Challenge: Point of no Return

[Liar]

...or the 'no-line-breaks' challenge.

'Return' as in Return-key. Get it? Ha ha. Erm.

Here's the challenge: Write a poem. Any subject, any style. Bear in mind it can get weird with rhyming couplets - although that might be really interresting to see. But don't hit the Return-key. (or Enter, whichever it says on your keyboard) Write it as one solid text paragraph.

Or dig up an old poem of yours, and remove all the line breaks. That'll work too. Actually, that might be preferrable, since then it's not written in a "it's got to work as non--formatted text" midset.

And post here. that is all.

We've had "prose poetry" threads and challenges here in the past. And Ange's poll thread thingy right now wioth some interresting thoughts. I just thought it would be interresting to see if there is any difference between prose poems ans "real" poems, other than formatting. And what all you poetizers' words can do without any visual aid.

Readysetgo!

 

[unpredictablebijou]

...or the 'no-line-breaks' challenge.

'Return' as in Return-key. Get it? Ha ha. Erm.

Here's the challenge: Write a poem. Any subject, any style. Bear in mind it can get weird with rhyming couplets - although that might be really interresting to see. But don't hit the Return-key. (or Enter, whichever it says on your keyboard) Write it as one solid text paragraph.

Or dig up an old poem of yours, and remove all the line breaks. That'll work too. Actually, that might be preferrable, since then it's not written in a "it's got to work as non--formatted text" midset.

And post here. that is all.

We've had "prose poetry" threads and challenges here in the past. And Ange's poll thread thingy right now wioth some interresting thoughts. I just thought it would be interresting to see if there is any difference between prose poems ans "real" poems, other than formatting. And what all you poetizers' words can do without any visual aid.

Readysetgo!

Well, I'll give it a try. This is one of the "prosier" pieces that I've been banging on lately. Since it's rather long and there would naturally be a paragraph break or two, I'm going to put one in, which means in essence I'm breaking the rules of the game. But I'm gonna do it anyway. Liar, I'm sure, will punish me accordingly.

***

Demolition

You need to be torn down to what is underneath your name and flesh. You ask for emptiness from words, to lose your base and fill yourself with foreign will, and with my angry help become a singular space, buffeted, inhabited by strange rages. So now embody nothing but this shameless shame as I find the path to your most empty center: just these holes for me, these spaces I invade, as I have you hard and pressed to shove and grip, to brace against and drive toward my own monstrous hands. You are a hole of earth dug deep for this reception: the raising of the shaft, icon of the growing field. The thick of god and solar staff that you receive defines you simply, a nameless empty sheath for me, nothing but a boot I pull onto myself.

I am a whirling blade that slices through your skin, a dark volcano in which you turn to blissful ash, the flood, the blood that overwhelms your empty mouth, the earth that cracks and swallows you in luscious dark, the brutal wind that scours every trace of you away. You are a tunnel down through flesh where I can travel. You are an eyeless skull from which I drink my wine. Your dark moans of absence turn you inside out, and what is underneath the bones is pure as flame. You come out clean, hot and sweet as the sun's bright heart.

 

[Liar]

Well, I'll give it a try. This is one of the "prosier" pieces that I've been banging on lately. Since it's rather long and there would naturally be a paragraph break or two, I'm going to put one in, which means in essence I'm breaking the rules of the game. But I'm gonna do it anyway. Liar, I'm sure, will punish me accordingly.

nah, it's all good.

In fact, it's better this way for a long poem. Format it so that it mostly resembles prose. I think I'll do the same. Here's my poem from the Erza pound thread.

Very "prosey" indeed.

---

To The Life Of My Love

I met you first at the dawn of thirteen, when your feet had not yet grown all the way to the ground. When you wore lavender and white and spoke like a cloud of butterflies, when I wore miss-matched socks and blue jerseys and spoke as little as possible, in fear of renegade octaves. You were the only one who leaned close enough to hear me mumble my name, and you wrote it into your diary. But I had no words back then to make you kiss me, or wisdom to realize that's what I wanted.

