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YOU ARE INVITED
to the launch of my first-ever chapbook,
THE UNIVERSE COMES KNOCKING: poems
by Kelly Ramsdell Fineman
When? One month from today, on March 13th at 7:00 p.m.
Where? In Mount Holly, NJ, at the Daily Grind, located at 48 High Street.
Cost of admission? Free. Plus I'll be reading, and there will be an open reading afterwards.
Cost of chapbook if you're so inclined? Probably $6.00 or so.
I sure hope you will come. Or send someone you know.
Especially since my sweetheart just got scheduled for dental surgery that morning and will likely be unable to attend, and I really, truly don't want to be all by myself in a coffee shop for the launch of my first-ever chapbook (a small paperback collection of poems, which may or may not be sold by peddlers, but is indeed published by a local small press called Maverick Duck Press).
To see other Poetry Friday posts, click the box below:
As many of you already know, my poem, "A Place to Share", is going to be included in the forthcoming anthology from Kane Miller, edited by Jill Corcoran.
Today, Jill released the full line-up of the thirty participating poets, as well as confirming that the book is going to be illustrated by J Beth Jepson.
Can I tell you how lucky I feel to be part of that lineup?
I ought to have told you a while back, but what with one thing and another, I kinda lost track of the fact that my poem, "A Vampire Pantoum", was published online at Blood Moon Rising Magazine back in June. (It got accepted last fall, and I kinda forgot all about it - oops!)
Today, I figured I'd share it with you here in honor of Halloween:
A Vampire Pantoum
by Kelly Ramsdell Fineman
Come with me
Midnight comes soon
Flying free
We soar beneath the moon
Midnight comes soon
The shadows shrink away
We soar beneath the moon
And over the bay
The shadows shrink away
The air is still
And over the bay
It’s time for us to kill
The air is still
But none can slow our pace
It’s time for us to kill
We leave without a trace
None can slow our pace
Flying free
We leave without a trace
Come with me
A word about the form: The pantoum is an evocative form that originates in Malaysia. It involves a lot of repetition, since each line will repeat once in the poem. A pantoum can have as many stanzas as one likes. Each stanza holds four lines. Lines two and four of stanza one become lines one and three of stanza two, lines two and four of stanza two become lines one and three of stanza three, and so on, until the final stanza, in which line three of the first stanza of the poem is line two of that final stanza, and line one of the poem is the fourth line, and therefore the final line of the poem.
It can sound a bit complicated, but it's exceedingly simple when seen in practice.
I posted about the form once before, with a spectacular pantoum by poet Peter Oresick, from his book
Warhol-O-Rama. Joyce Sidman is also a master at this form, with splendid pantoums in
Butterfly Eyes and Other Secrets of the Meadow and
This is Just to Say. She's posted
a pantoum called "Spring is the Time" at her website, with instructions on how to write one, if you're so inclined.
If you saw yesterday's post, then you know there's been a call for sweaters to be knit for penguins following an oil spill off the coast of New Zealand. The sweaters keep the birds warm and also prevent them from preening (and thereby ingesting globs of oil) while they wait their turns to be cleaned up.
Here in the U.S., last year's oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico wreaked havoc on the environment, and still requires cleanup efforts. I was fortunate to have my poem, "Troubled Water", included in the anthology Breaking Waves: An Anthology for Gulf Coast Relief. In fact, it held pride of place as the final selection in the book - closing out an anthology that opened with a poem by Ursula Le Guin. I've been pleased to see the poem favorably mentioned in several reviews of the anthology, including this one by Helen Gallagher.
In light of the recent spill off New Zealand, I thought I'd share the poem here today. And in case you're wondering, the answer is "yes, you can still purchase a copy of the Breaking Waves e-book, which is available from Amazon in Kindle format, from Barnes & Noble for the Nook, and from the publisher, Book View Cafe for a mere $4.99 US. All proceeds go to Gulf Coast relief.
Troubled Water
by Kelly Ramsdell Fineman
"The first of the slick to reach the shores will not be the last."
Janet Ritz, The Environmentalist, 4/30/10
Long before St. Aidan's time,
ancient sailors cast their oil
on roiling seas to stay the waves.
