The Bawdy Politic Challenge

CharleyH

Curioser and curiouser
Joined
May 7, 2003
Posts
16,771
HALOO Lit Poetry! It's been a while and I'd introduce myself to newbies, but let's just start fresh and go with the thought that I am a person who once loved me some good old fashioned gunfights. For those who don't know, a gunfight was a poetry challenge pitting one willing poet (victim) against another in a time-limited, real-time face-off.

Sadly, interest in the challenge waned, possibly for several reasons of which, no doubt, minimal participation was one. What I mean is that every gunfight had only two challengers and three judges and everyone else sat on the sidelines cheering mostly, and occasionally jeering (and I do mean by way of constructive criticism).

I've been thinking about how to expand the gunfight to involve as many people as possible, and as many judges as well. I think I've found a way in a challenge I like to call "The Bawdy Politic Challenge".

The challenge at hand:

The time is millions of years into the future. On a map, the earth looks like a super-Pangaea, but the future world is not technologically advanced. At some point, almost all human life ceased to exist and now the world is a throwback to the middle ages that we all know (the 5th to 15th centuries). In this new world, you are the main source of entertainment, both a minstrel, catering to the uneducated classes, and a troubadour catering to the educated. You have one tale to spread across the land, one story/song/poem that everyone wants to hear. It could be a fictional tale, a tale of romance, of tragedy, heroism or lust, a moral tale or even a tale about Lady Gaga or Justin Bieber.

Whatever fantasy world you create, you must write two poems/tales one from the perspective of a wandering minstrel speaking to common people, and the other, telling the same tale to aristocrats.

Everyone is welcome to take part, so come, cum (or cum laude) one and all.
 
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Errrrrr I knew I could count on you but did you really have to make it that difficult???!!
 
On Medieval Succession,
After Charley’s Imagined Holocaust

A sonnet for the gentry, who should perhaps consider switching sides.

Into this cheerless marriage now is born
A son—a feeble boy who mews and pukes
His puréed carrots over sable worn,
Though not quite right in style, by satrap Dukes
Whose groveling, HRH finds mutes
Her blessing exercise. She frets it dulls
The monarchy, the soil in which she roots
Her so invasive vine. She deals in skulls,
And lives for scalps of the pretender queens.
But now her offspring seems unworthy, frail
As ice in April, and since he bears her genes,
She guarantees that her son will prevail
By slaughtering all children his same age.

It didn’t work with Moses; won't again.
 
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The Succession Question Considered
at Chalk Hill Farm, Hexham

The more Plebeian side, ahem.

Inheritance is something
even a goat breeder understands,
though for him it is how thick a coat
descends to each doe and buck,
how rich in milk
each nanny stands.

That the newborn Prince is feeble
is hardly his concern, so long
as the child’s spindly shanks can prod

invaders in the side, excepting
the farmer’s own butterfattened kids
from taking up blades.

What, after all, is better—to rule
an uneven kingdom where your own blood
may want your blood,
or to craft a perfect cheese?

I’ll take my love spread on cracker, please.
 
A tale of great import to maid servants everywhere

Come all you young wenches
and list to my tale
of bawdy old squires
who stay out of jail,
when bedding their maids
on pillows of lace
for you'll find no redemption
more a slap in the face.
Keep fastened your corsets
say nay to more wine
hold onto your virtue
that goodness may shine.
 
I'll just wait a tad longer before commenting, or, *gulp* adding my own dang thang.
 
A tale of great import to maid servants everywhere

Come all you young wenches
and list to my tale
of bawdy old squires
who stay out of jail,
when bedding their maids
on pillows of lace
for you'll find no redemption
more a slap in the face.
Keep fastened your corsets
say nay to more wine
hold onto your virtue
that goodness may shine.

Fun, Annie, but your tale needs yet another telling.

An add to Chippy and Green Mountain ... come one and all!
 
