Meyran Kraus

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Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

A poem by Edgar Allan Poe, which spells out its dedicatee's name diagonally from the 1st letter of the 1st line to the 14th letter of the 14th line. The anagram similarly highlights the name of another great and macabre poet, Dante Alighieri, who influences its content; his name also hides somewhere else in the anagram...

An Enigma

   "Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
   "HAlf an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
    ThRough all the flimsy things we see at once
   As eAsily as through a Naples bonnet
    TrasH of all trash! How can a lady don it?
   Yet heAvier far than your Petrarchan stuff
   Owl-dowNy nonsense that the faintest puff
   Twirls iNto trunk-paper the while you con it."
  And, veritAbly, Sol is right enough.
   The generaL tuckermanities are arrant
 Bubbles - ephEmeral and so transparent
But this is, noW you may depend upon it,
Stable, opaque, Immortal all by dint
 Of the dear nameS that he concealed within 't.

An Anagram

    Down, under woeful face of Earth, my dear
    HAs put my heart she's nonchalantly stolen -
    BeNeath the towns and oceans of the Sphere,
   In uTmost binding prison to the Fallen...
    UnstEadily, I tread this quite bad way -
    UnpleAsant walk into Inferno's center,
   Where oLd knaves hang and fearsome pythons play;
  A seedy pIt which none but fools dare enter.
I hover in, Go by hot, haunted pools,
   A labyrintH of phantoms from the past;
At Sea of Rot I battle unseen ghouls,
 To duel a hailEd igniter, Satan, last...
I can't stand fiRm against her sultry lure
Till I climb up wIth my own heart secure.

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A Shakespeare sonnet anagrammed into a paraphrase which is also an acrostic on an appropriate word.

William Shakespeare
Sonnet XIV

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good, or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality,
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell;
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And constant stars in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thy self, to store thou wouldst convert:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

Meyran K.
The Joyful Attempt to Plot Our Fate

I don't know much about the mystic world,
No visions of the future visit me;
So sorry I find Nostradamus droll -
I learned it's hard to grasp eternity.
God knows I shan't fit Librans certain traits -
How can one estimate the daily feuds?
The labyrinth shall ever round our fate;
Forsake then what the prophet *might* conclude...
Uniquely, though, your tempting look forebodes
Love's celebrated act and its result:
New infant nigh, of deft and higher mode,
Essentially the motive to exult...
Since that hypothesis is smartly done,
Signs forecast a divine and vibrant son.

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A poem about the fate of the obese child Augustus Gloop from Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory", anagrammed in the spirit of "Moby Dick", with a somewhat gloomier theme. Two additional anagrams relating to "Moby Dick" are hidden in the anagram.

Augustus Gloop! Augustus Gloop!
The great big greedy nincompoop!
How long could we allow this beast
To gorge and guzzle, feed and feast
On everything he wanted to?
Great Scott! It simply wouldn't do!
However long this pig might live,
We're positive he'd never give
Even the smallest bit of fun
Or happiness to anyone.
So what we do in cases such
As this, we use the gentle touch,
And carefully we take the brat
And turn him into something that
Will give great pleasure to us all -
A doll, for instance, or a ball,
Or marbles or a rocking horse.
But this revolting boy, of course,
Was so unutterably vile,
So greedy, foul, and infantile,
He left a most disgusting taste
Inside our mouths, and so in haste
We chose a thing that, come what may,
Would take the nasty taste away.
"Come on!" we cried. "The time is ripe
To send him shooting up the pipe!
He has to go! It has to be!"
And very soon, he's going to see
Inside the room to which he's gone
Some funny things are going on.
But don't, dear children, be alarmed;
Augustus Gloop will not be harmed,
Although, of course, we must admit
He will be altered quite a bit.
He'll be quite changed from what he's been,
When he goes through the fudge machine:
Slowly, the wheels go round and round,
The cogs begin to grind and pound;
A hundred knives go slice, slice, slice;
We add some sugar, cream, and spice;
We boil him for a minute more,
Until we're absolutely sure
That all the greed and all the gall
Is boiled away for once and all.
Then out he comes! And now! By grace!
A miracle has taken place!
This boy, who only just before
Was loathed by men from shore to shore,
This greedy brute, this louse's ear,
Is loved by people everywhere!
For who could hate or bear a grudge
Against a luscious bit of fudge?

Elusive whale! Elusive whale!
Score meters long, from head to tail!
How perfectly the moonlight shines
On your gargantuan design.
No girl could match the Big Blue ring's
Most glorified, gigantic king...
Your bulbous top, that wrinkled brow -
I've followed them for decades now.
I often long on midnight struts
To chop you up and spill your guts;
To watch your fleeting, anguished death,
Your blow-hole freeing one last breath;
To see that bulging, wicked gaze
Receive an apathetic glaze.
I know that Queequeg, Pip and such
Do not appreciate me much;
"Obsessed," they giggle when I'm 'round,
"Mere 'Jonah' goose who'd like to drown;"
These fools suggest beluga whales,
"Some gorgeous creatures... great to trail."
They'll never understand this wish
To catch one godless beast unleashed;
Raw appetite on which I thrive,
Huge waves I ride to feel alive:
A need of Nemesis, so pure
No mariner has found the cure.
Across the globe, against all odds
I'll fight the winds and daunt the gods;
And, on a wretched whalebone peg,
Demand revenge for one lost leg.
Oh, even as I sense you're near,
The deadly struggle feeds no fear -
I've fought so many deep-sea breeds,
(The biggest, strongest ones indeed),
That every ocean giant will
Be happy to call me his meal;
If Satan would come down to earth
To value cunning as his worth,
I eagerly assure you that
It will be mine he'll marvel at...
The only thought that might bring some
Concern, though, is: what would become
Of Ahab once he reached his goal?
What road to choose, without a role?...
But idle issues shan't upset
My mind, now that your life's in threat.
Aboard this boat awaits your tomb,
And on my table - lies your doom,
As who could possibly resist
A sumptuous, wholesome blubber feast?

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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