thanks for your kind words!Quote:
Originally Posted by BienvenuJDC
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thanks for your kind words!Quote:
Originally Posted by BienvenuJDC
Today (April 12) is the due date for this installment of the Subject contest. If you have a poem in mind, please submit it ASAP. I'll do the judging tomorrow.
I loved every submission here. And I don't say that out of common curtsy. The Judging was most difficult. But here goes:
Bien's "Breakfast in the Morning" is a beautiful poem of charity and civility centered around the contest subject: a shared meal. Bien's work addressed the idea of shared meal as something we should do out of a moral responsibility to humble and the hungry. I also enjoyed his incorporation of the required line about "steam" as coming off the mendicant's neck which evokes a profound image of chill and isolation.
Dark Muse's "The Ritual of Morning" was an excellent tragi-comedy with the most unexpected ending of the group. DM, I greatly enjoyed your build up to the momentous occasion of one's first morning cup of Joe (denied!) as rite of manhood and adulthood. Too true!
Pendragon's "Final Meal" offered a sad glimpse into the life of hunger and isolation. (If only the narrator of Bien's poem could have seen them, I wondered). I thought that the great strength of Pendragon's poem was its use of a playful rhythm to contrast the horror of the narration. This combination gave the horrible event an even greater horror of commonality. I felt that Pendragon also played on the grand idea of a Biblical "last supper" with this sad lot's "final meal".
Haunted's poem "Hot Dish" (Dear Lord are you from the Mid-west?) played on feelings of appetite and the ancient connections between the sensuality of eating and courtship. Each numbered bit of the poem was soaked in anticipation.
paradoxical's "Newlyweds" was an amazing poem. I loved the subtle parings of divergent cultures in the opening two stanzas: "pizza", "Mexican beer", "St. Patrick's Street", "rice" which perfectly parallel the idea of two different people learning the art of a shared life. The modern, free-verse stanza added a contemporary feel to the poem. And the simplicity of the scene somehow felt, accurate (lousy word, I know) to me.
But the winner is. . .
the sad sack herself: AuntShecky. There is no other way I can say it: "Sunday 'Din'ner" kicks ***. The iambic pentameter & rhymed couplets structure the traditional idea that the poor mom is going for with her meal (and how she structures the meal). But this structure contains bombastic blasts of chaos, tension, noise and distraction in both content and the aural qualities of this poem. "Sunday 'Din'ner" is funny as hell and sad as hell at the same time.
Hey Auntie! I'll clean up the kitchen; you pick the subject for the rest of us sad sacks. ;)
Aw, thank you very much, Comedian. I am honored and surprised. The quality of the entries this time was remarkable, with Bienvenu's clever, alternate rhyme scheme, DarkMuse's soft and comforting imagery, Pen's philosophical mixture of despair and hope, Paradoxical's refreshing wit, and Haunted's pithy lines which call to mind the work of A.R. Ammons (the poet who used adding machine paper to keep his lines short.) These were all gems, methinks.
So I have high hopes for the next round of this contest. I'm purposely not including a line to quote, as the topic will be more-or-less wide open, and that is:
change (either temporary or permanent) upon a specific placeand its effect upon a particular individual. (The change should not be merely seasonal.)
Length: 4 lines minimum, 36 lines max.
Any form, meter or free, rhymed or unrhymed.
Use contemporary language; colloquial diction okay, though not required.
You can post your entries anytime between right now and May 10. (Hope Pong II holds out that long!)
Thanks again!
I'm interested in submitting for this contest but can I just clarify: do you mean on a particular place OR a particular person...or both?
Also, as I said earlier, I loved your poem and it deserved to win.
Great Job, AuntShecky!! I will be working on my entry directly....great subject too!!
Those were good entries. Well don everyone, and a special congratulations to you, AuntShecky. Yours was brilliant.
Hey, Dave, that very question kept me awake last night. I think I mean both -- a change upon a place and its effect upon an individual. In both cases we're looking for specifics.Quote:
Originally Posted by TheDave
Thanks for your kind words.
After Twenty Years
We were just kids, barely sixteen,
And we were in love—
Or in lust, or whatever—
And we’d kiss and cuddle and giggle
And have a wonderful time.
We were often serious,
Playing grown-up to the fullest;
That “Perfect Couple.”
One year later, we had split up—
A hurt that I thought would never go away;
A betrayal of all that I called “Me.”
But I had a friend, a wonderful friend
Who became more than just a friend—
My lover, my wife, and the mother of my children.
Now I stand here shaking your hand at your Uncle’s wake.
As I stare into your eyes once more,
I am amazed at how much has changed—
After twenty years…
Pendragon
with a nod to O. Henry for the title
Here's my submission:
Cleaning Up the Crap at #6
When I walked the path by Reservoir Six
In a business suit and Italian shoes
Each morning before work and during lunch,
I thought "there are so many ways to lose".
