Stories on Myself

Grok on Giraffes

Your presentation of the poem “Desert – Pastis @ Bandol” (also titled or subtitled “Giraffes at San Gorgonio”) offers a compelling instance of intertextual reworking, transposing the exotic reverie of Nikolai Gumilev’s 1908 poem “Жираф” (“The Giraffe”) into the stark, contemporary landscape of the San Gorgonio Pass near Desert Hot Springs, California.

Gumilev’s original poem, addressed to a melancholic beloved, conjures a distant, magnificent giraffe roaming the shores of Lake Chad. Its graceful form, adorned with a magical pattern rivaling moonlight, serves as an emblem of beauty and escape from sorrow. Key refrains include the speaker’s observation of the listener’s sadness (“your look is particularly sad, / And your hands… clasped over your knees”) and the consolatory directive to listen to the faraway vision (“Just listen: far, far away, on Lake Chad / Roams a proud giraffe”). The poem employs this exotic image to counter the immediate grief, culminating in an invitation to imagine tropical gardens and mysterious scents.

Your composition mirrors this structure while effecting a deliberate transposition. The setting shifts from an imagined African idyll to the arid, human-engineered expanse of one of North America’s largest wind farms. The wind turbines, initially perceived as sunflowers turning toward an imperceptible waft under a warm moon, undergo a hallucinatory metamorphosis into a prancing herd of giraffes amid baobabs on a desiccated lakebed. Their dappled hides “furl like ships’ sails,” evoking both the motion of the original giraffe (often likened to a gliding sail or bird) and the absent water they spangle. This optical illusion—born from distance, moonlight, and perhaps the pale silhouettes of the turbines visible in a day shot as a “white smudge”—grounds the reverie in perceptual ambiguity, transforming industrial forms into living grace.

The poem retains the emotional pivot to the sad companion (“Today you looked especially sad, pale / arms clasped to your calves”), followed by the tender admonition: “Hush… No tears here! Stop believing in the rain!” This command inverts Gumilev’s consolation: where the original urges belief in distant wonder to alleviate despair, your speaker counters belief in the improbable (rain in the desert) by redirecting imagination toward surreal substitutions—flowers as giraffes, baobabs as tumbleweeds. The gesture thus embraces both homage and swerve, affirming imaginative transformation as a response to aridity, whether emotional or environmental.

The title “Desert – Pastis @ Bandol” introduces an additional layer of contrast, linking the parched California desert to the lush, anise-scented Mediterranean world of Bandol (evident in your prior analysis of the companion poem). Pastis, the milky aperitif, evokes refreshment and ritual in a coastal setting; here, its absence in the desert underscores the theme of withheld or imagined solace.To illustrate the visual sources of the poem’s central illusion, consider the following images of wind farms under moonlight in the Desert Hot Springs area, where the turbines’ pale forms might suggest distant shapes in low light.These evoke the “pewter glow” and motionless vanes described. For comparison, the imagined giraffes draw upon the dappled, elegant forms of real herds in arid landscapes: The poem achieves a poignant equilibrium: it honors Gumilev’s lyric consolation while relocating it to a modern desert where wonder arises from perceptual misrecognition rather than pure fantasy. In doing so, it quietly affirms the persistence of imaginative refuge amid scarcity, rendering the wind farm not merely as machinery, but as a site of fleeting, dreamlike transfiguration.

 

 

https://grok.com/imagine/post/37dc5639-41c5-40c2-915d-020f6b6396d6?source=copy_link&platform=ios&t=6328c5d59761

 

Metamorphosis [revised, 31.12.2025]

How lucky water freezes and ice
floats, blood clots staunch wounds.

But when you touch a scab crusted on raw
memory, do not pick at it – it might bleed.

   

https://grok.com/imagine/post/40834f07-357b-4240-9930-e548d60fc231?source=copy_link&platform=ios&t=0e182f06a83d

Granny and Skipper

Michael and Lynn and Elizabeth

https://grok.com/imagine/post/89e1e8f0-4b5f-47d0-af11-2be899606f71?source=copy_link&platform=ios&t=0b3d028d3584

https://alteritas.net/pastis/may-snow-2/

              

Grok onn may snow

https://grok.com/share/c2hhcmQtNA_18047a96-8901-44ab-baa9-04ff841405a6

Before forming a idea on the use of AI, enter one of your own poems into DeepSeek or Grok, or whichever. 

Apart from the tendency to sycophancy, which can be tweaked out, this is pretty good: https://grok.com/share/c2hhcmQtNA_18047a96-8901-44ab-baa9-04ff841405a6?rid=0b9a27e9-f44f-45e5-a7a0-bcbee93fe444.

