Form Poem Contest

Day 34/40 of Lent 2011

This Lent has been quiet, calm
No relapses, no cravings to step into a store
I walk briskly through shopping malls, only groceries for dinner
do a quick lunch or pedicure
As for Facebook, I am off the hook
No need for Newsfeeds, don't want to be tagged
Highlights offline:
Lunch with chums, tea with a favourite aunt
Singing lessons! Finding my voice on the keys!
Meaningful instant messaging conversations across the seas,
across the GRCs*,
Six days more or ten . . .
I'm keeping this short
Hitting 'Send'


*GRCs--Group Representation Constituencies (or GRCs) are electoral divisions represented by multiple Parliamentary seats in one particular city-state, currently anticipating elections

The Sitting

You're early, my dove, how impetuous you seem.
O, count me a fool for my boldness !
Unfrock yourself of your cloak, my dove, and lay it by the fire. Please
repair to the sitting room once more.

The ghost walks, I'll warrant - judging the coin purse you've given me.
Indulge me, my dove, as I gather my paints.
My heart is aquiver from love's misspent shafts. Do not fail me now !
Enchanting. Allow me to move the fauteuil to better capture the light.

Is your master well? He is generous to a fault.
Sit so. Chin up. Up, as I finish your painting.

Gold. Aureolin gold to match your soul as a final wash
of watercolour to finish your portrait.
Never so lovely.
Never so lovely.
And done. Now indulge me one last thing.

Come sup with me one last time, my dove,
of jonquil root, leaf, flower, and sage;
made fresh for our repast. To steal you away as mine.
Eternity ! Breathe deep the heady savoury, my dove. And sleep.

4/30/2011 is the deadline for entries. Make sure your voice is heard! Write today! :grouphug:

moonbird Nice run on the modern "post every little thing on line" and/or love connection!

mingdilly You seem to be a newcomer here, so may I welcome you! Lent is a trying time on all who observe it, nice little poem!

tailor STATELY You seemed to have a conversation going if I read this right, between the bold lines and not bold lines. A very neat style!

But I am going to have to go for:

DARKMUSE What can I say, this poem left me speechless! I think the breaks into stanzas really set this poem apart. The subject, WOW! That is all I can say!

You're up, Muse!

Thank you very much! I will have to consider what to choose for the next form.

Congrats Dark Muse!

Thank you!

Excellent choice. Congratulations Dark Muse !

Quote:

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tailor STATELY You seemed to have a conversation going if I read this right, between the bold lines and not bold lines. A very neat style!

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Yes. The italics were to show the mind of the artist as he uncomfortably has his ex-lover in her final/finishing sitting for a portrait to be given to his rival. He also converses with the ex-lover w/ her responses left out as superfluous.

Quote:

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Aureolin gold to match your soul as a final wash
of watercolour to finish your portrait.

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Using aureolin gold as a watercolour would darken & fade the portrait after a little time. [note: as an oil paint aureolin gold is stable; not so as a watercolour http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aureolin.]

I used a song title by Led Zeppelin http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Your_Time_Is_Gonna_Come "Your time is gonna come" spelled out using the first letter of each line (at least @ 100% browser viewing).

Of course this is a murder/suicide in the eating of the repast - the jonquil being poisonous by root and leaf http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Narcissus_(plant); the "master" ultimately being left with a dead lover and a portrait that will fade and darken.

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

Thank you!

Well I was somewhat inspired by Pendragon here, and I am choose for the next "form"

Experimental

Be as creative and unique as possible, seek outside your comfort zone, challenge just what a poem is. Push the boundaries on structure, word use, subject matter.

Pretty much anything goes as long as it goes against the traditional conventions of how or what a poem should be.

Deadline May 15

Here you go. Read and interpret as you choose.


put the bottle to my lips watch him with numbly dont have to feel its cold glass as he presses the bottle against my skin to his lips not for much longer yet again soon it will be swallows it down warmed with the radiating some slips down heat of my flesh his cheek and drips like melting its shining sweat amber raindrops down sliding down its neck his throat tracing clutching it so hard i fear the bulging purple veins it will break that only show and stab my hand when hes like this with its biting fingers the disgusting residue dont think i would of what once was notice if it did

Cinderella

It’s about time you faced up to reality, young lady!
Fairy Godmothers do not exist!
That’s not a fine gown from Sak’s Fifth Avenue.
You’re wearing rags! Filthy rags, ya hear?
You are not riding in a limo, nor a coach.
It’s a pumpkin, Stupid!
Those aren’t fine thoroughbreds.
Mice! They’re mice!
And there are not and never have been any glass slippers.
You’re barefoot, for God’s sake!
I’m sorry.
But, then again, fantasies have never hurt anyone—
that is—until Midnight…

Pendragon

Quote:

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Originally Posted by tailor STATELY

I used a song title by Led Zeppelin http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Your_Time_Is_Gonna_Come "Your time is gonna come" spelled out using the first letter of each line (at least @ 100% browser viewing).


Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

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Yes, I see that now: Your Time is Gonna Come! You know, I almost made this a name poem, spelling along the first line. Had I noticed this, it would have been a much harder decision on the winning poem!

The deadline for this one was supposed to be today but as there are only two entries I am going to extend the deadline to the end of the month.

Come now don't be intimidated by this one. It is your chance to do anything you want and break all the rules.

I know there are some innovative poets around here.

You can crawl through the
the ear drums of a
New York Beatle
wriggling on the ground.
The sound of being erased.
a single blow to the chest
is ultimately silent.
In hindsight, slow motion is king.
His woman falters in disbelief,
Long black hair spreadeagles
at two strands per minute
A life is lost among taxis, sirens
and thick pollution.
Now he is dung