November Poetry Challenge

[Tzara]

OK. So Neo's winked off on the suspect whine that he's doing NaNoWriMo. Well. So am I. Wimpy kid.

But then I don't have youngsters, like he does. And I'm insomniac. Makes for more writing time. So. Here's a November challenge. Take it, leave it, live with it.

Pick a famous (or a not-so-famous) poem by a well-known poet. Could be Yeats or Byron or Eliot. Longfellow. Joyce Kilmer, even, though expect to be ridiculed. Could be Shakespeare. Could even be our own smithpeter, for that matter, as people loved him around here. Don't matter.

Write a poem in response to your selected poem. Simple, eh?

Maybe not. What does "in response to" mean? Well, it could mean many things:

• Write an imitative poem. Imitate the author's style.
• Write a poem on the same theme or narrative, but in your own style.
• Write a parody of the poem
• Write a poem in the style of your selected author, with no other relation to the selected poem.
• Write a poem as different as you can make it from your selected poem.
• Write anything you want. Really.

The only real requirement is that you post both the inspirational poem and your poem at the same time. Show us what inspired you.

I'll post some examples in a few minutes.

Yeah, this is late. Get going, people. Due by the 25th. Comments through the end of the month.

Later. Writin' a book right now.

Yaw.




Yo! Mods! Don't know how to do a sticky. Dumbass, yeah, I know. Can you either do it or tell me? Thx.

 

[Tzara]

Example 1: If I can do this, hell, can you do this!

Here's an example of what I mean. Same theme, kinda. Quality is optional.

Inspirational poem:

The Red Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.​

And of course I can't write anything that good. But I can react to it. Write something responding to it. Like this:

Always

There are always chickens,
white or red or barred,
and wheelbarrows, though
not always red.

And rain.
There is always rain.​

You, surely, can do better.

C'mon. Can't you?

 

[flyguy69]

Christopher Smart's Jubilate Agno:

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his
way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant
quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon
his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the
beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and
glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he
suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit
without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the
spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the
Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him
exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence
perpetually -- Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in
music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from
heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, tho' he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other
quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.


Inspired this from me:

Jubilate Gallo

For I will consider my penis.
For it serves me daily.
For it rises in service, and it is served in rising.
For this service is done at length and breadth.
For it is flesh, and of flesh.
For it is full, and is filled.
For the fullness of its glory is with heat and ardor.
For it generates the heat through its own ardor.
For it has a slight and upward curl.
For it is created in the image of the elephant and the serpent.
For it can pee.
For it performs an art.
For it brings joy in performance.
For it performs in 4 stages.
For firstly it stiffens.
For secondly it thrusts vigorously, to the fore and to the rear.
For thirdly it spits.
For fourthly it falls limp.
For it is content in the soft nest of my crotch.
For it remembers the Phoenix, winged angel of fire.
For it is born anew by the flames of lust, which are the expressions of prayer.
For it has known suffering.
For it knows the colors of rudeness: the blue of anguish and the purple of denial.
For it is forgiving.
For it can be cleaned, and cleanliness is a sign of chastity.
For with suds it can be made to appear a lollipop.
For it wears a beard with dignity.
For it takes to my fist with gusto.
For it expresses delight in great streams.
For it leaps, cat-like, in my grip, and cats led the exodus of the Jew.
For priestesses of the Rastafari and of the Free Mason know of it.
For it is humble in cold water.
For it goes not gentle into that good night.
For it knows a joke or two.
For it has good taste.
For it can fuck.

 

[Tzara]

A second bad example

Here's another example. Meant to be parody. Notice the clumsiness of expression, so that you should not feel the least bit embarrassed about your own effort.

Here's the original, and classic, poem:

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.​

And here is the parodic mess I wrote in repsonse:

Stop Editing Words on as "Knowy" Evening

Whose words these are I think I know.
His mouse is probing silage though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his words fill up with know.
A little hoarse, I think it clear
To stop without thesaurus near
Between these words and frozen Jake,
On darkest evening of the year.
Jake gives his harassed rhymes a shake
And asks if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the seep
Of southward wind from out of Jake.

These words are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
E-mail to send before I sleep,
E-mail to send before I sleep.​

So. Just sayin' that you don't have to do anything good. I certainly haven't in either of these examples. Just do it. (Hey, fuck off, Nike lawyers.)

Happy November. Film at 11.