One implication, however,is that language writes itself, is tautological, especially lit crit. Glad I don’t have to earn my living (anymore) by tediously repeating things differently.u

DeepSeek on So a Shudder 

¸Grok on Shinny, Gladiola und so weiter

What draws you first to this poem titled Shinny? Is it the title itself, the mention of Robert Frost’s Birches, or perhaps the author’s playful disclaimer that the two poems actually have “little to do with” each other?

The speaker begins by saying, “I was a boy myself once so don’t need / much told me about trees.” What might that opening suggest about who is speaking and what kind of knowledge they claim? How does that confidence shape the way we read the rest of the poem?

As the lines unfold, the boy climbs higher—“shinny up high then clamber / to where branches thin”—until “height hurts” and a “pit suddenly yawn[s] in his guts.” What sensations or emotions do these images evoke for you? Why might the poet choose such a precarious, almost frightening height for this scene?

Notice the repeated word “know” early on: the speaker knows how to hide, to filch “illicit fruit,” to climb. What makes this fruit “illicit,” and why does it need to be taken “before it falls to the ground and takes root”? Could the fruit stand for something beyond literal apples or pears?

The poem then shifts to what the tree feels or wants. “Something about a tree doesn’t really mind / the theft of its fruit.” “A tree is resigned / to a boy swaying in his tenuous / crotch.” And later: “Something about a tree wants to be climbed.” What do you make of this personification? Why give the tree such a generous, almost welcoming attitude toward the boy’s actions?

The final two lines form a kind of mirror: “Something about a tree wants to be climbed. / Something about a boy wants to climb it.” How does that symmetry change the relationship between climber and tree? Does it feel mutual, inevitable, innocent, mischievous—or something else entirely?

The author calls this a “secretive adolescent rite we all practice but never admit to,” and points to another poem, Gladiola, for a “clearer statement” of the events. If we accept the hint that this rite involves privacy, solitude, and perhaps bodily discovery in a hidden natural place, how might that reframe the metaphors of fruit, height, swaying, and the “tenuous crotch” of the branches?

What happens when we hold Frost’s Birches in one hand—where the boy swings down from the trees, imagining escaping life’s burdens—and this poem in the other? Why might the author insist they have little connection, even while inviting the comparison?

Take your time with these questions. Which one pulls at you the most right now, and what insight—or new puzzle—does it open up about the poem for you? I’m eager to hear where your thoughts lead.

What a natural next step—since the author of Shinny explicitly points us toward Gladiola as the place where the “events in question” receive a clearer statement.

Have you had a chance to locate and read the full text of Gladiola yet? (It appears on the same site: alteritas.net/pastis/inventory/gladiola/ — a reflective piece that begins “It took years,” revisiting childhood climbing, a backyard sycamore, and then drifts into sensory memories of flowers, “sleepy plants,” and “sweaty boys with grass itch” who “tease to make play possum.”)

What strikes you first when you encounter those lines? Does the tone feel nostalgic, wistful, perhaps a little elegiac—looking back at a boyhood yard that now feels “shrunken”?

Notice how climbing returns here too: the speaker recalls reaching the “third crotch of the willow,” shinning up for a catalpa pod, and now wondering if he can still “clamber up” the limber sycamore. How does this motif of ascent echo (or contrast with) the precarious height in Shinny, where the boy sways “dizzy at his chosen precipice”?

Then the poem turns toward scent and touch: sniffing sweet gardenia, bruising its petals “brown with soft touches.” What sensations does that evoke for you? Is it innocent botanical curiosity, or does the bruising, the soft repeated contact, carry a different kind of intimacy?

The most puzzling (and perhaps revealing) question comes near the end: “But where were the sleepy plants / sweaty boys with grass itch tease / to make play possum, their lobes curling up like doodlebugs…?”

Who—or what—are these “sleepy plants” that the sweaty boys tease into playing possum? Why might boys in the grass, itchy and playful, be coaxing something to curl up and feign sleep? And why “lobes”—a word that can refer to ears, leaves, or other soft, pendant parts?

If we hold the author’s hint in mind—that Gladiola clarifies the “secretive adolescent rite” from Shinny (the solitary tree-climbing ritual many practice but few admit)—how might these images of teasing, curling, and hidden motion reframe the earlier poem’s “illicit fruit,” the “tenuous crotch” of branches, and the tree’s apparent willingness to be climbed?

What happens when we imagine the boy not just taking fruit or enjoying height, but discovering something private about his own body in that hidden canopy—something the tree “doesn’t really mind” and perhaps even “wants”?

Does the gardenia (with its strong, heady perfume) or the absent “sleepy plants” start to feel like stand-ins for something more bodily and responsive? Why choose a flower name like Gladiola—tall, sword-like, erect—for the title of a poem that circles back to boyhood exploration in a now-distant yard?

