November Poetry Challenge

[Sara Crewe]

And yo, lurkers! )

I may keep lurking just to see if you will say, "Yo, lurkers," again. It makes me giggle . It's just so gangsta of you.

 

[Tzara]

I may keep lurking just to see if you will say, "Yo, lurkers," again. It makes me giggle . It's just so gangsta of you.

I have about as much street cred as Kevin Federline. But I like to hear you giggle, so you can call me T-Zed.

 

[bogusbrig]

I'm up for this but by when does the poem have to be posted?

 

[Sara Crewe]

I have about as much street cred as Kevin Federline. But I like to hear you giggle, so you can call me T-Zed.

You know I will, right? You need more bling and maybe slouch more...and stick your hip out to one side. Take your shirt off and put a hoodie on and then scowl while you make pretend guns with your hands. And here, pull this cap way down over your eyes. There.




And to not be a total thread jacking menace, here ya go BB as quoted from T-zed's first post:

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

 

[bogusbrig]

And to not be a total thread jacking menace, here ya go BB as quoted from T-zed's first post:

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

I am obviously blind or iliterate.

 

[annaswirls]

I am obviously blind or iliterate.

yes but I love your hair. I might print out your av and take it to the salon

make me her, please

ps I have never used the word salon before, but hairdresser seemed so american cheese and she is so oui la la or something (with proper accents of course)

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

yes but I love your hair. I might print out your av and take it to the salon

make me her, please

ps I have never used the word salon before, but hairdresser seemed so american cheese and she is so oui la la or something (with proper accents of course)

Sacre Bleu!

 

[bogusbrig]

yes but I love your hair. I might print out your av and take it to the salon

make me her, please

Its Tanita Tikaram.

But this is how she was when I originally fell in love with her. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8ovXRDYjVQ

 

[annaswirls]

Its Tanita Tikaram.

But this is how she was when I originally fell in love with her. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8ovXRDYjVQ

ooooh I can understand the source of your affections! Lovely lady with a sultry voice....

 

[annaswirls]

Sacre Bleu!

blue sugar?

 

[Sara Crewe]

I am obviously blind or iliterate.

Don't be silly. Your post was like a word kiss from a prince charming-poet that changed me from a thread-jacker to a useful and contributing member of the board in one swift motion.

 

[bogusbrig]

This was inspired by Ted Hughes, though I'm not sure you would recognize the fact. Anyway, this is my piece for the November challenge.


My eyes are deep caves that echo
My skull pivots on its mechanical axis
I do not see or hear but possess a sixth sense
A sonar, a radar, I am sensitive to vibration
Nothing that moves or breaths escapes me
I am ruthless, deadly, perfect

I scan the shadow world from my eerie
I am the shadow that unfolds into flight
The wind in the bushes, the clank of gate
Swollen air in the sweat filled night
An ice finger down your spine
The invisible presence you sense

Look at me! My grin is fixed and leery
A piano mouth with chisel teeth, whistles
A dissonant song to chill the bones
Of those who would stumble in my path
Let them look and be turned to stone
By the hideous fossil, my countenance

 

[champagne1982]

The inspiration:

To My Beard by J.R. Solonche

What can I say but I am sorry,
I apologize for what I do to you,
my daily ruthlessness and cruelty.
What can I do but ask for your forgiveness
and your patience. For someday,
I promise you, someday I swear
on the beards of the prophets
and on the beard of the poet Whitman and
on the beard of the president Lincoln,
I will not stop you any longer,
I will let you go free, I will take down
the fence around you made of sharp blades.
For someday, I promise you, I will let
you run wild through the valleys
of my face like a stallion, I will let you
wander over the desert of my face
like a holy man in his vision of heaven
and hell, I will let you grow, blossom
and flourish, and I will stroke you
and comb you and keep you orderly
and free of knots and tangles,
and you in turn will make me look
distinguished, a wise old man as I stroke
you looking serious, looking as though
I were thinking deep thoughts about
life and death. But I will be thinking
only about you, my beard, my second face,
and this will be our secret.

my reply:

