007 Challenge
- Thread starter PandoraGlitters
- Start date
Thanks--I'm enjoying the challenge. And I'm glad you liked it--it was fun to write.
PandoraGlitters
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Prospect
. . . . .
. . . . .
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PandoraGlitters
Sandy Survivor
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. . . . .
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5
Line
What I want more than your bed
is your opinion
on Christina's World and Green Target,
on where to find a good brisket sandwich,
on the best train to take to Citi Field,
as if I was going there, which I am not.
Nothing ever works at night without
knowing where my car keys are,
whether they were left in that odd shaped little bowl
you picked up in the Bahamas
that seems to collect only ticket stubs and dust,
or whether you dropped them on the kitchen table
like our daily junk mail or some halibut
you bought at Pom's
and forgot about,
so we had to feed it to the cat.
It's about doing the crossword together,
in pencil rather than ink
because of my spelling,
and knowing the order in which
we properly share each section of the Times
and the toast and the strawberries
and that one of us is coffee and one of us is tea
and how that shifts like the seasons over years
and how it really is all about your bed—a little, anyway,
in the end. In the eventual, inevitable terminus of End.
Line
What I want more than your bed
is your opinion
on Christina's World and Green Target,
on where to find a good brisket sandwich,
on the best train to take to Citi Field,
as if I was going there, which I am not.
Nothing ever works at night without
knowing where my car keys are,
whether they were left in that odd shaped little bowl
you picked up in the Bahamas
that seems to collect only ticket stubs and dust,
or whether you dropped them on the kitchen table
like our daily junk mail or some halibut
you bought at Pom's
and forgot about,
so we had to feed it to the cat.
It's about doing the crossword together,
in pencil rather than ink
because of my spelling,
and knowing the order in which
we properly share each section of the Times
and the toast and the strawberries
and that one of us is coffee and one of us is tea
and how that shifts like the seasons over years
and how it really is all about your bed—a little, anyway,
in the end. In the eventual, inevitable terminus of End.
6
Cloudburst
It must have been the heat,
its suffocating swaddle,
that made her, usually so demure,
leave the blinds and window open
to the silence of the night.
In the television flash
I watched the writhe and ripple
of their bodies, how he turned her
to begin his final drive,
but it was sound, her helpless cries,
that finally opened me like lightning
and I drenched my empty sheets,
that patch of parched and barren ground.
Cloudburst
It must have been the heat,
its suffocating swaddle,
that made her, usually so demure,
leave the blinds and window open
to the silence of the night.
In the television flash
I watched the writhe and ripple
of their bodies, how he turned her
to begin his final drive,
but it was sound, her helpless cries,
that finally opened me like lightning
and I drenched my empty sheets,
that patch of parched and barren ground.
four
I've wasted
lifetimes
kissing frogs
hearing
low croaked whispers
promising
castles and crowns
and laughter and
warm arms to hug away my tears
always
I believe
until I feel wet webbed fingers
rough against my skin
catching on my hair
and a long tongue staking its claim
to my body
and long green legs
making themselves at home
between my thighs
and when croaking snores
herald the end
I lay back
eyes closed
doubting
hopeful
that this time my kisses will prove enough
to transform him
and he will make his promises good
but in the morning I wake
covered in slime
where frog lips touched me
the night before
weeping
alone
I've wasted
lifetimes
kissing frogs
hearing
low croaked whispers
promising
castles and crowns
and laughter and
warm arms to hug away my tears
always
I believe
until I feel wet webbed fingers
rough against my skin
catching on my hair
and a long tongue staking its claim
to my body
and long green legs
making themselves at home
between my thighs
and when croaking snores
herald the end
I lay back
eyes closed
doubting
hopeful
that this time my kisses will prove enough
to transform him
and he will make his promises good
but in the morning I wake
covered in slime
where frog lips touched me
the night before
weeping
alone
five: a sonnet
I used to dream of any life but mine
of vanished years so long and far away
absurdities that held a playful shine
in contrast to my ordinary day.
and in those visions, dragons taught me flight
while kings and princesses gave way to me
for I was an enchantress, and my might
made worlds spin round—and evil beings flee.
but age and bleeding fingers taught me well.
escape is childish fancy. life is real.
for good and ill, in heaven and in hell,
I work to build life into my ideal.
