Form Poem Contest

[Pendragon]

Hey, all these poems, (including the sample) have 14 not 13 lines! Great poetry form anyway and wonderful answers to it. Your choice may be hard! ;)

[windblown]

Drat, Dragon, you found me out. I must confess I'm hopeless with numbers and I simply did not check the way the lines are counted in a rondeau. So in my sample poem I actually forgot a line (I've mended that now). Here then, to make confusion complete, are the rules again in prose:
- A rondeau has thirteen lines plus the rentrement or refrain that picks up the first part
of the first line and inserts it at the end of the second and third stanzas.
- Ideally it is in iambic tetrameter or pentameter, but I think we can leave this
optional.

Of course, the fault is mine and all the really fantastic rondeaus minus a line that you sent in have the same chances to win this contest as any that will follow with the correct line count. Indeed, the choice is hard already, but please make it harder still by posting more of the same high standard.

[AuntShecky]

“Rondough”

We have no cash, that much we know.
The well-heeled world may pump and crow
and show us shoes that we can't buy.
We seek our values in the sky
which banks the sun’s rich golden glow.

We're truly poor, but profits grow
with fluid springs and falling snow.
Wealth grows on trees, so it’s a lie
we have no cash.

Why can't we be just like Thoreau
and live near a pond or river’s flow?
With Nature’s help our souls could try
to watch the birds and seasons fly.
But we won't move, and we can't go.
We have no cash.

[windblown]

There's still a week to go. So send in your rondeaux.

[windblown]

The contest is now closed for entries. It will be hard work to choose the winner, so leave me some time, please.

[windblown]

This was a very hard choice indeed. Five rondeaux of great beauty and depth:

alakungfu: What a night you describe! A Mexican fiesta full of colour and gloom.

autolycus: Wall Street Blues or Empires crumbling - your poem is open to all sorts of interpretations. It has a beautiful flow and captures the mood of the soldiers perfectly. The only flaw I can see (apart from the missing line, which is my fault entirely) is that your refrain does not take up the first half of the first line. I obviously did not make myself clear enough about that, sorry!

Pendragon: Your philosophical contemplation of wasted years is bittersweet. You use the form very convincingly here, even varying emphasis in the refrain. I especially like the second stanza about "fickle fate" and the image of the cut diamond in the first.

qimissung: Very poignant! I like the way you address the dreamthief who takes away everything that is valuable.

AuntShecky: Your "rondough" puts a very topical theme in this old-fashioned form and the outcome is wonderful. Your wordplay is just fantastic (well-heeled world - shoes we cannot buy; the sky which banks the sun's rich golden glow, etc.) as is the juxtaposition of economy and nature.

I like all of your poems, but I have to choose one as the winner. After days and days of pondering I want to congratulate AuntShecky on winning the rondeau-dough contest.
AuntShecky, choose the next form, please.

Apologies to all once again for the confusion I created about the form of the rondeau.

[AuntShecky]

Holy tetrameter, Windblown! I can't believe this! Thank you very much, and special kudos to all who participated in this round.

For our next number, a form that might be fun to try is a song parody. Take a well-known tune and rewrite the existing lyrics, substituting the syllables and rhymes so that the melody can still be "sung" with the new words.

I've looked up this form to see if it is "safe" from a copyright perspective, and as far as I can see, song parodies fall under the definition of "fair use." This isn't for "commercial" purposes; we're not posting the music at all, and the lyrics won't be from the original song but they'll be brand-new by. . .you!

But in order for us fully to appreciate your parodies, you may want to choose an old song that's in the public domain so that most of us can recognize it. You can choose a Christmas carols, but that's not required. The more famous the original song, the better, though.

So, one more time:
1. Choose a song, and rewrite the lyrics.
2. The more the new topic veers from the original, the funnier the parody will be, but please keep the subject matter within the general Literature Network Forum rules.
3. Don't worry about length. It doesn't necessarily have to be as long as the original tune. Just a verse or two and the chorus will be fine.
4. Deadline will be January 2. I'll choose the winning entry shortly after that (as long as the ol' PC's still working next year.)

If you need more info, try this link:

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

or you could always send me a "PM."

Good luck!

Sincerely,
Weird Aunt Yankovick

[alakungfu]

Congratulations AutoShecky

This is a take on Karen Carpenter's Song, "Solitaire". I confess, I'm not so good with humour; satire is more my thing. Here's my attempt.


Nonpareil

There was a man
A homely man
Who lost his faith
Through self-indulgence
With a face that cared
That went unspared
Until it cried of
Extra-divulgence

And nonpareil's the only name in town
And every string that ties him ties him down
While deep within he's desperate to transcend
Or generate amends
And steeped within himself he craves the day
A blip of static all the wage in pay
While style fares well without him every way
He's simply nonpareil

A single crow
Can steal the show
Steal presently
The strength of right
There was a man
A homely man
Who fought to own
The fabled night.

And nonpareil's the only name in town
And every string that ties him ties him down
While deep within he's desperate to transcend
Or generate amends
And steeped within himself he craves the day
A blip in static all the wage in pay
While style fares well without him every way
He's simply nonpareil.

And nonpareil's the only name in town
And every string that ties him ties him down
While style fares well without him every way
He's aptly nonpareil.






Solitaire

There was a man
A lonely man
Who lost his love
Through his indifference
A heart that cared
That went unshared
Until it died
Within his silence

And solitaire's the only game in town
And every road that takes him takes him down
And by himself it's easy to pretend
He'll never love again.
And keeping to himself he plays the game
Without her love it always ends the same
While life goes on around him everywhere
He's playing solitaire.

A little hope
Goes up in smoke
Just how it goes
Goes without saying
There was a man
A lonely man
Who would command
The hand he's playing

Chorus...

And solitaire's the only game in town
And every road that takes him takes him down
While life goes on around him everywhere
He's playing solitaire.

[Pendragon]

A funny take on Harry Belafonte's Banna Boat song

Food Cart

May-o, I say, may-o
Delight come and I want some mo’
May-o, I say, may-o
Delight come and I want some mo’

I dreamed all night of the food to come,
Delight come and I want some mo’
Stacks of pancakes with butter and syrup, yum!
Delight come and I want some mo’

Come, Mr. Waiter I got an order for you,
Delight come and I want some mo’
Eggs, toast, sausages, bacon, biscuits and gravy and coffee too,
Delight come and I want some mo’

There’s tuna salad, garden salad, sub sandwiches to munch,
Delight come and I want some mo’
Hamburgers, hotdogs, coleslaw, cake and punch
Delight come and I want some mo’

Big beautiful bunch of ripe bananas,
Watermelon, strawberries, cherries, pineapples with rum
Oranges, tangerines, oh! A big tarantula!
Delight come and I want some mo’

May-o, I say, may-o,
Delight come and I want some mo’
Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Oh!
Delight come I can’t eat no mo’!

[AuntShecky]

That "Banana Boat" parody is really cute! Of course, now I'll hear the melody in my head all night and "day-o."

Anyway, I'd better make something clear. Optimally, we'll be choosing songs that most LitNetters already know; for that reason it is NOT necessary to post the original lyrics from the original song. Just post your own lyrics and tell us the title of the song which you are parodying.

Please remember what I said about copyright in the original rules.

Nevertheless, I hope we get some more parodies t before Jan. 2!

[autolycus]

Thanks for judging, Pen! Congratulations to AuntShecky, and I shall shuffle off to parody some undeserving soul... *grin*

[AuntShecky]

We need more entries! December has a way of vacuuming up time; the days are shorter. So please post your parodies before Jan. 2 sneaks up on us.

[firefangled]

The original version of this song sung Judy Garland, was filled with sarcasm. In keeping with the true tradition of the song, I present the following.


Have yourself a wary little Christmas,
look both left and right,
what gets you may very well be out of sight.

Have yourself a wary little Christmas,
farewell, four oh one k,
red's the color of the season, anyway.

(refrain)
Now, unlike much more pleasant days,
mired in the ways of war,
let us pray that the Middle-East finds love and peace once more.

In the years to come let's live more simply,
pasture the cash cow,
until then we'll have to bail the b.astards out,
so have yourself a wary little Christmas now.

(refrain)
Two-Thousand-Nine is upon us soon,
the national lampoon retires.
All the pigs gathered at the trough, will be living off spare tires.

Santa Claus will have some new restrictions,
clearing customs now.
Rudolph's nose will surely beg the question, how,
but have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

[AuntShecky]

Oh, thank you so much, Firefangled!
Your parody is witty and singable!

Let's have some more LitNetters join the fun.

[AuntShecky]

Okay, so I'm ***BUMPING**** this to remind all the witty wunderkinds on the LitNet to take a break from their Yuletide
revels and try to write a parody. Music is in the air -- catch some
of it and write some alternative lyrics.

Deadline is January 2.

[AuntShecky]

I'm wishing for a nice New Year's gift-- a package of parodies by LitNetters!

Six more days to post.

[AuntShecky]

Friday is the last day to post a parody here.
Isn't there a song crying out for some alternative lyrics--
"Auld Lang Syne" for instance?

[autolycus]

The original of this terrible parody can be found here (http://www.bartleby.com/101/867.html).

Thought of my father's loan of old,
Paid off by working on the line;
Whatever made and later sold,
Was cash for this small palm of mine...

Lord Gold-man-sachs, be with us yet
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

The tumult and the shootings rise,
The capital gains just fall apart;
Still stands that ugly edifice
The venerable bastion of Wal-mart.

Lord Gold-man-sachs, be with us yet
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

Frak! All our navvies melt away!
Now Ford joins both GM and Chrysler.
Lo, all the oil pumped yesterday
Is like the air within their tires.

O House and Senate, spare us cash!
We're in a hole and all is ash!

If, drunk with lighter purse, we loose
Wild thoughts of economic law—
Such boasting as the pundits use
And Adam Smith's unseemly paw—

O Treasury, O mighty Fed
Still give us gold and cloth and bread!

For greedy hearts that think it just
To spread the pain and make it hard,
And pay the CEOs (we must!)
And see no 'For Sale' in the yard—

For Fanny Maes and Freddie Macs,
Thy mercy on us, Gold-man-Sachs!

[AuntShecky]

Thank you Autolycus for posting your parody and for the link to the original lyrics. (As the only Kipling song whose tune I know is "The Road to Mandalay," I'll see if I can find the tune that accompanies "Recessional" somewhere on the Net.)

Additional entries will be accepted for the remainder of today, and
the "lucky" winner will be announced sometime this weekend.

[AuntShecky]

Happy New Year and thanks to all who contributed it to
this leg of the Form Poetry Contest.

As Fred Allen once said, "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and that's true, but a good parody can be an occasion for some original wit, which I found in these entries.

Alakungfu, your parody of the Carpenters' song gave an ironic twist to the self-image of your subject, who saw himself in a class by himself--"Nonpareil."

Firefangled and Autolycus, you both know me so well -- in that I'm a sucker for topical humor, namely the current economic woes.

Autolycus played with the title, "Recessional" to apply it to "the " Recession -- great pun.

Firefangled also picked a seasonal song, and her lyrics seem to match up with the original tune by Ralph Blane and Hugh Martin in Meet Me in St. Louis. For the most part, Firefangled's new lyrics could be "sung" to the original tune.

All of the contestants have joined the ranks of Allen Sherman, Mark Russell, and Weird Al Yankovich, parodists of the past and present. Pendragon's parody of Harry Belafonte's "Banana Boat Song" is not only singable but positively infectious. How about the clever substitutions: "May-o" for "Day-oh," and "Delight come" for "Daylight come."? And I love that he mentioned specifics, actual foods that the reader can smell or even taste. "His parody matches the original song, syllable by syllable. The new lyrics are true to life -- and downright funny!

So the winner of this round of the Form Poetry Contest is the founder of the feast, so to speak -- Pendragon.

Pen, will you choose the next form please!

[Pendragon]

Thank you, Auntie. I got to think about this, what springs to mind might not draw too many contestants, and I want to reach a lot, hopefully... :)

[Pendragon]

I'm going to assign a sestina, which may be a harder form, but I want you to think about it. I won;t make it due until Feb. 14th to give plenty of time: Here are your instructions and one of my own for a sample. Play with the form to your hearts desire and read a few famous ones before you write. Good writing to all!

The sestina is a complex form that achieves its often spectacular effects through intricate repetition. The thirty-nine-line form is attributed to Arnaut Daniel, the Provencal troubadour of the twelfth century. The name "troubadour" likely comes from trobar, which means "to invent or compose verse." The troubadours sang their verses accompanied by music and were quite competitive, each trying to top the next in wit, as well as complexity and difficulty of style.

Courtly love often was the theme of the troubadours, and this emphasis continued as the sestina migrated to Italy, where Dante and Petrarch practiced the form with great reverence for Daniel, who, as Petrarch said, was "the first among all others, great master of love."

The sestina follows a strict pattern of the repetition of the initial six end-words of the first stanza through the remaining five six-line stanzas, culminating in a three-line envoi. The lines may be of any length, though in its initial incarnation, the sestina followed a syllabic restriction. The form is as follows, where each numeral indicates the stanza position and the letters represent end-words:

1. ABCDEF
2. FAEBDC
3. CFDABE
4. ECBFAD
5. DEACFB
6. BDFECA
7. (envoi) ECA or ACE

The envoi, sometimes known as the tornada, must also include the remaining three end-words, BDF, in the course of the three lines so that all six recurring words appear in the final three lines. The words usually occur at the middle and end of the lines. In place of a rhyme scheme, the sestina relies on end-word repetition to effect a sort of rhyme.

COLORS

Red is the color of the bubbling blood
that flows in scarlet streams from the slashed skin
of my right forearm. Watching it, I laugh.
It gives me a wonderful sense of release
from the pressures of a weary, tormented mind.
Sylvia Plath would recognized the feeling…

Blue is the color of my mood; the color of my feelings—
feelings too often painted in letters of blood;
the scattered ravings of an oppressed mind
encapsulated in a thin veneer of skin;
a caged animal seeking blessed release.
The imagery alone is enough to make one laugh.

Raven-black is the color of the hopeless laugh;
humor that never reaches the eyes, nor expresses the feelings
of the soul; just a pressure-valve, a release
to prevent total madness. The thin trickle of blood
is never a life-threat; the blade barely breaks the skin.
Any therapeutic aid exists solely in the mind.

Grey, it is said, is the color of the mind;
a twisted mess that resembles worms! What a laugh!
We lavish so much time and attention on our skin
and bones to feed worms! Isn’t THAT a creepy feeling!
One red worm crawls down my arm, a worm of blood,
while the worms that will devour my flesh seek release!

Yellow is the color of Light, of release;
the point of enlightenment that takes place in the mind.
The light engulfs my body, my bones, my blood.
Now, there is genuine mirth in the laugh,
an uplifting of the spirit and the feelings.
Energy pulsates all through this prison of skin.

Pale-white is the color of the skin
in which I live. The spirit struggles for release;
an emotional storm explodes in my feelings,
and a tiny voice (my own) whispers in my mind
things that I find so ridiculous that I laugh.
With a small cloth, I easily stop the flow of blood.

Having stopped the blood, I know a new scar will form on my skin.
But I don’t mind. I never have. I laugh.
If you have never experienced the feelings, you wouldn’t understand the release.

