a just for fun challenge

butters

High on a Hill
Joined
Jul 2, 2009
Posts
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to participate's to be a winner. the no-shows are the losers :cool:

dustystar's poem, a tangential off-shoot from Carlos Williams' Red Barrow poem, got me inspired :D so, i'll post a poem and you guys use it to parody or springboard from. if you like, leave a different poem by someone well known for others to tamper with :D

here you go:

Miracle Ice Cream by Adrienne Rich

Miracle's truck comes down the little avenue,
Scott Joplin ragtime strewn behind it like pearls,
and, yes, you can feel happy
with one piece of your heart.

Take what's still given: in a room's rich shadow
a woman's breasts swinging lightly as she bends.
Early now the pearl of dusk dissolves.
Late, you sit weighing the evening news,
fast-food miracles, ghostly revolutions,
the rest of your heart.
 
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Turkey in the Straw

For a few months after college
he drove a truck
drawing young faces
that clamored for ecstasy
and relief.
Each night, the cool sweet
limbs of his girl, wrapped
around him.


One day at the corner
of Pleasure and Desire
a small crowd by a barricade
and an idling ambulance
eyes turning to see
the ice cream truck
and a young boy comes
for a bullet


On the day his son graduates
he hums Turkey in the Straw
and leaves the party
before anyone asks
 
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For a few months after college
he drove a truck
drawing young faces
that clamored for ecstasy
and relief.
Each night, the cool sweet
limbs of his girl, wrapped
around him.


One day at the corner
of Pleasure and Desire
a small crowd by a barricade
and an idling ambulance
eyes turning to see
the ice cream truck
and a young boy comes
for a bullet


On the day his son graduates
he hums Turkey in the Straw
and leaves the party
before anyone asks
I like this, Nerkster.

Good riff.
 
For a few months after college
he drove a truck
drawing young faces
that clamored for ecstasy
and relief.
Each night, the cool sweet
limbs of his girl, wrapped
around him.


One day at the corner
of Pleasure and Desire
a small crowd by a barricade
and an idling ambulance
eyes turning to see
the ice cream truck
and a young boy comes
for a bullet


On the day his son graduates
he hums Turkey in the Straw
and leaves the party
before anyone asks

I really like this! Image and narrative with just a pinch of mystery that allows us to imagine what's left unsaid.
 
i'll post a poem and you guys use it to parody or springboard from. if you like, leave a different poem by someone well known for others to tamper with :D

here you go:

Miracle Ice Cream by Adrienne Rich

Miracle's truck comes down the little avenue,
Scott Joplin ragtime strewn behind it like pearls,
and, yes, you can feel happy
with one piece of your heart.

Take what's still given: in a room's rich shadow
a woman's breasts swinging lightly as she bends.
Early now the pearl of dusk dissolves.
Late, you sit weighing the evening news,
fast-food miracles, ghostly revolutions,
the rest of your heart.
First off, nice selection, cb. I haven't read much by Ms. Rich, and I quite like the poem.

Not that that should or does matter to her or to you, but I did. Like it.

OK, now--my sucky response:
Madagascar

I'm so tired of the tin, pin-prick sound
of those electronic versions of The Sting
that float about the neighborhood
like an infestation of tuneless bees
that I sometimes forget about the cream
of her breasts, their conic sway
as she bends, topless in this heat
of Almost Autumn and I have to say
You wanna talk miracles? Why dontcha
think about vanilla and what a treat
it is to blossom-dive an orchid,
for that taut little pod.
Or so to speak.​
And you said I could leave a poem, not to replace yours as inspiration, but to plunk down something else for people to look at, try this (I'm kind of digging Vincent right now):
Sonnet XLIII
Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.​
BTW, the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature for 2010 is announced tomorrow. Many people think it will be a poet.

Maybe.
 
And you said I could leave a poem, not to replace yours as inspiration, but to plunk down something else for people to look at, try this (I'm kind of digging Vincent right now):
Sonnet XLIII
Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.​

Still mulling over the Ice Cream poem, but I read this and was inspired to slap this together:

Memories

The recording is strained and there are often more
pops, skips, and the white noise of bare tape
than there are words and music to help me escape
from the badgering inquiries the present makes. For
my mem'ry is not what is was, and my past
weaves in and out, a spectre that no one knows
not even myself, I sit upon its bank as it flows
whether it will, counting the splashes til at last
the waters quiet themselves and I move on again.
Picking myself up and brushing the nostalgia away
so that I can wander back into the modern day
holding some remnants against what remains--guilt and sin.
Knowing that I have such concrete reminders,
let's me see my way through, with no need for blinders.​
 
Ogden's Like Everyone Else, But Richer.