 

[Tzara]

Christopher Smart's Jubilate Agno:

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his
way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant
quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon
his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the
beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and
glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he
suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit
without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the
spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the
Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him
exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence
perpetually -- Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in
music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from
heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, tho' he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other
quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.


Inspired this from me:

Jubilate Gallo

For I will consider my penis.
For it serves me daily.
For it rises in service, and it is served in rising.
For this service is done at length and breadth.
For it is flesh, and of flesh.
For it is full, and is filled.
For the fullness of its glory is with heat and ardor.
For it generates the heat through its own ardor.
For it has a slight and upward curl.
For it is created in the image of the elephant and the serpent.
For it can pee.
For it performs an art.
For it brings joy in performance.
For it performs in 4 stages.
For firstly it stiffens.
For secondly it thrusts vigorously, to the fore and to the rear.
For thirdly it spits.
For fourthly it falls limp.
For it is content in the soft nest of my crotch.
For it remembers the Phoenix, winged angel of fire.
For it is born anew by the flames of lust, which are the expressions of prayer.
For it has known suffering.
For it knows the colors of rudeness: the blue of anguish and the purple of denial.
For it is forgiving.
For it can be cleaned, and cleanliness is a sign of chastity.
For with suds it can be made to appear a lollipop.
For it wears a beard with dignity.
For it takes to my fist with gusto.
For it expresses delight in great streams.
For it leaps, cat-like, in my grip, and cats led the exodus of the Jew.
For priestesses of the Rastafari and of the Free Mason know of it.
For it is humble in cold water.
For it goes not gentle into that good night.
For it knows a joke or two.
For it has good taste.
For it can fuck.

Right idea, mister. 'Spose to be a new poem, though.

 

[flyguy69]

Ooooh.

Just let me whip out my 30/30 first, then I'll get to this thing.

 

[Tzara]

Ooooh.

Just let me whip out my 30/30 first, then I'll get to this thing.

I am not holding my breath.

Just sayin'.

Nice example, though.

 

[Lauren Hynde]

Yo! Mods! Don't know how to do a sticky. Dumbass, yeah, I know. Can you either do it or tell me? Thx.

Can you imagine what the place would be like if anyone could do a sticky?

Anyway, you're stuck. And great challenge, I'm definitely in. (Might take some time, though)

 

[My Erotic Trail]

(Billy Collin's poem; Shoveling Snow With Buddha, I will use this poem for the November challenge at Lit-poetry forum. I wrote my own version (as suggested; my style) of such a situation. Thank you Tzara, good challenge!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breaking the Ice with Buddha
by Art

In the idealistic Temple of my soul
out in the cold, shoveling snow.
He sits cross-legged, waving his hand in the air
white as a snow capped mountain, his head
shaved for hair may knot and strangle concentration.

Tossing frozen rain, he will not do
he'll calls it, 'meaningless labor.'
"What is it you are doing?" He broke the ice.

"Shoveling snow" I tried to ignore him
driving the beveled blade deep into the snow.
His suggestion would be; to let mother nature do this work
when ever she gets around to warming up the sun
simply let it melt away.

"Snowflake's enemy," he calls to me
last summer he called me 'Yard Artist' when I cut the lawn.
"Why not use the portable propane flame throwing heater and melt the snow instantly?" He suggested.

"Because, I am almost out of propane!" I exclaimed,
my hands wrapped firmly around the shovel's handle
releasing another load of white poop and snow butterflies.

"Melt the snow with what propane there is
then drive to acquire more."
His words stuck in my mind where he sat,
like a wet tongue on a flag pole.

I stormed to the garage
retrieved the portable propane heater and turned it on
it blasted a six inch flame and a four foot stream of heat
in a jiffy I had melted the snow in the driveway
wondering why this method had not been thought of before.

"Is Buddha a genius?"

He belly laughed his permanent jaded smile
I was standing in an ankle deep lake
of slowly freezing water
it had no way to trail off
from mounds of shoveled snow as far as I can see,
"You can not manipulate the elements
without creating an alternate problem. Ying Yang!"

"Do you have any skates," He asked
as the water turned into a five inch thick slate of ice
trying to turn a problem into a blessing.
"Need a jack-hammer?" He snickered.
I could've strangled him but that would be suicide.

If acceptance is the key to tranquility
then I will never be tranquil
because I have a hard time understanding
why the price of propane doubled since yesterday.
"If one man has liquid heat and another does not;
their relationship becomes balanced by currency...
when it snows!"