I met you next as a newborn man, with a song in my throat and a city in my hands. When I wore red wine gloss on hungry lips and shoes made for dancing, when you wore jet black and crimson and barbed wire, and spoke like a swarm of hornets. But I had words and wisdom now, so I picked you up and carried you home, and we spent a year writing forbidden diary entries into each others' skin. And while one memory sprouted legs and hobbled off, if only for a while (and you tore those pages out), every other tremble is still lodged between white leather on aging paper that will outlive us both.

I met you last at the dawn of thirty, when you wore moss gray and green and spoke like a garden of bumblebees. When you carried your last diary page against your chest, and hushed my voice to a mumble so we wouldn't wake her up. And whatever words and wisdom I had, you left me speechless.

 

[The_Fool]

Started with an older poem. Would like to change things now, but won't for this exercise. Not the woman though, never changed her.....she seemed so...French. (A smirk while I wonder if she remembers.)


A languid hand holds the champagne flute pressed to ruby lips that glisten as she slowly takes a sip. She licks her lips and enigmatically smiles at me through amber bubbles, keeping her thoughts A mystery. Coquettish woman let me see those eyes, disguised by long luscious lashes. Eyes that speak of innocence and decadence. Her rich toned voice cultured and smooth calls to my passion in a fashion that leaves me burning with a fire of desire. Fluid motion as she crosses her legs, wearing formal attire, an innocent movement at once refined and erotic. Send my thoughts along roads I’d best not think of traveling for now. I fill her glass, she thanks me, touching my hand so lightly, driving me close to madness, with my desire, to taste her mouth, caress her curves, slake my thirst, for her. Casual words in conversation disguise desires expressed by bodies with tension and expression. With one last toast we drain our flutes, carefully place napkins and stroll away, arm in arm, casually.

 

[The_Fool]

Liar, I like the thread title. I am going to do this challenge with that as a title. With or without a nod to the band Kansas.

 

[Liar]

There's a band called Kansas?

Actually, that was part 2 of this challenge. An STC with the added rule "one big paragraph" and see if people could treat it as a kind of form poetry, and choose words, phrases and a "flow" that suited the format.

It's really a grey area this. Does stuff become flash fiction? Prose poetry? Flattened poems? And does it matter?

 

[The_Fool]

There's a band called Kansas?

Actually, that was part 2 of this challenge. An STC with the added rule "one big paragraph" and see if people could treat it as a kind of form poetry, and choose words, phrases and a "flow" that suited the format.

It's really a grey area this. Does stuff become flash fiction? Prose poetry? Flattened poems? And does it matter?

A Nod

It all matters until it doesn't. I was going to wax....prosaic....until I thought better.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

There's a band called Kansas?

Actually, that was part 2 of this challenge. An STC with the added rule "one big paragraph" and see if people could treat it as a kind of form poetry, and choose words, phrases and a "flow" that suited the format.

It's really a grey area this. Does stuff become flash fiction? Prose poetry? Flattened poems? And does it matter?

Sadly *sigh* there is a band called Kansas. They are mostly known for their really dramatic, fist-pumping, hair-farming rawk anthems from the mid-to-late 70's. Here's a sample. My attitude toward them is personal and aesthetic, which is a disclaimer in case there are any fierce fans of the band reading this. It should say something that I tend to get the bands Kansas, Boston, Journey and Foreigner all confused with each other.

more a B-52's girl myself.
And if you like hair-farming, these guys are the Real Deal.

As to terminology, I do enjoy naming things, as long as it doesn't turn into a dogma. I like the term flash fiction, although "fiction" has some implications that might not always apply to stuff like this. The term prose poetry has always been my fallback, though that too tends to carry some connotations that might not always be appropriate.