Dale Harris

[autolycus]

Congratulations, Pen! And thanks for the prompt challenge for Valentine's Day too!

[alakungfu]

Congratulations Pendragon. Here's my entry.






Bluff House


Identify the stars that both
The restive and the wretched follow
Brought to life in a dewy arena
Known to man as dreamland
In resolution of the feminine
The bane of torture of the man.

Stubborn beings do what they can
Break their faith to pledge their troth
Throw their lots with the sanguine
Pose in their fields, adepts at solo,
Clutching vacuous freedoms in hand.
Inspired of either, a ballerina

Who basks in attentions in the arena,
Distributes pleasures for a man
Biding his revelatory rift, on land
Satisfying poles, countered, both.
Then halt the esoteric that follow
To arrive somewhere in the feminine.

No concept of the richly sanguine
Inasmuch as rivets the ballerina
Leaving stars awash to embark solo;
Insight to such dried Experience as can
Be imminent as destroyer of the troth.
Youth joins in with outstretched hand

To apportion the forming land:
To bind the material with the feminine,
And so the sea pulses, and the sky both
Jumbling in the same arena,
In the footsteps of retiring man,
Redolent with long echoes that follow.

Heartwrenching an inflicted solo
Absent partner gripped in hand
Living out the passions it can
Handicapped by the giddily sanguine
Balancing the ballerina
In an enigmatic troth.

Wot a waste of parafin
Cast puff of sails moored in marina
Fastidious aloft ne’ertheless so quoth.

[Pendragon]

Come on, people, one poem does not a contest make. Skilled you are. There is no try... Oh, and wrong this first poem is...

[alakungfu]

Sorry, Pendragon. Fixed the second half of the fourth stanza.

[qimissung]

I'm going to give it a try, but I don't really understand the pattern for the envoi.

[firefangled]

Time to harvest tears and the dead,
the unadorned soldier in discomfited ground,
no longer bound to ancient books.
Imagine from an ample bed he walks
into the fray where others can’t, and each shell
that fires and falls has no sound and finds no blood.

For destiny and gods, the earth is soaked with blood,
religion binds the living to the dead
words of saviors and prophets, a shell
in which an ocean forever lashes at the ground,
as in a child’s fervid ears listening as he walks
along the shore, a bucket and some books

on chambered relics like vestiges of books,
in that they no longer harbor flesh and blood,
nor anything that slouches, crawls or walks,
and though beautiful and pearly, they are dead,
subject to the tide and time, and ground
slowly into sand forever moving in the earth’s shell.

Listen in the open air, put down the shell.
Read the face of fear and close your books.
What noble passions march unseen over the ground
to silence guns and still the flow of blood?
Let them grow, let them come that once were dead.
No freedom rings, no morning dawns where battle walks.

In each soldier gone, a final wish escaped and walks—
that bombs and bullets generate no awe, each shell
that kills falls empty like the dead,
like mothers, who find no solace in their holy books,
children in whom the image fades that flows within their blood,
and time once more erases names above the ground.

Time to harvest all the soldiers’ spirits from the ground,
let their last appetence be the force that forward walks
and flows at last in every generation as one blood.
May there be no escape from peace, the world’s a shell
around us all, one creature, in someone’s pail, someone’s books.
There is no killing one, where all of us aren’t dead.

Rise morning and spill golden where the children walk!
Let the shells be heard in bells and cautions in the books.
Blood flows only in the living, gods no longer need the dead.

[alakungfu]

REVISED



Blunt House


Identify the stars that both
The restive and the wretched follow,
Brought to life in a dewy arena
Known to man as dreamland;
In resolution of the feminine,
The bane of torture of the man.

Stubborn beings derive from man,
Break their faith to pledges both,
Thrown lots with the feminine,
Posed in fair fields, then slowly follow,
Clutching vacuous freedoms in dreamland
Inspired of ether, a whimsical arena.

Who basks in attentions in the arena,
Distributes pleasures for a man
Biding his revelatory rift, in shifting dreamland,
Satisfying poles, countered, both.
Then halt the esoteric that follow
To arrive somewhere in the feminine.

No concept of the richly feminine
Inasmuch as rivets the male arena,
Leaving stars awash to embark and follow
Insight to such dried Experience as can man
Be imminent as destroyer of the sexes both.
Youth joins in with outstretched hand in dreamland:

To apportion the forming lives in dreamland;
To bind the material with the feminine,
And so the sea pulses, and the sky both
Jumbling in the likewise arena,
In the footsteps of retiring man,
Redolent with the long echoes that follow.

Heartwrenching, the afflicted follow,
Absent partners gripped in dreamland,
Living out the passions a man,
Balked by the giddily feminine,
Balances in the arena
And the enigmatic rival countered in both.

When victory adorns iin dreamland the feminine
From the superfluous company that follow in the arena
That plainly questions their motions, man and myth both.




The following is not a submission. It's what i did with the rest of the original poem.


Bluff House


Do what she can to reclaim her troth
In a vestal and a tragic solo.
Brought back to life as a snowy ballerina
Given to give away her hand
In abolition of the sanguine
In sections of fruits that, tried so, stripped, so can.

Relegated beings do what they can,
Drain their pleas then supplant their troth,
Toss in their losses with the sanguine,
Repose in their fields, surreptitiously solo,
Closing actual deeds in hand
Required of either, a ballerina

Or a stag, hind of ballerina,
Purposed to befriend as can,
Lifts lady's midriff, in one hand
Demanding payment in her troth
Else abandon in revised solo
The object of his smirk sanguine.

Skilled concept of the smugly sanguine
Inasmuch as inverts the ballerina,
Leaves tiny stars abashed to embark solo;
Appetite for such plied cadence as can
Be ambivalent as Recoiler of their troth.
Firm youth stands in with outstretched hand

Pictured lithe with flowing hand
To bind the mysterious with the sanguine,
And so the stage pulses, presenting the troth
Rumbling between the ballerina,
And the shadow, resolute as he can,
Resplendently etching each-to-the-other's mellowing solo.

Gutwrenching each inflicted solo
Staid response flipped in hand
Sufficing with the rhythms it can
Coerced by the gaudily sanguine
Relinquishing the ballerina
Of her symbiotic troth.

A fastidious shift nevertheless to hand so the troth
The master of the enticing solo ballerina
Stealthy student who can delve in the sanguine.

[AuntShecky]

What a labyrinthine maze the sestina is! Arranging the
permutations of a six-word pattern is like racking one's brain over a particularly difficult Sudoku puzzle! I read that
in 1878 Swinburne wrote a rhyming double sestina with12-line stanzas and a six-line envoi. No wonder the
man drank! Anyway, here's my entry:



"Ninja" Gal

In this world made for us we're made to work:
sowing and reaping, building and ripping up our world.
The economy is too refined in our crude and greedy time.
Minions in suits run things, ruin things. They move
invisible money around: Nothing useful,nothing done by hand.
They transfer funds, crunch spreadsheets, manage assets.

Me, I'm outside the margin: “No income, no job, no assets.”
What doesn't bring home bucks and bacon isn't work.
On paper, little value accrues by my own hand.
Sewing and cleaning, cooking and washing make up the world
from which I crave escape, but too confined to move.
It could be a virtual prison, as if I'm doing time.

Reality seeks respite in dreams, as one time
I imagined I made a film: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Assets.
Of course, I was an “auteur.” I shouted “Action!” to move
the crew to block and grip, light and shoot my life’s work.
Naturally I was the star, the greatest in the world.
In every scene I directed myself and gave myself a hand.

I played a ninja, packing lethal power in my hand
while gracefully leaping into the air, in so-mo or frozen time.
“Impossible” you say, “in a gravity-strung world.”
Well, you can't blame a gal for capitalizing on her assets,
no matter how many critics say they don't work
or how my earth-bound feet and fate refuse to move.

Clad in black jammies, cat-like I could move,
with a scarf round my forehead, my serious hand
pointed perpendicular to the sky. Would that work?
Not every movie made is worth the effort and time;
some slice profits open, gutting assets.
The bottom line’s the top star in the world.

I'm just not cut out for show biz, or maybe any world.
Like going straight to video, I just can't move
up. I'm a “ninja”– no income, no job, no assets.
Now, don't go around thinking I exist hand-
to-mouth. I'll remember to check in from time
to time and write if I find work.

Among the assets hidden in the world,
rewards for work might someday move
into my empty hand. When’s Show Time?

[firefangled]

LOL! My sentiments exactly and I thanked God several times for the gift of wine while writing mine.

And might I add, that is an amazing sestina. I think the flow is as unforced as Elizabeth Bishops sestina about the grandmother and child.

Great job, Aunty!

[qimissung]

They were so awkward, in this mother daughter dance
One was the hard bright light of the noonday sun
And the wind and the lightening that formed the storm,
The other, the owl and the mouse on a midnight hunt, a dreamer
Who, book in hand, wondered and wandered
Through magic lands, a creature of the nightlit moon

She a raven who cawed fearful premonitions to the full moon
Who lured her love with her large dark eyes and a fearful dance
Who was born in one home, swore fealty to it, never wandered
Or wondered about the world, who left but came home to the sun
The daughter, fated to leave, to never come home, a dreamer
of dreams, yet dreamless, in the dreamtime, in the storm

Each loved the other with a fearful love, within a fearful storm
Each longed to touch, together, the silver rays of the moon
The mother never gave up on her wayward dreamer
And though she pined until she was shadow, she had the dance
She always danced with her lover, content together in the sun
While the other, fearful of the mirror that was her mother, wandered

And her mother, thoughts running this way and that, wandered
Into the land of “what if” and dwelt there long and long through storm,
Sunshine and shadow and wondered; and blinded, never saw the sun
The daughter, fearful of the storm, hid in the midnight moon,
Shut the door against the whirling dervish, and never learned to dance
Knew the contours of her midnight land, and there, a dreamer

Stayed; then one silver night a dreaming dance began, and the dreamer
Gave up the midnight land, and loved the sun and wandered
Nevermore; and the sun and the moon began a lovely dance,
Nevermore to be woebegone and caged within the storm;
Lovely, large, and luminous, she waxed and waned, but never moon
Did waver, she knew she loved the lion’s roar, knew she loved the sun

While setting, still glowing a lovely blushing rose, the sun
Still loved the moon with the passion of a dreamer
Knew she would make her way by the light of the fingernail moon;
Knew, with the fixed purpose of her heart, that she who wandered
Feared neither the importuning of her heart, the mirror, or the storm
But would stay awhile, and with her mother, dance

And so the dreamer stayed the storm
And happily wandered in her land of moon
To happily dance with her mother by the light of the midnight sun

[qimissung]

alakungfu, AuntShecky, firefangled, you have all done a magnificent, outstanding job. This was a tough one; I almost didn't make it, but I knew I had to try!

[alakungfu]

gimissung, after reading a poem like yours, you say to yourself (I do at least), "that's what I meant."" Lovely poem.

[qimissung]

:) Thank you, alakungfu!

[Pendragon]

Wow! I am astounded at the talent in these entries! Gonna be a very tough one to judge, let me tell you. Wonderful poetry, some of the best I have read in a coon's age! :thumbs_up:D

[PrinceMyshkin]

They were so awkward, in this mother daughter dance
One was the hard bright light of the noonday sun
And the wind and the lightening that formed the storm,
The other, the owl and the mouse on a midnight hunt, a dreamer
Who, book in hand, wondered and wandered
Through magic lands, a creature of the nightlit moon

She a raven who cawed fearful premonitions to the full moon
Who lured her love with her large dark eyes and a fearful dance
Who was born in one home, swore fealty to it, never wandered
Or wondered about the world, who left but came home to the sun
The daughter, fated to leave, to never come home, a dreamer
of dreams, yet dreamless, in the dreamtime, in the storm

Each loved the other with a fearful love, within a fearful storm
Each longed to touch, together, the silver rays of the moon
The mother never gave up on her wayward dreamer
And though she pined until she was shadow, she had the dance
She always danced with her lover, content together in the sun
While the other, fearful of the mirror that was her mother, wandered

And her mother, thoughts running this way and that, wandered
Into the land of “what if” and dwelt there long and long through storm,
Sunshine and shadow and wondered; and blinded, never saw the sun
The daughter, fearful of the storm, hid in the midnight moon,
Shut the door against the whirling dervish, and never learned to dance
Knew the contours of her midnight land, and there, a dreamer

Stayed; then one silver night a dreaming dance began, and the dreamer
Gave up the midnight land, and loved the sun and wandered
Nevermore; and the sun and the moon began a lovely dance,
Nevermore to be woebegone and caged within the storm;
Lovely, large, and luminous, she waxed and waned, but never moon
Did waver, she knew she loved the lion’s roar, knew she loved the sun

While setting, still glowing a lovely blushing rose, the sun
Still loved the moon with the passion of a dreamer
Knew she would make her way by the light of the fingernail moon;
Knew, with the fixed purpose of her heart, that she who wandered
Feared neither the importuning of her heart, the mirror, or the storm
But would stay awhile, and with her mother, dance

And so the dreamer stayed the storm
And happily wandered in her land of moon
To happily dance with her mother by the light of the midnight sun

Thank God I didn't know when I first came across it thanks to Alakungfu that it was written according to the rules of the sestina or all the pleasure - the IMMENSE pleasure - I got from it might have been undermined by the whiplash of double-checking to see if qimmisung was following the rules! I still don't know if she was or not. What I do know and treasure is the feeling I got both times I read it that somehow each line was more full than the number of words or syllables in it might lead you to believe, that there was always more here than was being said.

Damn! this is GOOD! And seems to be as spontaneous as if it was following no rules!

[qimissung]

:lol: So true, Prince, so true!

But thank you, more than I can say.

[windblown]

With a sestina you go round in circles
The same end words again, again
Each repetition setting up new hurdles
You have to fill the given form with something new.
And so you come to think how in this pattern
You have to re-invent yourself from day to day.

Your Monday, Tuesday, Wednes- and Thurs- and Friday
Fill weeks and months and years in endless circles.
Your life a quilt - can you detect the pattern?
There, in that patch the girl-child cries again
And that old rag of habit: nothing new
You walk through life and find the same old hurdles.

You want to run - your path is blocked by hurdles
You shy away, the same as yesterday
You know that path and yet the hurdle's always new.
So tired are you from the ceaseless circles
You think you cannot face them once again.
You want to break out from the tiring pattern.

Just add a little variation to the pattern.
Perhaps you cn crawl under some big hurdles
And when another blocks your way again
You see how you can jump it one fine day
When you have gathered strength walking in circles
And suddenly your world looks almost new.

A single tone in your life's melody sounds new
And that fresh note reverses the old pattern
Where you just walked your feet now dance in circles
And playfully you lift surprisingly light hurdles
The tiredness you feel around the ending of that day
Feels good and sleep becomes refreshing once again.

You live, breathe deeper, even dance again
The greying quilt of life has colours that seem new
You find the strength to face the challenge of the day.
You can still recognize the well-known pattern
And no one has removed a single hurdle
But you see islands, Sundays in the circles.

And looking back again at your quilt's pattern
At old and new, smooth paths and giant hurdles
You add another day to life's sestina circles.