Which image or phrase in Gladiola tugs at you the strongest right now, and how does it shift (or deepen) your reading of the secretive rite in Shinny?

Take your time—poems like these reward slow circling. I’m curious where your reflections carry you next.

What a fruitful turn—now that we’ve lingered with Shinny and Gladiola, the invitation to explore the author’s broader work feels almost inevitable. The collection gathered under “Pastis @ Bandol” (hosted at alteritas.net) reveals itself as a rich, sprawling inventory, credited to George Lang, containing well over a hundred poems.

Imagine stepping into a well-stocked pantry of memories, observations, translations, and meditations—titles ranging from the intimate and bodily to the historical, the culinary, the linguistic, and the quietly philosophical. Here are just a few that catch the eye from this extensive list:

• Privacy
• Coupling
• Second Vasectomy
• Incubus and Succubus
• Beauty is the Memory of the Flesh
• Sad to Be a Child
• Poem in Lieu of Suicide
• Fiberglass Birchbarks
• Global Warning (a playful yet pointed reflection on poetry itself as an invasive species)
• Tomatillo, Gooseberry, and Persimmon Salad
• Genesis 11-25
• Rara avis
• L’Éternité
• And many more, including translations (like pieces after Montale, Pasolini, or Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz) and place-named reveries (Québec, North Hatley 1978, Chinon – קִינוֹן).

What patterns or moods begin to emerge for you simply from scanning these titles? Do you notice clusters around the body and its vulnerabilities (shaving, vasectomy, coupling, incubus/succubus), around childhood or lost innocence (Sad to Be a Child, perhaps echoing the boyhood rites in Shinny and Gladiola), around food and sensory memory (salads, pastis, petits pois), or around language itself (Merci, Rimbaud, pour ces quelques consonnes; Language Lesson)?

How might the presence of titles like Privacy or Close Shave sit alongside the secretive, tree-hidden explorations we’ve already discussed? Could the same sensibility that personifies a tree as willing to be climbed also whisper through poems about private rituals, bodily memory, or the quiet comedy of human intimacy?

And what about the translations and allusions—to Rimbaud, Yeats, Montale, ancient texts? Does this suggest a poet who delights in weaving his own experiences into conversation with other voices across time and languages?

If one or two titles from this broader constellation tug at your curiosity most strongly right now—perhaps Privacy, Incubus, Beauty is the Memory of the Flesh, or something entirely different—which one calls to you, and what questions does it raise about how it might connect (or contrast) with the adolescent rite at the heart of Shinny and Gladiola?

There’s no hurry; these poems seem to reward patient wandering. Where would you like to step next in this garden of words? I’m here to walk alongside as your reflections unfold.

 

https://grok.com/imagine/post/37dc5639-41c5-40c2-915d-020f6b6396d6?source=copy_link&platform=ios&t=6328c5d59761

 

Metamorphosis [revised, 31.12.2025]

How lucky water freezes and ice
floats, blood clots staunch wounds.

But when you touch a scab crusted on raw
memory, do not pick at it – it might bleed.

   

https://grok.com/imagine/post/40834f07-357b-4240-9930-e548d60fc231?source=copy_link&platform=ios&t=0e182f06a83d

Granny and Skipper

Michael and Lynn and Elizabeth

https://grok.com/imagine/post/89e1e8f0-4b5f-47d0-af11-2be899606f71?source=copy_link&platform=ios&t=0b3d028d3584

https://alteritas.net/pastis/may-snow-2/

              

Grok onn may snow

https://grok.com/share/c2hhcmQtNA_18047a96-8901-44ab-baa9-04ff841405a6

Before forming a idea on the use of AI, enter one of your own poems into DeepSeek or Grok, or whichever. 

Apart from the tendency to sycophancy, which can be tweaked out, this is pretty good: https://grok.com/share/c2hhcmQtNA_18047a96-8901-44ab-baa9-04ff841405a6?rid=0b9a27e9-f44f-45e5-a7a0-bcbee93fe444.

One implication, however,is that language writes itself, is tautological, especially lit crit. Glad I don’t have to earn my living (anymore) by tediously repeating things differently.u

DeepSeek on So a Shudder 

¸Grok on Shinny, Gladiola und so weiter

What draws you first to this poem titled Shinny? Is it the title itself, the mention of Robert Frost’s Birches, or perhaps the author’s playful disclaimer that the two poems actually have “little to do with” each other?

The speaker begins by saying, “I was a boy myself once so don’t need / much told me about trees.” What might that opening suggest about who is speaking and what kind of knowledge they claim? How does that confidence shape the way we read the rest of the poem?