To My Pubes

I need to express my deep regret
over my prior actions,
a routine of nasty heartlessness.
What should I do but beg for tolerance
and understanding? One of these days
I swear on the triangle of the pussies
and on the curlies of the poet annaswirls and
on the shorties of the moderator Eve,
I will not cease your hirsute growth
but let you ramble free, I will tear down
the walls of satin and cotton crotches.
One of these days, I vow I will let you
sail free and wild along the river
of my quim like a canoe, I will grant
your freedom to flood the plain of my slit
like a courir de bois in his quest for fur
and pelts, I will let you sprout, leaf
and flower, and I will pet you
and trim you and keep you out of the teeth
of lovers and you will keep me horny
as a cat in heat, a slutty little pussy
as I finger you, looking lusty, looking
for all the world as if I were a whore
and could fuck every rampant prick
in the forest. But I will be lusting
only for my dildo and you, my pubes, will
curl attractively around it, my dildo,
and that is our secret.

 

[average gina]

Hey, y'all! Just had a moment to come by and check out what shaking. I have seen a lot of these poems in my lit book, so I think it's awesome. I am considering a poem that comes from the same book. Emulating it is going to be hard for a free form gal like me, but I'm willing to give it a go.

Time to stop procrastinating on my homework.

 

[MissBri]

 

[SpectaclesInSkirt]

Eliot vs. Specs

THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo
Questa fiamma staria sensa piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero
Sensa tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .


Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.’

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
‘That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all.’

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


MY NAME MEANS LOVE SONG

Vous pouvoir...persuadé ces vrais mensonges de bonheur dans la vertu seul et cela, bien que Dieu permet à la bonté être persécuté sur la terre, c'est avec aucune autre fin que nous préparer pour une meilleure récompense dans le ciel.

Stay a while, warm, here with me,
Now the day is done and we are we
And the bed is set for drowsy meals;
Stay a while, your left hand beneath the sheets,
Our bodies and their heats
At rest for once in a home of sorts
Lonely ships in fleshed out ports:
Sheets that wrap like winter coats
For unmoored and frosty boats
To keep you silent and anchored...
Please don't ask what I am thinking,
Stay a while and prevent my sinking.

On the street the men stare and smirk
Their eyes content to lick and lurk.

The bruising rain that washes its hands in gutter drains,
The bruising downpour that washes its hands in gutter drains,
Dried its wrists on darkened window glass,
Ran its skin on the open window-panes,
Wished for December that it might turn cold and white,
At the very least, crystallize into a productive day,
And wondering if the world would prefer a drought,
Paused, reproached itself, then walked away.

Silence, please, for a moment
For the bruising rain that stares into the glass,
Washing its hands in gutter drains;
For a moment, for a moment
To pass your take or take your pass;
For a moment free of wondering minds,
And a moment smoothed clean of thought
That tears and cuffs and cuts and binds;
A moment for this and us,
And a moment free from protestations,
And a moment rife with destinations,
Before the reveal of a past and pus.

On the street the men stare and smirk
Their eyes content to lick and lurk.

There are so few moments to come
Without the “Did you then?” and, “Did you then?”
Moments glaring at the staring men,
Watching me absentmindedly lick my pen—
[You will ask: “Did you love these boys? Why? When?”]
Writing, chronicling the wild childhood game in the fen,
The moments of realization possible only at ten—
[You will ask: “Should I pursue other women?”]
Did you then
Have good love before me?
Do you this second, this moment
Find you were wrong to linger so long but now at last you see?

Yes, I have fucked some well before you, fucked some well—
Have fucked through days, months, years,
I have approached this life with You’s, Now’s, and Here’s;
I’ve pressed my back sighing to a sighing hell
During parties past, and they were not you,
Did you think I was new?

And I have grasped and wept before you, grasped some hell—
Begged addictions to tar my chest and stick my arm,
Caused their fraudulent arms to break my bone punctured heart.
And then with brave face said, “That hurt. Oh well.”
Can I now change my art
Born of broken promises and toys from boys?
Do you think that I knew?