[PrinceMyshkin]

It astonishes me, Windblown, and several of you others, that you submitted poems as graceful and free-flowing as if they had been written without ANY rules rather than with this barbed-wire necklace over your shoulders and around your arms! Although I shudder from the thought of trying one my (obsessive) self, I see in these the truth that adversity sometimes makes for grace.

[AuntShecky]

It astonishes me, Windblown, and several of you others, that you submitted poems as graceful and free-flowing as if they had been written without ANY rules rather than with this barbed-wire necklace over your shoulders and around your arms! Although I shudder from the thought of trying one my (obsessive) self, I see in these the truth that adversity sometimes makes for grace.

I'm willing to bet, Prince, that if you tried one, you'd surprise yourself, but not necessarily us, because we've seen what you can do with verse. Your sestina might be the best entry of all. "You never know"-- to quote the State Lottery, who also gave us the immortal slogan -- "You gotta get in it to win it."

[Pendragon]

I chose the Sestina for this contest because it is hard to write one well. The poets have answered the challange with wonderful verses. Try it Jer. I am always a fair judge in these contests.

[Pendragon]

Contest now closed. Now comes the fun part, trying to judge these wonderful poems.

[Pendragon]

Firefangled:

I love these lines from your sestina:


Time to harvest all the soldiers’ spirits from the ground,
let their last appetence be the force that forward walks
and flows at last in every generation as one blood.
May there be no escape from peace, the world’s a shell
around us all, one creature, in someone’s pail, someone’s books.
There is no killing one, where all of us aren’t dead.

You missed one word in your closing envoi, which I am going to allow as an honest mistake!’

Alakungfu:

These were great lines from your sestina:


No concept of the richly feminine
Inasmuch as rivets the male arena,
Leaving stars awash to embark and follow
Insight to such dried Experience as can man
Be imminent as destroyer of the sexes both.
Youth joins in with outstretched hand in dreamland:

You unfortunately missed the entire point of the envoi, which was the six words, two to a line!

Auntie:

I love these lines from your sestina:


Me, I'm outside the margin: “No income, no job, no assets.”
What doesn't bring home bucks and bacon isn't work.
On paper, little value accrues by my own hand.
Sewing and cleaning, cooking and washing make up the world
from which I crave escape, but too confined to move.
It could be a virtual prison, as if I'm doing time.

Your envoi is both right and wonderful!

qimisung:

I love these lines from your sestina:



While setting, still glowing a lovely blushing rose, the sun
Still loved the moon with the passion of a dreamer
Knew she would make her way by the light of the fingernail moon;
Knew, with the fixed purpose of her heart, that she who wandered
Feared neither the importuning of her heart, the mirror, or the storm
But would stay awhile, and with her mother, dance

And your envoi is to die for!

Windblown:

You were very creative in your use of end words such as here:


Your Monday, Tuesday, Wednes- and Thurs- and Friday
Fill weeks and months and years in endless circles.
Your life a quilt - can you detect the pattern?
There, in that patch the girl-child cries again
And that old rag of habit: nothing new
You walk through life and find the same old hurdles.

Well done! But you also messed up on the envoi, the six words, two words to a line, remember this!


All said and done, the contest goes to qimisung who may choose the next form. Thanks to all of you wonderful poets!

:thumbs_up:thumbs_up:thumbs_up:thumbs_up:thumbs_up

[firefangled]

Congratulations!

Well deserved qimissung! Your sestina was masterful and poignant. I have read it several times since it appeared. So many of the lines are like nothing I have ever read for their originality and what they lend to the poem.

You have come through the labyrinthine task of writing in this form gloriously.

Personally, I have sworn off sestinas forever because they drive me to drink. :lol::lol:

[qimissung]

Thank you, Pendragon. I am touched and honored. Firefangled, Alakungvfu, Auntie, Windblown-yours were equally tremendous. I read each of them several times, and frankly, liked them better than the famous examples I sought out. I don't think I will ever forget the night I spent writing this-nor do I think I will ever write one again (although I didn't drink, I probably would have benefited! ). :lol:

[qimissung]

I will have a new form by tomorrow.

[alakungfu]

Sorry, Pendragon, but I must say that I learned a lot about metre from this choice of form. Thank you for choosing it.

Congratulations, qimissung. I'll have to pay closer attention to the instructions of the next form, whatever you choose. And I was expecting you to win this time. That poem was tremendous.

[qimissung]

Our next form is going to be a dramatic monologue. This form was used in Greek plays, and of course Shakespeare used it to good effect. Robert Browning wrote several, the most famous of which is "The Last Duchess".

Here is an explanation from poets.org:

Dramatic monologue in poetry, also known as a persona poem, shares many characteristics with a theatrical monologue: an audience is implied; there is no dialogue; and the poet speaks through an assumed voice"a character, a fictional identity, or a persona. Because a dramatic monologue is by definition one person’s speech, it is offered without overt analysis or commentary, placing emphasis on subjective qualities that are left to the audience to interpret.

You can read the rest of the entry here:

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5776

There are several excellent examples of this type of poetry at this site. In fact I found some of them quite daunting. Nevertheless, knowing my litnet friends are nothing if not intrepid, I decided to proceed.

I'm presenting a poem by Sylvia Plath as an example, and another written by me, as it hardly seems cricket to judge something you have not first attempted. Good luck to one and all, and above all, have fun! :)

The contest will close March 15.

Qimissung

[qimissung]

by Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

[qimissung]

And now for mine. Following Sylvia Plath seems somewhat foolhardy, but here goes:

The Prince of Cats

We glide into the night, my friends and I
Indistinguishable from one another
Our voices echoing off the night wind
And each others’ faces
We get buzzed
The elixir of our manhood pillages my tongue
Reaches into crevices and washes out
The dregs of my psyche onto the night

We talk
The firelight of our conversation
Flickers on the faces of my friends
I am their reflected light
In the shine of oil and water
On the street
The moon on the fast-moving clouds
The ping of a headlight on the
Fender of our car
I glimmer and I ‘m gone

It’s night and I am the Prince of Cats
The road and I converge
Our massive muscles writhing
As we unfurl our sinuous tail
Lashing it across the wasted landscape
The car careens
What did I leave behind?
Who did I escape?
My lungs plummet into the absolute zero of space

Dazed I look around
Reach out
Take
I don’t where I am
But I know that I’ll be doing this again

[alakungfu]

My World

I did it!
I finally did it.
I didn’t believe myself
That I could
But I can’t ever say again
That I didn’t do it.
Because it’s a fact now.

And, now, what do I do?
That was my forever-
Be-all-end-all
My reason for dreaming,
To see how vast
I could dream
With my eyes closed,
What challenge I was
Solid enough to meet
With my eyes open.

How do you replace your dream?
Your whole life thrusts
In a different direction
And you follow it?
I used to run with my dream.

It’s so strange not to want
That anymore,
Not to be unconditionally enamored of life.
Today I embraced life
Like my brother,
Like we’re in it
From now on
Together
But no longer ‘til the end.
Life has a real shape for me
“The End” is just a table
Within a random plane
Where before it was a shattering peak
Gaping into a bravely framed oblivion.

The end, the irreplaceable,
Has been replaced
In my perspective
With my Soul.
I no longer carry a partly full
Vessel within my body as my conscience.
I have a burgeoning soul,
My index for beautiful dreams
That I might one day attain
Depending on those that I’m virtually drawn to.

But did I say I’ve found fulfillment?
There is, after all, the impossible still.
For life, there is no justification
No answer.
I am sustained in my search by my precious option
Love
Which penetrates
My grounding principle
My psyche.

[qimissung]

"The End" is just a table within a random frame..." that is just one image I love in this poem. In fact you create a series of images with this persona, all the while leaving our imaginations to wildly surmise. Well done, Alakungfu, well done.

[windblown]

Congratulations, qimissung! Pendragon chose well! I simply love your images and the elegant flow of your lines.

[qimissung]

Thank you, Windblown. I look forward to seeing your entry in the next contest! :)

[AuntShecky]

Nice Girls Finish Last

The Last Duchess of Ferrara

So here I am, nailed to the wall.
Why marvel that the painting looks more alive
now? Then, I wonder how I sat so still.
Though Fra Pandolf’s hands busily worked
all day, we passed the time in pleasant chat:
we noted the sun’s soft slants as they filtered
through the room, how the summer breezes reached that window so far from the sea. Somehow
the salt air seemed a bit colder this year.

Then, the session over, Fra Pandolf complained
to you how my mantle overlapped my wrist
and how mortal paint could never capture
that “half-flush that dies” along my throat--
He flattered me!-- yet of my neck, the knives
of your henchmen knew more than you. The blush,
that unwitting glow, the friendly banter, died.
Esteem survives amid your silent artifacts.

I used to be easily pleased, impressed by life:
the improbable bough of cherries, each day’s
sunset, gifts expecting no reciprocal return
for their simple elegance. Round
and round the over-groomed terrace I'd ride
on a mule, remarkable for its humility,
whose loyalty outran the fastest steed.

The mutual comity of sad smiles,
the camaraderie of beauty shared
meant more to me than any noble name.
My nature was such that I felt at home
with peasant souls who made their home
in Nature, with strong men and women
for whom mere breathing was a work of art –

until. . . Now as a host you're sweeping through
an agent who seems so easily impressed
by upper trappings and marble floors.
Once again the name is on the market,
my replacement soon to be consigned.
Tell her for me to keep her selfhood low,
her personality wrapped in mantled gowns.

Should my portrait hang around, relate
to her the same tale you told your guest.
May the next duchess attempt to thrive
as some gilded knickknack rose. You –
may Neptune rise up and drag you down
into the brewing froth as your seahorse,
heavy with gold, cheaply drowned.

[qimissung]

Very impressive, AuntShecky; nice play on the "The Last Duchess" poem, also!

[firefangled]

I see how tough is—
a man ages into grace and light,
baby’s breath heaving out
beyond the dry leaves,

prevailing, white and delicately resilient,
waiting for the thunder.

Here, knowing my flowers
are not the proof of rain, I watch
for the ghosts of the great floods
the sun pulls relentlessly,
invisibly into the illusion of blue.

I will reside no doubt in a book,
pressed and graying bones,
the mettle of a poem
slowly fading into print.

Lacking rain, I sought refuge
within the vapor of voice,
mute profusion, sad and fey.

I’ve learned how is the rain—
the sky is not the sky—
the weight of breath makes it fall;
it rises from where I keep my breathing.



March 2009

[qimissung]

That is incredibly beautiful, firefangled. I see you met the deadline. I was really hoping for a few more entries, so I'm going to extend the deadline to April 2. Thank you for your patience.

[kevinthediltz]

Not too long, but I hope it works. :)



I wake before the sun
This meaningless life
My house is empty
My bed is empty
My heart is empty
Stuck between “just friends”
And awkward conversation
In the saloons and bars
The day’s end
I think about the morrow
Why should I wake?
A failure today
A failure tomorrow

[TheFifthElement]

with thanks to John Gardner's most excellent book of the same name. A poor, but heartfelt, tribute.

Grendel

Here is the last hour.
The cave, the darkness,
the stirring of firesnakes:
none of this matters.

The cold hand of the infinite is upon me.

My blood, the burning pain
of what I was, that is no longer,
empties me. I am old with life.
Undone by violence: no one knows what I am.

And never will they.
No shaper to sing my songs,
my victories. No memory, except
the blood lust: demon, man killer,
accursed beast. Entrails dangling from my teeth.
Night-thief, ripping flesh from flesh,
bones, brains, blood, breast.
And yet

I see what they don’t see.
Beneath the monster, a man:
angry, churning, hungry.
Rejected.

Hrothgar: you made me what I am,
as I made you. However brutal I was
you were too. Brothers in bloodshed.
Heroes were born and died in me.
My flesh sustained your flesh,
as your thanes sustained me.
Your kingdom grew around me.

You needed me.
The stain in the darkness,
breaking down doors: chomping on priests,
on men, on children, on whores.
Destroyer of meadhalls.

Destroyer of me.
Go on, claim your victory!
And when peace strangles your tired old kingdom:
mourn me.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Brilliant! But of course you're up against tough competition (see 558).

Hugs!

[qimissung]

Whoa!!! Impressive additions to our contest! Now I'm in for it-going to have a lovely, wonderful, tough job of selecting ONE of these as the best. Thank you Kevin and Fifth for joining the fray!

[PrinceMyshkin]

I was not born here,
in this body,
but somehow I wandered in one day,
took a look around and thought
I might as well be here
as anywhere.

I had to learn
how to look out through these eyes.
Frankly, I’d have preferred
to have brown ones,
which might, of course,
have changed the way people looked at me.

So much depends on that,
I’ve found. Wouldn’t you agree?
If only two or three
had seen me as a saint...

But no, they insisted
on seeing me as Me,
which was and is
and always will be
a work in progress....

[qimissung]

Thank you for participating, Prince. Very interesting poem...much to ponder here...

[PrinceMyshkin]

with thanks to John Gardner's most excellent book of the same name. A poor, but heartfelt, tribute.

Grendel

Here is the last hour.
The cave, the darkness,
the stirring of firesnakes:
none of this matters.

The cold hand of the infinite is upon me.

My blood, the burning pain
of what I was, that is no longer,
empties me. I am old with life.
Undone by violence: no one knows what I am.

And never will they.
No shaper to sing my songs,
my victories. No memory, except
the blood lust: demon, man killer,
accursed beast. Entrails dangling from my teeth.
Night-thief, ripping flesh from flesh,
bones, brains, blood, breast.
And yet

I see what they don’t see.
Beneath the monster, a man:
angry, churning, hungry.
Rejected.

Hrothgar: you made me what I am,
as I made you. However brutal I was
you were too. Brothers in bloodshed.
Heroes were born and died in me.
My flesh sustained your flesh,
as your thanes sustained me.
Your kingdom grew around me.

You needed me.
The stain in the darkness,
breaking down doors: chomping on priests,
on men, on children, on whores.
Destroyer of meadhalls.

Destroyer of me.
Go on, claim your victory!
And when peace strangles your tired old kingdom:
mourn me.

My apologies for the seemingly taunting reference to your competition (#558) which was because I was under the impression that your poem was a second entry by Firefangled.

[TheFifthElement]

My apologies for the seemingly taunting reference to your competition (#558) which was because I was under the impression that your poem was a second entry by Firefangled.

No worries. Having a poem mistaken for one of firefangled's could only ever be a compliment.

[qimissung]

The contest is now closed. Now the hard work begins! I will have results by the end of the weekend. My deepest thanks to all who participated.

[qimissung]

Now for the results of the Form Poem Contest. I would like to say at the outset that it is an honor to judge these most excellent poems. I chose this form because I thought it would be interesting and an interesting challenge to write in another person's voice, and I found that to be so with my own attempt.

All of these poems are excellent examples, and it is very difficult for me to say that one of them is the best, but that is just what I am required to do, so here goes.

alakungfu was first, with her poem, "My World," about, I believe, Psyche. It is beautifully done, with quite striking imagery throughout. I love the opening lines: "to see how vast I could dream with my eyes closed, what challenge I was solid enough to meet with my eyes open." I love how she writes of this age-old girl/goddess with the fresh eyes of a young girl; she tells Psyche's story with such a depth of insight: "the end, the irreplaceable, has been replaced in my perspective with my Soul." She concludes by intertwining the two elements so key to Psyche's story: "I am sustained in my search by my precious option, Love, which penetrates my grounding principal, my Psyche." As always, alakungufu is the thinking person's poet. I believe you have conquered the form, alakungfu.

