Wednesday, April 16, 2014

TEN WAYS OF LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW

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From NaPoWriMo, today's prompt is as follows: "...the basic idea is to write a ten-line poem in which each line is a lie. Your lies could be silly, complicated, tricky, or obvious."



Ten Ways of Looking Out the Window


Baby, baby, I was not born this way, I was expelled from the earth's core like raison bread.


Time to renew your membership is to dance a solo polka down the mountain path.

Sloppy bog walks are best done in the highest of high heels.

Truth is no way to treat a tumbleweed.

I came, I saw, I conquered, I bled, and in each moment books were read.

Sagebrush country makes me long to trip about in bare feet and a helmut.

Oak leaves are best in a stew of words and wisdom, mashed or crumbled, matters not.

Find the way to the moon, slide back home on a milky river of wayness, too soon too late.

Greet the pigeons purposefully to ensure your fern digging goes well.

There are knives here, and ropes, and whirlpools waiting to take us all down.



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And now on to the real fun of the day. Sorting out income tax paperwork. Yee-ha!


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Tuesday, April 15, 2014

TERZA RIMA TERROR

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The ides of April is upon us. And for today's adventure in scratch something down, we're to "write a poem in terza rima. This form was invented by Dante, and used in The Divine Comedy. It consists of three-line stanzas, with a “chained” rhyme scheme. The first stanza is ABA, the second is BCB, the third is CDC, and so on. No particular meter is necessary, but English poets have tended to default to iambic pentameter (iambic pentameter is like the Microsoft Windows of English poetry). One common way of ending a terza rima poem is with a single line standing on its own, rhyming with the middle line of the preceding three-line stanza."

Thank you, Dante. Although it could be worse. It could be a glosa. I'm just not feeling particularly rhymey tonight. 

Terza Rima Terror 


it must be time to turn out lights and sleep
morning comes early, so many things to do
I search for words that wind up in a heap

can’t find pure rhymes; they manage to allude.
A starved-for-air balloon, my brain caves in —
if inspiration doesn’t come, I’m screwed


time to let it go and get the sleep I’m craving

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Monday, April 14, 2014

SCHEHERAZADE HAS TO WONDER

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"Today’s prompt (optional, as always) is a little something I’m calling “Twenty Questions.” The idea is to write a poem in which every sentence, except for the last one, is in the form of a question. That’s it! It can be as long or short as you like. The questions can be deep and philosophical (‘what is the meaning of life?’) or routine and practical (‘are you going to eat that?’). Or both!"

So sayeth the PP (Prompt Person) over at NaPoWriMo

Here we go:


Scheherazade Has to Wonder

Does the sun know what colour it is?
Will the dangling branch in the birch ever fall?
How can a starling stare down a muskrat?
Is there a reason for shame?
When will the big one come to the island?
Who is going to gather the grapes?
Which one of the two of them will wander?
Can a spring day become a train wreck?
What would the platypus do?
Why can't book cloth be valued as gold?
Where are the mice and the fruit flies?
Magic carpet on the floor of life, the day rolls out.

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Sunday, April 13, 2014

HOMESWEET

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Eleven-eighteen PM. I think I might have a haiku in me...or three.

Homesweet

such a splendid night
roast a perfect medium
wine the perfect red

four generations
so glad to be together
all talking at once 

in the room downstairs
a grandson sleeping over
three months a long time

Eleven-twenty-eight. Possibly a new record for poeming and posting!

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Saturday, April 12, 2014

SOMETHING ABOUT LONGING

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It's eight-thirty at night. I was out all day taking a course on how to photograph your artwork from Jeremy Addington. I learned a ton about the inner workings of my little Lumix that I've never bothered with before. All this learning, of course, meant not writing a poem. A replacement poem, to be exact. The prompt?

Pick a common noun for a physical thing, for example, “desk” or “hat” or “bear,” and then pick one for something intangible, like “love” or “memories” or “aspiration.” Then Google your tangible noun, and find some sentences using it. Now, replace that tangible noun in those sentences with your intangible noun, and use those sentences to create (or inspire) a poem."

I used "fence" as my tangible and "longing" as my intangible, found a bunch of sentences to do with fences on Wikipedia and other websites, and fiddled them around to get this:

Something About Longing

Ownership of longing varies.
Longing redefines smiles, 
provides spaces which own the longing, 
obstructing the view.

The value of longing,
the metaphorical significance of longing,
something about longing
needs barbed-wire, doesn't climb over it.

Source of bitter arguments,
the inside face of longing
makes you feel special,
unsettled, owned by longing.

What kind of longing is required, 
what kind of repairs are needed, 
how to share the costs?
Fear is longing.

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Friday, April 11, 2014

THE POETRY OF WINE AND LOVE

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So today, my first back in my northern home since the beginning of January, I'm crazy busy doing laundry, unpacking, cutting the cat's  claws, sifting through mail (the post box kind), making appointments, generally going crazy, and today's prompt would have me write about wine and love?

"Poets have been writing about love and wine, wine and love, since . . . well, since the time of Anacreon, a Greek poet who was rather partial to that subject matter. Anacreon developed a particular meter for his tipsy, lovey-dovey verse, but Anacreontics in English generally do away with meter-based constraints. Anacreontics might be described as a sort of high-falutin’ drinking song. So today I challenge you to write about wine-and-love."

I got nothing. Nothing, I tell you!

So here goes nothing:



The Poetry of Wine and Love

Wine, wine, beautiful wine
Find me a bar and I'll set up a shrine
Call me a fool, call me a lover
This is what happens when 'round wine I hover
Red stuff or white stuff or pink in-between
All goes to the crotch if you know what I mean
That's why I'm digging out bottles and glasses
In hopes that we tipple and fall on our asses
There's nothing like po'try to make us feel fine
Po'try and lovin' and three kinds of wine!


There. Can I go back to my laundry now? Oh, screw that; the sun's shining. I'm going for a walk!

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Thursday, April 10, 2014

ODE To MaD MEN

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"Once upon a time," says NaPoWriMo today, "poetry was regularly used in advertisements, most notably the Burma-Shave ads. Today the challenge is to write a poem that advertises something. 

What to do, what to do. I realize I am ambivalent about advertising. God knows we have constantly bombarded with it. Billboards, magazine copy, all over the Internet—everywhere you flipping' look. I guess I dislike it because it works. I've certainly gone looking for and bought stuff because I first heard about it via an ad of some sort. And I've also gone out of my way NOT to use a product or two because the way it's advertised irks me. I would think this through a little harder and give some examples, but I'm all packed and about ready to leave for the last leg of the trip which involves an eight hour drive and I suspect I may not feel like blogging when I get home. Maybe I'll just write an advertisement that extols the virtues of not advertising.

Ode to mAd Man


Take a billboard, paint it white
cover it with brilliant light
reflect the flowers over there,
sunlight on a baby's hair
water shimmer in a puddle
birds on branches in a huddle

Outside a vineyard hang a sign
that doesn't make me think of wine.
When I'm walking past a bakery
smells alone should want to make me
stop and enter, sample, buy.
See? You hardly have to try.

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