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Impressive but what does it MEAN? :eek:

There is something about my trenchantly witty but unsubtly antimonarchic set of poems that is not clear? Perhaps I did not clarify with brilliant enough metaphor my opposition to (and ridicule of) primogeniture? The switch from sluggard formal verse to a deliberately plain and lazy vers libre was too obvious a trope? My reference and imitation of the early French troubadour tradition (especially Villon) was poorly executed?

Oh, my. Could it be that they were just bad poems, hastily written?

Ah, my dear Tess, I am stung. Not enough to stop dumping piffle on the unguarded threads of the PF&D, but stung, nevertheless.

Won't stop me, though. Blame Charley. I have a Pavlovian response to her challenge threads. I just drool on the page when she rings a bell. :rolleyes:
 
Romme's Bard Pens His Contingencies.

I.

Hark! The Gods shall favor thee, Romme,
Above all other potentates
To conquer yonder for lebensraum
Where they brood of thine armored plates

And thy patrols spy dropping zones
Tonight before battle's sorrow
At which anointed trebuchet stones
Shall crush thy foes down to their marrow.

May game from their forests please thy taste
And their grapes be luscious fermented
And each of thy knights seize a wasp-waist
That thy Fourth Reich be augmented.

II.

Absconders, ye make dark ages cease,
No longer blind to the malice
Of tithing your crops to feed false priests
After half's gone to the palace,

And having fled Romme thus to survive,
'Tis better ye suffer new toils
With wife and child and still be alive
Than suffer as chattel of royals,

Though like the wild boars ye become
In the woods, and stones be your tools,
For in the erstwhile realm of Romme
He has fled, but another Romme rules.
 
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damn, gm, that's something and three-quarters! :eek:

i had a little kernel of an idea but it quails before this offering of yours to the masses...




Annie, c'mon girl, waiting for your part twoer. uh huh. :D
 
This is a hellish challenge - well done those who rose to it........mine's half - well 3/4 - done.

There is something about my trenchantly witty but unsubtly antimonarchic set of poems that is not clear? Perhaps I did not clarify with brilliant enough metaphor my opposition to (and ridicule of) primogeniture? The switch from sluggard formal verse to a deliberately plain and lazy vers libre was too obvious a trope? My reference and imitation of the early French troubadour tradition (especially Villon) was poorly executed?

Oh, my. Could it be that they were just bad poems, hastily written?

Ah, my dear Tess, I am stung. Not enough to stop dumping piffle on the unguarded threads of the PF&D, but stung, nevertheless.

Won't stop me, though. Blame Charley. I have a Pavlovian response to her challenge threads. I just drool on the page when she rings a bell. :rolleyes:

I kneel in awe - no sting intended.

Charley rings my bell too. *slurp* We can fight over her when Lauren's not around.
 
The Gods shall favor thee, Romme
You so rock, gm. If just me writing poems pricks you to write something, then I have done my job.

However, before I completely lose my critical virginity to this poem, I have to confess that the "Romme" term is confusing to me. Can't myself find something relevant in Google, or Bing, for that matter. I am left thinking this is some region in Germany or, perhaps, a post-Holocaust Rome (though then the Reich reference bothers me).

Little help? :)
 
You so rock, gm. If just me writing poems pricks you to write something, then I have done my job.

However, before I completely lose my critical virginity to this poem, I have to confess that the "Romme" term is confusing to me. Can't myself find something relevant in Google, or Bing, for that matter. I am left thinking this is some region in Germany or, perhaps, a post-Holocaust Rome (though then the Reich reference bothers me).

Little help? :)

It was my left thinking imagination running amok: Romme had a bellicose ring to my ear of a mixed breed of Teutonic-Latin aristocrats, but as you suggest, it may have been a bit too much, sorta like mixing Liebfraumilch with Chianti.

I would point out, however, that I was referring to a specific person, eg Henry VIII, rather than a region, and your comment made me realize I should have made that more explicit early in the poem.
 
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