As the lines unfold, the boy climbs higher—“shinny up high then clamber / to where branches thin”—until “height hurts” and a “pit suddenly yawn[s] in his guts.” What sensations or emotions do these images evoke for you? Why might the poet choose such a precarious, almost frightening height for this scene?

Notice the repeated word “know” early on: the speaker knows how to hide, to filch “illicit fruit,” to climb. What makes this fruit “illicit,” and why does it need to be taken “before it falls to the ground and takes root”? Could the fruit stand for something beyond literal apples or pears?

The poem then shifts to what the tree feels or wants. “Something about a tree doesn’t really mind / the theft of its fruit.” “A tree is resigned / to a boy swaying in his tenuous / crotch.” And later: “Something about a tree wants to be climbed.” What do you make of this personification? Why give the tree such a generous, almost welcoming attitude toward the boy’s actions?

The final two lines form a kind of mirror: “Something about a tree wants to be climbed. / Something about a boy wants to climb it.” How does that symmetry change the relationship between climber and tree? Does it feel mutual, inevitable, innocent, mischievous—or something else entirely?

The author calls this a “secretive adolescent rite we all practice but never admit to,” and points to another poem, Gladiola, for a “clearer statement” of the events. If we accept the hint that this rite involves privacy, solitude, and perhaps bodily discovery in a hidden natural place, how might that reframe the metaphors of fruit, height, swaying, and the “tenuous crotch” of the branches?

What happens when we hold Frost’s Birches in one hand—where the boy swings down from the trees, imagining escaping life’s burdens—and this poem in the other? Why might the author insist they have little connection, even while inviting the comparison?

Take your time with these questions. Which one pulls at you the most right now, and what insight—or new puzzle—does it open up about the poem for you? I’m eager to hear where your thoughts lead.

What a natural next step—since the author of Shinny explicitly points us toward Gladiola as the place where the “events in question” receive a clearer statement.

Have you had a chance to locate and read the full text of Gladiola yet? (It appears on the same site: alteritas.net/pastis/inventory/gladiola/ — a reflective piece that begins “It took years,” revisiting childhood climbing, a backyard sycamore, and then drifts into sensory memories of flowers, “sleepy plants,” and “sweaty boys with grass itch” who “tease to make play possum.”)

What strikes you first when you encounter those lines? Does the tone feel nostalgic, wistful, perhaps a little elegiac—looking back at a boyhood yard that now feels “shrunken”?

Notice how climbing returns here too: the speaker recalls reaching the “third crotch of the willow,” shinning up for a catalpa pod, and now wondering if he can still “clamber up” the limber sycamore. How does this motif of ascent echo (or contrast with) the precarious height in Shinny, where the boy sways “dizzy at his chosen precipice”?

Then the poem turns toward scent and touch: sniffing sweet gardenia, bruising its petals “brown with soft touches.” What sensations does that evoke for you? Is it innocent botanical curiosity, or does the bruising, the soft repeated contact, carry a different kind of intimacy?

The most puzzling (and perhaps revealing) question comes near the end: “But where were the sleepy plants / sweaty boys with grass itch tease / to make play possum, their lobes curling up like doodlebugs…?”

Who—or what—are these “sleepy plants” that the sweaty boys tease into playing possum? Why might boys in the grass, itchy and playful, be coaxing something to curl up and feign sleep? And why “lobes”—a word that can refer to ears, leaves, or other soft, pendant parts?

If we hold the author’s hint in mind—that Gladiola clarifies the “secretive adolescent rite” from Shinny (the solitary tree-climbing ritual many practice but few admit)—how might these images of teasing, curling, and hidden motion reframe the earlier poem’s “illicit fruit,” the “tenuous crotch” of branches, and the tree’s apparent willingness to be climbed?

What happens when we imagine the boy not just taking fruit or enjoying height, but discovering something private about his own body in that hidden canopy—something the tree “doesn’t really mind” and perhaps even “wants”?

Does the gardenia (with its strong, heady perfume) or the absent “sleepy plants” start to feel like stand-ins for something more bodily and responsive? Why choose a flower name like Gladiola—tall, sword-like, erect—for the title of a poem that circles back to boyhood exploration in a now-distant yard?

Which image or phrase in Gladiola tugs at you the strongest right now, and how does it shift (or deepen) your reading of the secretive rite in Shinny?

Take your time—poems like these reward slow circling. I’m curious where your reflections carry you next.

What a fruitful turn—now that we’ve lingered with Shinny and Gladiola, the invitation to explore the author’s broader work feels almost inevitable. The collection gathered under “Pastis @ Bandol” (hosted at alteritas.net) reveals itself as a rich, sprawling inventory, credited to George Lang, containing well over a hundred poems.