Maybe Buddha will bless me with a hot sun tomorrow
or he will be there, enlightening me, while I
shovel snow

...and break the ice!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shoveling Snow With Buddha
by Billy Collins

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.

 

[champagne1982]

The Man into Whose Yard You Should Not Hit Your Ball

each day mowed
and mowed his lawn, his dry quarter-acre,
the machine slicing a wisp
from each blade's tip. Dust storms rose
around the roar, 6 p.m. every day,
spring, summer, fall. If he could mow
the snow he would.
On one side, his neighbors the cows
turned their backs to him
and did what they do to the grass.
Where he worked, I don't know,
but it set his jaw to: tight.
His wife a cipher, shoebox tissue,
a shattered apron. As if
into her head he drove a wedge of shale.
Years later, his daughter goes to jail.
Mow, mow, mow his lawn
gently down a decade's summers.
On his other side lived mine and me,
across a narrow pasture, often fallow --
a field of fly balls, the best part of childhood
and baseball. But if a ball crossed his line,
as one did in 1956,
and another in 1958,
it came back coleslaw -- his lawnmower
ate it up, happy
to cut something, no matter
what the manual said
about foreign objects,
stones, or sticks.

-- Thomas Lux​

The Judges on Whose Toes You Shouldn't Step

each crew rowed
and rowed their boat, that wet quarter-mile,
the keel slicing a trough
through each wave's swell. Spindrifts rose
around the splash, 7 am every day,
spring, summer, fall. If they could row
the ice they would
On one bank, the stands of fans
stood on their feet to cheer
and did what audiences do at the show.
What they studied, I don't know,
but it set their shoulders back: straight.
Their coach a poet, notepad papers,
a leaking pen. As if
into his heart they sang a song of hope.
Years later the college revives the sculls.
Row, row, row your boat
faster against the flow of time's slip.
On the river once again they ship their oars,
to rest weary on the gunwales, blisters --
palms toughened for the race, the best part of summer
regattas. But if a boat drifts out of line,
as one did in the Ottawa,
and another in the Bow,
the crew would be losers -- race judges
disqualifying, gleeful
to capsize a crew, no matter
what the rules say
about interference,
false starts and penalties.

 

[Tzara]

MET and Champie--thanks for the great examples!

I'm staggering to the finish line of the 30/30 at the moment and will need to pause a day or two under one of those funky aluminized blankets to catch my poetic breath, then I'll try and write something for this one, it bein' my challenge, and all.

C'mon people. S&D's original proposal was, after all, only 12 poems in 12 months, fer gawd's sake. Surely you guys can handle that. Don't make me threaten to post those pictures of you on the Internet, now.

Nice pictures, though, I must say.

 

[annaswirls]

I will give it a try

 

[Tzara]

First try

Here's the source poem, a very famous one by Ezra Pound:

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.​

And here is my dimwitted response:

In a Station of the Métro,
Near the Place de la Concorde

I find here neither petals nor black boughs.
Breezes sough, though, from the sewers down below.​

 

[Bedtime Storyteller]

i will give this some thoughtful consideration... perhaps... yes, perhaps...

 

[annaswirls]

I got to hear Robert Pinsky talk at our neighborhood college a couple of nights ago. He told us how he had heard a wonderful poem by a persian poet at one of the "Favorite Poems" nights and how he had copied the pattern "When I this, I that" pattern to write Samurai Song.

I wrote the inspiration piece off the cuff, more about the copying and the event than off the poem, but none-the-less, I think it counts, but that is up to the Tzar



Noviembre 11, 2004
Robert Pinsky

Samurai Song
When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.

When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.

When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.

When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.

When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.

When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.

Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.




When I sing for my Supper, you skip Dessert

When I heard how you copied the Persian poet,
I copied you. When I copied you
I developed a slow leak
in my passenger's side.

We coasted along the rumble strip
selling autographs and lemon confections.

When I used the last of the ink and sugar
I melted the sand into sun spark prisms
that led us to our pot of gold.

When I bought back my voice
off the last barrow in a Persian market
I sang out Of Jewels and Horses!
For God, Mammon and Country!

And the poet-merchant replied
When I this, I that.
When I this, I that
and I told him a three time poet laureate
from the New World wanted to say hello,
thanks for the Samuari Song,
for all the lemon bars
carbonated fruit punch, tea.

 

[champagne1982]

anna, I love the rhythm in your piece. It swings through the read/response pattern so subtly and with just enough change up to keep it all moving.

