The Watering Hole; Thursday August 18 2016; A Poetic Summation of Donald J. Trump, His Egomaniacal Persona, and the Downhill Slope Implicit

Yesterday is History,
‘Tis so far away —
Yesterday is Poetry —
‘Tis Philosophy –
(Emily Dickinson)

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I’ve about given up on coming up with any reasonable summation of Donald Trump, his persona, his politics, his ambitions, etc., mainly because every time I think I’ve got him figured, the next day rolls around, he opens his mouth one more time and poof, there goes yesterday’s summation. So I thought I’d try Emily’s idea; since the Trump of Yesterday is History, let’s see if we can convert it/him to Poetry as a means of describing/summarizing the Philosophy implicit therein. Make sense?

Easier said than done, but still worth a try. So here it is, my five day attempt at converting Yesterday’s History into Poetry with a bit of Philosophy (hopefully) embedded.

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DONALD J. TRUMP and His Egomaniacal Persona
(via an Acrostic Fourteener Quatorzain)

Democracy allows a boundless sprawl of mindless thought.
One brief glance today unmasks a nominee who deems to
Ne’er dismiss his savage spiels, hoping they’ll all soon be taught
As “brilliant” memes. Whilst he himself wears masks of learned view,
Lengthy rhetoric from this vapid nominee reveals
Dismal platitudes, each expressed as if nonsensical
Judgment of those who are more sane, of those whose soul appeals
To wisdom, not to ignorance of issues topical.
Racial bigots find curious relief in hate and fear
Until they sense themselves dismissed by grand impassioned dreams;
Misogyny as well embraces minds that aim to smear
Perspectives based on common goals of life — with bogus schemes.
Deliv’rance of this nation’s soul and heart is thus on hold
Till egomania’s greed and sloth are either bought — or sold.

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So that was last weekend — fourteen lines and 196 syllables arranged acrostically in a Shakespearean rhyming pattern  (*abab-cdcd-efef-gg*), which came up short. Not because of poetic failure, but because the egomaniacal Trump keeps on unleashing ever-more wild and rabid dogs, to the point where not even an Acrostic-Fourteener-Quatorzain can put all the dogs to sleep! So what then? A five line, 39 syllable limerick, maybe? Lessee; how about this:

There once was a man named Drumpfinski
Who ran to be Presidentinski
But his problems with words
Were remindful of turds —
Including his ‘friend’ Vlad Putinski.

Yeah, that kinda works. I know it’s not a total and complete summary of the Trump/Russia romance, but since poetry is always intended to be far more an esoteric summation than a court document, I think it works pretty well.

Time will ultimately reveal, of course, exactly what demands Trump’s candidacy (and/or his election? shudder!) might put on the poetic world, but it’s fair to assume the word “minimal” will not be a good fit under any imaginable circumstance.

There is a difference, of course, between the “demands” a given political outcome might put “on the poetic world” and what that same result might actually impose on the ‘real world,’ a dilemma I’ve here tried to summarize alphabetically, if not exactly poetically. More simply stated, ‘what might be America’s “ABC’s” should an egomaniacal right wing nutcase such as Donald J. Trump (or any such) actually win an election and thereby be granted ‘full power of the State” here in Amurkkka? Here are my thoughts on that specific matter in alphabetical order, mostly:

America’s Bullish Contentious Demands are
Expressions of Fear, Greed, Hatred, and
Irrationality, each Justified via
“Knowledge” of Luciferian and Messianic Nonsense,
Organized and Politicized
Quintessentially by REPUBLICAN Sociopathology
Through their Undercurrents of Vicarious and
Wistful Xenophobia.

Yeehaw!

Zap!

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So there it is; my poetic summation of the candidacy of Donald J. Trump along with the probable consequences to this country should our really rottenest luck prevail and enshrine his election as POTUS. Maybe T.S.Eliot, close to a hundred years ago, managed to sum up that never-ending human dilemma when he wrote:

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard.
The nymphs are departed.
(. . .)
I think we are in rat’s alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

Stated another way,

Indeed.

Or, as Samuel Taylor Coleridge once put it:

Sir, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool,
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.

Amen.

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Bonus (non-poetic) Drumpfinski et Putinski link?

Trump campaign chair laid the groundwork for Putin’s Crimea annexation: leaked memo

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“We’ll have to leave it there.”

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OPEN THREAD