A new career, a new wife, a new walk
Five ties, two blazers (blue), one ham sandwich -
And this same piece of litter on the path,
I thought "what a thoughtless son of a *****!"
A few months pass with this endless sad schtick:
Same steps, same sandwich, same ugly litter.
Drunk on depression I picked up a butt,
And thought "I'm sick of being a quitter".
After that I picked up all sorts of junk:
Torn bags, old soles, spent fags, pop cans and glass -
And threw them all away. "My business suit,"
I thought, "is no excuse for being an ***".
Thank you Pen and Comedian for the first two entries. Keep 'em
coming, folks!
War Torn
We both bare our scars,
your black and charred
beneath my feet where
once golden fields of
fertile grain grew in
an endless sea dancing
upon the breeze.
And I with a blackened heart,
blood that will never wash
away, broken down and
filled with unearseable pain.
I was born of this land in love
working this earth with my hands,
voices of laughter once filled
the air of children at play.
Those dreams shattered,
no growth found here any longer,
and my heart closed like a fist,
too parched even for tears.
War tore through us
reeking havoc,
silence replacing the sounds
of happiness, yet nothing
will quiet the screams in my soul.
AuntShecky, I had so much fun reading your poem. It deserves first place!
I never heard of A.R. Ammons but I too write my stuff on adding machine paper. Ohh just kidding :D
I wrote something for the new subject and will humbly submit it once I get my act together...
School Grounds
where she was standing
is now a science lab
colorful chemical spatters
cover an old stain beautifully...
she’s an awkward child
timid. invisible. pathetic.
life would have
thrown eggs at her but
she did it herself first
she was eating
a soft boiled egg
her sickly mother made
to take to school
yellow yolk dripped
on her sorry looking
hand-me-down
dark blue uniform
in shame she ran to
the little girls room
she washed off the mess
but the stain is permanent
she didn’t know if
any got on her face
she avoids the mirror
the only thing
uglier than her
is life
she gradually advanced
to dissociation...
I pity her
it’s not easy
to be her
but I had
no choice
Groovin to the throw down of the winds of change
Waitin' for the pieces to all rearrange
Material melody dances through her hair
Does the sky move her, or is she the air?
I stare and there between the breeze I see
a breakdown of flow and though
she shows it doesn't grow on trees
I know that wrapped in rhapsody
she moves the sound as much as moves me.
Soothed by the rhythm of a spinning Earth's song
She moves to the repair of a world gone wrong.
Wow, we're getting some entries! Keep 'em coming!
The past Laughter fades
The swings are dauntingly still
The playground Haunted by the terror its seen
The innocence that was stolen
The Helpless child's plea
I, uh, changed my entry to this:
Groovin to the throw down of the winds of change
Waitin' for the pieces to all rearrange
Material melody dances through her hair
Does the sky move her, or is she the air?
I stare and there between the breeze I see
a breakdown of flow and though
she shows it doesn't grow on trees
I know that wrapped in rhapsody
she moves the sound as much as moves me.
Soothed by the rhythm of a spinning Earth's song
She moves to the repair of a world gone wrong.
Is that alright?
When someone else is in charge of posting the topic, he or she may feel differently, but as for yours truly, it certainlyQuote:
Originally Posted by krymsonkyng
is all right with me to make any changes or editing until the May 10 deadline.
That goes for anyone else who has already posted an entry for this particular round.
My only stipulation is that in cases that go beyond simple editing, you go back and delete the original entry so that your ol' addled auntie won't get confused.
Thank ya kindly Auntie.
Longridge House, 15th June 1996
For Les
It is the day before Father's day. Everyone’s shopping.
The overspill spreads from the shops to the streets
where balloon toting children drip ice cream
and shriek for a doll, or a ball or some similar treat
while their parents feign deafness and strangers retreat
to the bunkered recesses of the lesser known streets.
Sunshine strobes out between alley and cloud searing
stripes on the pavements, buildings, and the crowd,
scattering like shrapnel from the centre of town.
Megaphone, exclusion zone, cordon tape, police
explode into action on these Manchester streets.
But not here, in this office block next to the shops
where he waits, ever patient, watching
the clock as it booms its slow way past eleven o’ clock.
He wipes over the counter, sweeps dust from the stairs,
scrubs grease marks from marble, smoothes down his hair,
straightens the guestbook, papers and pen,
empties the bin, wipes the counter again,
and when everything’s right, and everything’s neat
he stands by the window looking out on the street.
Shielded by silence of steel, stone and glass
his thoughts linger on something he saw
the night before last about consciousness,
awareness, the mind, memory. About neurons
connecting, what it means to be me;
how our existence relies on a subtle chemistry.