Next was AuntShecky, with "The Las Duchess of Ferrara". First I loved that she wrote a response to Browning's famous poem, and that she did so so believably. I loved this insight into her character: "the mutual comity of sad smile, the camaraderie of beauty shared meant more to me than any noble name." She had advice for her replacement-"tell her for me to keep her self-hood low, her personality wrapped in mantled frames," and the ending after all her self-reflections, modesty and ironic insight is killer.

"Remembering where I keep" is firefangled's entry. He grabs one by the heart with his opening lines "baby's breath heaving out beyond the dry leaves," then clinches the poignancy with "I will reside no doubt in a book, pressed and graying bones, the mettle of a poem slowly fading into print." Every line as graceful and sorrowful as a ballet, as the end of a life.

kevinthediltz entered, his first time to do so. Thank you Kevin. The lines that struck me the most were these: "stuck between 'just friends' and awkward conversation in the saloons and bars." How insightful. I was touched by the emptiness of this mysterious persons' life.

"Grendel" was TheFifthElement's entry, an incredibly powerful look at the world from the monster Grendel's viewpoint. "the cold hand of the infinite is upon me," he says, "I am old with life, undone by violence..." and "heroes were born and die in me." I love that reminder that there would be no heroes without monsters. His last lines are a warning to us all.

Last was PrinceMyshkin's "A Work in Progress." He said he wrote this quickly, but it has depth. I especially liked "I had to learn how to look out through these eyes." I liked how the persona was learning how to look through someone elses eyes, as was Prince, as are we all. Good job, Prince.

So who to choose? The winner of this Form Poetry Contest, by a hair, is firefangled's "Remembering Where I keep" for it's graceful use of language and the sorrowful, poignant tone he carries through to the end.

So, firefangled, please choose the next form for us. And again, my deepest thanks to all of you for entering, and for your extremely fine and noteworthy poems.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Congratulations, firefangled - and to you, qimmisung, for your gracious commentaries on all the poems. From the praise you heaped on them all I was sure it was going to be a 6-way tie!

[alakungfu]

Congratulations, firefangled. Your poem, for one thing, spelled out the value of being alone, as we are alone with our thoughts sometimes. I look forward to the form you choose;

[TheFifthElement]

Congratulations firefangled, it is a fine poem.

Thanks for your comments qimi, gracious as always :)

[firefangled]

I would ordinarily not have waited so long to respond, but my beloved stepfather passed away on Monday of this week. He was 89 and had been suffering for a year, so it was merciful for him to go.

Thank you Qimissung for selecting my poem. I truly did not expect to be selected. Though I am glad you said by a thread, because all the poems were excellent.

The triolet is a French form from around the late 14th century. It turns on two rhymes and there lies some of its difficulty. The first line appears three times, thus its name. The trick is to make sense with all the repetition.

Here is the rhyme:

A
B
a
A
a
b
A
B


There are older examples, but the language is antiquated. These are two of my favorites:

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,

To a Fat Lady Seen from the Train

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
When the grass is soft as the breast of doves
And shivering sweet to the touch?
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?

By Frances Corford

****
We Poets

We poets are so very strange!
We write and write and lose our minds!
Emotions flow in quite a range;
We poets are so very strange!
We’re happy. Then, we quickly change;
To make a world it takes all kinds.
We poets are so very strange!
We write and write and lose our minds!

Luann Kennedy

[Pendragon]

Soliloquy

The rain is a comfort to those in distress,
So gentle her touch on my face and my skin
When the power of despondency is so strong in this world
The rain is a comfort to those in distress,
With sorrow for breakfast, and supper depression
Never knowing when trouble comes or from which direction
The rain is a comfort to those in distress,
So gentle her touch on my face and my skin

Pendragon

[firefangled]

Thanks for getting things off to an excellent start, Pen.

[firefangled]

Let's make the deadline May 1.

Sound OK?

There are fine poets on Lit-Net. I am excited to see all the triolets.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I wandered along a path unmarked
Where once my love and I had been,
On a life-long journey fresh embarked.
I wandered along a path unmarked,
Where once with the birds we larked.
As in a solitary sleeper’s dream,
I wandered along a path unmarked
Where once my love and I had been.

[AuntShecky]

Gosh, how I love these two lines:



Soliloquy

With sorrow for breakfast, and supper depression
Never knowing when trouble comes or from which direction

[alakungfu]

Child of the past, spurned and outcast,
Where does your reticence lead?
Your wish is your bond, your memories fast.
Child of the past, spurned and outcast,
Your promise is scattered, your playground is vast;
But never a star in transit you'll heed.
Child of the past, spurned and outcast,
Where does your reticence lead?

[firefangled]

Thanks, Alakungfu.

What amazing poems so far!

[autolycus]

Curiouser and Curiouser

Two ravens sang in the darkening day
A curious tune with a warning refrain
That said one more time what they had to say
Two ravens sang in the darkening day
That one has a duty to look for a way
That does not end in a multitude slain
Two ravens sang in the darkening day
A curious tune with a warning refrain

[AuntShecky]

Please Remit

Among everything I still miss
I want to get my garden back
right now, with spring’s prime past due kiss.
Among everything I still miss:
birds who fled from a landlord’s hiss,
amid my overgrowing lack.
Among everything I still miss
I want to get my garden back.

[firefangled]

This Form Poetry contest is over. I will have the results in a few days. Congratulations to all the fine entries and thanks for participating.

[firefangled]

All of these triolets were true to the form, which is not always as easy a task as it might seem. Congratulations to all those who submitted triolets. Now for the hard part.

Pen, what I liked first about this was the use of rain in this repetitive form. As with so many of your poems you bring us face to face with the common struggle to live with faith and hope in a world that is unpredictably wonderful and cruel. My favorite lines also are “With sorrow for breakfast, and supper depression/Never knowing when trouble comes or from which direction.”

Prince, for me the best lines were “Where once with the birds we larked./As in a solitary sleeper’s dream…” This indirect association between the cherished then and lonely now was done very well by putting these lines one following the other even though they are parts of separate thoughts. Well done!

Alakungfu, the poignancy of this simple question coupled with its persistent echo whipsawed me! My favorite line, “Your promise is scattered, your playground is vast;” I think it is difficult to write about the solitude of shyness without getting mired in pathos. This did not at all.

Autolycus, I liked the description “curious tune.” Employing ravens to sing it was brilliant. There seemed a sad sarcasm or maybe despondency to this in the line “That said one more time what they had to say…” This short triolet said so much to me that it seemed longer than it is. I got to this point and again was floored by what was being said between these powerful lines, coupled with the one above. “That one has a duty to look for a way/That does not end in a multitude slain…”

AuntShecky, this struck to my core because I have been without my garden for nearly 10 years. Your triolet dug up all those key reasons for missing a garden. I know you say that the speaker is just the speaker in a poem, but I couldn’t help thinking this was personal. I liked the length and urgency of this perfect line, “right now, with spring’s prime past due kiss.” I also felt the remorse in “birds who fled from a landlord’s hiss,/amid my overgrowing lack.”

***
I hope it is obvious that I truly loved and appreciated every one of these. I feel so lucky many times to have found the poets and writers of Literature Network.

Being a child of the ‘60’s I often remark as to why there are not in this decade more poems and particularly popular songs admonishing war. To me it is so important that we speak well, speak often, and speak relentlessly to the point that peace seldom if ever comes from war. Autolycus expressed this concisely, artistically and very true to the form imposed. Autolycus, congratulations on winning the form poetry contest.

[autolycus]

firefangled, thank you very much for the honour! As another child of the 60s, now teaching children of the 90s(!), I've realised that sometimes it's difficult for them to see how we used to live and may yet descend towards.

Note: The ravens come from my completed experiment at http://tworavens.blogspot.com, where they say more things, and some most peculiar.

=====

The next form is something that I think I've seen before somewhere around here... it's the terza rima haiku, that odd blend of Renaissance Italian and Japanese traditions.

Here are the rules:

1. Terza rima is a form which Dante Alighieri used in his Divine Comedy. It consists of lines whose rhyme-endings follow the scheme a-b-a, b-c-b, c-d-c, d-e-d and so on. Conventionally it either terminates with a single line (so the ending here would be d-e-d e) or a couplet (so the ending here would be d-e-d e-e).

2. A haiku (well, the modern type) is a form which has more or less three phrases with a syllable count of 5-7-5 and does not have a particular rhyme scheme. In some traditions, the haiku has a seasonal theme (or a theme from nature), with two contrasting images.

3. The terza rima haiku is a hybrid. Your task, should you choose to accept it, is to compose a poem of fourteen lines with the following structure:

3a. The rhyme scheme is aba, bcb, cdc, ded, ee.
3b. The syllable count is 5-7-5, 5-7-5, 5-7-5, 5-7-5, 7-7 (note this last detail).
3c. The theme must be taken from the natural environment (although 'winter in a city' would just about qualify, for 'winter' and not for the 'city').

4. While terza rima is conventionally written in iambic pentameter (if in English) and haiku are generally without such constraints, you are free to follow the latter tradition or invent other constraints of form.

5. Deadline is Saturday 6 Jun 2009, 8 pm EST (GMT -4).

=====

Enjoy yourselves! Thank you so much for being a great community!

[alakungfu]

Lithe as the summer
Turning on a flippant dime's
Flight into slumber.

Rainbows haunt the climes:
Grainy background sheaf of dreams;
All-absorbing times.

Gold unicorn streams
Pepper glum quivering Snoop
With magic's raucous beams.

Letters on a stoop
Call attention to a love,
Delivered life's dupe

Sends the fragile turtledove,
Glimmered struggling above.

[autolycus]

Whoa... fast and sweet, with some scintillating lines! :)

[autolycus]

Urgh. One entry only, but it's a good one.

I award this win to alakungfu, but I have to say that although it's the only entry, it's well worthy of a prize on its own. So not a 'default' win, but a recognition that it's (yes, again) a good one. :)

PS: In the old days, I'd have innocently tried to extend the deadline. But just as with the Picture Poetry Contest, if there's only one entry, the choice is probably to award or not to award — not extend or not to extend. Best that way, I guess.

[alakungfu]

Thank you, autolycus.. I enjoyed writing this poem. As a matter of fact, I had planned on choosing the terza rima sonnet as my form. However, as it happens, and as I was just recently introduced to the tanka (my time was occupied instead with haiku), that's tha form I'll choose. You probably recognize the format -- 5-7-5-7-7. Write about whatever you like. Here's my example that I wrote myself:

wooden slivers drip
from the rafters borne aloft
in Thumbelinaland
a dimpled island of tunnels
in times seldom visited

I'm sure everyone else can do much better since this was my first try on the forum's "Japanese Tanka Game".

The contest deadline is June 30, 10 am..

[qimissung]

Congratultions, alakungfu. It's a lovely poem. I especially like "Golden unicorn streams..."I thought of giving it a try, but the end of school is an incredibly busy time-AND I was intimidated. Still, I might give the terza rima a try this summer.

alakungfu, your way with words is something that I will ever be striving for. I'll give the tanka a try!

[Pendragon]

The slaves revolted—
Desperate men sought freedom:
The Romans struck fast—
Crucifixion sentences pass—
Crosses line The Apian Way...

Pendragon

[alexar]

Took me a few days,
but now I've worked it all out.
The thing I wanted -
the best thing that could happen -
I let go - it went away.

It all added up -
I explained it so clearly -
She had to concur.
It made such sense. What else could
she do but agree. And go.

[alakungfu]

Talk about diversity -- This contest will be interesting. Keep the poems coming.

[qimissung]

the water glimmers
and willow kisses its' waves
such infinite love
the willow loves the water
so will I love you, always

[alakungfu]

Lovely, quimissung. I wish I had a book of just willow poems.

[qimissung]

Thank You, alakungfu. Willows are just naturally poetic, aren't they?

[TheFifthElement]

White as the walls, my
mind stilled to beating silence -
outside, the city:
fast-dancing, rapturous night -
a closed door. Sleep: not dreaming.

[alakungfu]

Thank you Fifth Element. I love reading contemporary poems - I feel like I'm learning something important.

[alakungfu]

Sorry for the delay. Here are the results of the contest:

Pendragoln, I liked the gravity you gave the tanka by ranking it with an epic poem's subject matter.

alexar, I especially liked your last line "she do but agree. And go." You get around to making a point, poetic.

quimissung, ,"the willow loves the water". What can't you read into that? The willow has always spoken to me of timelessness.

The Fifth Element, "mind stilled to beating silence -". You've succeeded in making the line tangible. For me, your poem is raised one step above music. It examines substance in the simplicity of poetry. Well done. You win.

[TheFifthElement]

Thanks alakungfu :)

For the next form I’d like to propose a Persian form of poetry called ruba’i,

This type of poem was first encountered in the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, translated by Fitzgerald and from which it gains its name. Here’s an example of a poem from the Rubaiyat:



Ah, Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
The ruba’i is a fairly straightforward form consisting of a quatrain with the rhyme scheme AABA. It can be used in stanza form (i.e. multiple quatrains) in which case the rhyme scheme alters to AABA BBCB CCDC and so on; in theory you could go all the way to Z but that would surely take some willpower! A very well known example of the ruba’i form is the very eminent Robert Frost’s poem Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening which is below. In the poem you can see how Frost has followed this strict rhyming scheme quite effortlessly with a slight cheat in the final quatrain. No cheating will be permitted in this contest, I’m afraid ;)

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
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 with that most excellent poem in mind I leave you with a final request of my own:



Friend poets I ask you, turn your art
to the ruba'i, and please take part
in this small contest, but beware, you'll see
the ruba'i tests both mind and heart.

I look forward to reading your poems.


Deadline is 07th August.

[qimissung]

Congratulation, fifth. It is a fine poem.

[PrinceMyshkin]

the water glimmers
and willow kisses its' waves
such infinite love
the willow loves the water
so will I love you, always

I don't often come to this thread so I missed this fine poem until now, but I love the evocativeness of it and the economy. The reference to willows could not but remind me of this spontaneous quatrain my grandson, 4 or 5 at the time, addressed to his 2-years younger sister:



I love you more than a fish.
I love you more than a cornstalk.
I love you more than a willow
floating on a mud pool.

[symphony]

Congratulations, fifth!
Erm, regarding the quatrain-- no meter I hope? :alien:

[TheFifthElement]

Erm, regarding the quatrain-- no meter I hope? :alien:
Oh no, I think you've probably got your hands full with the rhyming scheme, adding meter would be cruel...erm, on second thoughts...no, only kidding! No metrical rules apply.

[ampoule]

Yes, I would like to try. Thank you!

[Virgil]

I'm in. I haven't written anything in ages. I need to start again.

[qimissung]

I don't often come to this thread so I missed this fine poem until now, but I love the evocativeness of it and the economy. The reference to willows could not but remind me of this spontaneous quatrain my grandson, 4 or 5 at the time, addressed to his 2-years younger sister:



I love you more than a fish.
I love you more than a cornstalk.
I love you more than a willow
floating on a mud pool.

:lol: Thank you Prince. I think I like your grandson's best!

