It's the 2026 Revise-a-Poem Challenge (Comments welcome!)

[Waeponwifestre]

Well hello there, @Waeponwifestre, did someone say “…smut…?” mmm, hot, wild, orgasm.

From memory of a 42 poem, I once saw a friend far away call, he called just to say all poems find homes. And live lives of their own. (Then he deleted his post). Dick. Otherwise I’d link the poem. Which key words I know I got wrong. It seems relevant to your questions.

Write what you will. Write what you won’t. Be true to yourself. Including, your intended audience. Is there really anything else… ?

Not Death. This poem. I feel. You wrote with the music in you.

Thanks so much for your input. I’m gonna sleep on it for a bit. I already see some wording I’m probably gonna fiddle with either way so maybe when I’m ready to do that I’ll have eyes fresh enough to see if I feel like I want to go further than that.

 

[woodsman44]

too full of stuff that would only make sense to a trained musician

An advisor once told me 'know your audience, and more importantly, know who they are, and know who they aren't' (in an academic setting...close enough).

I would add that, sometimes at least, the audience should know who they are, and know who they aren't, and more importantly, know if they are the audience at all.

Even with my limited knowledge of music composition, it's not 'too full of stuff.' And so what if it was? An opportunity to learn, something worth googling for once, maybe ask the author, maybe its not for me. Or, or, I can appreciate the aesthetic while being a bit clueless about the rest. What a nasty lie it would be to say I fully understand the poems on even this and its companion thread, yet I still find value in them.

Getting deep into assumption territory here, but I'm guessing that person loathes The Jabberwocky.

 

[Waeponwifestre]

Getting deep into assumption territory here, but I'm guessing that person loathes The Jabberwocky.

No I’m pretty sure they appreciate Lewis Carrol!

I think I’m pretty happy leaving the music stuff in after reflecting on it (it is my poem after all!) but I do see where they’re coming from. I think that their opinion was that much of the composition stuff could be rewritten to be more accessible and less distracting to an audience who doesn’t know what stuff like Aeolian mode is. I tend to lean more towards just letting words, terms and references wash over me when I’m reading poetry (or in general) but someone who might want to be constantly looking things up is going to have a radically different experience.

Without getting too much into the weeds though a lot of that piece really does tie in thematically to remembering a brilliant composer and mourning them. The choice of the A minor scale to evoke a feeling of sadness and loss, rooting it to the I chord through certain composition techniques to create a feeling of stasis, the choice of the canon form which uses a lot of instruments echoing the other musical lines previously played like a sonic metaphor for how someone’s art echoes through other’s artists and evoking medieval and renaissance era sacred music as like a nod to how we look to the past to create new things in the present. Even the choice to use a bell to structure the piece around specifically because the overtones produced by a bell are very slightly different than those produced by non-bell instruments - they’re very slightly higher so it brings a very subtle sense of lightness and opening up to the end of the piece after we’ve just listened to a meditation on what we generally perceive as a very sad and solemn scale (I could go on for forever about how awesome I think this piece is lmao)

These are all things I’d like to show people through the poem and there may be a better way to transmit that knowledge, the emotional intensity of not only hearing the music but also knowing the incredibly deliberate intention in its writing and my deep love of that piece and imo it’s genius to the reader, which is really what I want to get across to the reader. All stuff I’m thinking about now and writing a bit about it is helping me clarify my thoughts on how I could maybe write it into a better poem.

 

[Angeline]

No I’m pretty sure they appreciate Lewis Carrol!

I think I’m pretty happy leaving the music stuff in after reflecting on it (it is my poem after all!) but I do see where they’re coming from. I think that their opinion was that much of the composition stuff could be rewritten to be more accessible and less distracting to an audience who doesn’t know what stuff like Aeolian mode is. I tend to lean more towards just letting words, terms and references wash over me when I’m reading poetry (or in general) but someone who might want to be constantly looking things up is going to have a radically different experience.