I still dream strong, that hasn’t changed at all,
but now, the life I live stands just as tall.
I used to dream of any life but mine
of vanished years so long and far away
absurdities that held a playful shine
in contrast to my ordinary day.
and in those visions, dragons taught me flight
while kings and princesses gave way to me
for I was an enchantress, and my might
made worlds spin round—and evil beings flee.
but age and bleeding fingers taught me well.
escape is childish fancy. life is real.
for good and ill, in heaven and in hell,
I work to build life into my ideal.
I still dream strong, that hasn’t changed at all,
but now, the life I live stands just as tall.
7
Trust me, it isn't easy
being the toad either, sister,
always thinking this is The One
whose sweet kiss will give you back
the constant body warmth,
the luxuriant hair, the nonporous skin
of that most arrogant order,
Mammalia, all on the basis
of some story you were told,
or someone sometime was told,
maybe, by some vengeful old woman
who wanted to torture you with hope
because she blamed you for her warts.
Intended as a reply to the metaphor embodied in the fairy tale, rather than to your poem, of course, which I liked.
You make good use of metaphor in this poem, ninianne. I very much enjoyed it, but believe that every story has another side:
Trust me, it isn't easy
being the toad either, sister,
always thinking this is The One
whose sweet kiss will give you back
the constant body warmth,
the luxuriant hair, the nonporous skin
of that most arrogant order,
Mammalia, all on the basis
of some story you were told,
or someone sometime was told,
maybe, by some vengeful old woman
who wanted to torture you with hope
because she blamed you for her warts.
Intended as a reply to the metaphor embodied in the fairy tale, rather than to your poem, of course, which I liked.
PandoraGlitters
Sandy Survivor
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- Sep 23, 2007
- Posts
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Six
. . . . .
. . . . .
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Tzara
Continental
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- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,609
Uno
No, people are not drugs unless they are,
And you're not so much "pursed" as, well, pursued.
Poetic pyrotechnics get so screwed
That even randy Edna might a spar,
A storm-tossed Bunny Wilson, let us say,
Snag with enthusiasm. Love's not food.
It isn't even Peace, although it should
Be that if nothing else. 'Leastwise, Millay,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release
(From what orgiastic whirl, we wouldn't know),
Whines of the grace of love, its fractured bone,
Its inability to even breathe with ease.
(Oops, that was twelve.) Hey. Sit and listen, you.
You're one fine catch. Scrivere di più.
.
Sonetto per il rosso
No, people are not drugs unless they are,
And you're not so much "pursed" as, well, pursued.
Poetic pyrotechnics get so screwed
That even randy Edna might a spar,
A storm-tossed Bunny Wilson, let us say,
Snag with enthusiasm. Love's not food.
It isn't even Peace, although it should
Be that if nothing else. 'Leastwise, Millay,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release
(From what orgiastic whirl, we wouldn't know),
Whines of the grace of love, its fractured bone,
Its inability to even breathe with ease.
(Oops, that was twelve.) Hey. Sit and listen, you.
You're one fine catch. Scrivere di più.
.
thanks--I'm glad I was able to inspire a reply. I'm personally no where near as bitter as the woman in my poem. But I've always liked that metaphor--I keep on writing poems and stories containing it on the theory that some day I'll get it right.
I like your take.
I like your take.
PandoraGlitters
Sandy Survivor
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- Sep 23, 2007
- Posts
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Wonderful sonnet, Tzara. 
six
I’m far too sweet
they say
as I open weighted eyes
to helpless worry
but I can’t stay awake
even in this lighted fishbowl room
wires everywhere
the smell of antiseptic
and blood
I’m surrounded by blood
they milk it from my fingertips
every hour
and pull it from my bruised and swollen arms
four times a day
and finally they tell me
I’m just too sweet
and every day I must change my blood
to turn it bitter
in my veins
and as they talk
my eyes weigh heavier
and I sleep
and dream
blood
I’m far too sweet
they say
as I open weighted eyes
to helpless worry
but I can’t stay awake
even in this lighted fishbowl room
wires everywhere
the smell of antiseptic
and blood
I’m surrounded by blood
they milk it from my fingertips
every hour
and pull it from my bruised and swollen arms
four times a day
and finally they tell me
I’m just too sweet
and every day I must change my blood
to turn it bitter
in my veins
and as they talk
my eyes weigh heavier
and I sleep
and dream
blood
Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,609
Due
Search and Rescue
Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.
