Down with Bowne (The Uncut Version)

Down with Bowne (The Uncut Version)

By Walter T BowneFiction
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Down with Bowne (The Uncut Version) episodes

  • Add Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs” to Your Heavy Metal Playlist

    It would also make the cut for great anti-Vietnam War songs. Pigs savor the spoils of war in the killing troughs of France during World War I. (link) (link). Image by the author. Pixlr.com. First published on The Riff. https://medium.com/the-riff/add-black-sabbaths-war-pigs-to-your-heavy-metal-playlist-2f8dd8f5659b?sk=40b63d4ec97714ce550a7ee2c4c13441

    9 min
  • So Much Hate Alarms ‘The Lunks’
    JUDGING THE JUDGERS: ‘We don’t need your judgement or your jealousy’, Wally says.


    There are ‘lunks’ here at the gym, but we have to conceal our ‘shameful’ identity

    And because we have to stay secretive, we don’t feel in a ‘safe place’ — even with the silent eye stares from grannies and grandpas who are trying to stay in shape — and alive. And I say, ‘God bless us — every one — even ‘the lunks,’ and even ‘Tiny Tim!’

    8 min
  • Dearest Writer, We Really Miss You

    Literary magazines beg authors to return to writing for free.

    Beloved Writer,

    We noticed you have not submitted any poems or short fiction on Submittable to us with the required $25 reading fee. We really miss those fees. Well, as the reader, I really miss those fees. Can you blame me? Can you picture such an erudite and ambitious guy like me working at Dollar General?

    Heck, I’m publishing one of the best literary magazines in the Dakota Territories — and I can’t do that for free. I know. I know. It took us — me — and my tatted biker BF, like — what? A year to get back to you regarding those delightfully mediocre poems you sent us?

    Yes — but we — I mean, I promise not to take so long to reject your work.

    I may even have the time to offer a line of criticism, for you to consider. And when I do publish you in The Prairie Dog Digest — circulation 500 and growing— I promise to send you a copy that you can print and give to your boyfriend and mom, depending on where you get the chapbook published.

    Best,

    DeAnna deGruntë
    Editor

    PS: You haven’t been writing for Medium, have you?

    7 min
  • Yanks on Holiday
    GEOFFREY CHAUCER, REFURBISHED: A parody of the General Prologue from “The Canterbury Tales.” Trafalgar Square on a Summer Evening. London. (link). First published on MuddyUm. https://medium.com/muddyum/yanks-on-holiday-fc8c64b684f1?sk=14e829da992877e8e1c7ffe05f3f8aa2

    Here bygynneth the book ō̆ver behōste tō the world

    Here begins the book Overland to the World

    When in June and the spring showers end —

    And disperse the rains to the heavens, and send
    The pigeons to peck the crumbs at Trafalgar —
    And prompt the public to thumb the vernacular;
    When Admiral Nelson, with his commanding physique —
    Choking from exhaust fumes and pathogens discreet —
    Gazes upon his Square, teeming with tourists,
    His glories known only to the purest;
    When Londoners are all cell-a-Tweetin’ —
    Who text away with fingers a’ bleedin’,
    (So Nature's a stage where Shadows do play) —
    Then the Yankees partake a holiday.
    A fortnight feast of the ripe, old Country —
    Tales uncoiling with bathos, and ribaldry;
    From England ‘cross the Continent to Rome —
    To snap a pic of Saint Pete's to text home;
    Through a coach window they'll take The Grand Tour,
    To tick off the sites, gleaned from a brochure.

    This is the opening prologue for my parody-mock-satirical novel, Overland to the World, a collection of interrelated tales about Americans on a European coach holiday, which has been published in serialised form on Medium. As a pretentious and affected Anglophile, I purposely used the “s” instead of the “z.”

    2 min
  • Ode to a Catbird: A Playful Dialectic Between Poet and Bird

    Gunnen: Dutch: Finding happiness in someone’s happiness because you love them so much. First published on Paper Poetry. 

    "To awake before the dawn seems foolish —

    But it’s the early nurseryman who wins
    While the shadows on the vines seem ghoulish;
    The vines this morning seem like twisted strings —
    And the red berries hide in the moonlight,
    Shielded beneath the enclosures of green;
    But bashful, not, is the color scarlet;
    I seek my breakfast before your dawn’s flight
    Like prowlers upon the scene, routine,
    Like a game, we aim for the same target."

    "O, for that flavor tart we both adore —

    The night cools the raspberries with blessings;
    At least within my shelter I can store —
    But that nectar serves as your dressings —
    As I would address a bowl of salad.
    But I’ve grown tired of this morning game —
    The seeds don’t settle well in my belly!
    The sun conducts a vivace ballad —
    A thrilling trill of vines we each can claim;
    Can I, at least, harvest some for jelly?"

    Unlike the finches, I am not afraid

    Of you as you sit on the patio
    You made to mind; you harbored in the shade;
    For this feast, you know, you’re fine, Daddy-O!
    Don’t you relish how I hang upside down?
    And I’m in heaven, already, today!
    No technology makes me a machine!
    And need I gas to fly around town?
    Do I owe any dude a debt to pay?
    “I’m a catbird. But please call me Eugene!”

    You know, these slender barbed stalks don’t sting me

    Like they nettle you. Is that why you ceased?
    I know you have a wife, man, where is she?
    During my feast, I delight you, at least.
    For why would you ponder there all alone
    With never any artificial sound
    To cover my musings to you, my friend?
    We each, right, seem to know something unknown?
    Something profound planted here in the ground?
    Dangling on the vine where we both depend?

    How you warble, Gene, for moving water!

    O! how you squawk for the bird bath refilled!
    O! how like that of, then, my young daughter!
    Both! O! how they thrilled! How they chilled, spilled!
    You love the natural water from the drum,
    Sans chlorine from the plastic garden hose.
    Yes, and then you frolic and roll and shake —
    My daughters would water dance until numb!
    Glowing blue with rapturous joy to their toes!
    The cold lake would snap anything awake.

    You’re awake, of course, now while I’m asleep.

    I have trouble drowsing due to unease.
    At times, at night, I wander in too deep.
    My bed takes on water from inner seas;
    But then I think of you — your happiness —
    And I recall jumping from the Crow’s Nest —
    Leaping from Dad’s boat on the Chesapeake —
    That boy again in all his flashiness!
    And the decades seem they have never left.
    With such faith, I could fly to any peak!




    5 min
  • Tossing the Dice for Happiness
    Twelve rolls directs the growth of the daisy poem. Walter Bowne wrote this on dice throws for the meter on the Dutch theme of gunnen. Dice rolls: 2–3–6/ 5–3–3/ 3–1–6/ 5–3–6
    3 min

About Down with Bowne (The Uncut Version)

From the publisher's feed

Walter Bowne is a humorist, a writer is serious fiction, or so he likes to think, and creative nonfiction about his crazy adventures. He may also speak about books, family, history, flowers, and…