Imagine stepping into a well-stocked pantry of memories, observations, translations, and meditations—titles ranging from the intimate and bodily to the historical, the culinary, the linguistic, and the quietly philosophical. Here are just a few that catch the eye from this extensive list:

• Privacy
• Coupling
• Second Vasectomy
• Incubus and Succubus
• Beauty is the Memory of the Flesh
• Sad to Be a Child
• Poem in Lieu of Suicide
• Fiberglass Birchbarks
• Global Warning (a playful yet pointed reflection on poetry itself as an invasive species)
• Tomatillo, Gooseberry, and Persimmon Salad
• Genesis 11-25
• Rara avis
• L’Éternité
• And many more, including translations (like pieces after Montale, Pasolini, or Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz) and place-named reveries (Québec, North Hatley 1978, Chinon – קִינוֹן).

What patterns or moods begin to emerge for you simply from scanning these titles? Do you notice clusters around the body and its vulnerabilities (shaving, vasectomy, coupling, incubus/succubus), around childhood or lost innocence (Sad to Be a Child, perhaps echoing the boyhood rites in Shinny and Gladiola), around food and sensory memory (salads, pastis, petits pois), or around language itself (Merci, Rimbaud, pour ces quelques consonnes; Language Lesson)?

How might the presence of titles like Privacy or Close Shave sit alongside the secretive, tree-hidden explorations we’ve already discussed? Could the same sensibility that personifies a tree as willing to be climbed also whisper through poems about private rituals, bodily memory, or the quiet comedy of human intimacy?

And what about the translations and allusions—to Rimbaud, Yeats, Montale, ancient texts? Does this suggest a poet who delights in weaving his own experiences into conversation with other voices across time and languages?

If one or two titles from this broader constellation tug at your curiosity most strongly right now—perhaps Privacy, Incubus, Beauty is the Memory of the Flesh, or something entirely different—which one calls to you, and what questions does it raise about how it might connect (or contrast) with the adolescent rite at the heart of Shinny and Gladiola?

There’s no hurry; these poems seem to reward patient wandering. Where would you like to step next in this garden of words? I’m here to walk alongside as your reflections unfold.

Grok on Shinny, Gladiola und so weiter

What draws you first to this poem titled Shinny? Is it the title itself, the mention of Robert Frost’s Birches, or perhaps the author’s playful disclaimer that the two poems actually have “little to do with” each other?

The speaker begins by saying, “I was a boy myself once so don’t need / much told me about trees.” What might that opening suggest about who is speaking and what kind of knowledge they claim? How does that confidence shape the way we read the rest of the poem?

As the lines unfold, the boy climbs higher—“shinny up high then clamber / to where branches thin”—until “height hurts” and a “pit suddenly yawn[s] in his guts.” What sensations or emotions do these images evoke for you? Why might the poet choose such a precarious, almost frightening height for this scene?

Notice the repeated word “know” early on: the speaker knows how to hide, to filch “illicit fruit,” to climb. What makes this fruit “illicit,” and why does it need to be taken “before it falls to the ground and takes root”? Could the fruit stand for something beyond literal apples or pears?

The poem then shifts to what the tree feels or wants. “Something about a tree doesn’t really mind / the theft of its fruit.” “A tree is resigned / to a boy swaying in his tenuous / crotch.” And later: “Something about a tree wants to be climbed.” What do you make of this personification? Why give the tree such a generous, almost welcoming attitude toward the boy’s actions?

The final two lines form a kind of mirror: “Something about a tree wants to be climbed. / Something about a boy wants to climb it.” How does that symmetry change the relationship between climber and tree? Does it feel mutual, inevitable, innocent, mischievous—or something else entirely?

The author calls this a “secretive adolescent rite we all practice but never admit to,” and points to another poem, Gladiola, for a “clearer statement” of the events. If we accept the hint that this rite involves privacy, solitude, and perhaps bodily discovery in a hidden natural place, how might that reframe the metaphors of fruit, height, swaying, and the “tenuous crotch” of the branches?

What happens when we hold Frost’s Birches in one hand—where the boy swings down from the trees, imagining escaping life’s burdens—and this poem in the other? Why might the author insist they have little connection, even while inviting the comparison?

Take your time with these questions. Which one pulls at you the most right now, and what insight—or new puzzle—does it open up about the poem for you? I’m eager to hear where your thoughts lead.

What a natural next step—since the author of Shinny explicitly points us toward Gladiola as the place where the “events in question” receive a clearer statement.

Have you had a chance to locate and read the full text of Gladiola yet? (It appears on the same site: alteritas.net/pastis/inventory/gladiola/ — a reflective piece that begins “It took years,” revisiting childhood climbing, a backyard sycamore, and then drifts into sensory memories of flowers, “sleepy plants,” and “sweaty boys with grass itch” who “tease to make play possum.”)