—E. St. V. M.
Vincent surely knew cartography—
the swells and swales of sexual intent,
the lies seduction twirls as complement
to the plain fact of need. Seduction breeds
dishonesty, if only for the chance
to find yourself in Paradise some day,
some week. Forever? That's the luck you play
into Heaven, Hell, or death-like trance
where, zombified, you stumble toward Truth
and children, mortgage. History. Well, yours.
Unless you're Special, screwing ends your youth.
Because she had a Map, it didn't hers.
Love isn't always love. Sometimes it's lust,
a wilderness where lovers oft are lost.
.
Search and Rescue
Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.
—E. St. V. M.
Vincent surely knew cartography—
the swells and swales of sexual intent,
the lies seduction twirls as complement
to the plain fact of need. Seduction breeds
dishonesty, if only for the chance
to find yourself in Paradise some day,
some week. Forever? That's the luck you play
into Heaven, Hell, or death-like trance
where, zombified, you stumble toward Truth
and children, mortgage. History. Well, yours.
Unless you're Special, screwing ends your youth.
Because she had a Map, it didn't hers.
Love isn't always love. Sometimes it's lust,
a wilderness where lovers oft are lost.
.
PandoraGlitters
Sandy Survivor
- Joined
- Sep 23, 2007
- Posts
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What wonderful sonnets! Ninianne, I just reread yours and am impressed by the elegance of your language as well as your message. Tzara, you're the shit, as the kids say.
ETA: love Vincent. What a free and courageous spirit.
ETA: love Vincent. What a free and courageous spirit.
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PandoraGlitters
Sandy Survivor
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. . . . .
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seven
the mechanics worked so much better
in my head
there were no fumbled starts
no too harsh touches
you found my rhythm
instinctively
when I dreamed it
I didn’t even have to say the words aloud
because you thought them
with me
you didn’t move too early
or too late
and I knew just when and where
my lips and hands should
touch you
because you thought your needs
back to me
in my scripted encounter
and we came together
only it was just words
a dream
in my head
in reality
our mechanics suffered
and I had to say the words aloud
blushing
wincing
and you told me what you wanted
and I didn’t know exactly what to do
but you taught me
and I blushed out the words
giggling at the absurdity of it
and we came
eventually
I have to say
now I know the difference
between
you and
the dream lover
who had a mystic connection to me
who said everything exactly right
and touched me
as I would touch myself
he makes me yawn
you win
the mechanics worked so much better
in my head
there were no fumbled starts
no too harsh touches
you found my rhythm
instinctively
when I dreamed it
I didn’t even have to say the words aloud
because you thought them
with me
you didn’t move too early
or too late
and I knew just when and where
my lips and hands should
touch you
because you thought your needs
back to me
in my scripted encounter
and we came together
only it was just words
a dream
in my head
in reality
our mechanics suffered
and I had to say the words aloud
blushing
wincing
and you told me what you wanted
and I didn’t know exactly what to do
but you taught me
and I blushed out the words
giggling at the absurdity of it
and we came
eventually
I have to say
now I know the difference
between
you and
the dream lover
who had a mystic connection to me
who said everything exactly right
and touched me
as I would touch myself
he makes me yawn
you win
thanks, Pandora
I liked your sonnet as well, and Tzara is just impressive. I could relate--I don't drive, but prefer the slower, more scenic roads when I can't walk. There's so much for all the senses off the road.
I love sonnets, but this was my first in a few years--when I got sick, I couldn't face writing for a while. And sonnets require so much craft that I haven't felt up to it until recently--and then I had to figure out what to write about.
I have a ways to go yet before I can link erotic to rhyming poetry. But I'll get there, eventually . . .
