Homer’s (the blind man’s) poetry as seen by helmut s.
Hector sees Helen
coming from Paris’ room.
He does not say a word,
yet he thinks what he thinks
glancing at her hair which is still in disarray.
Helen speaks openly about her feelings,
telling him what a bitch she had been and still is,
and how much she regrets that her mother did not
take the French-made-morning-after-pill.
She cusses her mother for not having taken
the steps necessary to have an abortion,
for being so unkind to give birth and raise her,
instead of dealing with
the newborn as she should have
by throwing the baby out with the bath-water
into the dark from the tower
and if not such then why not
into the breaking surf below the cliffs
to feed the sea-monsters.”
And Helen weeps and cries on Hector’s shoulder.
Yet Helen knows she too is used by the gods.
The same ancient gods who have proven
to be immortal by being always with us,
kept alive in poetry and stories.
Helen knows immortals live forever
as long as we call their names
they shall be, always be in our midst.
He hurried home up the hill,shopping bag
clutched.A message in bold he saw in the mirror
was on his computer’s screen.It was a flag
Sophia had raised: “SYN TAX ERROR”.
To-err-is-human got replaced by all-
not-equal-has-the-right-to-err. Such call
had not a thing to do with lying, nor
was it the I-think-I-know-factor which
since Eve has been in all jeans, male genes.
How did this err-virus, causing such a glitch
get into her system and by which means?
Who had told her, for the modem was down,
how did she know the error he had made?
How did she find out while he was in town?
About sin and taxes he did evade,
He clicked any button, clicked on OK.
outside his window behind her curtain
— his mind told him that misspelled was SYN
on the computer screen —
sin wasn’t home. He was absolutely certain
of her eyeing him since he had moved in.
She knew that he was keen.
under Landscape and Portrait he looked up
the Orientation options of Page Setup
and he chose Portrait for tall people, standing.
And Landscape he chose for long boats floating
from side to side as well as people who fat
sat in Cadillacs wearing sombrero hats.
He liked in Page setup’s scaling options
here he made them fit, them concoctions.
– nothing to worry said he –
yet his checkbook knew.
(Kiting haiku 03/97)
he hurried now to document his worksheet;
By writing on paper the original objective,
he thought of considerations he had to meet,
design-changes, directives to follow, respective
to make. Somewhat sidetracked he opened his
letters. It was hate-mail, the kind saying “Will
you please pay now! But if not …” believe this.
They were all appropriately named after Bill-
-y the Goat. So he herded into the tub his mail
stared at them papers and asked “Who should
be paid first?” while shuffling and mixing the bale
you please,” they were all me-mae me-mae-ing him.
For all to get paid the chance was very slim.
(A sonnet for the collection agency)
Coming to fun questions he asked now:
In the formula bar and is it fair
to edit a cell?” He tried, “I can. Auh!
Yes! I can!” success filled him with air.
Altogether his workbook looked so great.
Aware it wasn’t ready for the planet
without teaching it, and he wasn’t afraid
to do such. He needed to program it.
Just like a young one, it was still fragile,
it had to gain strength over the course of time.
He rushed, showered and shaved, happy, agile
satisfied, his bodily functions fine.
He was up to the present and the other
things to come. Most important was Sunshine.
One more look at his spreadsheet to gather
info, potty trained, soon would there be time
so that it could walk all by itself through
the obstacle expected in its life-span.
A few more changes, which he had to do.
Language added and debugging he can
while testing his worksheet, correct errors
make a macro or two and record her,
add functions, values, borders and colors.
Can functions contain other functions, question-mark.
“How true!” he said for they can too.
Date – Sunshine – OLE – is his next remark,
his computers slowed down, Sunshine who?
Computers process data. Yet he felt he was
the greatest manipulator himself empowered
by eight megabytes of short-term-memory, thus
RAMs, so many bits each second, each hour had!
Fascinated by her (his computer’s) who created
from his meager input, who painted nothing but
magnificent pictures as she negotiated
in Computerese with him favors and deals cut
like: “You do the Input
& I provide the Output!”
(Sonnet for her)
“So what,” you may ask “is so special
about a souped up 386 turned 486 computer?