What strikes you first when you encounter those lines? Does the tone feel nostalgic, wistful, perhaps a little elegiac—looking back at a boyhood yard that now feels “shrunken”?

Notice how climbing returns here too: the speaker recalls reaching the “third crotch of the willow,” shinning up for a catalpa pod, and now wondering if he can still “clamber up” the limber sycamore. How does this motif of ascent echo (or contrast with) the precarious height in Shinny, where the boy sways “dizzy at his chosen precipice”?

Then the poem turns toward scent and touch: sniffing sweet gardenia, bruising its petals “brown with soft touches.” What sensations does that evoke for you? Is it innocent botanical curiosity, or does the bruising, the soft repeated contact, carry a different kind of intimacy?

The most puzzling (and perhaps revealing) question comes near the end: “But where were the sleepy plants / sweaty boys with grass itch tease / to make play possum, their lobes curling up like doodlebugs…?”

Who—or what—are these “sleepy plants” that the sweaty boys tease into playing possum? Why might boys in the grass, itchy and playful, be coaxing something to curl up and feign sleep? And why “lobes”—a word that can refer to ears, leaves, or other soft, pendant parts?

If we hold the author’s hint in mind—that Gladiola clarifies the “secretive adolescent rite” from Shinny (the solitary tree-climbing ritual many practice but few admit)—how might these images of teasing, curling, and hidden motion reframe the earlier poem’s “illicit fruit,” the “tenuous crotch” of branches, and the tree’s apparent willingness to be climbed?

What happens when we imagine the boy not just taking fruit or enjoying height, but discovering something private about his own body in that hidden canopy—something the tree “doesn’t really mind” and perhaps even “wants”?

Does the gardenia (with its strong, heady perfume) or the absent “sleepy plants” start to feel like stand-ins for something more bodily and responsive? Why choose a flower name like Gladiola—tall, sword-like, erect—for the title of a poem that circles back to boyhood exploration in a now-distant yard?

Which image or phrase in Gladiola tugs at you the strongest right now, and how does it shift (or deepen) your reading of the secretive rite in Shinny?

Take your time—poems like these reward slow circling. I’m curious where your reflections carry you next.

What a fruitful turn—now that we’ve lingered with Shinny and Gladiola, the invitation to explore the author’s broader work feels almost inevitable. The collection gathered under “Pastis @ Bandol” (hosted at alteritas.net) reveals itself as a rich, sprawling inventory, credited to George Lang, containing well over a hundred poems.

Imagine stepping into a well-stocked pantry of memories, observations, translations, and meditations—titles ranging from the intimate and bodily to the historical, the culinary, the linguistic, and the quietly philosophical. Here are just a few that catch the eye from this extensive list:

• Privacy
• Coupling
• Second Vasectomy
• Incubus and Succubus
• Beauty is the Memory of the Flesh
• Sad to Be a Child
• Poem in Lieu of Suicide
• Fiberglass Birchbarks
• Global Warning (a playful yet pointed reflection on poetry itself as an invasive species)
• Tomatillo, Gooseberry, and Persimmon Salad
• Genesis 11-25
• Rara avis
• L’Éternité
• And many more, including translations (like pieces after Montale, Pasolini, or Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz) and place-named reveries (Québec, North Hatley 1978, Chinon – קִינוֹן).

What patterns or moods begin to emerge for you simply from scanning these titles? Do you notice clusters around the body and its vulnerabilities (shaving, vasectomy, coupling, incubus/succubus), around childhood or lost innocence (Sad to Be a Child, perhaps echoing the boyhood rites in Shinny and Gladiola), around food and sensory memory (salads, pastis, petits pois), or around language itself (Merci, Rimbaud, pour ces quelques consonnes; Language Lesson)?

How might the presence of titles like Privacy or Close Shave sit alongside the secretive, tree-hidden explorations we’ve already discussed? Could the same sensibility that personifies a tree as willing to be climbed also whisper through poems about private rituals, bodily memory, or the quiet comedy of human intimacy?

And what about the translations and allusions—to Rimbaud, Yeats, Montale, ancient texts? Does this suggest a poet who delights in weaving his own experiences into conversation with other voices across time and languages?

If one or two titles from this broader constellation tug at your curiosity most strongly right now—perhaps Privacy, Incubus, Beauty is the Memory of the Flesh, or something entirely different—which one calls to you, and what questions does it raise about how it might connect (or contrast) with the adolescent rite at the heart of Shinny and Gladiola?

There’s no hurry; these poems seem to reward patient wandering. Where would you like to step next in this garden of words? I’m here to walk alongside as your reflections unfold.