Ogden, you have too much cash,
And that Cadillac looks like a bus;
But if you drove a ’55 Nash
You’d be like the rest of us,
Poor poet, that is, and long before
“Candy is dandy, but liquor quicker”
They paid you to write in Baltimore.

Quite the affluent city slicker,
Whose efforts some call effluent,
That’s what you are, Mr. Nash,
Feasting there on your pheasant
And Amaretto HÓ“agen Dazs.
 
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....BTW, the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature for 2010 is announced tomorrow. Many people think it will be a poet.

Maybe.

Mario Vargas Llosa. Oh well.

To be fair, I know nothing of his work. But the snubs of the Nobel Prize in Lit are at least as interesting as the awards.
 
First off, nice selection, cb. I haven't read much by Ms. Rich, and I quite like the poem.

Not that that should or does matter to her or to you, but I did. Like it.

OK, now--my sucky response:
Madagascar

I'm so tired of the tin, pin-prick sound
of those electronic versions of The Sting
that float about the neighborhood
like an infestation of tuneless bees
that I sometimes forget about the cream
of her breasts, their conic sway
as she bends, topless in this heat
of Almost Autumn and I have to say
You wanna talk miracles? Why dontcha
think about vanilla and what a treat
it is to blossom-dive an orchid,
for that taut little pod.
Or so to speak.​
...

Good humor, man. I'll raise a glass of bourbon to that.
 
Ogden, you have far too much cash.
That Cadillac looks like a bus;
But if you drove a ’55 Nash
You’d be like the rest of us,
Poor poet, that is, and long before
“Candy is dandy, but liquor quicker”
They paid you to write in Baltimore.

Quite the affluent city slicker,
Whose efforts some call effluent,
That’s what you are, Mr. Nash,
Feasting there on your pheasant
And Amaretto HÓ“agen Dazs.

Maybe smarter, too, since he was one of the few to figure out how to turn a buck!

nash.jpg
 
what interesting pieces you guys are responding with! such talents here :D i'm reading each and will comment within the next day or so, but right now my head's fried with a disasterous telesales screening (so NOT cut out for that) and all manner of other complexities on my doorstep. i need something stiff and wet, and preferably in a glass! keep on with your brilliant riffs, please :kiss:
 
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Mario Vargas Llosa. Oh well.

To be fair, I know nothing of his work. But the snubs of the Nobel Prize in Lit are at least as interesting as the awards.

He's actually pretty great. At least, the couple things (both from the 70s) of his that I read were very satisfying. I sort of gave up givings a rat's ass about who wins what awards in 1984, when Billie Jean stole the Best R&B Song Grammy from 2 other Michael Jackson songs. It was a travesty.
 
Madagascar

I'm so tired of the tin, pin-prick sound
of those electronic versions of The Sting
that float about the neighborhood
like an infestation of tuneless bees
that I sometimes forget about the cream
of her breasts, their conic sway
as she bends, topless in this heat
of Almost Autumn and I have to say
You wanna talk miracles? Why dontcha
think about vanilla and what a treat
it is to blossom-dive an orchid,
for that taut little pod.
Or so to speak.​

:eek: "Oh my God! Look!!!"

puts this poem in my pocket when nobody's looking.

Which is to say you have some images here that I must steal.
 
Holy Smokes! There’s Ice Cream!

Wallace Stevens, the truth can be told:
You were the emperor of ice cream.
Not amazed with Grace in the coffin,
You dished out scoops to everyone who
Feigned their way in to be at the wake,
But really went there for free cigars
Or ridicule the needlepoint lace
Grace on the table once embroidered.

“So what’s the point?” you poetically asked,
Point taken because you’re atheist,
But if by chance there is a heaven
Towards which those with eyes on a prize dream,
I’ll bet your throat is parched about now,
Having traded your soul for ice cream.
 
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i LOVE this thread. yes, yes i do. such a cluster of creativity stirs me to moist eyes. oh lord...

i love it
 
:eek: "Oh my God! Look!!!"

puts this poem in my pocket when nobody's looking.

Which is to say you have some images here that I must steal.
Hey! What happened to my poem?!
Madagascar

I'm so tired of the ***, ***-***** sound
of those ********** ******** of The *****
that ***** about the neighborhood
like an *********** ** ******** ****
that I sometimes forget about *** *****
of her *******, their ***** ****
as she *****, ******* in this ****
of ****** ****** and I have to say
You wanna talk ********? Why *******
***** about ******* and what * *****
it is to *******-**** an ******,
for that **** little ***.
Or ** to speak.​
I suspect Nerk has been rifling my brilliance!




Um, because he said he was. Going to.

Left the poor thing looking like a redacted CIA transcript, actually. Probably an improvement.
 
Wallace Stevens...
Now, gm, you know, that being brilliant twice in a single thread is showing off, don't you?