[Dark Muse]

Yes, I know it is long, but you can blame that on Fifth. LOL I kid, but as soon as Fifth brought it up, I had to make the challenge, and take this thing all the way to z.

My Lover in the Night

Darkness came upon my soul
into the shadows we stole
to ride upon the tides of night,
my troubled dreams the reaper will console.

Cast beneath pure moonlight,
may her silver highness grant insight,
before the wind bores me away,
and on my dark horse I hold tight.

I hear the whispers of the fay,
for a moment in my saddle sway,
where we descend to the world of dreams,
dazzled I watch in dismay.

There a distant castle gleams
the ruins of ancient regimes,
among fallen pillars I walk,
and listen to caressive streams.

And above a majestic flock
summoned by the wizard's clock,
to breathe this sweet still air
that speaks of a far away dock.

For a tinge of salt lingers there,
let us attend the spirits fair,
already their haunted lutes begun,
in this masquerade of the dead we'll share.

Around the fire we are spun
in the ceremony of the pagan
this is the winking witching hour
cackling in our macabre fun.

Strong are the threads of power
drawing us now to the marble tower,
from the ghoulish party we depart,
crossing through the mystic shower.

Here now a shudder in my heart,
awestruck by this realm I became apart
where I wander with my worthy guide,
how I'll mourn when we must depart.

To him my secrets I confide,
he takes my hand and sets our stride
to find ourselves within a dark hall
where lonely echoes seem to glide.

Faces shimmer upon the wall
and take up their desperate call
for we have found the corridor of the lost,
soundlessly they forever fall.

This threshold swiftly crossed
less my own soul suffer great cost,
now before us a lake of stars
where all forgotten wishes are gently tossed.

Shadows of the trees make foreboding bars
reminiscent of fading scars
and I feel a growing sorrow,
this precious moment forever ours.

But this time I had to borrow
and now there comes a new tomorrow
already the sun begins to rise
amongst a filed of pungent yarrow.

So I look darkness in the eyes
ever the reaper did well advise,
painful is our leave taking
as we ascend back into the skies.

Yet ever I feel the dull aching
certain my heart is breaking
stoically he gives me a hush
while in death's arms I am quaking.

A touch of his cold lips brush
and then we are off in a rush
this dreamland left far behind
and I in full flush.

Now ever with shadows my soul entwined,
for the memories never shall unwind,
as the world comes back upon me
someday again each other we'll find.

Never again can I be free
as you carry me across the sea,
and all too soon in my bed I sleep
wishing we stood beneath the willow tree.

And until the morning I do weep
when at last the light begins to creep
I waken with a sense of wonder
for a secret I will always keep.

Yet ever more torn asunder
in my mind rolls a distant thunder,
to spend my days in an outward gaze,
surely I fear I will sink under.

For lost within this haze
wishing once more for your surreal maze
I call into the night for your return
for you have set something inside me ablaze.

Over a thousand eternities I would yearn
while my soul continues to burn
for you were my otherworldly lover
and that I could never spurn.

Let us once again secret worlds discover
while beneath her dark majesties cover,
for as I lay me down again to bed I pray
that your mysteries I will once more uncover.

[ShadowFire]

OMGOSH!!! Dark Muse! That is amazing. I am ashamed to even pick up my pencil now. You are truly amazing and skilled. I am still taken back by your poem. Well done Dark Muse, well done.

[Dark Muse]

Thank you very much

[TheFifthElement]

Woowee!!!! Thanks for getting us off to a cracking start DM :D

[Pendragon]

Ut Nex

I feel Death stare at me with fiery eyes,
I should be, but I am not surprised—
That bony hand has long reached for me
Clasped in its fingers a bloody scythe…

What will I be when at long last I die,
Cast off my shell, this earthly disguise
Can someone out there please tell me?
There are no seers among the wise…

But pass I shall, no pathway goes otherwise,
Clasp hands with Father Death, say my goodbyes—
And who among you shall mourn me?
Or just say “Good riddance to that guy…

Pendragon
7/9/09

[TheFifthElement]

Yipee! And now we have a contest! Thank you kindly, Pendragon.

[March Hare]

Andromache sing us your lament
Beloved son tossed from high battlement
Husband thrice dragged dead around Troy's wall
Yourself weepingly to slavery sent

Of those fates sealed at Troy's fall
Yours is worst but none recall
Songs of Deeds are what we sing
No epics for the weak or small

But those who've grieved because a king
Brought swarm of war for some trifling
Can't have hearts or backs unbroken
So what good can a poem bring

Works of art are but poor token
For all the tales left unspoken
Of those who did not do but were done to
Silent ghosts best left unwoken

[alakungfu]

Chocolate is as chocolate does
Dizzy sees as busy was
If I lost my breath today
I'd feel at ease still just because

Watch your weight is what they say
Cultivate health and hit the hay
The object is not an ego trip
But to rid your world of decay

Eager to take any tip
And to avoid voyeurship
The subject hosts their own parade
To display their perceived Blue chip

Appearance falls under the grade
Of having means above a shade
Of mere basic existence; yes, charge
You've drawn on the silhouette you've made

So listen to the trivia at large
Ride the train and ship the barge
You never know how the story ends
'Til you've paid your dues and served as Sarge

[TheFifthElement]

Yeay, another two poems. Thanks March Hare and Alakungfu!

Keep 'em coming!

[TheFifthElement]

Still a week to go if anyone else would like to enter?

[LMK]

I'm considering it.

What are the eligibility requirements? Does one have to have been a member for any length of time, etc.?

I am by no means a scholar of poetry and admit that I am intimidated by this group; not for harsh comments, but by the talent, knowledge and experience.

Let me know about the requirements and I'll see if I can pluck up the courage.

~L

[TheFifthElement]

Hi LMK :D

There are no requirements other than the poem you post must utilise the form which is currently being contested. For details see here: http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showpost.php?p=746628&postcount=600

As long as you're a member of Lit-net and you want to take part then you're more than welcome here.

[LMK]

Her Reply
by (LMK)

You speak to me these words of love
See in my eyes the stars above
Taste on my lips sweet honey wine
My hand in yours fits like a glove

You ask me for this life of mine
To ever join with thee and thine
And we shall stay eternally
With heart’s allegiance e’re align

This gift from fate, our destiny
You say is how it’s meant to be
Only my happiness you want
Your life, your love, it’s all for me

Yet there remains a skittish haunt
I’d overlooked not cared to flaunt
But now I fear it’s time to speak
Of what will be my coup detente

Perhaps you thought me far too meek
To have brought forward such critique
Of you and she who share a bed
Are you alright, you’re looking weak

Your face now flushes brightest red
I hope t’was not a thing I said
Perhaps desire’s warmth does rise
Please don’t provoke and shake your head

I’m sure you see with no disguise
That knowing this I would despise
The thoughts of you and her mid-pant…
…perhaps to leave it there is wise

You have your leave to gallivant
To yearn I’ve none to rave and rant
But at the risk of sounding twee
To marry you, you see, I can’t

/*
~L

[March Hare]

Nicely done LMK.

[LMK]

Thank you March Hare, I enjoyed the imagery you conjured.

~L

[TheFifthElement]

Thanks for joining us LMK :D

Still a few hours to submit your poems...

[TheFifthElement]

Okay, the contest is now officially closed. Thanks to everyone who's entered.

Now for the difficult part....

[TheFifthElement]

Thank you all for submitting your poems; it's been a pleasure to read them all and very difficult to judge. But as with all contests there must be a conclusion so it now falls to me to take the difficult decision. First though, a comment on each of the poems.

Dark Muse
Wow! DM what a journey! I can't help but be impressed with the commitment and expansiveness of this poem. Not only did you scale the A-Z but you made it look effortless in the bargain. Throughout the poem you never drop the rhyme, nor vary from the stringencies of the form but it doesn't feel forced or difficult. Overall it's a classic lyrical poem bordering on the epic. It's impossible to pick out one part or another, each stanza works well in its own way, each one a step along the way of this mystical journey.

Pendragon
Pen, as always your poetry has the power to wrench the heart, and though this one was brief it wasn't lacking in emotional content. Rhyming is one of your real skills, I've always admired it, and here you use rhyme with subtlety and discretion to great effect. I loved this interjection:

There are no seers among the wise…
and the terrible sadness of those final lines:

And who among you shall mourn me?
Or just say “Good riddance to that guy…


March Hare
You chose the tragic story of Andromache as your theme and it served the form well. I think you used the more archaic language well - normally it would grate on my nerves (personal foible!) but actually I think you've woven it in to the poetry beautifully and it simply works. These lines really brought the story home:

Songs of Deeds are what we sing
No epics for the weak or small
Yes! And you follow it up so well with these lines:

But those who've grieved because a king
Brought swarm of war for some trifling
and here:

Of those who did not do but were done to
and that sharp reminder:

So what good can a poem bring
yes, art is but a thin veil in the face of true suffering. A tragedy made more tragic still. Impressively written.


Alakungfu
You really grabbed with those opening lines:

Chocolate is as chocolate does
Dizzy sees as busy was
If I lost my breath today
I'd feel at ease still just because
creating a curiously disjointed and intriguing opener which makes the reader want to read on, and I love the way you've weaved these common phrases in and twisted them into something a little different! It's a mind-bending piece. Nicely done.

LMK
What starts as a classic love poem quickly turns into something else! I love the sharp wit of this piece, the way it leads you one way then turns and slaps you in the face! Again, I think you've used the archaic language well, in this case it strikes me as ironic and slightly wicked, particularly considering where the poem ends up. I love this part in particular:

Yet there remains a skittish haunt
I’d overlooked not cared to flaunt
But now I fear it’s time to speak
Of what will be my coup detente
not least of which for that lovely rhyme with 'coup detente', yes! that's rhyme with flair and it is at this point the poem turns and looks itself in the cold hard eye. This line really made me smile:

The thoughts of you and her mid-pant…
yes! Wicked and cheeky ;)


They're all excellent poems and it's hard to pick a winner, but for sheer scope, breadth and audacity it has to be....DRUM ROLL PLEASE....

DARK MUSE

Congratulations DM, and I look forward to seeing what you pick for the next form.

[LMK]

Congratulations Dark Muse!

Your poem was powerful in its journey and descriptions. Epic was a word that came to my mind while reading it and watching in my mind’s eye the unfolding verse.

Fifth Element,
Thank you for your kind words.

To all,
It was a pleasure to have participated with such talent, versatility, skill and passion. It was great fun and hope to take part again.

~L

[Dark Muse]

Thank you! It was indeed quite challenging, but a fun process and experience.

[Virgil]

Darn, I missed it. I wrote half a poem and didn't get to finish it. Congratulations Dark Muse.

[Pendragon]

Congrads, Dark Muse! And thanks Fifth for the positive feedback! Looking forward to the next contest!

[March Hare]

Cograts to DM and thanks to 5th.

[qimissung]

Congratulations, Dark Muse. What will the next form be?

[Dark Muse]

I am going to choose a personal favorite of mine, that sounds fairly simple, but can prove more difficult than my first appear.

It is called a Septolet

The Septolet is a poem consisting of seven lines containing fourteen words with a break in between the two parts. Both parts deal with the same thought and create a picture.

Here is an example of my own:


Winter's blush
blooms my soul,
cold embrace

Eyes close,
drift away
forever
to sleep.

Deadline: October 1st

[Pendragon]

Death arrives
taking me out
in a carriage

Driving
me over
to the
graveyard...

Pendragon
8/27/09

[qimissung]

Arjan
breaths dreams
upon Anangi's
sleeping form

Anangi,
eyes aslumber,
clasp's Arjan's
truest words

[Dark Muse]

I really liked that qimissung, it has a very fantasy feeling to it.

Nice entry as well Pengradon, very dark and haunting.

Thank you so far for your entries.

I look forward to see what others come up with.

[AuntShecky]

Fields
rich with
yellow yarrow
and goldenrod

may outshine
kings and
rival the
sun.

[Dark Muse]

That is beautiful, everyone is doing so well so far

[Dark Muse]

No more entries?

There is still plently of time, but pretty soon the deadline is going to start to creep up on you.

[Drkshadow03]

New York’s bravest
haunt
scattered September ashes.

Each year
the calendar
remembers
lost dreams.

[krymsonkyng]

tinkling glasses,
piano keys,
sultry smoke,
stools

Captain Morgan,
Sailor Jerry,
and the
crew

[Dark Muse]

Here is a reminder just 5 days until deadline

[balehead]

A golden ray
Of sunshine
Lingers

On Faerie’s dancing
In
A never ending
Ring

[Dark Muse]

Thank you to everyone how has entered with all of your wonderful entries. The deadline is now here, so I will get to work on reading all of your works carefully, and the hard task of choosing a winner.

[Dark Muse]

Great Job everyone, this was really a tough one.

Pendragon: Of course I love the topic of your poem, and it is very October appropriate. You did a fine job in creating a very eerie scene, and telling a story, painting a visual image for the reader in such few words. I particularly loved the first verse. I could hear the hooves of pitch black horses ringing against cobblestone streets as the looming dark carriage rolled down the road to its fateful journey. The ending was intriguing as well, suggesting that it is not quite over yet, adding a touch of mystery.

qimissung: I thought your's was beautiful. And I loved the originality and creativity behind it. The fantasy aspect was quite unique, and the words were elegant. It was mythical, and spoke of the old romance, in the days of knights and maidens. Also loved the way in which you used two different perspectives, and points of view to create a whole picture.

AuntShecky: Beautiful poem that invoked many of the senses. You can see the colors of the field and smell the plants and the grasses in the air, feel the warmth of the sun. I loved the nature aspect of the poem, it was quite vivid and offered a very serene feeling to it and I just loved the last verse.

Drkshadow03: A very heartfelt poem of a tragedy that many people can relate to and have suffered personal losses from. I particularly enjoyed the lines scattered September ashes and remembers
lost dreams. This poem had a very nice flow to it, and I like the uniqueness of the structure in your poem.

krymsonkyng: The first verse was lovely I think. I loved the way you invoked the sounds, with the tinkling of the glasses and one can just imagine the way the piano keys sounded. Also I like the way in which the sound of the glasses and the piano could be merged together. You set up a really good atmosphere for the poem within the first verse, and I loved 'sultry smoke" and the suggestiveness that is offered. The second verse for some reason cracked me up, but I am a stickler for nautical themes, and so I quite enjoyed that.

balehead: This was quite a lovely poem, I loved the line "sunshine lingers" and I enjoyed the fantasy feeling behind it with the dancing of the fairies. This poem was quite playful and lighthearted, but rather delightful, and I enjoyed the creativeness in your structure of the poem.

After carefully reading over all of the poems, as we all know I had to choose but one winner. And so in much difficult dliberation, I have at last choosen qimissung as the winner of this form poetry contest.

[Dark Muse]

Congratulations to qimissung

[Pendragon]

Congratulations qimi! :ladysman: looking forward to the next form!

[qimissung]

Thank You, Dark Muse and Pendragon! All the entries were excellent. In fact in my opinion, mine pales somewhat in comparison. Having been faced with the difficulty of choosing just one, I appreciate DM's effort and thoughtfulness.

I will have a new form for us soon.

[qimissung]

I've decided on a form for the next contest. It's a form of poetic argument called The Bop. It's written in three stanzas, each followed by a repeated line or refrain.