Through red, white, blue loops electricity seeps,
in the bomb in the van parked outside on the street
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3…
Thanks for all of these thought-provoking entries so far. There's still time to get in it -- and maybe win it! Please post your subject poem on or before Monday, May 10. (And say a prayer that Pong II doesn't fail me so I can make the big announcement!)
Caterpillar
it's weedy now
trees and bushes grown up around it
like vines across sleeping beauty's castle but when I broke free of it's
clutching, loving
arms it sat
tidy as a spinster
and, as I thought, as dry
only now can I see that I was not
entombed like Juliet
that all the growing I had left to do
was my stone with sword;
mine the words to find
mine the gown to make
the crown to find
I drank from the milkweed
and
my metamorphosis
nourished there,
I flew away
Sometime I think
I'm still waiting for the powder
on my wings to dry
Qimissung
Thanks for all of the entries so far. This leg of the contest will remain open for the rest of today and this evening. The "lucky" winner will be announced
soon.
Once again, thank you to all of these brave LitNutters who made the effort to compose a verse and post it in this contest thread. Well, I couldn't get out of jury duty this time, and now I must render a verdict. I sincerely hope that I have given these poems justice.
For this round of the subject poetry contest, the choice of topics was deliberately broad, in the hopes of getting really diverse and distinctive entries. Reply # 244 above says that the subject this time around was "change" (either temporary or permanent) upon a specific place and its effect upon a particular individual. The operative words were "specific" and "particular," so the goal was for entries that featured evocative images which avoided clichés and abstractions, all arranged in some kind of form closer to poetry rather than scatter-shot lines of prose. And yes, just as in the rules for a commercial jingle contest, "originality" DOES count!
As a person who has made more than her share of on-line gaffes, I'll be the first to admit that failing to proofread can be a pitfall. Still I was chagrined to see that some entrants forgot to check their work. Even though this round of the contest allowed for later editing, a number of entries still contained errors in spelling, grammar, and punctuation, including, I hasten to add, the winning entry.
Others were unable to make the quantum leap from tried and true prose over to the startling and surprising poetry, but some came pretty damn close.
Although it was extremely difficult to choose a winner, each of the entries undeniably had a redeeming quality. To wit:
"After Twenty Years" by Pendragon (Reply # 249) relates to those of us old enough, alas, to have a past by recounting the familiar situation of running into an old flame at a funeral.
The Comedian (Reply #250) earns high marks for posting an entry that includes the called-for "specifics.," in the place "Reservoir Number Six," in the clothes which the speaker is not only wearing at the moment but also at home, and other details, right down to the detailed pieces of crap, er, litter that the speaker picks up. This verse has extra added attraction of meter and rhyme, along with flashes of wit.
The speaker of "War Torn" (#252) by Dark Muse evokes tragic youthful memories with a view of a former battlefield.
Haunted's "School Grounds" begins by revisiting a childhood classroom and noting its changes. Then shifting focus, the speaker recalls a former classmate, and with childish punctuation, describes her as "timid. invisible. pathetic." Hence she is vulnerable to bullies, but in a subtle way, the reader learns that the little girl has no greater enemy than herself. The tired old expression "egg on my face" is literally turned on its head in this poem. The piece ends with a phrase we hear in some context almost everyday surges with renewed power and haunts the reader with disturbing ambiguity: no choice to do what? Or is the speaker the little girl herself? Even the poem's appearance on the "page" is noteworthy: reminiscent of writing on a blackboard or scrawls on a sidewalk. This outstanding verse gets better every time I read it.
Childhood is also the theme of the untitled piece by Stepothenight (#257), a short piece about a playground, abandoned after a horrific crime.
Another untitled piece comes from Krymsonkyng (#258). Since it has a musical theme, the verse attempts to do does what it says, "groove" and dance, with rhyming couplets, judicious use of enjambment, and even internal rhyme "A breakdown of flow and though." Another appealing feature was this line "Does the sky move her, or she the air?" which is followed up by a slightly later echo: "She moves the sound as much as [it] moves me." This was a remarkable entry.
The late film critic Gene Siskel once said that the best screenwriters film use actual events and show the effect of these current events upon the fictional characters. If memory serves, Siskel was talking about the film version of Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Another novel that comes to mind is The Dean's December by Saul Bellow. "Longridge House 15th June 1996" by TheFifthElement fits into that category, as if you read the author's blog --which includes photos, you'll see that her poem is based on an actual event, a explosion from a car bomb. People go about their business of the day -- and in a split second--everything changes. This piece contains some startling images: "the crowd shattering like shrapnel" as well as psychological insight: "shielded by steel, stone and glass/his thoughts linger on something he saw/the night before last." This was an emotionally-charged dynamic piece of verse.
