Updated: Mar 18
Art by Robert Berry
The Modernist Mind of Leopold Bloom
We can indeed know his Modernist mind
With thoughts aswirl like the sea, while his words
Aloud are placid, polite, far too kind,
Masking might like heroes disguised as nerds.
Meanwhile, his eye caresses every curve,
Hip, and thigh. His cravings can be spicy.
Dublin’s his dish, everything’s his hors d'oeuvre,
His heart’s warm, but his urges are dicey.
Meanwhile, Bloom is always misunderstood,
Treated as a stranger in his own home.
But his secret life: ugly, bad, and good
Spills across the pages of Joyce’s tome.
Within Bloom’s mind, you will find yourself.
Change your life, pull Ulysses off the shelf.
Stay tuned for more Rilke-ripped sonnets
Same torso time, same archaic channel.
Wandering Through Used Books
Merchants’ Arch has a bookshop down below:
Lenehan links M’Coy by the elbow
After he calls old Bloom, Leopoldo.
Stephen Dedalus, too, is on the go
Past faded prints in Clohissey’s window.
Then halts at a bookcart on Bedford Row,
Recalls himself Stephano Dedalo,
Pawned school prizes: alumno optimo
Tattered pages of memory’s echo.
“How to win a woman’s love,” reads Stephano.
Say the following thrice, “Se el yilo
Nebrakada femininum! Amor me solo!”
Yo, Jimbo, so what is the dillio?
Do used books bestow an ultimate O?
Or do you simply prefer Italiano?
Va bene, Giacomo. Buongiorno!
In the Modernist spirit of improvisation and innovation, not to mention versification and alliteration, we provide the sonnetfication of a previous prose piece. The original essay left the Joyceverse no choice but to pretend it did not exist. Read the suppressed essay here.
“He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.”
– Ulysses, James Joyce
Bloom is Our Kettle
Bloom’s double is his own kitchen kettle,
“It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.”
Cast-iron, both made of equal mettle,
Heated, hard-up, throughout the day’s long route.
Bloom’s clad in black, well-dressed for death this day.
But poor Paddy Dignam’s surprise demise
Could never keep Bloom’s blazing gaze at bay.
The femme form he will ever idolize.
But Bloom’s womanly, Doc Dixon maintained.
And Gerty’s flirty flash his seed did spill.
Still, in Bella’s brothel his spout sustained.
Bloom has no need for a little blue pill.
My cracked-glass kettle pouts, limp-wired, and wrecked.
My own double’s spout stands short of erect.
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Same ignored time, same unadorned channel.