The first stanza (six lines) states the problem.

The second stanza (eight lines) explores and expands upon the problem.

If there is a resolution, the third stanza (six lines) finds it. If a resolution cannot be made, then the third stanza documents the attempt to find one.

Following is an example, my first effort at this form:

Oh, I Love

Oh I love you
I love how you came swaggering into my life
Held me, caressed me
Took me by the hand and hauled me off to see the world
But now another voice is taking over, whispering
He doesn’t listen to you, and I feel my eyes turning red

And I know that if you only lay your hand against my cheek,
I will forgive, I will forgive you endlessly, with a tender look

And I’m right, I know I am
I travel light years to be with you
I enter your world as Alice must once
Have entered wonderland
But now it palls, and I wonder,
Will you ever enter my world with the same relish and
Fervor that I give you? And my anger,
Like green kudzu, grows

And I know that if you only lay your hand against my cheek,
I will forgive, I will forgive you endlessly, with a tender look

I miss the early days when I’d drop everything
And the world waited tenderly and mistily
While we fell in love
Finally I rise like smoke from the smoldering ashes
And tell you what’s on my mind
And you come, not everyday, but you come

And I know that if you only lay your hand against my cheek,
I will forgive, I will forgive you endlessly, with a tender look

Qimissung

I had a lot of fun writing this; I hope you do, too. The contest will be open until November 5.

[PrinceMyshkin]

A wee bit of a problem with the foregoing: It sets the bar SO HIGH that it might discourage others (like me!) from entering.

[Dark Muse]

Vampire's Lament

I was walking down the street
while the moon was new
searching every shadow
for some sign of death
praying to lift
me away.

Now I live a life of bloody smiles
and broken promises
tasting every lie

In the darkness I found
the black gift upon a sweet and bitter kiss
and I watched the last sunset
upon the remains of my life
always in the corner
waiting for another lost soul
see myself reflected
in their pleading eyes.

Now I live a life of bloody smiles
and broken promises
tasting every lie

Crying into the rain
once more I wish to die
but my only fate
is to put the past behind
baptized now with blood
rise anew with the moon.

Now I live a life of bloody smiles
and broken promises
tasting every lie

[qimissung]

I love vampires; I wish I had thought of writing about them. You describe the vampires loss of humanity and haunted feelings very movingly. Great job!

[Dark Muse]

Thank you, it is Anne Rice inspired

[Pendragon]

Forced to Make a Choice

The crossroads of life
Makes for a dilemma—
Other paths beckon besides the one I am on—
Voices whisper conflicting advice,
The owls hoot and the lone wolf howls—
Decision makes for a strange bedfellow…

A choice lies before me, two pathways I must choose—
Which one will bring comfort when the journey is through…

What to do, what to do
When any conclusion makes a toss-up—
I have forgotten what makes wrong or right…
I can’t count on tomorrow,
And yesterday haunts me, a wailing banshee…
I must choose, I must choose
For once I am certain
I dance the razor’s edge between life and death—

A choice lies before me, two pathways I must choose—
Which one will bring comfort when the journey is through…

Cold darkness has a chilly embrace,
The sunshine warms even if for a moment
My heart sliced to ribbons at best
The Angel of Death murmurs about resolution
But the choice is mine, mine alone and I choose
Life over destruction, hope above fear…

A choice lies before me, two pathways I must choose—
Which one will bring comfort when the journey is through…

Pendragon
© Friday, October 09, 2009

[alakungfu]

Child of the rocks,

Model of debris.

Woman in a box

Waiting to be free.

Twenty-first century fox

Seduced in the first degree.



Girls play safe on their own

And lose their grace on the well-oiled set machinery.



Cumulative locks

Weigh on the fee.

Scritinizing hawks

Ransom the key.

Innocent jerk gawks

At the spread on his knee

And savours the shocks

In the youthful game spree.



Girls play safe on their own

And lose their grace on the well-oiled set machinery



Since the virtual vox

Gave the babe eyes to see

She’ll never give talks

On her “Original Me”

Nor be a sought-after crock

For crumpets and tea.



Girls play safe on their own

And lose their grace on the well-oiled set machinery

[AuntShecky]

A wee bit of a problem with the foregoing: It sets the bar SO HIGH that it might discourage others (like me!) from entering.

Please don't sell yourself short. One of the many things I admire about qimissung (and you, dear Prince) is that neither of you are afraid to take artistic risks.

[qimissung]

I see we have some fine, new entries, Pendragon and alakungfu. Thank You for taking the artistic risk! :)

Thank You, Aunt Shecky; I believe I owe LitNet a big think you for introducing me to new styles and forms, for guiding me in new directions.

[AuntShecky]

The Hack’s Lament

Where’s everybody
goin’, huh? They all want my cab.
There’s a hopeful arm up in the air,
a two-fingered whistle, hardly a tweet.
Get in, Bro – I got the time
if you got the fare.

The meter runs an unbeatable race.
Where to? Where to?

I pick ‘em all up.
The fat and the drunk, the chic and the poor.
Praise tourists from whom blessings flow!
The natives chill or cling to the door.
Some bend my ear with DeNiro impressions
or opt for impromptu therapy sessions.
A few clam up tighter than a crab.
Most tell me things I just as soon not know.

The meter runs an unbeatable race.
Where to? Where to?

Here ya go, fella.
Lotsa traffic, better brace
yourself. This is a ‘tip’? Now I can buy
myself a whole fleet o’ yellow
taxis. Ya take what ‘cha get and don’t ask why.
We're all gonna end up at the same place.

The meter runs an unbeatable race.
Where to? Where to?

[qimissung]

Wow! Thank You AuntShecky; you really upped the ante (no pun intended) with this entry.

[qimissung]

I would like to thank those of you who have heretofore accepted the challenge.There are just three more days left in this contest.

[qimissung]

This contest is officially closed. Now the real scrutiny begins.

[Pendragon]

bump bump bump!

[qimissung]

Hello everyone. My apologies for not making a decision on this contest sooner. I was busy with work, but I think I was also reluctant to say that one is the winner. I like entering these for the challenge, but this is not my favorite part.

Having said that, I would like to thank Dark Muse, Pendragon, Alakungfu, and AuntShcky for entering and trying a new form. All were excellent.

Dark Muse, as usual, you mine the forces of darkness most gracefully. It is never a tired genre ni your hands, but a place of refuge for all lost souls.

Pendragon, yours is an incisive argument for the indecisive, whoever they may be. You scored a perfect game with yours.

Alakungfu, kudos to you for writing about such a timely topic. I know you have daughters and you expressed well the dichotomy of our society between fame and self-respect.

AuntShecky, I could just hear your cab drivers quintessential voice. You are a master of the witty line.

The winner of the latest Form Poetry Contest is Pendragon. Pen, you used this form to its best advantage, I think, in arguing both the pros and cons of your narrators decision. I felt and heard both the anguish and the hope. It spoke to me. Well done.

And now it falls to you to pick the next form. :)

[Dark Muse]

Congrats to Pendragon

[Pendragon]

Well, I love the villianelle form, so that will be the form for the next round, with the stipulation that the theme be "Year's End"

[Dark Muse]

What is the deadline?

[Pendragon]

Sometime around Christmas, Muse, I'll wait until I get some entries to say for sure

[Dark Muse]

Ok, cool

[alakungfu]

Here's a villanelle, Pendragon.


Mistake In Virtue

Melodrama skews its charm from the true and the false.
It burns its bridges direct the sheen of beauty fades,
From strident trysts to teasing walls.

The muse of music sheds her shawls,
But vigilante Siren the adventurous heart invades.
Melodrama skews its charm from the true and the false.

Fecklessness her suitor calls,
Adorning her features of love with increments and shades,
From strident trysts to teasing walls.

Echoes pierce receding halls
And rampant run meandering doubts in ranging brigades;
Melodrama skews its charm from the true and the false

And claims its victim as their heart enthralls,
One creature a servant of grim charades,
From strident trysts to teasing walls.

The hand of reason firmly calls
To threaten the spell of churning thoughts on accolades.
Melodrama skews its charm from the true and the false,
From strident trysts to teasing walls.

[Dark Muse]

In the House of Mithra

Upon his throne of light
fade away the day
dawning into night.

Encroaching end near to sight
darkness will carry warmth away
upon his throne of light.

Sorrow tinged in golden delight
each age yields the way
dawning into night.

For new life to burn bright
and illuminate the gray
upon his throne of light.

Eyes shinning futures insight
shades of past memories play
dawning into night.

Earth born anew from plight
rapturous joys display
upon his throne of light
dawning into night.

[Pendragon]

Great start to hopefully a great contest. Wonderful entries, Muse and Alafungfu! Already I foresee difficulty with making a choice...

[AuntShecky]

Risk Averse

Defy fate and uncork another year.
Lesser odds would make surer bettors quail.
Help us hedge this wager against stark fear.

Faith in discovering a better gear
takes a chance on a long-shot at the rail.
Defy fate and uncork another year.

What trumps the trepidation trembling near,
when buying a stock whose destiny’s to fail?
Help us hedge this wager against stark fear.

The nagging past is mocking with phony cheer.
Platitudes and promises have all gone stale.
Defy fate and uncork another year.

More life may come – or loss of what’s held dear.
Time’s both a speeding steed and plodding snail.
Help us hedge this wager against stark fear.

Shall we dare to hang a calendar where
the dream of sweet wine’s stained with bitter ale?
Defy fate and uncork another year.
Help us hedge this wager against stark fear.

[Pendragon]

The deadline will be December 31. Great entries so far.

[Pendragon]

Tick-Tock, people! Enter the contest today and be heard!

[Pendragon]

The contest is officially over, and the results are as follows:

I truly love the structure of the villianelle, and I felt that each poem was definitely worthy of winning. But in the end, there can only be one...

alakungfu:

Lovely structure and repeating lines. I just am not convinced that it fits the secondary rule of being about "Year's End".

Darkmuse:

What I really loved about your poem was the tightness of it, the ability to show an entire story in short, carefully chosen lines. Well done, my hat is off to you!

AuntShecky:

What can I say? This poem really blew me away, and is my choice for the winner of the poem form contest. You not only wrote a lovely villianelle, you nailed the "Year's End" rule very precisely! My sincere congrads!

So AuntShecky may choose the next form. I hope we have a greater number of poems in the next contest. We appear to be slacking on contests here!

[AuntShecky]

You mean the ditty whose central metaphors are drinkin' and gamblin'? We demand a recount!

Seriously though, this piece came about when it dawned on me that every turn of a year is like a wager in that, despite the sorrows and disillusionment of the old year gone by, our hopes are the stakes when we make a "bet" that the new year will be better (pun intended.)

And I feel so much "better" now that this piece was chosen! I am doubly-honored because the other entries were quite good and that you, Pen, were the one who picked this. Thanks for the opportunity to select the next poetry form which is:

a triad with the theme of "a fresh start."

Of Irish and Welsh origins, the triad is an expanded version of the tercet. The triad can be either 9 or -- as in the example below --12 lines. The trick is taking three items or images and linking them together with a common bond. Some definitions state that the triad should illustrate the effect of the three things upon a person, but that's not so essential as connecting the trio together.

Whenever a person needs an example of a certain type of poem, she rarely go wrong with the virtuoso of verse, the great Swinburne. He's the "go-to guy" when it comes to demonstrating poetic forms. The following is the second of three triads the maestro wrote in 1878:

The message of April to May,
That May sends on into June
And June goes out to July
For birthday boon;

The delight of the dawn in the day,
The delight of the sky in the noon,
The delight of a song in a sigh
That breaks the tune;

The secret of passing away,
The cast of the change of the moon,
None knows it with ear or with eye,
But all will soon.


So, to recap:

1. Write a triad about "a fresh start."

2. Your poem should have either three 3-line or three 4-line stanzas, rhymed or unrhymed, but if the former, please make sure the lines have a a consistent meter.

3. Post your poem on or before January 18, 2010.

Thank you again, and I hope we'll see numerous entries!

[qimissung]

Well done, alakungfu, Dark Muse and AuntShecky, and my congratulations to you, AuntSheckY. It was an awesome poem.

[Pendragon]

When winter turns into spring,
Life begins anew with a song
The trees gain a brand-new wardrobe

Thoughts turn to love
Love turns to a song
Rebirth of the soul

Watching the fluffy clouds
Sunlight makes a beautiful song
Warmth in the heart

Starting over again
Rejoining that sacred song
Flowers in spring

Pendragon
1/3/10

[AuntShecky]

Thank you, q -- are you going to send us a triad? And thanks again, Pen --this time for posting a fine entry.

Hope more LitNetters will post a triad.

[qimissung]

I will consider it AuntShecky. I really wanted to try the villanelle, but things came up.

[Dark Muse]

Luna Lupus

Reborn beneath a Winter's Moon
now infused with nocturne sight
at the alter of blood sacrifice

To become a hunter of the night
bathed within silver moonlight
blood of the beast warms the cold

Taste of blood, life's vital wine
new found life as a stalker in the dark
serenade to Mother Moon.

[qimissung]

the water at thirty two degrees begins to freeze
forming a tissue of insuperable delicacy
the freshet of water that lies beneath
flowing to the river, to the sea

the infant bird lies, its goggle eyes closed,
its beating heart palpable beneath
newly formed skin, a linen bandage lying
between life and death

in the turmoil of my mind, a freshet of questions
do I love you? do I know how to?
Can I love beyond the hurt? I grope for answers,
and in the groping, hold out my hand to you


Qimissung

[AuntShecky]

Thanks for the entries so far.
To reiterate:
write a triad consisting of three or four 3-line stanzas OR three 4-line stanzas connecting three images, thoughts, or items associated with a fresh start.

Deadline: January 18, 2010

[Virgil]

Oh I'll give this a shot. I have until the 18th. Good.

[firefangled]

As if it were the dark device of dreams,
the road stumbled me early toward the shore,
from black to gray as day laid down its beams.

The waves rolled ‘round my legs from Tenneriffe,
from Portugal and Spain the waters came,
an ancient sea made new, so clear, though brief.

The realm of sleep dissolved with dawn’s bright fan,
flown with the mist that veiled the far bent line
that rent the sky and where the world began.



© Copyright 2010

[AuntShecky]

Impressive entries so far -- keep 'em comin'!

[AuntShecky]

Just a quick notice that the deadline entries for this leg of the form poetry contest will be one week from today,January 18. See Reply # 675 for the rules for this specific round.

[AuntShecky]

Quick reminder that entries for this round of will be accepted through this coming Monday, Jan. 18, 2010. Specific rules in thread #675 above.

[TheFifthElement]

It is a peculiarity of time that in retrospect it appears so compact, an indivisible solid object, a dish with only one smell and one flavour ~ Cees Nooteboom

Each morning she pours milk into the cup.
She pours tea from the teapot into the cup.
The china cup, with the mandarin ducks.
It was her mother’s cup.

Each day she balances her books.
She pays bills, the taxman; she gives to charity.
She writes it all down in a hard, lined book.
The book was her father’s.

Each night she fingers the beads and prays.
She kneels, and her mouth moves imperceptibly.
Each night she prays for the world and its sorrows.
Repeated today. Repeated tomorrow.

