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Old 11-03-2007, 06:36 PM   #1
Tzara
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November Poetry Challenge: Ekphrastic Poetry

Yeah, I know. I'm using odd words again. So go read this. It over-generalizes stuff, but covers the basics.

OK, done? Good. Ekphrastic poetry is simply poetry about another form of art. I'd like to restrict that a bit for the challenge, if I may (and since it's my challenge, I guess I can freakin' do whatever I want), and suggest that you write a poem about a visual work of art. Painting, sculpture, photograph, whatever.

Oh yeah. Make it something you can link to so we know what the hell you're writing about. That's important. Don't care if you want to write about something famous (La Gioconda, for example) or some local artiste. Even some art of your own. We have a number of poets here who are talented visual artists as well. That's perfectly OK. Just show us the picture (or sculpture or photo or whatever) so we can judge how well the whole thing works.

Prototypical example: Hey, only from the best the Twentieth Century has to offer. How 'bout two poems describing Pieter Bruegel the Elder's Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, in the Royal Museum of Fine Arts in Brussels.

This is a fabulous painting. I've actually seen the real thing and it is way, way better in person than even in reproduction.

Oh, and then there are the poems. By two of the 20th Century's, like, most awesomely gifted poets: W. H. Auden and William Carlos Williams. Both wrote about this particular painting. Like here: Auden or here Williams.

Awesome stuff.

So, hey. Do yer best to emulate them about something that means something to you, 'K? Any length, any form (including free verse), any number of submissions. You control the vertical and the horizontal.

Oh. Deadline November 30, midnight PST.

'Cuz that's where I live.
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Old 11-03-2007, 07:01 PM   #2
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Hmm. If I can link the right stuff. I've been toying with the idea of music as poetry... gotta let it simmer and get back to ya.

Ya I know it's not what you suggested. So meh.
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Old 11-03-2007, 08:37 PM   #3
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Mable Sue
by My Erotic Tale©



"Abner get over here,"
Daisy May shrilled a snear.

Tap slide tap slide tap slide

"What is it?"
"This."
"What is it?"
"That!"
"WHAT?" Abner yells.

"Shhh ..."
jest a security officer
'not so kind'
while pointing to the
'please be quiet' sign.

"That ... ain't that Mary Ann's neice,
Mable Sue, who married the priest?"
"Where?"
"There!" Pointing her bent with age finger.
"That?"
"Yes!"

Abner pulls his bifocals up and leans in for a
better look. "Hell, I don't know," Abner replys,
steadys his cane and adjusts his eyes.

"Well, I say it is."
"Okay Daisy May, you say so."
Abner patronizes.

"Well you remember
she went on that Church retreat
over there in those Black Hills
something or another creek,
got them there sticker burs on her feet?'
"Yep," Abner agreed.

"She told us about how those blue flowers
were scattered
like blue soggy M & Ms everywhere."
"Yep"

"Looks like a storm was a comin'
that's why the sky is
a yellow and orange."
"Yep"

"She wore that red dress last Christmas,
remember?"
"Yep"

"I'd recognize that pale complexion
black hair and dimple indention,
anywhere."
Daisy May snared.

"It could be her twin sister, Sue Mable,"
Abner grinned.

"Nope, Sue Mable didn't make that trip,
she was working that summer
as a waitress for tips."

"Yep, your right,"
Abner replied.

"Wait till I get home
and call Mary Ann on the phone
and tell her that her
neice has got a picture
hanging in the
Fine Art Museum."

"Oh No, she'll be up here demanding
the Paintings negative or something,"
Abner barked.

"Oh your right Abner, she'll cause a fuss for sure. Spect' we best keep this to ourselves."

"Yep."

click clop tap slide click clop tap slide

"It would be nice to tell folks
we got some body famous
in our family though,
don't you think Abner?"

"What ever you think Dear."

click clop tap slide click clop tap slide

"Well, look'y there Daisy May,
a picture of you,"
Abner spew.

"Oh, then why does it say,
Mona Lisa's Smile?"

"Well it looks like you,"
Abner looks confussed.

"That ain't no smile,
wonder why she don't smile bigger?"
Daisy May barks her verbal trigger.

"Well dear, if she's like you
maybe her dentures don't stay in straight."

"Oh quite right Abner,
you always were a quick thinker."

click clop
tap slide
click clop
tap slide
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Old 11-03-2007, 09:06 PM   #4
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Quote:
Originally Posted by My Erotic Trail
Mable Sue
by My Erotic Tale©



"Abner get over here,"
Daisy May shrilled a snear....
Well thanks, Art, but you left off a link to the inspiring image. Perhaps this would do.
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Old 11-03-2007, 09:12 PM   #5
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Liar
Hmm. If I can link the right stuff. I've been toying with the idea of music as poetry... gotta let it simmer and get back to ya.