Without getting too much into the weeds though a lot of that piece really does tie in thematically to remembering a brilliant composer and mourning them. The choice of the A minor scale to evoke a feeling of sadness and loss, rooting it to the I chord through certain composition techniques to create a feeling of stasis, the choice of the canon form which uses a lot of instruments echoing the other musical lines previously played like a sonic metaphor for how someone’s art echoes through other’s artists and evoking medieval and renaissance era sacred music as like a nod to how we look to the past to create new things in the present. Even the choice to use a bell to structure the piece around specifically because the overtones produced by a bell are very slightly different than those produced by non-bell instruments - they’re very slightly higher so it brings a very subtle sense of lightness and opening up to the end of the piece after we’ve just listened to a meditation on what we generally perceive as a very sad and solemn scale (I could go on for forever about how awesome I think this piece is lmao)

These are all things I’d like to show people through the poem and there may be a better way to transmit that knowledge, the emotional intensity of not only hearing the music but also knowing the incredibly deliberate intention in its writing and my deep love of that piece and imo it’s genius to the reader, which is really what I want to get across to the reader. All stuff I’m thinking about now and writing a bit about it is helping me clarify my thoughts on how I could maybe write it into a better poem.

I think you're wise to leave the composition language in. I had to read your poem multiple times to understand that it underscores (no pun intended lol) the overall tone of funereal, sepulchre beauty.

I do think though that some pauses with space (maybe at the tolling bell lines) would slow down the read and fit the overall tone of the poem

Just my opinion. Hope it helps.

 

[42BelowsBack]

How dare me. Having just written a lowbrow Lit stroker poem, comment on @Waeponwifestres latest poem?

The answer, I am dumb. She is very clever. A young Beethoven.

The onion: Death is missing as a universal experience. Death is the bridge that we, whatever audience have all walked. I think about that as I comment. There are Death winds in the doldrums. They bring life endless clarity.

But the poem isn’t about death? It’s about what you love. Who you are. How you write. As an individual member of your audience I appreciate your craft.

 

[SapioSexual9]

Write what you know, write what you don’t know. It’s a bit clunky.
As a writing exercise, I want to panel beat this poem.

WHOOP WHOOOP
Driving lessons.
Billie’s house, little brother is waiting. It’s dark
outside. He is crying. Meanwhile, earlier racing along in
Daddy’s old Newport Convertible
-driving over to Momma’s girlfriend Billie's house.
To pick up little brother. I am front seat. In the middle,
Daddy gives me the look. Whoop-
Whoop. I reach across and take the wheel. Momma
hands Daddy two unlit Slims. Skinny as the cigarettes,
I am hanging off the steering wheel. Flying
down the freeway. With a big goofy grin. Daddy taps the
Slims butts against the steering wheel. Three times for luck.
Daddy cups his palms, lights his and Momma’s slims,
I miss the turn. But no, body, gets hurt. We exhale. Daddy
says. Driving lessons. A car can be fixed. A crying boy
can grow a dick. Sometimes it’s better to be latter.

 

[42BelowsBack]

Write what you know, write what you don’t know. It’s a bit clunky.
As a writing exercise, I want to panel beat this poem.

WHOOP WHOOOP
Driving lessons.
Billie’s house, little brother is waiting. It’s dark
outside. He is crying. Meanwhile, earlier racing along in
Daddy’s old Newport Convertible
-driving over to Momma’s girlfriend Billie's house.
To pick up little brother. I am front seat. In the middle,
Daddy gives me the look. Whoop-
Whoop. I reach across and take the wheel. Momma
hands Daddy two unlit Slims. Skinny as the cigarettes,
I am hanging off the steering wheel. Flying
down the freeway. With a big goofy grin. Daddy taps the
Slims butts against the steering wheel. Three times for luck.
Daddy cups his palms, lights his and Momma’s slims,
I miss the turn. But no, body, gets hurt. We exhale. Daddy
says. Driving lessons. A car can be fixed. A crying boy
can grow a dick. Sometimes it’s better to be latter.