To channel Ogden Nash, can you be
Smart once, smart twice,
Seal the deal with smartness thrice?​



Well, yes, of course you can, dammit.

I'm gonna go off and sulk, I think. Maybe. Probably.

Rats.
 
w):
Sonnet XLIII
Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.


The rain is full of ghosts tonight
I see them still yet feel so sad
their faces in the firelight
reminding me of nights so glad

at fireworks and carnivals
on old dirt roads and new backseats
we cried our love like animals
or whispered silly little sweets

and then we went our merry way
with school or work or goofing off
whatever got us through the day
(oh, please! excuse my awful cough)

I wonder if the boys see me
as beautifully as I see them
In winter stands the lonely tree
as pass me by; the Ghosts Of Then.


Tzara. Of all the poems in the world why did you pick this, the One most dearest to my heart?
 
This is much more in the minimal-huh? style than I really like to write in.

But I found it in my pocket. If Tzara ... er ... anyone says he lost some words from his poem, I've never seen this before in my life.


tin, pin-prick
electronic versions Sting
float
infestation of tuneless bees
the cream
breasts conic sway
bends topless heat
Almost Autumn
miracles? dontcha
think vanilla a treat
blossom-dive orchid
taut pod. so


but really ... interesting. I always like to end on a conjunction, but
 
The rain is full of ghosts tonight
I see them still yet feel so sad
their faces in the firelight
reminding me of nights so glad

at fireworks and carnivals
on old dirt roads and new backseats
we cried our love like animals
or whispered silly little sweets

and then we went our merry way
with school or work or goofing off
whatever got us through the day
(oh, please! excuse my awful cough)

I wonder if the boys see me
as beautifully as I see them
In winter stands the lonely tree
as pass me by; the Ghosts Of Then.


Tzara. Of all the poems in the world why did you pick this, the One most dearest to my heart?

I love the Emily Dickenson meter. That has a much smarter sounding name that I remember not knowing on some standardized test. I can't do rhyme and meter to save my life, so I always admire it when I see it done well.

The first and second stanzas also really stand out for imagery to me.

The rain is full of ghosts tonight
we cried our love like animals

I'm stealing those lines too. I'm going to mix them with the stuff I stole from Tzara.
 
first thread of the morning with my first coffee of the day

who could ask for a better start? not i :rose:
 
The rain is full of ghosts tonight
I see them still yet feel so sad
their faces in the firelight
reminding me of nights so glad

at fireworks and carnivals
on old dirt roads and new backseats
we cried our love like animals
or whispered silly little sweets

and then we went our merry way
with school or work or goofing off
whatever got us through the day
(oh, please! excuse my awful cough)

I wonder if the boys see me
as beautifully as I see them
In winter stands the lonely tree
as pass me by; the Ghosts Of Then.


Tzara. Of all the poems in the world why did you pick this, the One most dearest to my heart?

I forgot to leave one; I'm sorry. This cold/allergy/Bubonic Plague thing I've got has made me loony. Here- taste some Faulkner...


If there be grief, then let it be but rain,
And this but silver grief for grieving's sake,
If these green woods be dreaming here to wake
Within my heart, if I should rouse again.


But I shall sleep, for where is any death
While in these blue hills slumbrous overhead
I'm rooted like a tree? Though I be dead,
This earth that holds me fast will find me breath.
 
I forgot to leave one; I'm sorry. This cold/allergy/Bubonic Plague thing I've got has made me loony. Here- taste some Faulkner...


If there be grief, then let it be but rain,
And this but silver grief for grieving's sake,
If these green woods be dreaming here to wake
Within my heart, if I should rouse again.


But I shall sleep, for where is any death
While in these blue hills slumbrous overhead
I'm rooted like a tree? Though I be dead,
This earth that holds me fast will find me breath.
aiyaiyaiy... never read this before. it's ... oooohhh ... the sounds, imagery, meter. sigh

thanks for posting this, Boo :rose:
 
Tzara. Of all the poems in the world why did you pick this, the One most dearest to my heart?
Well, that's some kind of mystery, ain't it, m'dear?

Let's ask people, 'k?

Question, y'all (multiple choice, pick one): Why did Tzara pick Ms. St. Millay's sonnet as (pick the poem out yer ownselfs from me own original post, folks) a clone-yerself poem?
  1. Tzara knows women's hearts; he has an almost wondrous ability to relate to women, to their innermost desires, their hopes, their dreams.
  2. Tzara is cynical bastard who is very skilled at manipulating women to satisfy his own, quite thoroughly disgusting, means.
  3. If you throw a basketball at the hoop often enough, eventually it will go in.
  4. Tzara thinks like a girl.
No, I am not (yet) plunking down another poem, since that was not. Poem. Much.

Hey! There's a whole bunch o' you who haven't yet poemed.ed. Get yer act together, people. Like, now.
 
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