Ya I know it's not what you suggested. So meh.
Breaking my rules is always acceptable. I'm not exactly a rule kind of guy.

A link would be nice, though if you're referencing something really well known (say, the opening of Beethoven's Symphony No. 5), it's probably not necessary.
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Old 11-03-2007, 09:17 PM   #6
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Uh, hey, Modettes, can you stick this for the month?

If you do, I'll even replace that link with the original Crystals.
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Old 11-03-2007, 09:55 PM   #7
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Tzara
Uh, hey, Modettes, can you stick this for the month?

If you do, I'll even replace that link with the original Crystals.
Consider yourself stuck.

The thought of me, Lauren and Eve in a girl group together is rather frightening.
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Old 11-03-2007, 10:54 PM   #8
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Angeline
The thought of me, Lauren and Eve in a girl group together is rather frightening.
Which one of you sings lead?
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Old 11-04-2007, 12:38 AM   #9
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The Difference Between Ovid and Breughel

Quote:
Originally Posted by Tzara
Prototypical example: Hey, only from the best the Twentieth Century has to offer. How 'bout two poems describing Pieter Bruegel the Elder's Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, in the Royal Museum of Fine Arts in Brussels.
The ploughman and the shepherd thought they saw
Two flying Gods, but Breughel wouldn't draw
Them looking up with wonder to the sky.
They're busy folk below, like you and I.
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Old 11-04-2007, 09:12 AM   #10
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Tzara
Which one of you sings lead?
We're in harmony at all times.

I'm in. Just because I like saying Eckphrastic. "How was that? Eckphrastic, baby!"

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Old 11-04-2007, 09:23 AM   #11
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this looks pretty hard. i'll see if i can do something with it - it will stretch me in another new direction. damn, i feel like a rubberband
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Old 11-04-2007, 01:52 PM   #12
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We did one of these for Anna, only she picked the painting. See what I can do. Somebody stuffed a bunch of fluff into my brain and switched it off. It doesn't seem to want to restart. Need to jumpstart it or something.
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Old 11-04-2007, 03:37 PM   #13
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Here's a first shot at the kind of thing I have in mind:

The painting is Eric Fischl's Bathroom Scene #5; Untitled (2005); Oil on Linen; 72" x 36".
Il Deserto Viola

In the foreground, black
as a doorframe, looms the man.
His robe is a long raincoat, open
to the nude woman who stands,
lumpy with muscle or fat,
in the porcelain tub.

..........No curtain surrounds her
oblivious body, her unfocused gaze
oblique to his as if Antonioni
posed the shot, so when they speak,
it is not to the other but
directed only to the camera.
Please note

...............also the violet walls.
This is the color of infidelity.
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Old 11-04-2007, 06:49 PM   #14
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I've emailed the creator of a piece that is colourful, playful and erotic on top, for permission to use his painting in the challenge. I hope he grants me the link. If not .. it'll be back to the drawing board for me .


eta: The Dali photo is not what I was referring to here.
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Old 11-04-2007, 11:36 PM   #15
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End of Day 1: Let's get this party started.

Why, we're already almost, like, flush with our several bold challengeers! To whit:
  • Angeline (Who is enthusiastically ekphrastic.)
  • champagne1982 (Who will be playing despite a torn ACL.)
  • FifthFlower (Who is already done. First time, anyway.)
  • Liar (Who is clever enough to link in music.)
  • My Erotic Trail (Who also is done, but (shucks!) forgot his link.)
  • sophieloves (Who is AKA "rubberband." Which, at least to me, sounds rather smutty.)
  • The_Fool (Who is dying to do this as sestina, though he publically denies it.)
  • Tristesse2 (Who committed to it on that other thread.)
  • Tzara (Who, well, is me. I'm done first time too.)
Write away, challengers! Some swell art we must poems integrate!

And you others:
Roll up, roll up for the poetry tour.
Roll up, roll up for the poetry tour.
Roll up, and that's an invitation, roll up for the poetry tour.
Roll up, without a reservation, roll up for the poetry tour.
Like, I mean, after all, it's just writing some poem. How hard can that be?

Well, yeah, hard. But also fun, yeah?

Yeah?