I liked your sonnet as well, and Tzara is just impressive. I could relate--I don't drive, but prefer the slower, more scenic roads when I can't walk. There's so much for all the senses off the road.
I love sonnets, but this was my first in a few years--when I got sick, I couldn't face writing for a while. And sonnets require so much craft that I haven't felt up to it until recently--and then I had to figure out what to write about.
I have a ways to go yet before I can link erotic to rhyming poetry. But I'll get there, eventually . . .
Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,609
Well, at least I hope I am not a shit.
Yeah. Reminds me a bit of you, actually. Redhead, poet, etc. etc.
Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
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Tre
Stream
Watching the diamond drops
of sweat fall from her nipples…
—Tess
The way a liquid traces gravity,
always seeking out the lowest point—
the corner of a house, the gutter joined
at an odd, imperfect angle, hence the drip
drip drip of water, tripping constantly
over edge onto the resonant drum
of an empty plastic bin. It’s music. Hip,
in its metronomic way. A kind of song.
Then her body: like a watercourse, terrain
that’s virgin, known, and yet unknown to pain,
its steady flow of sweat caused not by heat
but lashes and uncertainty. Discreet,
they’re merely discipline. The lesson? Rules.
On her pointed nipples, moisture pools.
.
Stream
Watching the diamond drops
of sweat fall from her nipples…
—Tess
The way a liquid traces gravity,
always seeking out the lowest point—
the corner of a house, the gutter joined
at an odd, imperfect angle, hence the drip
drip drip of water, tripping constantly
over edge onto the resonant drum
of an empty plastic bin. It’s music. Hip,
in its metronomic way. A kind of song.
Then her body: like a watercourse, terrain
that’s virgin, known, and yet unknown to pain,
its steady flow of sweat caused not by heat
but lashes and uncertainty. Discreet,
they’re merely discipline. The lesson? Rules.
On her pointed nipples, moisture pools.
.
Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,609
Tzara is an idiot, but you'll learn that soon enough if you stick around. I've quite liked your poems, ninianne. They communicate emotionally, which isn't at all easy to do.
Welcome to the PF&D. Write often.
Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,609
Quattro
Sonnet Buñuel, Drop-D Tuning
How innocent we lie among
The righteous!—Lord, how sweet we smell,
Doing this wicked thing, this love
—E. St. V. M.
We are compelled to sex, but not to love,
So science says. I wonder what that means.
Are we prisoners of lust? Just fuck machines?
Pneumatic as you are, you aren’t mere glove,
However you resemble La Deneuve
In her lithe detachment, mise-en-scène,
Where she seemed drugged and, frankly, not there when
In Belle de Jour, she hiked her skirt to prove
Her willingness, as whore, just to be used.
The casket! Those weird buzzing things! Marcel,
His cane, his metal teeth! It’s all confused
With some weird kind of chastity. A film,
A Master’s film: abnormal as a plum
Etched like chalk on slate.
I want you still.
.
Sonnet Buñuel, Drop-D Tuning
How innocent we lie among
The righteous!—Lord, how sweet we smell,
Doing this wicked thing, this love
—E. St. V. M.
We are compelled to sex, but not to love,
So science says. I wonder what that means.
Are we prisoners of lust? Just fuck machines?
Pneumatic as you are, you aren’t mere glove,
However you resemble La Deneuve
In her lithe detachment, mise-en-scène,
Where she seemed drugged and, frankly, not there when
In Belle de Jour, she hiked her skirt to prove
Her willingness, as whore, just to be used.
The casket! Those weird buzzing things! Marcel,
His cane, his metal teeth! It’s all confused
With some weird kind of chastity. A film,
A Master’s film: abnormal as a plum
Etched like chalk on slate.
I want you still.
.
First off, thanks for the compliment and the welcome. I'm going to try to stick around, although I'm going to play with writing stories for a while. Poetry is difficult.
As for you, I still think you're impressive. Your sonnets are readable, and rhythmic (and rhythm is the most important thing). You rhyme well--I like slant rhyme, and I am too uncertain to use it as effectively as you. You write well. And I'm enjoying the read. Thanks.
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