The Neocon Lyre
What a Rich Pyre!, by Russell Setiz
Being a poem in the style of ”Under Which Lyre?” WH Auden’s adieu to WWII, which Norman Podhoretz ought to have read before taking the poet’s name in vain in his epic fantasy, World War IV.
The Bushies at last have quit the field,
The Weekly Standard’s bloodstains yield
To seeping showers,
As in their convalescent state
The Neocons associate
With Thomas Powers
Encamped upon the college plain
Neither Kristol can explain
What Strauss endorses;
Nor Hanson with Laconic tongue
Shepherd the battle-weary young
Through Persian courses.
Among the shattered appliances
Of the darker arts and sciences
They stroll or run,
As those that steeled themselves to slaughter
Aim their laughter at the shorter
Odes of Frum.
Professors back from Baghdad’s frissons
Resume their proper eruditions,
Though some regret it;
Although Kevlar can be hot ,
They wore theirs indoors, and will not
Let you forget it.
So did we all, but Zeus’ decree
About the will-to-disagree
Is now pandemic,
Ordains all calls to Recht und Ordnung
Should fall as flat as waterboarding,
Though treason’s endemic,
Ares will doze. A worse war
Internecine flares once more
‘Twixt those who’ll follow
Cheney all the way
And those who now with qualms obey
POTUS Apollo.
Brutal like all Olympic games,
Though fought with smiles and Christian names
And less dramatic,
This dialectic strife between
The Neocons could be foreseen,
As more fanatic.
What high immortals do in mirth
But amplifies the Beltway’s girth;
Where a-historic
Antipathy forever gripes
All ages and somatic types,
‘Tis sophomoric
To face the future’s darkest hints.
Young J-Pod scarfs another blintz
As stout as Cortez,
So not to think, and thus turn pale,
On how a target like a whale
Invites cruel sorties
Though shot towards heaven in the halls
Of Neo-periodicals
By erstwhile friends,
The tracer fire of small magazines
Often rips through grunt Marines
As it descends.
So Editors we see today
Can only do their best and pray
Wars really oughtn’t
From Euphrates ever shrink;
Lest someone somewhere pause to think
It’s not important.
If such would leave the world alone,
Apollo would smile from his throne,
Fasces and falcons
He loves to rule, has always done it
This lot would be hard pressed to run
A summit in the Balkans.
For jealous of their godlike dreams,
They persevere in secret schemes
To rule the heart;
Unable to invent the lyre,
Create with simulated fire
Official art.
Yet when in one Chicago college,
Truth’s replaced by arcane Knowledge;
Sense may take offence,
And Democracy’s Nirvana
Pay the price: Hart’s for Obama
And Buckley Bush repents.
Yet still our arms, we must confess,
At least on Fox show some success,
Though Islam raves
From Indus to Hormuz, and the news
In lesser New York book reviews
Is very grave.
Rush Radio hammers all day long
Its over-Whitmanated song
That does not scan,
With adjectives laid end to end,
Like rolling Oxycontin to commend
Chicago Man.
Their Policy’s no lyric thing,
Devoid of sport, and love and spring.
All blood and bluster
In the White House, Spartan bards
Rehash 300 into yards
Of epic filibuster.
In fake Hermetic uniforms
Behind our battle-line, in swarms
To warm the fighting,
Neo-existentialists declare
That they forswear complete despair,
And go on writing.
No matter; they shall be defied
With Aphrodite at our side:
What though they let
In Intel quite diseased
Zeus willing, honest NIE’s,
Shall beat them yet.
So in our morale must be our strength.
If we are to behold at length
Routed Osama’s
Last battalions melt away like fog,
Eschew The Weekly Standard Decalogue,
Of melodramas:
Do not as the West Wing pleases,
Write not any doctor’s thesis
On abstinence education,
Whilst electing, thou and thine
To lie, Anne Coulter-like, supine
Before Administration.
Neither fib to questionnaires
Or quizzes on K-Street affairs,
Nor in compliance
With statisticians fit
In false knowledge, nor commit
To deny science.
Thou shall not be on friendly terms
With focus groups and PR firms
Who fear the Muses far too much
To read the Bible for its prose.
Nor, by Jove, make love to those
Who worship such.
Let them live beyond their means
On Tigris water and raw greens.
If you must choose
Between tickets, follow Reagan’s muse.
Forget Faction. Trust in God,
And take broad views.
Comments
I suppose inbetween the above laudable contribution, at it’s bottom when speaking about “our” troops (whom we of course all ‘support’) one could quote “Mr. T” the actor/comedian on the t.v. show “The A Team” a while back, who was the muscular, black fellow with the mohawk haircut and an affinity for numerous gold chains and gold rings who would occasionally say something like: “PITY the poor’Fools.”
And at its top if I may presume one upmanship in now utilizing Shakespeare in speaking about “our” troops (whom we of course all ‘support):
“To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.”
In other words, to now supersede Shakespeare in our ‘Christian’ culture and provide a Jesus Christ quote: ‘They know not what they do.’ But those who send them *know what they do, and yet none are brought to justice. After all the ones who send them you know according to “our” media, are all such ‘victims.’ They’re apparently all by virtue of special ‘status’ above and beyond any normal justice? All of the guilty, so-called Christian and so-call Jew walk away, skipping. If there were any Muslims on this side of the fence, hawking such violent aggression ‘Shock & Awe’ well then they’re not ‘terrorists’ so they walk away too, skipping.
You see one thing to learn from this is: in our culture there’s enormous power in the victim Role; no power in being the Actual victim. Pity us all, pity all of us poor’Fools.
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For the record, Mr. T would say, “I pity the fool.”
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I pity [me] too, but you’re right Red as always, I ain’t poor? Although unless you wrote Mr. T’s lines or are an “A Team” connoisseur I think he said ‘poor fool’ once or twice.
No? ... I’m hoping we don’t have to learn ‘poor’ all over again to at least know we’re ‘fools.’
If that’s your esoteric point, well taken. But otherwise your spelling is perfect, at first glance.
How’s mine? p.s. - you a fool a little bit, or of course not?!
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Paul, I really wasn’t trying to be smart. I was just clarifying. He would say that and I think the reference was always (almost always?) about someone he was threatening to beat up on if they crossed him.
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There was a poet named Seitz
whose verses were witty and precise
amusing and charming,
politically disarming,
no sex, no booze, and no vice.
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WH Auden will get you for bastardizing his poem, Mr. Seitz.
A very clever and humorous adaptation. You should send it to the editors of Commentary. Young JPod would be flattered to be mentioned.
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