"Flattened poetry" is neato. I'll go with that, myself. It's got a ring to it.

bj

 

[Anschul]

Sadly *sigh* there is a band called Kansas. They are mostly known for their really dramatic, fist-pumping, hair-farming rawk anthems from the mid-to-late 70's. Here's a sample. My attitude toward them is personal and aesthetic, which is a disclaimer in case there are any fierce fans of the band reading this. It should say something that I tend to get the bands Kansas, Boston, Journey and Foreigner all confused with each other.


bj

I'm a ZZ Top man my self (of course, I'm really a Grateful Dead man, but they don't quite fit the hair-band category).

BTW, BJ, you wrote a dazzling poem that I quoted in the Bistro. Why don't you turn it into prose?

A

 

[Liar]

And if you like hair-farming, these guys are the Real Deal.

Cool. Made me think of this. Quantum folk rock, and the second best live gig I've even been to.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I'm a ZZ Top man my self (of course, I'm really a Grateful Dead man, but they don't quite fit the hair-band category).



A

We do love us a pearl necklace.

BTW, BJ, you wrote a dazzling poem that I quoted in the Bistro. Why don't you turn it into prose?

okay. wait. okay. So, ... It was... but then you... and then that was way cool but then. ... okay, so I should...

*wanders off, mumbling amiably*

bj

 

[Anschul]

Okay, enough nonsense. Back to the point...(sorry for the diversion, Liar):

This one had form to begin with, but here goes:

The Staten Island ferry comes about, approaches bleak Manhattan to the east; Miss Liberty afloat appears to shout her rhyme of welcome to the awful feast that daily tempts the unsuspecting rubes
who visit this place. Could a town be more unfriendly? Greasy sidewalks, sagging boobs on aging hookers, pissing vagrants, sore losers hawking, always on the grift; hustle, bustle, tussle, always moving, buses, subways, taxis, trucks adrift. Movies make us think of people grooving on "Gotham's" thrill. But I can't find the charm. The crush of people evokes insect swarm.

I Love(?) New York.

A

 

[PandoraGlitters]

New York is the Village where a small girl walks a big dog and the descent to a tarot card reader's parlor reminds us that there is always more underground. You can never see everything, there, with one pair of eyes. In other towns, one walks the path available and sees the few sights that line it, but in New York one must choose which of thousands of paths to take, which fames to tribute. The city is a parade of dragons. Put on a red shirt and step quick into the scene.

 

[Angeline]

The City, as seen from the window of a car by eight-year-old eyes. Rain and skyscrapers, crowds of umbrellas bobbing across avenues, horns and hollars, racks of clothing and the hot chestnut man outside Lincoln Center, lights and a 30-foot cigarette blowing smoke rings above Times Square. Radio City Music Hall with a marquee that reads "Today Only: Judy Garland" and the long, long line of umbrellas, moving oh so slowly, waiting in the rain.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

I spoke of things best left unspoken and cracked the world into a myriad pieces like stars above the universe. Yearning for the days of sunshine before my words so selfishly uttered blew apart all that is sacred and shattered the souls of those still yet unborn to a land that heaves volcanic ashes and rains with thoughts so impure that the gods upon Olympia weep. Destroyed we sink into an abyss haunted screaming in my dreams from where there is no awakening

 

[champagne1982]

Study of a Vineyard

The land calls in ribald glee to come attend the ripening crop. We did, in brilliant excess. You and I answered Dionysus’ invitation to cavort and sample his vintage. New wine, bright, yeasty intoxication as close to the vine we could get, just short of sucking the grapes as they swung, pendulous on the stems.

God we drank. Smell the tangy bite of fuzzy leaves, bruised with rough handling when brushed aside in haste to clip the fruit into woven baskets. Fall with me here on a sunny slope and crush the juice from skin so delicate it bursts with the weight of a tender, knowing kiss. Celebrate the wine and love with me and let the gods delight in knowing you and I have found ambrosia at last.

 

[Anschul]

On Aging...