And buying back your voice... I'm so glad you caught that Persian before he absconded and stashed it in Aladdin's cave.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Margaret Atwood's You Fit Into Me

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

Clutching Calliope's You Fit Into Me

You fit into me
like a pig into a sty

a chubby pig
a slipp'ry sty

sorry, couldn't resist

 

[Tzara]

I got to hear Robert Pinsky talk at our neighborhood college a couple of nights ago. He told us how he had heard a wonderful poem by a persian poet at one of the "Favorite Poems" nights and how he had copied the pattern "When I this, I that" pattern to write Samurai Song.

I wrote the inspiration piece off the cuff, more about the copying and the event than off the poem, but none-the-less, I think it counts, but that is up to the Tzar

Of course it counts. You can write anything you want, just show us the poem that inspired it, which you did. Great job, m'dear.

 

[Tzara]

Margaret Atwood's You Fit Into Me

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

Clutching Calliope's You Fit Into Me

You fit into me
like a pig into a sty

a chubby pig
a slipp'ry sty

sorry, couldn't resist

 

[Tzara]

.....

.....

 

[SpectaclesInSkirt]

Auden vs. Specs

Song IX (from Two Songs for Hedli Anderson, a.k.a. Funeral Blues)
W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


Granddaughter's Dirge

Wind up the toys, call forth our leagues of friends,
Send the children out screaming, "Time to make amends!"
Let fall your work clothes, pull on your new blue dress,
The bastard's dead and gone, his daughter sighing, "Yes."

String pink roses down your newly straightened back,
Dye your encroaching grey and return to black.
Dispose of excess pills, though only four remain,
Let me take your picture, your pretty smile's here again.

He was her past, her shame, her work and toil,
Her breaking heart, her planning child's boil.
Her dawn, her dusk, her thief, her blight,
I said, "He won't be here forever." I was right.

My mother falls and rises when she chooses now,
No wretched man summoning for a row.
I take her photograph, and when I go to bed,
Thank the kindly reaper, who takes away my dead.

 

[Angeline]

Sonnet XI
Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.


Your Lips Tremble
Angeline

Your lips tremble when I kiss you. Your voice
rumbles desire this street that twists need
from my silence I cry out to you my hands
nourished with greed slippery I want I want

your root to part the curtain of night I am
Eos rising to the liquid measure of stars fallen
into me. Swallowed. Your sad eyes close,
the moon sighs waxing gibbous, a fingernail

full, then half. The bone harvest settles
and hair slicks the milk of skin. I am victory
sated with a kiss of your lashes, a whisper

in your ear Good Morning my lover’s lovely
face is pale in sunbeam’s smile we drink
last sleep while crows mock the tired pines.

 

[Minervous]

.....

 

[Tzara]

Hey, thanks y'all, for your contributions. Some great new poems by Ange and Specs, and from mine own true love, Min. Yeah, you, m'dear. Love you.

This has worked well so far, I think. Swell new poems and postings of great ones from the great. Thanks especially to Specs for riffing off my man Auden. Awesome, awesome poet. Thank you, ma'am.

Oh, and Ms. A.? I think Neruda was OK (cough), or, well, good. (hack, cough, cough) OK, OK. Very good Very very good.

And yo, lurkers! There be still plenty of time to participate. Go back to here to read the rather inconclusive rules and slam something down. I think someone should do Bukowski, and maybe Blake. Or even, let's say, Helen Steiner Rice.

Yeah, yeah. Maybe too much.

Twelve days left, folks. Second trys are good.

Murp. 'Scusie.

 

[Angeline]

Hey, thanks y'all, for your contributions. Some great new poems by Ange and Specs, and from mine own true love, Min. Yeah, you, m'dear. Love you.

This has worked well so far, I think. Swell new poems and postings of great ones from the great. Thanks especially to Specs for riffing off my man Auden. Awesome, awesome poet. Thank you, ma'am.

Oh, and Ms. A.? I think Neruda was OK (cough), or, well, good. (hack, cough, cough) OK, OK. Very good Very very good.

And yo, lurkers! There be still plenty of time to participate. Go back to here to read the rather inconclusive rules and slam something down. I think someone should do Bukowski, and maybe Blake. Or even, let's say, Helen Steiner Rice.

Yeah, yeah. Maybe too much.

Twelve days left, folks. Second trys are good.

Murp. 'Scusie.

I think that Neruda poem is cough, cough very very erm good, too. I must. It has stuck in my fevered little mind since I first read it.