Grok on the Oeuvre

“Shinny” by George Lang, as presented in the Pastis @ Bandol series on alteritas.net, exemplifies several consistent features of the poet’s work while also displaying certain distinctive qualities when compared to his other published poems in the same collection.

Shared Stylistic and Thematic Characteristics

George Lang’s poetry in Pastis @ Bandol is characterized by concision, precise sensory imagery, and a meditative tone that frequently explores

 

 the intersection of human experience with the natural world. Many poems feature subtle anthropomorphism—attributing quiet intention, resignation, or equilibrium to non-human elements—along with a reflective nostalgia for moments of harmony or transience.

• Nature as a responsive or accommodating presence appears recurrently. In “In the Eyes of a Dumb Beast” (a translation after Rainer Maria Rilke), the animal’s gaze reveals a serene, impartial natural order that accommodates human fear without judgment. This mirrors the tree in “Shinny,” which “doesn’t really mind / the theft of its fruit” and is “resigned” to the boy’s precarious presence. Both works portray nature as patient and almost complicit in human interaction.
• Trees and arboreal imagery serve as recurring motifs. Lang’s translation of Eugenio Montale’s “Lemon Trees” evokes orchards and overgrown natural spaces as sites of discovery and sensory delight, much as “Shinny” celebrates the tactile, risky ascent into a tree’s upper reaches. The focus on fruit, branches, and the physical act of engagement with trees creates a clear affinity.
• Reflective distance and memory inform many pieces. Lang often writes from an adult perspective recalling earlier experiences or drawing philosophical insight from natural observation, a pattern evident in “Shinny”’s opening declaration (“I was a boy myself once”) and echoed in other works that blend personal recollection with broader contemplation.

The series also includes numerous translations (from Rilke, Montale, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Juan Ramón Jiménez, Rimbaud, and others), alongside original compositions. “Shinny” belongs to the original category, yet it shares the same economical language and philosophical restraint that mark Lang’s translations.

Distinctive Features of “Shinny”

Compared to many entries in Pastis @ Bandol, “Shinny” stands out for its direct evocation of boyhood physicality and exuberance. While poems such as “Rara avis” (an ars poetica) or various translations lean toward abstract reflection, interpersonal themes, or adult existential concerns, “Shinny” foregrounds an archetypal, kinetic childhood experience—the act of climbing, stealing fruit, and reaching dizzying heights.

The poem’s closing parallel statements (“Something about a tree wants to be climbed. / Something about a boy wants to climb it.”) introduce a tone of quiet affirmation and mutual desire that is more affirmative than the melancholic or contemplative register found in several other works (e.g., reflections on transience in certain translations or the elegiac undertones in nature-focused pieces). Additionally, the colloquial title and verbs (“shinny,” “filch,” “clamber”) impart a vernacular energy less prominent in the more formally allusive or translated poems.

Conclusion

In essence, “Shinny” aligns seamlessly with Lang’s broader oeuvre through its economical imagery, natural symbolism, and exploration of reciprocal human-nature relationships. It distinguishes itself, however, by centering an instinctive, joyful boyhood perspective that contrasts with the more introspective, translated, or adult-oriented compositions predominant in Pastis @ Bandol. This combination of immediacy and understated philosophical insight lends the poem its particular clarity and resonance within the series.

Other Rimbaud homages

 – This quatrain personifies the letter F, favoring its lowercase curves—evoking a cinched bow unknotted at will—over the rigid, pewter-tined uppercase form, blending typography with sensual imagery.

– Part of a series of 21 poems tributing Rimbaud’s synesthetic “Voyelles” sonnet, but centered on consonants; each includes at least one Crayola color name, like “pewter” here, as a hidden constraint for playful formalism.

– Reposted from a 2023 Instagram entry and linked to a September 2025 “B” poem with crayon-shaving visuals, the December 22, 2025, update underscores the author’s sustained exploration of alphabetic erotics amid low engagement. 

### Homages to Rimbaud’s *Voyelles* and Beyond

Arthur Rimbaud’s 1871 sonnet *Voyelles* (Vowels), with its synesthetic fusion of letters, colors, and sensations, has inspired countless tributes in poetry, art, music, and even landscape design. It famously assigns hues to vowels—A black, E white, I red, U green, O blue—while hinting at deeper alchemical or erotic undercurrents. Your query builds on the xerxesxerxes series, which flips this to an “alphabetic erotics” of consonants (e.g., the F quatrain’s sensual curves and “pewter” tint). Below

, I’ll highlight notable homages, focusing on those echoing *Voyelles*’ letter-color interplay or Rimbaud’s visionary style. I’ve grouped them thematically for clarity.