And we have fucked us both already, fucked us both—
Airs of different temper, cold and warm
[But our hurricanes have such lovely form!]
Is it the sharing of a joke,
That causes us to soak?
Airs that fill our cavities and break our rib cages both?
Did you think I was new?
Can I now change my art?

. . . . .

Shall I write, I was shadow until I knew you
And shivered in the rain and the gutter
Glancing up toward the glass eyes of a home and light? …

I should scratch at the pane with bitten nails
Or blink out so they can grow at long last.

. . . . .

But our coming day, our break of dawn, fills with such choices!
Pulled awake by sex,
We find…oh…we are blessed with necks
Mouths go to lengths, the breadth fills with voices,
May we, after night, and insight, and gleams
Shatter our newfound rest with sweat, and weight, and screams?
And though I have lain and opened, lain and moved,
Though I was split years ago [his name escapes] and broken in when I asked
It was all practice—I have never once basked;
I haven’t seen my hands still anyone’s pale rage,
And I haven’t seen my synonym walk across the twice-turned page
You are what I wanted proved.

And now I should say, “You should go home now.”
After I’ve pried open the hidden trunk,
To discover the complete polar opposite of junk,
Before it starts to rust,
And metal rots green off entranceways, we must
End without the indignity of a row.
I should present all the sensible arguments,
I should say, “I want dreams, not flawed, present men,
And I don’t know how to have you, don’t know how”—
If you, glasses askew, nose like a wren,
Should say: “But, we want this right fucking now.
We both want this right now.”

Then, I was a child, I am a child now,
Is it worth it to risk?
After storms, and strangers dripping out, and my foolish self,
After indulging young fetishes, after stupidity, after all the mess—
And this, and so much less?—
Roll me over; trick me into revelation.
Fill me in one move, with no room for my practiced procrastination.
Is it worth it to risk?
If, glasses askew, you could know I didn’t know how,
And, pulling my face from the window, say:
“We both want this right now.
But, we want this right fucking now.”

Perhaps I am Beatrice, hands against my heart;
The lady resigned to watching the young,
Tried, self convicted, sentenced and then hung.
Masked, under stars danced, others’ wit out of range,
Contemptuous, asked time and again
If alone I’ll go to the gates of Hell.
Yes, until Benedict turned and began:
“I do love nothing in the world so well
As you, is not that strange?”

I am young…I am young…
I forget too quickly my die is not flung.

Will you kindly zip my dress? My small right hand can’t quite reach.
Will you hand me my black bag with the books I need to teach?
I feel such pain in the moment of the breach.

I do not think you will hold on too tight.

I brushed your hand in a crowded bookstore aisle
And moved on quickly, with no turning back
When you stopped me with your eyes ringed in black.

Will you stay a while? Please come back tonight.
The clouds have gathered, the sky says more rain
Let me inside just once more, then again.

 

[Tzara]

People, people, people! You guys is awesome!

Even more excellent poems flow in to the November thread. We have my bud, the Brigster, riffing off Teddy Hughes. We have Champie's second (blush) poem, which, um, well, um, um, well, I liked. Gina: You are committed, babe! Get writing. Ms. Jett: Thanks for the recap—I remember one of your poems, but not the other, and both are perfect for the thread.

And, oh my Specsie. Oh my dear. I, uh, well, I think that new one is, uh, fabuloso. Auden and Eliot, eh? You married? (Ah, I'm always proposing. Gotta stop that. Unprofessional. Plus, o' course, I'm married. Guy thing. Sorry.)

Plenty of time left, folks, to paste up yer own try. Hey! Go for it. Emily Dickinson wasn't that great. Billy Blake couldn't even keep his meter straight. Show the classics how they shoulda done and write me a poem.

Thank you all for the response. Well done.

Oh, and hey? Critique is part of this too. Be thinkin'. And though I said after the 25th, that's just silly. Have something to say about a poem, say it whenever you're ready.

Thanks, all. You guys are great.

 

[SpectaclesInSkirt]

Tzara, You Flirt

Not only am I not married, I was stood up twice in the last three weeks. Never date an actor.

I'll see if I can pull out a third.

 

[Tzara]

Tzara, You Flirt

Uh, yeah. Sorry. Yeah.