The sun came up again today I hear; it's hard to tell sometimes, obscured by cloud in March. But year after relentless year it comes. Another number on the proud but aging body, bent but not so old
that woman mine can't reignite the flame of raging fire in loins that, sometimes cold, can heat to loving touch. There is no shame in periodic failure at a time when some cannot get rise when duty calls. While medication helps some in that climb to passion, these old bones still scale those walls.
She stands behind just now with candle bright and whispers, "Now!" To bed! To you, GOOD night!

 

[annaswirls]

except on Christmas


Sometimes this is what you are given, ten minutes alone while the boys laugh under the hose. You pour a diet soda, read a few paragraphs as sweat glues paint chips into creases of the inside of your elbow. Sometimes this is all you are given, a few minutes to remember Uncle Charles, how he fought the war, made his fortune climbed Mayan stairs and always ended his postcards “keep the home fires burning.”

Nana is alone in the farmhouse without strength to strike a match. Scattered, we each carry our stick that glows, and hold high the embers like a runway.

 

[FifthFlower]

At the Dance

Dark nipples pressing through her blouse have focused guys who like to stare. The skirt, not worn outside the house, lifts high to show sheer underwear. She knows he knows she's shown more than she should since they've been at the dance. His anger's all she'd like to fan while stirring lust through touch and glance.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

This is a phenomenal challenge and I hope it continues. I bet it would be an excellent exercise to suggest to newer poets, to help them look more closely at their sentence structure and the flow of ideas.

keep up the good work, all!

bj

 

[Liar]

This is a phenomenal challenge and I hope it continues. I bet it would be an excellent exercise to suggest to newer poets, to help them look more closely at their sentence structure and the flow of ideas.

You know, to me his did something to the poems that I was kind of suspecting, but at a much greater magnitude than I thought it would. It strips the poems naked. I am forced to read them more carefully, and I really get to pause and think of the ideas behind each image and notion written instead of the, well, decoration.

Lots of poems, my own none the least, are prose vignettes playing dress-up.

Now,I'm not sure wether that is a bad thing per se, but I found, when "straightening out" some of my poems, that many were only marginally different from when I write descriptive narration. While others were, in fact, something else.

That something else seems to be the ever elusive idea, that can only be expressed in poetry form. And thus the "flat" paragraph becomes a poem, no matter if there are line breaks or not.

Vague, I know. But it's late and I've been inhaling strange fumes.

 

[Astaroth666]

Let me go. Your presence haunts me. Your voice chills me. To the point where I can't. Breathe. Think. it converts me into something that I don't want to be. Your words are like poison. Rich and decadent. I scream out. Because your shadow beckons me. Into eternity where my eyes are blind. And I am chained to the past of your lies and my cries. Ahead I only see darkness. She whispers to me hotly. "Come to me my daughter, daughter of the light". "I shall be your guardian, you shall be my knight". And I reach out with my soul and my being. While you lie in bed, dreaming of deceiving. I give up on second chances. Because you make me feel like I am senseless. Like I'm a fool and I don't see. How you like hiding behind that tree. I take my sword, I take my ax. I slash away the pain and the regret. The Darkness helps me strengthen my stride. Because the truth remains stronger than the tide.

 

[Angeline]

You have been gone twelve years today. I lit the yorsite candle not because I believe but because there is no one else left to do it. Everything is gone but my memories. I still count One Mississippi, Two Mississippi to measure the distance between lightning and me and I still walk in the rain without melting and I still talk to all of you every day, but none of you ever answer and it is so lonely here in a world that is so full and so empty at the same time.

 

[Liar]

Trying this with an old, short one.


Cetacean

In the summers we were dolphins, submerged in ocean from sunrise to dinner, dodging jellyfish and chasing plaice in over hued sun heated pockets, while bladderwrack tickled our bellies and we dreamed of webbed toes and bigger lungs. In the winters we left our bodies dry, in houses and blankets, in jackets and heavy shoes, and left our souls to sleep in the deep trenches.

 

[Liar]

or something even shorter...

---

Look behind walls, inside machines, beyond faces. Find the music.

---