#### Poetic Translations and Reimaginings

These works directly engage *Voyelles* through form, sound, or constraint, often extending to consonants as in your example:

– **Experimental Translations by Anonymous (Chromatic Cabinet, 2017)**: A suite of four “translations” of *Voyelles* tests the poem’s boundaries. “AEIOU” strips it to vowels only, creating a minimalist echo; “Vowels” keeps the rhyme but swaps semantics; “Veils” is a homophonic version (sounding identical when read aloud but meaning nothing); and a “semantic” one enforces French alexandrine syllables. These pay homage by dissecting Rimbaud’s “alchimie du verbe” (alchemy of the word), much like xerxesxerxes’ hidden Crayola constraints.

– **Oulipo’s *Le Jardin des Voyelles* (Ongoing, Chaumont-sur-Loire Domain)**: The Workshop for Potential Literature (Oulipo) replaces vowels in a poem with five flower species (one per vowel, colored warm to cool: E as pure white). Consonants appear in rust-metal letters, forming a walkable garden-riddle. It nods to Rimbaud’s colors and Baudelaire’s *Correspondances*, blending poetry with botany for a multisensory “wander” through alphabetic “doors.”

– **K. Silem Mohammad’s “Sonnagrams” (Influence noted 2017)**: These algorithmic sonnets remix letters and sounds, indebted to *Voyelles*. Mohammad’s procedural approach—shuffling syllables like genetic code—mirrors Rimbaud’s “seer” poetics, inspiring consonant-focused series like xerxesxerxes’.

#### Musical and Performative Tributes

Rimbaud’s synesthesia lends itself to sound:

– **Benjamin Britten’s *Les Illuminations* (1939–1940)**: A song cycle for tenor and strings drawing from Rimbaud’s prose poems (including *Illuminations*). It captures the “vibrations” of U’s “divine seas” through orchestral swells. Though not vowel-specific, it extends *Voyelles*’ sensory fusion; a 2025 X post by @sincerelysonnet pairs it with Verlaine settings, calling it a “favorite” for Rimbaud lovers.

– **Barbara’s “Perlimperlimp” (1960s onward)**: This chanson weaves Verlaine and Rimbaud motifs, with lines like “Ils buvaient de l’absinthe… l’un s’appelait Verlaine, l’autre, c’était Rimbaud.” It romanticizes their bohemian “poems over water,” evoking *Voyelles*’ absinthe-fueled visions. A September 2025 X share by @Paroles_auteurs highlights its enduring “ivresse” (intoxication).

#### Visual and Conceptual Extensions

– **Maillard’s Photographic Quote (2021)**: Poet-photographer @lemaillardpoete pairs a stark image with Rimbaud’s line: “J’inventai la couleur des voyelles!… Je réglai la forme et le mouvement de chaque consonne.” Posted on X with 264 likes, it visually “invents” consonant forms, aligning with xerxesxerxes’ typographic sensuality.

– **Academic and Thematic Echoes**: Victor Ginsburgh and Albert Metzidakis’ 2019 paper in *Athens Journal of Philology* reinterprets *Voyelles* as apocalyptic prophecy (A-to-O as alpha-to-omega transmutation), suggesting Rimbaud “mistook” U for OU phonetically to heighten oppositions. This fuels consonant homages by emphasizing sound-shapes over strict colors.

#### Broader Rimbaud Homages (Non-*Voyelles* Specific)

For context, Rimbaud’s influence sprawls widely—your series fits a lineage of playful subversion:

– **Frédéric Manfrin’s Verlaine Manuscript (March 2025)**: On X, curator @fred_manfrin shares Verlaine’s handwritten copy of *Les Effarés*, a “monument” to Rimbaud’s street urchin visions. With 281 likes, it celebrates their shared ink.

– **Adrien’s Birthday Tribute (October 2025)**: YouTuber @memoart_dadrien posts *Le Dormeur du Val*’s gut-punch ending (“deux trous rouges au côté droit”), garnering 869 likes. It spotlights Rimbaud’s anti-war irony.

– **Laélia Véron’s Wordplay (2019/2018)**: Linguist @Laelia_Ve tweets on *Le Cœur supplicié*’s neologisms (“abracadabrantesque,” “ithyphalliques”) and holorimes (full-verse rhymes like Hugo’s “Gall, amant de la reine…”). These echo *Voyelles*’ phonetic inventions, with 227+ likes each.

If you’re seeking more in xerxesxerxes’ vein—consonant quatrains with Crayola nods—try Oulipo archives or Mohammad’s *Sonnagrams*. For the full F poem or series expansions, the original Instagram (2023) links to crayon-shavings visuals, tying letters to tactile art. What aspect intrigues you most: poems, music, or visuals?