Sap. You know what to do. Do it. And, I think the lil bro detail i.e. always crying is a red heading at best.

 

[Angeline]

Sap. You know what to do. Do it. And, I think the lil bro detail i.e. always crying is a red heading at best.

I concur. I'd start the poem with:

Racing along in....

to me, that's where the poem really starts and you mention the destination over the next few lines anyway.



PS I love the cigarette images. Very vivid.

 

[SmilingLez]

Write what you know, write what you don’t know. It’s a bit clunky.
As a writing exercise, I want to panel beat this poem.

WHOOP WHOOOP
Driving lessons.
Billie’s house, little brother is waiting. It’s dark
outside. He is crying. Meanwhile, earlier racing along in
Daddy’s old Newport Convertible
-driving over to Momma’s girlfriend Billie's house.
To pick up little brother. I am front seat. In the middle,
Daddy gives me the look. Whoop-
Whoop. I reach across and take the wheel. Momma
hands Daddy two unlit Slims. Skinny as the cigarettes,
I am hanging off the steering wheel. Flying
down the freeway. With a big goofy grin. Daddy taps the
Slims butts against the steering wheel. Three times for luck.
Daddy cups his palms, lights his and Momma’s slims,
I miss the turn. But no, body, gets hurt. We exhale. Daddy
says. Driving lessons. A car can be fixed. A crying boy
can grow a dick. Sometimes it’s better to be latter.

I just looked at some images of a Newport convertible. Damn those things look like topless tanks.

https://c8.alamy.com/comp/2BDF7CY/1961-chrysler-newport-convertible-classic-american-car-2BDF7CY.jpg

 

[SapioSexual9]

I just looked at some images of a Newport convertible. Damn those things look like topless tanks.

https://c8.alamy.com/comp/2BDF7CY/1961-chrysler-newport-convertible-classic-american-car-2BDF7CY.jpg

They were whales made affordable

 

[SapioSexual9]

Write what you know, write what you don’t know. It’s a bit clunky.
As a writing exercise, I want to panel beat this poem.

WHOOP WHOOOP
Driving lessons.
Billie’s house, little brother is waiting. It’s dark
outside. He is crying. Meanwhile, earlier racing along in
Daddy’s old Newport Convertible
-driving over to Momma’s girlfriend Billie's house.
To pick up little brother. I am front seat. In the middle,
Daddy gives me the look. Whoop-
Whoop. I reach across and take the wheel. Momma
hands Daddy two unlit Slims. Skinny as the cigarettes,
I am hanging off the steering wheel. Flying
down the freeway. With a big goofy grin. Daddy taps the
Slims butts against the steering wheel. Three times for luck.
Daddy cups his palms, lights his and Momma’s slims,
I miss the turn. But no, body, gets hurt. We exhale. Daddy
says. Driving lessons. A car can be fixed. A crying boy
can grow a dick. Sometimes it’s better to be latter.


THE REVISION.

Plenty of gas no brake
no pedal

When I was smoking cute
skinny as a cigarette my

parents bought a fifth hand Chrysler
two door Newport convertible

our lives were flying
along on its bench front seat

red vinyl interior racing our
exterior white paint patina

beneath our feet the American
dream stretched out

on a highway to anywhere we
had to get there. Fast

 

[SapioSexual9]

Thanks 42 for pointing out I needed to put the proverbial up the rhymes with gas.

I was ……. by these lines… helped ….. realized the ….. poem needed to…

Racing along in....

mention the destination …

…the cigarette images. Very vivid.

Thanks Angeline, I woke up and realized it’s still in revision! Cigarettes and my little red herring is missing! No longer a tricky trip-tych that everyone already knew the destination.
DzZzsclaimer: It is a poem subject to my Ars poetica. I recuse requse whatever myself.