Not only am I not married, I was stood up twice in the last three weeks. Never date an actor.

I'm not an actor!

Oh. Maybe not where that thought was taking you.

I'll see if I can pull out a third.

Riff off Kenneth Koch and I will love you forever. Not that I won't anyway. I am such a dweeb.

Good poems, though, missy. Good poems. What we're here for.

 

[Sara Crewe]

Good poems. What we're here for.

Speak for yourself. I'm here for the huge advances, expensive presents and lucrative book deals.



I promise I will post a poem here soon but I need to be a smart ass until that time to release my blank page-itis.

 

[SpectaclesInSkirt]

No Deal

Sorry, Tzara. Koch and I are not buddies. But here's my third. Warning: there are lots of different versions of this poem, no one seems able to pin down the original version (Thanks for NOTHING, Wikipedia.)(I didn't mean that, Wikipedia. You know I love you. It's just that you make me so mad sometimes. Now clean up this mess and come to bed.) So...yeah. Here's the one I like.

Antigonish by William Hughes Mearns

As I was going up the stair
I met a man who wasn't there!
He wasn't there again today!
Oh how I wish he'd go away!

Elektraesque by Specs

As I was closing down tonight
A man reached out and took the light!
I work again later today!
I hope he comes so we can play!

Peace out, y'all.

 

[steve porter]

in imitation of WCW

This Is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold



Note from an irate housewife

This is just to say
thanks a lot, asshole,

for eating all
the goddamn plums
in the refrigerator...

and Bush is an idiot!

 

[Tzara]

I am so happy. I seem to have enticed the mysterious Mr. Porter into a challenge poem, and he's riffin' Dr. Williams, one o' my faves! This is excellent! This helps immensely, as Ms. Specs, who has put up yet another rockin' poem, is not returning my needy virtual phone calls (delivered publically here, so no foolin' about behind scenes and such, and on top of which--sorry for the inappropriate pun--perhaps she's working).

Five more days, people, to give us your own take on the greats. Whack Wordsworth or Shelley over the head. It's kinda fun!

Mmmph. (hand over mouth) Sorry. TOO LOUD.

The 25th is the deadline, kinda. Won't offend me if you're after, but that was the rule. Critique of poems anytime.

Thank y'all. You're all the best.

Sorry, SiS, fer pickin' on you. You're new. Good poems, m'dear. I am envious. Uh, what was your phone number again? That is a JOKE! Joke!

 

[Lauren Hynde]

Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
-- In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
-- By the name of ANNABEL LEE;--
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
-- Than to love and be loved by me.

She was a child and I was a child,
-- In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
-- I and my Annabel Lee--
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
-- Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
-- In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
-- Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
-- And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
-- In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
-- Went envying her and me:--
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
-- In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
-- And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
-- Of those who were older than we--
-- Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
-- Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
-- Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:--

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
-- Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
-- Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
-- In her sepulchre there by the sea--
-- In her tomb by the side of the sea.

Edgar Allan Poe by Lauren Hynde

-- Winter in Boston was brief. He drank. Syllables fell, one by one, by the corners of the room. Drops of alcohol. Who remembers the rain fallen on his name?
-- He leafed all night through ancestral books and found something, nobody knows what, maybe that portrait of Annabel Lee. He drafted it on the shadow-laden windowpane and the room dawned.
-- "But that is of little worth, the filter only decanted earlier the horror into light, it didn't alter the solitude of days, that night parts from one another, forevermore."
​

 

[Lauren Hynde]

XLIII by Emily Dickinson

Beauty crowds me till I die,
Beauty, mercy have on me!
But if I expire today,
Let it be in sight of thee.

by Lauren Hynde

Maybe I shouldn't
speak of the time that ages
of the mouth disenchanted by time
maybe the pose of a dance
is a map I cannot read.

Nobody dies of absence
of a paradise decanted
nobody can decipher
the colour blue
of your dreams and tears.

I know that hair
cannot be this blonde
mask and primitive alphabet
of a single syllable
of what a woman feels.

It's not the lovers that love
nor the gods that decipher
it's the horses that draw
in vague transparencies
the lost map of paradise.​