new game for anyone who wants to play inbetween actual writing

[Angeline]

a kinda like an 'i don't know what the hell that is but it shouldn't be allowed' sort of thing


*hands annie a pot to pissy in*


*smiles and says nuthin' that might incriminate myself*

No it's good! Kinda like a Lennon In His Own Write sorta way. Anyway, you know I like jabberwocky: remember my mollusk poem?

 

[butters]

No it's good! Kinda like a Lennon In His Own Write sorta way. Anyway, you know I like jabberwocky: remember my mollusk poem?

it was fun but i wouldn't go so far as to say good - and the fresh salads line is dire, lmao. but thankyou and yes, i remember

 

[Remec]

the opening line! - i could tell immediately what it was parodying as i heard the words pace themselves in my thoughts.

I was just thinking when reading things yesterday (esp Annie's), how interesting it was that I knew exactly what the items were without needing links or the originals to compare them with. And I can't begin to think when I last read any of those authors, let alone those particular poems.

I may have to find something to play along. It's kind of like filk singing, though, you have to find the right spark to move you from the material as it is to the material as you re-envision it.

Maybe something Seussian?

 

[butters]

I was just thinking when reading things yesterday (esp Annie's), how interesting it was that I knew exactly what the items were without needing links or the originals to compare them with. And I can't begin to think when I last read any of those authors, let alone those particular poems.

I may have to find something to play along. It's kind of like filk singing, though, you have to find the right spark to move you from the material as it is to the material as you re-envision it.

Maybe something Seussian?

yes, this exactly. imprinted. we are im print ed.

please do and if it wasn't for 12's i would still be floundering.

perhaps this might have been better if poets took it in turns to suggest the poem to parody for the next writer. then we concentrate our attentions rather than let them wander off to sniff at the long grass and watch butterflies and.... yeah.

seussian shhhnowian?

 

[HarryHill]

Parody on dude

 

[twelveoone]

the opening line! - i could tell immediately what it was parodying as i heard the words pace themselves in my thoughts.

yeah, i feel real pity for someone like you who can't write.

they're good lines, you know it

where Alf the li'l alien ran
through programmes beamed to T.V'd man

well either you are fucking awesome, or I am
let's split the tab, today.
I was going to do Kilmore trees, but Tzara grabbed it

 

[butters]

well either you are fucking awesome, or I am
let's split the tab, today.
I was going to do Kilmore trees, but Tzara grabbed it

well, duh

imprinted

i've said before it's probably the first poem that hit me between the eyes and ears as a teenager, made me fall in love with the essence of poetry. perhaps if i hadn't known it was a parody... dunno.

 

[twelveoone]

Parody on dude

baw,haw,haw
sorry
baw,haw,haw
sorry
fuckhead* (I had to explain to a foreign person, it was an American term of endearment)
any accident you walk away from is good accident.
*see def 3, it was written by a bitch, so you have to substitute fuckhead
for bitch, and drop the mad love shit at the end
shame about the car, probably needed a paint job any way

 

[twelveoone]

well, duh

imprinted

i've said before it's probably the first poem that hit me between the eyes and ears as a teenager, made me fall in love with the essence of poetry. perhaps if i hadn't known it was a parody... dunno.

that's the first poem I read where I asked, "Is this guy on drugs?", 'cause how else did he get from China to Africa so quick?
"It is the magic of poetry", the teacher said.
"Really?" I've not been right since. Even though later I found out, he was. Or at least claimed to be.

 

[butters]

that's the first poem I read where I asked, "Is this guy on drugs?", 'cause how else did he get from China to Africa so quick?
"It is the magic of poetry", the teacher said.
"Really?" I've not been right since. Even though later I found out, he was. Or at least claimed to be.

i didn't know about drugs back then when i was 14. pure and innocent, me. i was enamoured of the river running through the caverns measureless to man. *sigh* that phrase. it kils me.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Fever! fever! burning bright
in the middle of the night.
What hallucinations spy?
Giant spiders by my eye!

