of the dead

Who talked to soon-dead sailors through their blood

I number myself one from time to time

As wraith-like in my movements, less than real


I have no history as old as what Pound knew

So I can question my existence reading him

Since dawn to my waking brings no local light

See Canto four, gossip of an era long since gone

The people only Pound would know

I cannot rush the matter further on

Pesaro and Sigsmundo household names,

Ah, Sigsmundo, Malatesta Prado’s boy

A wealth of other once-knowns with the name

Canto thirty-six, my own unending me

I do not leave my likeness over where


Ezra, what can I say

What can I tell you now

A-stretcher and awaiting tests?

I think they think it is my brain

Would your Italians know now how to think

Of how in Hospitals are set

The contradicting facts of every life?

Your ancient Greeks say nothing of the time.

I don’t know what to tell you in your poem.

This is your poem, my pencil and my book,

My canto but I know this is still yours.

So Ezra, you should see me with the sick.

Walk now with me past stretcher beds and chairs

With fearful muted glance at all the ills,

So here we have a poetry of pain,

The rhythms of the doctors as they speak

From clinical to language of the day, with

Tones reflecting competence and calm.


These are not your greasy bastards so well done

The way you play with them through history and time,

A tale of gritty human sordid acts

And blundering through difference to the same,

I think we have to say this is insane.

Ezra Pound, I am not done with you,

In need of other cantos for the times

Your history through Chinese and the Dodge.

With what would your Venetians now contend,

The forms as not so different now as then?

You saw it in the thirties you lived through

Like every age of punish pain and death

Negotiated misery and want.

The few always atop are feeding well

On aspirations, dreams or stupid hopes

(I need your Cantos come complete

The ding an sich not excerpts broken down).

Explain to me the meaning of your rides

The ones you run through history, I mean

Your digging through the faintest most obscure.


Today a massive mammoth wait

At bus stop but at least the day is warm

And I can see the street where I was raised

I see how people look at others’ kids

And see in me an empty place they filled.

We have new words for newer things

So would you see the forms that you recall?

I do not know what happened in your head.


Ezra Pound


I currently have 186 followers from around the world, Europe, Asia, and Latin America, but I have no idea how many live here within the five boroughs of NYC. This post is an invitation to a group of poets who meet every week.

Meetups has a collection of groups with similar interests. The main Meetup page, for more about Meetups.

About the Poetry Table group:
“Bring some copies of a poem that you wrote or someone you like (optional). Do not bring food or anything to drink. All members are required to buy something at this cafe. Everyone will read one poem and after we will spend 20 to 30 minutes of spontaneous writing which we will also read. There is no obligation to either write or read whatever a member may have written.”

So, if anyone is interested, reply and I’ll send the meeting address and times.
Hoping to see you there!


William Butler Yeats

(Not a member)