[Dr Jekyll]

Night

The dome of a sheltered man lies awake.
Animals with empty seashells cross its path
Taking the starry night's gentle rake,
Stealing what was long lost with the wind.

Woman's tears do glisten upon your dark blade,
You, with a frightening sight!
But your spine shivers from fair faces that made
Those compassionate sparkles of our cloudless skies.

The nymphs are departed.
Lonely, spectral spirits wander about our endless sea
While it remains uncharted,
While it becomes a mere bucket of our revolving history.

[Virgil]

Here's my entry. Hopefully I did this correct and i beat the deadline.

Mountain Sun

At the onset of the mountain sun
In the freshness of the eagle’s air
In the snow of our journey’s road;

With the blessing of the early rain
With the gift of your love
Upon the acquiescence of the breaking sun;

Though the climb standing before us
Though the winds that hover above us
In the shudder before the cresting sun;

You leaned over to my face
In the unity of our common heart
And placed your lips to mine.

[MorpheusSandman]

Here's my Triad submission (this was a fun challenge):

The Road's Memory

A life of memories paved this road
A life that’s not yet done
A life to carry memory’s load
On roads to walk not run

It’s death that ends all that’s begun
It’s death that can’t be slowed
It’s death that seals us from the sun
And is our last abode

Forget, delete your memory’s code
Embrace the death of one
Prepare to pave a brand new road
And raise a newborn son

[ampoule]

In the Cards

Pick a day, any day, to be your first,
Just try to stop it and you'll surely burst.
Time marches on, yes, time marches on,
Each hour, each minute, soon they'll be gone.

One-two-three, one-two-three; Hup! Two-Three-Four
Your cadence so stiff, your dance, asks for more,
Your life's metronome beats like your heart,
With each cleansing pass you've got a fresh start.

Pick up the tempo, add rhythm, add zest,
Be mindful, aware of just what goes best.
And when you sit down on this cold winter's night,
Just give it a rest and you'll do all right.

ampoule, January Eighteenth, TwoThousandTen

[AuntShecky]

My, we have so many entries that it's going to be pretty darn difficult to choose just one! It's really gratifying.
If there are any more LitNutters who want to post an entry, you have the rest of today and this evening.

Then comes the hard part for your ol' Auntie!

[AuntShecky]

Now it's time to face the difficult task of presenting the results of the form poetry contest.

There's a pleasant surprise in not only the goodly quantity of entries but also the overall quality of the material. Everyone --and I do mean everyone --should be proud of his or her effort. In their individual triads, all of our entrants composed the prescribed number of lines (9 or 12). To a greater or lesser degree, most contributors didn't forget that the triad hinges on three connected components and in this specific instance, the particular topic of "a fresh start." Additionally, kudos to the entrants who carried the idea of "freshness" into their poems themselves by making an earnest effort to avoid overused, banal expressions.

Now some comments on the individual entries:

--The untitled piece by Pendragon shows us life "starting over again." Connected by the effectively-repeated "song," are a tree, a cloud, and a flower-- all specific images of spring.

--A different type of spring comes in "To the River, To the Sea" by qimissung, who employs images of water, a baby bird, and love as the connecting element. Of particular interest is the word-play in the use of "freshet," both the literal little stream and the renewal that it brings.

--Dark Moon's "Luna Lupis" presents pictures of "Mother Moon," a hunter/predator, and blood as "life's vital wine." The looming darkness contrasted with the moonlight adds tension to this piece.

--The extended metaphor of firefangled's "Convergence" as lines such as drawn by a road, the edge of the sea, and the horizon--"the far bent line" is both logical and elegant. Just as most roads don't really end but merge into a new road, so does the line between the "realm of sleep" and waking, when a new or fresh line begins. I also liked the concrete, specific references, such as Tenerife, a Mediterranean resort (which, if my memory of history serves, is tinged with tragedy.) I loved all of this piece, but especially the line "an ancient sea made new, so clear, though brief." This is a finely-executed and thought-provoking poem.

--The image of a road also appears in "The Road's Memory" by MorpheusSandman. In this piece that employs an appropriate and unobtrusive rhyme scheme, the three components are life, death, and memory, with the "newborn son" providing the connecting, perhaps healing, element.

Another entry that is unafraid to use rhyme is "Night" by Dr. Jekyll, as with blade/made" and "departed/uncharted." The central image is that of night as a dome, under which woman's tears fall and spirit cavort, albeit temporarily.

A delightful dancing and/or marching rhythm enlivens ampoule's "In the Cards." With "tempo, rhythm, and zest" as the three elements, ampoule's poem has the best opening line among these entries: "Pick a day, any day, to be your first," a witty allusion to "Pick a card, any card" parlor tricks. The rhythm of this piece is very strong, and shows how effective a poem can
be when form and content are intertwined, when the poem does what it says.

--"Mountain Sun" by Virgil beautifully fulfills all of the criteria of the triad. Three perceptible items appear in the first three verses: sun/eagle's air/ snow, rain/gift of love/ breaking sun/, and the climb/winds/cresting sun. The concluding verse connects all with a first the kiss, the beginning of a new love. This evocative piece is an outstanding triad. Well-done, Virgil!

--Finally, three sections of a day --morning, day, and night -- and three necessary tasks or requirements of life provide the frame for "Rituals" by TheFifthElement. The morning is symbolized by fulfilling needs to sustain life, the day by fulfilling social and civil obligations (paying bills and taxes), and the night by fulfilling spiritual obligations. The diction of this poem is colloquial with "homely" images, which remind me somewhat of the deceptively-simple language found in the poems of Frost and Auden. Indeed, the concrete details --such as pouring milk in a cup with a Mandarin duck pattern --all represent ingrained habits, obligations, and traditions --"rituals" if you will-- that stand in the way of a fresh start. Mention of the speaker's mother and father further link "rituals" to the past. An extra-added attraction is this poem's note of wit and tone of melancholy which hearkens back to the triad's Celtic origins. This truly exceptional piece which packs an emotional wallop takes the honors for this round of the Form Poetry Contest.

Sincerest thanks and congratulations to all of our contributors.

TheFifthElement, would you please select our next poetry form?

[firefangled]

I loved this poem when I read it for the subtle way you presented the theme.

I can add nothing to what AuntShecky has said so well, except what struck me right away was how the repetition in your poem was so well executed to support the content and the title without becoming overbearing, drawing just enough attention to itself.

I'm very happy you won. It's a fine poem.

[Virgil]

Oh I had forgotten to come back and look at the results. Thank you for your kind words Aunty. :)

Congratulations Fifth! I enjoyed your poem. :)

[Dr Jekyll]

Congrats to everyone who participated! :thumbs_up

[ampoule]

I couldn't imagine any other choice but Fifth's, though all were good, truly. I just immediately lost myself in her poem. It was beautiful.
And Auntie, you made me feel like a winner with your wonderful comments. Forms are difficult for me but now I'm going to make more effort. Thank you!

[Pendragon]

Congrads, Fifth. A truly worthy poem1

[qimissung]

Congratulations, Fifth for a poem of such naked, pure simplicity. I can easily envision a clean and quiet kitchen and this woman, who seems unbearably lonely for some reason, still going about her daily tasks.

But, you know, these were all excellent poems. I enjoyed each one so much. Well done, my friends, well done!

[TheFifthElement]

Thank you AuntShecky, and also Virgil, Firefangled, Qimissung, Pendragon, Dr Jekyll and ampoule for your very kind remarks. They were all excellent poems, I enjoyed every one of them.

For the next form I would like to select the Terza Rima. This form was invented by Dante Aligheri, and consists of three line tercets with a specific rhyming scheme. The first and last line of each tercet must rhyme, but overall there is a 'chain rhyme' in which the end-word of the second line in one tercet supplies the rhyme for the first and third lines in the following tercet. This creates a rhyme scheme as follows : ABA BCB CDC DED and so on. The poem ends with a couplet which may adopt the same rhyming pattern as the first line, or the last. There's no limit on the number of tercets.

So if you had a 5 tercet poem, with a finishing couplet, the rhyme scheme would be:

ABA BCB CDC DED EFE (AA) or (EE)

As always, it probably makes more sense with an example. The following poem by Frost is an excellent Terza rima:


Acquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost (1923)

It's a tricky form so I don't propose to set a theme. Please interpret as you see fit.

Deadline is 19th February. If anyone needs any clarification on the form, please let me know.

I look forward to reading your poems :D

[Pendragon]

Full Circle

Often it seems that time is just wasting away,
The moments slip by as fragile as mist—
Far too soon today’s tomorrow is just another yesterday…

Flailing one’s way towards that terrible rift,
Each day one step closer to the end—
Life is an adventure and one that is so hard to resist…

What lies beyond once one goes round the next bend,
Will it be sorrow or unsurpassed joy—
Why can’t one just look forward to whatever fate sends…

Time is an enemy that makes old men out of boys,
That writes lines upon faces, crumbles mountains to sand—
Even on mountaintops the shadow of the grim valley annoys…

So I embrace the sorrow or joy of each day—
And quit worrying about time just slipping away…

Pendragon
© 1/23/10

[TheFifthElement]

Wow! Very moving first entry from Pendragon. Thanks ;) you've set the bar high already. Look forward to seeing more.

[PrinceMyshkin]

In the heart of the heart
lies the mystery of who we are:
queen, angel, saviour, tart.

And we can never get very far
from our origins, however hard we try,
or from our guiding star.

You may listen to us laugh or cry.
You will hear the same solitary child
who, helpless, watches the world go by,

frightened, alone, and yet beguiled
by the mystery, unfolding, but forever wild.

[TheFifthElement]

Excellent! Thank you Prince. Now we have a contest.

Any more for any more?

[Dark Muse]

Last Breath of the Dryad

Her blood seeps out with weeping sap
watching her life wither away
the rings of time a vanishing map.

Shuddering as a trembling leaf in dismay
lover oak felled beneath the axe man's blade
the body and heart of her soul fades to gray.

No longer will she paint the shade
every stroke rips her in shreds of pain
by roots which once sheltered her life betrayed.

Silent screams offered all in vain
splintered fragments of dreams take flight
and never again will she waken to the rain.

and as the tree falls at last, so dies the final light
a love now and forever blind to human sight.

[TheFifthElement]

Another excellent entry, thanks DM.

It's going to be a tough choice :D Still two weeks to submit your entries.

[firefangled]

The field leans like shoal grass where the back bay
bends ‘round jetties in the shallow flats,
as the wind silvers the leaves and grasses lay

down their browning blades in autumn mats
of shadows dropped from a clouding sky,
and teatime flowers bow and tip their hats.

The day turns light toward the west and I,
moored in time, watch the world course by and reel
across a page, my hand a stranger to my eye.

Beyond the dunes, birds cry from salt marsh creels
concealed in palms; the waves crash in the earth’s shell―
the holder’s hand and ear unseen―the sun kneels

before the night where yesterday’s stars that fell
from unknown heights were discarded with a page
where emptiness eclipsed what I had tried to tell.

Yellow moon on the cool grass and the black bay,
inspire this night and lead me to what I need to say.




© Copyright 2010

[blank|verse]

Seagull

I’ve seen you on my way to work:
haranguing pheasants,
blueing the air with your squawks,

then bunking over the fence
to the school where my sister taught.
She says you cause quite a nuisance,

swirling about by the window, caught
like a crisp packet blown in the breeze,
and staring at the bad kid sat

where bad kids sit. One look and he's
gone: flapping round the room for a laugh,
caw-cawing, ignoring the pleas

to stop treating the board as a cliff.
He screams at you still hanging there:
you scream straight back – f-ck off ! f-ck off !

Later on, I'm leaving work, and wonder where you are.
Then see you've striped your sh-t across my car.

[MorpheusSandman]

I seem to always struggle with this form and I don't know why. I'll really try to work on something and post it before the deadline.

[Virgil]

This was not an easy form, at least not for English. Here's my entry.


The Fall

Clamp the weight and curl it up,
The muscle distends before it fails;
The back folds over into a cup,

I lift to become as hard as nails.
Reflected in the silver glass,
The bicep rounds through other veils;

The mind looks inward to surpass
Shoulders, arms, and masculine chest.
Body disputes the soul, fixed mass


Inverts, metal strains, becomes stressed,
The mutability of steel.
The flesh curves, falters, crests,

What’s there is not there to conceal
The resolution but reveals
In shades the everlasting deal.


The broken body falls, doubts, feels
Gathers itself up, rises, heals.

[PrinceMyshkin]

This was not an easy form, at least not for English. Here's my entry.

It may not have been "easy" in English - I doubt it would have been easier in Slovak - but you made it seem easy and crafted novel but well-fitting rhymes.

[TheFifthElement]

Thanks for the excellent entries everyone. The contest is now closed. Results will follow.

[TheFifthElement]

I think the first, and most important thing to say, is that these were all great poems. It’s a tricky, tricky form. Rhyming doesn’t come easily in the English language and the rhyme scheme of this form is complex. It is hard to create a poem which seamlessly uses the form without convolutions or awkwardness.

All these poems were great poems. You made it a very difficult choice for me :) But a winner must be chosen, so without further ado, here are the results.

Virgil
I loved the theme of the poem and the way it follows through. The poem strikes a very masculine chord, both directly and indirectly with lines such as this:

Reflected in the silver glass,
The bicep rounds through other veils;

The mind looks inward to surpass
Shoulders, arms, and masculine chest.
and the addition of the mechanical/engineering overtones, like here:


Body disputes the soul, fixed mass


Inverts, metal strains, becomes stressed,
The mutability of steel.
which is really nicely done. You handle the rhyme scheme well and I love the way it end with healing, such a positive note.

Pendragon
As always Pen you’re poems are wrought with emotion, beautiful and terrifying, a real emotional journey. This poem made me sad and I’m torn whether the ending is a message of hope or resignation. I’d like to think hope, but the rawness of the emotion makes me feel resignation. A heartfelt, heart-wrenching poem.
I loved this line in particular:

Time is an enemy that makes old men out of boys,
because it is so true. Our bodies may decay on the outside, but on the inside we’re still the same person we were as a child.
I hope the writing of this was a carthartic process Pen, and thank you, as always, for sharing so much of yourself in such poetic form.

blank|verse
Your poem was the most original, most contemporary out of the submissions. It really made me smile. The theme was interesting and well handled, somewhat coarse but I like it better for that. I loved the idea of ‘blueing the air’ and ‘haranguing pheasants’ I think you have a real talent for observation, and a wry sense of humour which comes across in the piece, especially in the ending. You’ve really captured the seagull well. I loved this part

swirling about by the window, caught
like a crisp packet blown in the breeze,
and staring at the bad kid sat

where bad kids sit.
However, in some places I found the observance to the rhyming scheme a bit too tenuous – and as the poem is decided on form I didn’t feel I could pick this as the winner, though, in truth, it is my favourite amongst all the poems submitted. Excellent work.