 

[Tzara]

Fever! fever! burning bright
in the middle of the night.
What hallucinations spy?
Giant spiders by my eye!

Tyger
Panthera tigris, after Blake

The Tyger pads throughout the night,
His jaws agape. He wants to bite
Some person's mortal hand or eye.

Like, fuck that fearful symmetry.

There are no distant deeps, no lies
In his laser-focused eyes.
We're simply animal, desired,

Things to be eaten, thus acquired.

He is an carnivore, a thing
That evolution wrought, breathing,
Fearsome, fearful, but not quite

Perfect. And not black nor white.

 

[butters]

Parody on dude

 

[butters]

Tyger
Panthera tigris, after Blake

The Tyger pads throughout the night,
His jaws agape. He wants to bite
Some person's mortal hand or eye.

Like, fuck that fearful symmetry.

There are no distant deeps, no lies
In his laser-focused eyes.
We're simply animal, desired,

Things to be eaten, thus acquired.

He is an carnivore, a thing
That evolution wrought, breathing,
Fearsome, fearful, but not quite

Perfect. And not black nor white.

these three lines make me sit up and take notice - like they're the thrust, the rest background noise. not saying it's rubbish, nope - just that the rest feels almost window dressing to ignore because those three lines are all that matter.

 

[butters]

Do not ho's bend thee sinning into that good night?
Old age should dance and rave at close of day;
Rave, rave again, chips frying till it's light.

So wise men find their ends know left from right,
Because their shoes are marked with letters they
Drew on themselves - planning ahead into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
The streets lights seem - they'd danced to Green Day,
Raved, raved against the dying of the night.

 

[twelveoone]

Do not ho's bend thee sinning into that good night?
Old age should dance and rave at close of day;
Rave, rave again, chips frying till it's light.

So wise men find their ends know left from right,
Because their shoes are marked with letters they
Drew on themselves - planning ahead into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
The streets lights seem - they'd danced to Green Day,
Raved, raved against the dying of the night.

So wise men find their ends know left from right,
Because their shoes are marked with letters they

I have the DT's

 

[pelegrino]

STAGGERING HOME

Staggering home on drunken feet,
she’s like a starless cloudy night,
An ugly customer indeed,
In her worse aspect, giving freight,
To vision blind, to sound deaf,
Maybe she even scares herself.

No shade or light could improve,
Her arrogant and stupid face,
Her graceless and clumsy move,
Making you think, "what hopeless case!”
Where thoughts inane are in the groove,
And the whole world they disapprove.

On that rough skin, no trace of juice,
Her blossom years hastily went,
With herself never made a truce,
In drunkenness her life spent,
A soul at war, and hell breaks loose,
Chasing her beauties' wild goose.

Note:
My model was not someone as beautiful as Mrs. Wilmot, or possibly Augusta Leigh, as in Byron's poem.
I had in mind someone more like the school mistress out of Dickens' "Nicholas Nickleby".

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/She_Walks_in_Beauty

 

[Angeline]

STAGGERING HOME

Staggering home on drunken feet,
she’s like a starless cloudy night,
An ugly customer indeed,
In her worse aspect, giving freight,
To vision blind, to sound deaf,
Maybe she even scares herself.

No shade or light could improve,
Her arrogant and stupid face,
Her graceless and clumsy move,
Making you think, "what hopeless case!”
Where thoughts inane are in the groove,
And the whole world they disapprove.

On that rough skin, no trace of juice,
Her blossom years hastily went,
With herself never made a truce,
In drunkenness her life spent,
A soul at war, and hell breaks loose,
Chasing her beauties' wild goose.

Note:
My model was not someone as beautiful as Mrs. Wilmot, or possibly Augusta Leigh, as in Byron's poem.
I had in mind someone more like the school mistress out of Dickens' "Nicholas Nickleby".

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/She_Walks_in_Beauty

This is great! I know just who you mean, too! Fanny Squeers, right? There are some changes I might make to get the whole thing smoother, but I'm always hesitant to say that with your stuff as it it does not account for the music. A song may have a poem in it, but the music is as important (or moreso) than the words.