And last but not least, when the instructions called for the effect of change upon an "individual" it didn't specify "human." So, kudos to qimissung for her creativity in thinking outside the species for "Caterpillar," (#263.) In this piece the caterpillar notes the changes when it returns to its birthplace (a chrysalis or cocoon.) The text alludes to fables and fairytales "Sleeping beauty's castle" and uses a fresh and apt simile: "tidy as a spinster." Well-done!
Well, there you have it. There is no doubt that each of these entries has merit and some conceivably could, with a few rewrites, be eminently publishable. I hope I have the privilege of reading more of your work on the LitNet and elsewhere. Give yourselves a pat on the back and see you soon. . .
Not so fast, there, Haunted! Your poem takes this round. Please take a bow and tell us what the next subject is, please!
Me? The poetically challenged me? Pinch me! I didn't get around to read the latest entries but I admired every poem that I've had the chance to read.
Thanks AuntSchecky, you review is far better than the poem! Yes, the speaker is the little girl. The word to solving it is "dissociation". It's when the mind/self, seeking to escape traumatic experiences, splits off from the person and take on a third person identity.
I'll be back with a new subject in a few days.
Yay Haunted! Congratulations. Your poem was most excellent indeed.
And excellent subject and reviews by Auntie.
My poem finger and gettin' a trigger itch, haunted -- can't wait for the next round.
Oh my dear Haunted... Knew you could do it...Well done girl... So much passion. Phew, I wipe my brow.
Congrats dear.
Comedian and Mary, thanks for your kind words!
I don't want Comedian's trigger itch to keep him awake, so here we go...
subject: bus stop
deadline: 6/10
Vivid passion and realism. Haunted, you write like I know that you can.....awesome...
Here, here...Quote:
Originally Posted by BienvenuJDC
The gutter beside me, oiled-water grey
The rain's falling on my back today
The eyes of a rat are brighter than mine
See how they shine, oh, see how they shine...
Old man move on, nobody talks to me
Come on I'm hearing things, I can't see
He puts the boot in, I'm clutched and I'm gripped
Something gives way. I feel something ripped.
I feel my blood pop sizzling down the drain
I piston out but can feel no pain
I have carried the burden of many
Served both the street and the company
My mates died in action, my girl is gone,
Nothing explains why I'm going on.
A rib gives way now as I hug the post
The light in the rain dimmer than most
There's swearing. I must be blocking the street
The narrow way where they and I meet.
What do they feel as they wait for the bus
As I go limp without any fuss?
I sense from them all only despair
As my ghost leaks out into the air.
I, Leyland 63 178 Red
Failed in my duty and am now dead.
Remember me to your mom and your pop;
Remember the night you saw the bus stop.
Congratulations, Haunted. It was so poignant. You handled the subject with such heart and grace. Aunty chose well.
Abandoned
Paper crinkling
like so many
decaying leaves
as it is left
to the mercy
of the wind,
becoming enwrapped
around a waiting
pole.
Yesterdays
news discarded
by some wayward
traveler, a cold
bench, now sits
in still loneliness,
perhaps at moments
acting as a hard
bed.
Has the day
not yet begun,
or just coming
to its end?
But wait,
there is one
who arrives
in a time honored
tradition
in the spectacle
of canine devotion.
Patiently
waiting,
tail wagging
in anticipation,
when the very air
seems to vibrate,
a hot breath
oily in nature
excreted.
It stops,
doors open
and there files out
a line of strangers
each indifferent
to man's
best fined
who takes in
the passing scents
awaiting that
one familiar.
When it seems
the doors close
too soon,
pensively,
hoping
for a mistake,
A lone howl
disrupts the air
mournful
as it drives away
and no Master
to return home.
I'll throw my hat into the ring. Yeehaw!
To the bus stop, bareback
The old barbed-wire gate --
Then the pond and cattails,
Then the big bare hill and
over sagebrush, sagebrush.
To the bus stop, bareback
Fast freedom to backtrack
From her long mane I swung
Like Christmas tinsel and
She would run, run, run, run --
The halter not halting.
To the bus stop, bareback --
The old coal railroad track.
There's always a gate at
The end of a good ride.
And there's always a bus
On the way to somewhere.
To the bus stop, bareback --
My Wyoming circle back.
sorry it took me so long to get back here, Haunted congrats, yours was by far my favorite this round, I enjoyed all the pieces from it as well.
I'm thrilled to see the early entries, keep them coming!
Bien, Qim, Steph, I appreciate your comments and I can't wait to see what you guys come up with!!!
I'm waiting for a hammer to break the writer's block...Quote:
Originally Posted by Haunted
:brickwall:brickwall:brickwall Will that do?:goof:Quote:
Originally Posted by BienvenuJDC
Quote:
Originally Posted by BienvenuJDC
Bien, you already started writing it today, just didn't know it yet:
Quote:
Originally Posted by BienvenuJDC
Now write out the rest...