 

[SpermFactory]

Hey

Write what you know, write what you don’t know. It’s a bit clunky.
As a writing exercise, I want to panel beat this poem.

WHOOP WHOOOP
Driving lessons.
Billie’s house, little brother is waiting. It’s dark
outside. He is crying. Meanwhile, earlier racing along in
Daddy’s old Newport Convertible
-driving over to Momma’s girlfriend Billie's house.
To pick up little brother. I am front seat. In the middle,
Daddy gives me the look. Whoop-
Whoop. I reach across and take the wheel. Momma
hands Daddy two unlit Slims. Skinny as the cigarettes,
I am hanging off the steering wheel. Flying
down the freeway. With a big goofy grin. Daddy taps the
Slims butts against the steering wheel. Three times for luck.
Daddy cups his palms, lights his and Momma’s slims,
I miss the turn. But no, body, gets hurt. We exhale. Daddy
says. Driving lessons. A car can be fixed. A crying boy
can grow a dick. Sometimes it’s better to be latter.


THE REVISION.

Plenty of gas no brake
no pedal

When I was smoking cute
skinny as a cigarette my

parents bought a fifth hand Chrysler
two door Newport convertible

our lives were flying
along on its bench front seat

red vinyl interior racing our
exterior white paint patina

beneath our feet the American
dream stretched out

on a highway to anywhere we
had to get there. Fast

@SapioSexual9 check this out.
Part three of you triptych.

WARNING: There’s a Car Stuck In Snow.

On this dark flag,
the stars are a falling dove
veering off the road
in a nameless place.
There was life in her car,
She was an American vehicle,
the engine kept running
then forever her tracks stopped.
Never getting her back to her children.
Karoline is this outer space?

I think @42BelowsBack should write part two of your American car triptych.

 

[SapioSexual9]

Hey

@SapioSexual9 check this out.
Part three of you triptych.

WARNING: There’s a Car Stuck In Snow.

On this dark flag,
the stars are a falling dove
veering off the road
in a nameless place.
There was life in her car,
She was an American vehicle,
the engine kept running
then forever her tracks stopped.
Never getting her back to her children.
Karoline is this outer space?

I think @42BelowsBack should write part two of your American car triptych.

Thank you @SpermFactory. I think @42BelowsBack could pull it off. I also like the idea of multiple poets, perhaps three, writing the center piece. The in between vehicles / roads / voices. The ending in your poem with an American poet shot dead by another American.

In my dream world, @Tzara, @Angeline, and @42BelowsBack would write three separate totally different pieces that are the centre piece of the triptych.

Only my dream on this ‘Adult’ literature site where all types of dreams are free.

 

[Angeline]

Thank you @SpermFactory. I think @42BelowsBack could pull it off. I also like the idea of multiple poets, perhaps three, writing the center piece. The in between vehicles / roads / voices. The ending in your poem with an American poet shot dead by another American.

In my dream world, @Tzara, @Angeline, and @42BelowsBack would write three separate totally different pieces that are the centre piece of the triptych.

Only my dream on this ‘Adult’ literature site where all types of dreams are free.

I'd do it. My father worked for General Motors for 30 years. I can write about cars and the American Dream. Maybe that's a challenge for the forum: Write a car poem or cars and the American Dream. Beep beep, beep beep yeah!

 

[nudeblaqgirl]

I think that i shall never see
A poem lovelier than me
My sweet ass and my big breasts
One points east, the other west

My long legs and pretty feet
If you're a foot freak, I'm your treat
I guess that's all I have to tell
For mocking Frost, I'll go to Hell

 

[42BelowsBack]

I'd do it. My father worked for General Motors for 30 years. I can write about cars and the American Dream. Maybe that's a challenge for the forum: Write a car poem or cars and the American Dream. Beep beep, beep beep yeah!

Beep beep, beep beep yeah!

 

[Angeline]

Beep beep, beep beep yeah!

Much as I'd love to take the credit ~