 

[pelegrino]

Thanks, Angeline, we do have in mind the same person.
Please, go ahead, don’t hesitate with suggestions, you can pm me when you work something out. Melodies can be quite adaptable to more or less syllables by turning syllabic to melismatic setting and vice versa, while rhymes and cadences can be changed from masculine to feminine etc.

 

[Angeline]

Thanks, Angeline, we do have in mind the same person.
Please, go ahead, don’t hesitate with suggestions, you can pm me when you work something out. Melodies can be quite adaptable to more or less syllables by turning syllabic to melismatic setting and vice versa, while rhymes and cadences can be changed from masculine to feminine etc.

Ok I will but what is "melismatic setting"? That is er ...Greek to me.

The reason I ask is because the main type of changes I'd suggest would include adding a syllable here and there and/or changing from passive to active voice. But I don't know if that screws up the song.

 

[pelegrino]

Ok I will but what is "melismatic setting"? That is er ...Greek to me.

The reason I ask is because the main type of changes I'd suggest would include adding a syllable here and there and/or changing from passive to active voice. But I don't know if that screws up the song.

See here, easy to understand:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melisma
Syllabic: one note per syllable. (articulated)
Melismatic: several notes on one syllable.

I had a melody on the go but i'll wait for your reply.

 

[Angeline]

See here, easy to understand:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melisma
Syllabic: one note per syllable. (articulated)
Melismatic: several notes on one syllable.

I had a melody on the go but i'll wait for your reply.

Fair enough.

 

[butters]

So wise men find their ends know left from right,
Because their shoes are marked with letters they

I have the DT's

sh-sh-sh-shake it

STAGGERING HOME

Staggering home on drunken feet,
she’s like a starless cloudy night,
An ugly customer indeed,
In her worse aspect, giving freight,
To vision blind, to sound deaf,
Maybe she even scares herself.

No shade or light could improve,
Her arrogant and stupid face,
Her graceless and clumsy move,
Making you think, "what hopeless case!”
Where thoughts inane are in the groove,
And the whole world they disapprove.

On that rough skin, no trace of juice,
Her blossom years hastily went,
With herself never made a truce,
In drunkenness her life spent,
A soul at war, and hell breaks loose,
Chasing her beauties' wild goose.

Note:
My model was not someone as beautiful as Mrs. Wilmot, or possibly Augusta Leigh, as in Byron's poem.
I had in mind someone more like the school mistress out of Dickens' "Nicholas Nickleby".

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/She_Walks_in_Beauty

oh my word
and i ask myself 'What would Byron think?'

i've yet to come up with an answer

 

[Tsotha]

STAGGERING HOME

Staggering home on drunken feet,
she’s like a starless cloudy night,
An ugly customer indeed,
In her worse aspect, giving freight,
To vision blind, to sound deaf,
Maybe she even scares herself.

No shade or light could improve,
Her arrogant and stupid face,
Her graceless and clumsy move,
Making you think, "what hopeless case!”
Where thoughts inane are in the groove,
And the whole world they disapprove.

On that rough skin, no trace of juice,
Her blossom years hastily went,
With herself never made a truce,
In drunkenness her life spent,
A soul at war, and hell breaks loose,
Chasing her beauties' wild goose.

Note:
My model was not someone as beautiful as Mrs. Wilmot, or possibly Augusta Leigh, as in Byron's poem.
I had in mind someone more like the school mistress out of Dickens' "Nicholas Nickleby".

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/She_Walks_in_Beauty

Bravo.

 

[pelegrino]

Charade

Italian effeminate gentlemen,
Escorted by ladies for cover,
Departing from France in Catamaran,
Are soon to arrive in Dover.

Adieux, mes amies and mes camarades,
Adieux, mon Calais et Boulogne,
Worse than this trip it could be my charade,
And I am to play it all alone.

(excuse my French)