T.S. Eliot, i adore


i tried to write

a funny poem.

then i thought of


and Yemen,

and the real Donald J.

honestly everything seemed so sad

an’ i didnt feel like writing a funny poem anyway.

funny i did not like,

funny was not my style, i said.

i hoped

and moped about

and tossed and turned in bed.

what was wrong with me?

why couldnt i be funny?

so funny, so gay, so “ha ha ha,”

so ooh-la-la,

so sis-boom-bah,

so tra-la-la,

so mua-ha-ha

so “allez, bonsoir.”

instead of measuring out my life

with coffee spoons,

i did it with sips of tea.

i take mine with one lump, not two,

i should add…

and drink black Turkish chai

while i sit on the front porch with my Dad.

my teacup handle is curlicued,

in the shape of a half-heart,

like its cut in two,

its a clever porcelain piece of art.

the handle, with its arabesque

reminds me of Alice's dream

beyond the looking glass

of my writer's desk,

where life becomes a meme.

i craft words

with the deftness of my pen,

and fill up every line.

i try to make the meaning


and of course,

to make it rhyme. 


and sometimes not.


all of a sudden,

i thought about what makes

a truly good poem,

maybe even a great one.

what makes truly good poems

stand out

in the entire lot.

i thought about baguettes in gay Paree,

coffee on the Seine;

sashimi in Tokyo,

places to wine and dine.

oh, the places id gone,

in my mind…

the things id done,

my imagination, my my!

if you heard it any other way,

you would have thought

i would have bought

the Mona Lisa with a gold inlay.

Modiglianis, Picassos,

only the best for the Contessa,

(but that’s the lady Comte to you!)

but i always make up for my saucy wit

by being good to my Kitty Foo-Foo.

yes, its true, i own one cat,

or okay, maybe two, or three, or five,

does it matter?

while i advise you to Read Me,

i advise you not to Eat This Poem,

unless youre

certainly the Mad-Hatter.

just kidding,

i only have one cat.

but he’s a model cat,

in every respect,

i assure you that.

he’s named after Jean-Paul Sartre,

the philosopher.

people talk

and say

his litterbox looks like Montmartre,

but i cant say for sure,

im no gossiper.

speaking of Picasso,

he lived in France.

i miss the place,

i visited it once—

not exactly my cup of tea,

especially since i got lost at three

in the afternoon,

and i had to interrupt a Frenchman

(and his comrade who were having lunch),

to ask him to draw me a diagram

back to my tour bus, d’accord.

what was funny was that the bus

was just around the corner.

ive run Mt. Kilimanjaro en brusse,

and skied the Alps…

at least, thats what ive said.

ive lived a thousand lives

and all their blood runs through my head.

Gertrude Stein wrote my epitaph,

Frida Kahlo painted my soul,

The Buddha created my religion,

but my writing made me whole.

Kafka broke my frozen sea inside,

i was Nabokov’s Lolita;

i am the Everywoman,

the Master’s Margarita.


He paved my way,

T.S. Eliot, i adore you,

but not like in

50 shades of grey.

more like 1,000 shades of violet,

if your words were a trifecta of UV rays,

it would be a triolet.

1,000 shades of red

bursting clean like blood.

1,000 shades of orange,


just like the gum.

1,000 shades of yellow,

a bee’s sunflower hum.

1,000 shades of green,

like emeralds shattering glass.

1,000 shades of blue,

like ocean waves en masse.

1,000 shades of purple,

when the rainbow for me

wasnt enuf

1,000 shades of pink,

diamonds in the rough.

1,000 shades of brown,

chocolate honey smoothe,

1,000 shades of black and white,

piano keys like jazz they soothe.


drew me/

to this place.

so, i ask myself,

in the doing of this poem,

was i happy?


was this poem funny?

maybe…possibly…yes (?)

but perhaps it is humorous

because it is not

exactly what you think

or is it.


let me go,

ive paid my visit.


ill say,


and ill say “till then”

and wish you well

and may you always have lots of paper,

and love,

and your favorite pen

(or assortment thereof),

and a deep, deep, deep inkwell.


© Natalie N. Aydin