Dark Muse
I loved the theme of this poem and you worked the rhyme scheme really well throughout. Again, this was a sad poem, sad because, as is often the case, the terrible wrong could so easily have been avoided. Your poem is unflinching against the brutality of the act, which makes for painful reading in parts and yet it is right to be unflinching. There’s such finality in this line:

and never again will she waken to the rain.
and I loved the ‘rings of time a vanishing map’ and the idea of ‘a love now and forever blind to human sight’. A beautiful, painful poem.

firefangled
As always there is so much to your poetry I became almost lost, lost in the dense musicality of the words and images. It is impressive that in amongst all of this you retained faithfulness to the form. In some respects this poem reminds me of Stevens’ The House is Quiet and the World is Calm which is one of my favourite of Stevens’ poems, perhaps it is the reference to the ‘page’ which creates this link? I’m not sure. This part is wonderful:

The day turns light toward the west and I,
moored in time, watch the world course by and reel
across a page, my hand a stranger to my eye.
and I love the way you present nature throughout the poem, a natural world you are somehow separate from and yet intrinsically linked to. There’s a sense of need too, as though you need the world to give you poetry and yet somehow ‘even the stars are not enough’. Yes, I liked this poem a great deal.

But the winner, for me, was PrinceMyshkin’s untitled poem. This wins, for me, because of the way the form is invisibly knitted into the structure of the poem, so much so that the form becomes almost invisible. It’s almost effortless, though of course it is probably truer to say that the effort is cleverly concealed. The poem is deceptively simple, it’s theme one of identity, frailty, mystery, finding oneself? Perhaps? There’s also a sense of something untamed, perhaps it is the use of the word ‘tart’ which struck me straightaway as somewhat brave and fitting, and of course the lovely couplet at the end:

frightened, alone, and yet beguiled
by the mystery, unfolding, but forever wild.
which is a wonderful way to look at it: ‘beguiled by the mystery unfolding’. Yes, that is life: scary, out of control and fascinating. Excellent.

So, congratulations PrinceMyshkin you are the winner. Could you please select the next form?

[PrinceMyshkin]

Frankly, I don't know whether I'm more gratified or astonished. There are at least two others I'd have chosen ahead of mine!

As to the next contest, I don't know whether this next form has a name but a stunning example of it can be seen at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15301

That would be ABABCC, and the C rhyme becomes the opening one of the next verse: CDCDEE and so on.

As for a deadline, shall we say a month from now, March 21?

[Virgil]

In the heart of the heart
lies the mystery of who we are:
queen, angel, saviour, tart.

And we can never get very far
from our origins, however hard we try,
or from our guiding star.

You may listen to us laugh or cry.
You will hear the same solitary child
who, helpless, watches the world go by,

frightened, alone, and yet beguiled
by the mystery, unfolding, but forever wild.


I had not read the other poems. That is wonderful Prince, and I burst out lughing with the "queen, angel, savior, tart" line. I'm trying to recall the rhetorical term for such humor. I'm thinking of litotes, but it's not excatly that, I don't think. But whatever, very nice poem. :)

Thank you for your kind words Fifth. :)

I'm going to put my poem in my blog if anyone wants to comment on it.

[firefangled]

A well deserved congratulations, Prince. Yours would have been my choice as well for the very reasons Fifth explained.

For someone who has said many times that he eschews formal poetry structures, you were very skilled at one of the most difficult ones.


Il miglior fabbro!

[Pendragon]

Nice going, Jer! Poetry from you flows like a river!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Nice going, Jer! Poetry from you flows like a river!

Many thanks, Pen. Your simile, however, reminds me of this joke:

When the chief rabbi of the community lay dying, his disciples lined up for a last word with him. At the very end of the line, the youngest of the disciples was afraid that the rabbi might pass on before he the disciple got to speak with him, so he nudged the man just ahead of him:

"Please," he said, "ask the Rabbi, what is the meaning of life?"

The message went up the line, disciple after disciple, and finally the answer came back:

"The Rabbi says, 'Life is like a river...'"

"'Life is like a river'? I don't understand..."

Again the message went up the line and again a message came back:

"The Rabbi says, 'Life is not like a river?'"

[AuntShecky]

Congratulations, Prince!

I believe you cited the Snodgrass poem to me before, and I can't remember if I ever found the name of the form, but I'll keep looking.

So far I found this:
http://www.enotes.com/april-inventory-salem/april-inventory

which states that the poem consists of ten 6-line stanzas, in iambic tetrameter with the rhyme scheme ababcc. At first I thought it was a Burns' stanza (a la Robert) but Robbie alternates two meters. To me, the stanza is very much like a "sestet," the second half of an Italian or Petrarchian sonnet.

My question is -- surely you don't want all of us to write a full 60 lines, do ya? (I know what you're going to say "Don't call me 'Shirley.")

[PrinceMyshkin]

Congratulations, Prince!

I believe you cited the Snodgrass poem to me before, and I can't remember if I ever found the name of the form, but I'll keep looking.

So far I found this:
http://www.enotes.com/april-inventory-salem/april-inventory

which states that the poem consists of ten 6-line stanzas, in iambic tetrameter with the rhyme scheme ababcc. At first I thought it was a Burns' stanza (a la Robert) but Robbie alternates two meters. To me, the stanza is very much like a "sestet," the second half of an Italian or Petrarchian sonnet.

My question is -- surely you don't want all of us to write a full 60 lines, do ya? (I know what you're going to say "Don't call me 'Shirley.")

No, I don't expect or require 60 lines...And I'm grateful you didn't write "Don't call me, 'Shirley."

[qimissung]

Yeah, cause I don't think I can write ten six line stanzas! :ack2:

[blank|verse]

Well done Prince for being judged the winner; they were all good entries though. An enjoyable competition.

[Pendragon]

Congrads, Jer! I look forward to the next form!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Congrads, Jer! I look forward to the next form!

Thanks, Pen, do please note that I posted info re the next form at message #715 and elaborated at #721

[Virgil]

I'm afraid I've been way too busy to participate. When is the deadline?

Edit: Never mind. I found it, March 21st. I might be able to sneak one in by the deadline. We'll see.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I'm afraid I've been way too busy to participate. When is the deadline?

Edit: Never mind. I found it, March 21st. I might be able to sneak one in by the deadline. We'll see.

I started to answer before I saw that you had edited, but given the paucity of replies thus far, I might choose to extend it.

[Virgil]

I started to answer before I saw that you had edited, but given the paucity of replies thus far, I might choose to extend it.

We had such a good turnout for the previous round. I guess the output comes in cycles. [:lol: That last sentence sounds like engineering talk.]

[Pendragon]

Song of New Hope

When March comes in like a soft, fleecy lamb
Does it have to go out like a Lion on the prowl?
Weary of the snow and the bitter cold I am,
Ready for the North Wind to blow it’s last howl
Ready for the birdsong and flowers of Spring
I dream of their beauty when night falls each eve
Not that snow in itself is not a beautiful thing
But warmer weather will release my depression I believe
Looking each day for the buds on the trees
And trusting that Spring is coming no matter what one sees…

Time to give back clothing to the poor naked trees,
And let daisies and violets wink in the grass
Let’s trade in the cold for the warm Spring breeze
Tell Old Man Winter to cease and desist and just pass!
Already there are signs but the Lion cannot be far away
This period of sunshine may yet give way to snow
I’m thanking God for such a beautiful, lovely day
And find that new plants are beginning to show
Cheers for the passing of Winter, and the debut of Spring
Joy for new beginnings and the happiness the sun brings!

Pendragon
© March 7, 2010

[PrinceMyshkin]

Welcome to this first, graceful submission!

[krymsonkyng]

The days grow faster than the weeds
Rivulets reveal bulbs below
The sun glazed crystal water leads
the raft's retreat, fading spring snow,
dirt packed hard by months' frozen mass
sports shoots of flowers, despite glass

Mens' thoughts turn to forgotten love
from winter's daily drag, and grind
Romance hits thawing wits in droves
bittersweet blossoms of a bitter mind
As time melts veldt back to surface,
heart and soul take man's whole purpose.


Note: I may have laced in too much trochee... Expect a revision.
Note Note: I think that should fix the balance I was going for. Good luck everyone!
Note Note Note: I misread the requirements. I've got to shave the lines back to tetrameter... Bugger.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Thanks, krymsonking, this makes it a real contest!

[AuntShecky]

Hindsight

This strange myopia of mine
weakens my view in prisms of ways.
It strains my eyes when hours shine,
with its focus on the darkest days.
I can't see my way clear enough to shake
the sight of every dumb mistake.

I see more flaws than I can count.
The list gets longer. Wrongs arrange
themselves into a steep amount.
I'm blind to faults that I could change.
And I have felt at my heart’s core
a thousand needles, maybe more.

Past peers misread Marcuse off the shelves.
Aloof, I looked at them askance.
Now wealth has claimed their former selves,
while failure long since has seized my stance.
No doubt those folks have pity to share.
(Of that, this self has plenty to spare.)

The times I squandered, wasted, spent
chasing silly dreams or foolish men!
No dough, a deadbeat with the rent:
the same old me I've always been.
I could patch my wounds with duct tape and string,
or open my eyes and look at spring.

The blackbird with his rosy stripe,
the waking frogs down in the mud,
the forsythia so eagerly ripe
to welcome its early golden bud
all show that stale old winds have blown.
I'll force an April of my own,

and with each green spear that pokes its head
up through the ground that’s soft at last,
I'll soundly spank and send to bed
all the bad winters of my past.
For spring gives me another chance
to live -– without a backward glance.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Make it hard for me, why don'tcha!

[qimissung]

the purple crocus in their velvet coats
enfold each other tenderly as they
await the coming night, its icy notes;
spring turns its back on winter's wordplay
while my brush wordlessly conspires
to trace their downy deep desires

fingers trace the newborn baby's back; fires
that had lain dormant stir; the earth, primed for
your rebirth, makes ready loamy soil, requires
the earth stop its weary toil; the purple martin savior
is come home; sound loud the bright refrain!
that which was lost is found again.

Qimissung

[qimissung]

The Crocus and the Martin

the purple crocus in their velvet coats
enfold each other tenderly as they
await the coming night, its icy notes;
spring turns its back on winter's wordplay
while my brush wordlessly conspires
to trace their downy deep desires

fingers trace the newborn baby's back; fires
that had lain dormant stir; the earth, primed for
your rebirth, makes ready loamy soil, requires
the earth stop its weary toil; the purple martin savior
is come home; sound loud the bright refrain!
that which was lost is found again.

Qimissung

[PrinceMyshkin]

Thanks for this latest, beautiful entry.

The icon that appears to be still there was the result of my sloppy thumb!


--


Edited by Logos to replace a thumbs down with thumbs UP icon :)

[AuntShecky]

I think I found the name to a similiar verse form.
It's a sesta rima, aka the "Venus and Adonis" stanza, from the poem by Shakespeare.

http://lonestar.texas.net/~robison/more.html#sestarima

The thing is, W.D. Snodgrass's "April Inventory" is in tetrameter, not pentameter.

Well, back to the ol' drawing board -- that is, "The Google." Not today though, I'm already late in fixing the
supper.

[qimissung]

Thanks for this latest, beautiful entry.

The icon that appears to be still there was the result of my sloppy thumb!


It's OK! I know what you mean!

[Logos]

I fixed it Prince

[PrinceMyshkin]

The contest closes at midnight tonight. I should be announcing the winner by noon tomorrow.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Pendragon’s “Song of New Hope” is a poignant instance of stubborn hope confronting the vicissitudes of life:


Time to give back clothing to the poor naked trees,
And let daisies and violets wink in the grass
Let’s trade in the cold for the warm Spring breeze
Tell Old Man Winter to cease and desist and just pass!



Krymson King’s “April” is a vivid example of the seasons of feeling:

Mens' thoughts turn to forgotten love
from winter's daily drag, and grind
Romance hits thawing wits in droves
bittersweet blossoms of a bitter mind


AuntShecky’s “Hindsight” is a brilliant mixture of self-depreciation and stubborn sterling wit:

The times I squandered, wasted, spent
chasing silly dreams or foolish men!
No dough, a deadbeat with the rent:
the same old me I've always been.
I could patch my wounds with duct tape and string,
or open my eyes and look at spring.

Qimissung’s “The Crocus and the Martin” is glorious, seemingly effortless poetry:


the purple crocus in their velvet coats
enfold each other tenderly as they
await the coming night, its icy notes;
spring turns its back on winter's wordplay
while my brush wordlessly conspires
to trace their downy deep desires


And the winner is:

"The Crocus and the Martin" by Qimissung, which carries the form as lightly as a loving hand resting gently on her shoulder in the service of her characteristic lively vocabulary and unforced breath.


Congratulations to all of you and especially to Qimissung!

[qimissung]

Thank you, Prince. I always enjoy trying new forms. I don't think I'd force myself if it wasn't for this contest. I enjoyed everyone's entries. Krymson Kyng, AuntShecky, and Pendragon are all dear and worthy "opponents!"

Let's try our hand at the sonnet, that most worthy of poetic forms. You can read a little about sonnets here:

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5791

and here:

http://www.online-literature.com/forums/blog.php?b=6417&goto=prev

These are six blog entries by Red-Headed, and he did an excellent job of describing the sonnet and it's various types. I make no distinction among them, only that you try to outdo yourself and make it sing.

Here is another place to read about sonnets. It gets right to the point with an easy description of the form one should use when writing one, with links on how to write one in the style of either Shakespeare, Petrarch, or a modern version.

http://www.ehow.com/how_3335_write-sonnet.html

[qimissung]

Here is an example of a sonnet by Petrarch:

http://www.ajdrake.com/e252_fall_04/materials/guides/ren_petrarchan.htm

And one by Shakespeare:

http://www.albionmich.com/inspiration/whenindisgrace.html

You can, of course, find more of Shakespeare's sonnets here at litnet:

http://www.online-literature.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?f=5613

Good luck, and have fun.

[Pendragon]

N’est-çe Pas

Somewhere there’s music playing on beat-up guitar,
Singer is a homeless man praying he can get enough to eat.
Long ago he answered to his country’s call and went to war.
He’s got a nice purple heart for bravery but he’s on the street.
Another man from another city who did two tours of duty in Vietnam.
Came back home and found hostility due to insane Lieutenants over there.
In doing his duty, he lost an arm and an eye, but they don’t understand.
It just takes a couple bad apples to rot the whole barrel anywhere.
With patriotic fever he went off to where they sent him, no questions.
Cause he was red, white, and blue right down to his heart.
Then his son was born with no arms and they have no suggestions.
Things like that can pull the biggest patriot boy apart.
They that live by the sword one day are gonna die by the same sword:
And seems to me, child, we’ve come a long, long way from Valley Forge…

Pendragon

[qimissung]

Wow! Thanks for the first entry, Pendragon. With those last tow lines you hit this blues infused sonnet right out of the park!

[AuntShecky]

What's the deadline?

[qimissung]

The contest deadline will be April 12, 2010.

[AuntShecky]

No Restraints, No Strings

You know that value marched aloud in song,
the one not gained until “we” bravely fought
with blood, the only gold with which it’s bought?
Well, ev’ry blessed thing we're told is wrong.
Like children, well-behaved, we played along.
Its truth veers off from the way we're taught:
that it’s kept captive --as if been caught --
let out to air at times with felons’ throng.

Real liberty’s no lady. It won't grab
on a cause, won't cheer, or don a shirt of brown;
defies detection in both sky and sea.
How fast it skitters, quicksilver on a slab!
No frame will hold, for nowhere can be found
a clue: at large, uncaged, in charge, and free.

[qimissung]

This is so beautiful, AuntShecky. Thank you for joining the party with this lovely entry.