My, but how all that exuberance is tiring. Where's my inhaler?
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Old 11-05-2007, 11:25 AM   #16
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DALI


A note scribbled on a repurposed secretary

Take a memo Miss Pussy.
I love your red brassiere
and the way your mons
rises up to support
my wrist while my fingers
draw the lines
of communication
open.
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Old 11-05-2007, 02:53 PM   #17
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Quote:
Originally Posted by champagne1982

Take a memo Miss Pussy.
I love your red brassiere
and the way your mons
rises up to support
my wrist while my fingers
draw the lines
of communication
open.[/center]
Woot!

I am in on this, just in case it's important that we say so in advance.

bijou
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'What is the use or function of poetry nowadays?' is a question not the less poignant for being defiantly asked by so many stupid people or apologetically answered by so many silly people. The function of poetry is religious invocation of the Muse; its use is the experience of mixed exaltation and horror that her presence excites. - Robert Graves

Bienvenue a la bistro!


story story essay poem poem
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Old 11-06-2007, 06:52 PM   #18
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Etchings by DeAnn Prosia

Take any of the urban scenes of buildings and trees you may find among DeAnn Prosia's etchings. If you would like me to choose, try Portofino Harbor or Sunday Morning or Off Jackson Street Galena, Illinois.

The buildings make sharp lines against the sky.
The trees add curves to smooth the urban scene.
Both wait and watch in love, like you and I.
Though black and white, they feel so fresh and green.
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Old 11-07-2007, 10:39 AM   #19
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Van Gogh " Sunflowers"

,,,,,
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Old 11-07-2007, 02:54 PM   #20
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Visitation

She wonders if she got dressed up
for nothing,
that he won’t be here to see
the burgundy dress and jacket
with the sailor's collar.

Close to her ear the curtain
sounds like the sea and feels
like comfort.

She fights the urge
to put her thumb in her mouth
for even one second
in case he comes.

Outside the window
Rue de la Paget unfolds
beneath her but she’s looking
across the street at me
solemn and still.

She doesn’t return my wave
or leave the window
just in case he does come today.


Back in Time lithograph by Pierre Surtes 1992

Last edited by Tristesse2 : 11-19-2007 at 10:03 PM.
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Old 11-07-2007, 08:43 PM   #21
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Post election day, let's take stock. Who's in?
  • Angeline
  • champagne1982
  • FifthFlower
  • Liar
  • My Erotic Trail
  • sophieloves
  • Tathagata
  • The_Fool
  • Tristesse2
  • Tzara
  • unpredictablebijou
Who's done (at least the first time through)?
  • champagne1982
  • FifthFlower (First to two submissions! 5F rocks!)
  • My Erotic Trail
  • Tathagata
  • Tristesse2
  • Tzara
Those who have submitted responses: Awesome stuff. Comment later. Those who have not yet submitted: You probably aren't feeling bad yet. Nor, frankly, should you. Lotta month to go. I'm just saying. Start now. Work that poem. Else you've got me nagging you personally around turkey time. (Or, if you're not American, I'll just be nagging you at, whatever, late November time. )

Now, you don't want me to get into lecture mode, people. I can be insufferable. Even to myself.

*Makes silent film monster face* Poems! I waaant Poems!!!



Hey. Still signing up recruits. Disregard that shit above. I love you all.

Really.
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Old 11-07-2007, 11:04 PM   #22
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An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump
Joseph Wright of Derby, 1768 (National Gallery, London)

The cockatoo thus tires without oxygen
as would we all, we Earthlings. Thank God
I am too small for this man's crucible,

where the stopcock this way or that
lets me live or otherwise. It's money to him,
of course, a respected man,

a scientist, traveling the waves and seams
of knowledge, which rips tides
this way and that other. Oh, look! For 50p

his pump can starve an angel, distress gells,
confront profundity and dimwits and,
oh just life and sex and sadness—what the hell.

After all, it's just a bird. It is just air.
We're all His creatures, aren’t we? Anywhere
at least, that we can, if we can, we always

breathe
............one hopes, easily. One hopes. Don't
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Old 11-07-2007, 11:29 PM   #23
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Plethora of Cats
by Theodore Geisel




There are times when I tire of stories all bright
with the promise of happiness, justice and light.
It wears on the psyche occasionally
to know what I know at, say, age fifty-three,
and continue to promise that all will be well
when I know there's a world of adulthood in hell
that awaits their sweet spirits. The worst kind of liar
would promise them warmth without warning of fire,
but still I dissemble, pretend life is clear,
pretend there's no famine or failure or fear.

I'm God in those worlds that I've casually made
but not in the real world, which makes me afraid
that I'm setting them up for the greatest of falls
when they learn that beyond all those safe little walls
of their childhood world lives a much darker place
where they're likely to join in the meaningless race
for power and wealth and impossible peace
that will break them, and make them want only release
from their grief and their failure. I'm merely a traitor
not warning them now of the pain coming later.

So when my brush falls and the darkness creeps in
I climb the long stairs to my secretive sin
and paint them, the cats, with their bright angry eyes
condemning me nightly for all of my lies.
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'What is the use or function of poetry nowadays?' is a question not the less poignant for being defiantly asked by so many stupid people or apologetically answered by so many silly people. The function of poetry is religious invocation of the Muse; its use is the experience of mixed exaltation and horror that her presence excites. - Robert Graves

Bienvenue a la bistro!


story story essay poem poem
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Old 11-08-2007, 12:49 AM   #24
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Quote:
Originally Posted by unpredictablebijou


Plethora of Cats
by Theodore Geisel




There are times when I tire of stories all bright
with the promise of happiness, justice and light.
It wears on the psyche occasionally
to know what I know at, say, age fifty-three,
and continue to promise that all will be well
when I know there's a world of adulthood in hell
that awaits their sweet spirits. The worst kind of liar
would promise them warmth without warning of fire,
but still I dissemble, pretend life is clear,
pretend there's no famine or failure or fear.

I'm God in those worlds that I've casually made
but not in the real world, which makes me afraid
that I'm setting them up for the greatest of falls
when they learn that beyond all those safe little walls
of their childhood world lives a much darker place
where they're likely to join in the meaningless race
for power and wealth and impossible peace
that will break them, and make them want only release
from their grief and their failure. I'm merely a traitor
not warning them now of the pain coming later.

So when my brush falls and the darkness creeps in
I climb the long stairs to my secretive sin
and paint them, the cats, with their bright angry eyes
condemning me nightly for all of my lies.
Your chosen picture shows:

Hundreds of cats, thousands of cats, millions and billions and trillions of cats!
But just one, only one, silly cat in a hat.
A cat bold, a cat free. A cat even, gosh, me!
No cat is more irritating any cat. See?
A cat with some class! Or without,

as it be. A cat that can't write
more than CAT: A-B-C.
Why, uncategorical
feline, catty.

A cat I am not. Not a cat,
C-B-A. I am backward, and caught
mashing Seuss everway.
It's not fun as a guy

who's not Who and not Cat
and who's not even Oobleck,
whatever that's at.
I'm just I, not that Cat

not a Who, not a rat,
nor Bartholemew Cubbins,
nor like anyone fat.
I am me. Just a Me.

And a Me better count
in the countiness counting
of Her Countliness' Count.
So I count: 1, 1, 2

3, 5, 8, and thirteen.
Fibonaccian numbers
displaying, OK?
I can count

pretty high, should I need,
though I won't.
Cat can't count on his fingers:
'Cuz they're paws, don't you know.

So uncountingly pause
I and retract my clause.
Merry Christmas to all
our securities laws!
Sorry. Yours worked well.
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Old 11-08-2007, 08:54 AM   #25
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Quote:
Originally Posted by unpredictablebijou


Plethora of Cats
by Theodore Geisel




There are times when I tire of stories all bright
with the promise of happiness, justice and light.
It wears on the psyche occasionally
to know what I know at, say, age fifty-three,
and continue to promise that all will be well
when I know there's a world of adulthood in hell
that awaits their sweet spirits. The worst kind of liar
would promise them warmth without warning of fire,
but still I dissemble, pretend life is clear,
pretend there's no famine or failure or fear.

I'm God in those worlds that I've casually made
but not in the real world, which makes me afraid
that I'm setting them up for the greatest of falls
when they learn that beyond all those safe little walls
of their childhood world lives a much darker place
where they're likely to join in the meaningless race
for power and wealth and impossible peace
that will break them, and make them want only release
from their grief and their failure. I'm merely a traitor
not warning them now of the pain coming later.

So when my brush falls and the darkness creeps in
I climb the long stairs to my secretive sin
and paint them, the cats, with their bright angry eyes
condemning me nightly for all of my lies.
Oh! A dramatic monologue! Great form you got there, sister.

Last night my daughter and I talked of Sneetches
and how she's too old for the lure of their beaches,
and I felt somewhat sad for the times that had passed,
and the bad crushing truth that nothing will last,
even though I knew when I read her those stories
that they pretty up problems and all of the glories
that happen in them are just deux ex machina:
no justice for lorax in real life. You've seen the
zax that won't budge, you meet them each day,
and cruel turtles on top that seem here to stay.
Chicks with bricks, blocks and bats come, make
a thick chick slap down shit stack. Still I ache
for old days, lies made sweet for her sake.
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