No miracle, but science:
primitive, powerful as magic.
A modicum of oil could quell
a cresting swell, a thinning drop
enough to influence a distance
farther than the fingers
of its prismatic sheen.
Not more than a teaspoonful
calmed half-acre Clapham waves
for Benjamin Franklin, noted inventor,
Renaissance man. Reconnaissance now
cannot quantify the effect.
Two billion plus teaspoons of oil
gush daily into Gulf water,
quelling wildlife, not waves;
stopping sea life, not storms;
troubling water, industry, conscience.
Worried water – a geyser spews.
Gobbets of gull-coating crude expands in the sea.
Disturbed water – methane chokes oxygen.
Desperate dead zones nothing can survive.
Troubled water – upsetting the balance.
Economy and populace washed-out as wetlands,
unsteady as shifting beach sand.
St. Aidan's cruet will not quiet this squall;
St. Jude, he of desperate causes, waits offstage,
wringing his hands.
This week, I've been enjoying reading Mark Reads Harry Potter over at Buzznet. Turns out that Mark (age 26) had never read a single HP book (I'm shocked!), and he's committed to reading the whole series, start to finish. And he's engaging in a form of torture, really, because he reads one chapter at a time, then blogs about that chapter, then moves on. Those of you who've read the series know how horribly difficult that can be, particular when things get knotty. Just this week, he started reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and as his past (and better-looking) header said, "You are not prepared." Or rather, it's pretty clear that Mark is going to have his mind blown. I hope you'll check out his project, but whatever you do, DO NOT SPOIL HIM. Because reading his complete breakdown over Cedric's death in Goblet of Fire was both funny and exceptionally moving all at the same time, and I expect him to have a complete conniption when the major death in Phoenix occurs. (When he reaches the Battle of Hogwarts in book 7, I fully expect his head to explode.)
But Kelly, you say, I thought you said this was a Poetry Friday post? Well, it is. But one more digression before I get there (and it ties in, I promise). I've commented many times before on the (roughly) weekly writing exercises that I do with Angela De Groot. A while back, we used the following assignment, ganked from a fellow poet at an open reading one night: Pick a fictional character, and have them write a letter to their dead mother. The woman who mentioned the assignment had written a poem from perspective of the Incredible Hulk, which flummoxed me a bit because the Hulk is actually an alter ego for Doctor Bruce Banner, but I digress.
I took the assignment and wrote what is a mixed-up sonnet from the perspective of a character from the Harry Potter books. Savvy readers will identify the speaker easily:
Letter to Mum
by Kelly Ramsdell Fineman
You never understood me. Never tried
to see a broader world outside the dark
and hateful world in which you lived and died.
You tried your best to snuff out every spark
of friendship with James Potter, every bond
with anyone whose blood you deemed impure.
When I rebelled, you called me immature,
yet you threw tantrums, blasting with your wand
in anger at the heirloom tapestry,
seeking to wipe me from the family.
I would not have you love me, do not care
that you preferred my brother. In the end,
you died alone in your Grimmauld Place lair,
while I died in the service of a friend.
Form: Mixed-up Shakespearean sonnet, if I have to assign it a name. It's written in iambic pentameter (five iambs per line: taDUM taDUM taDUM taDUM taDUM), with the following rhyme scheme: ABABCDCDEEFGFG.
Discussion: I suppose this counts as fan fiction, now I think of it. I could happily write an entire collection along these lines, if I'm being honest. It was so much fun to write! (I siriusly hope that you've all figured out who the speaker was in this poem. Bet you saw what I just did there!)
You can find other Poetry Friday participants by clicking on the box, below, to get to this week's host:
I'm home, and mostly unpacked, and have cleaned the messes that my hubby created all on his ownsome this weekend (the kids are away with their father at a family reunion). I've gone through all the real mail and all my email, and I really, really, really want to tell you all about my time at ALA, but I find myself in dire need of a nap.
I'll be back later with the details, but the short version is "It was AWESOME!", with a slightly longer postscript of "My Lord, but my friend Tanita gave one helluva speech at the Coretta Scott King awards this morning!" Meanwhile, I completely forgot to mention that my poem, "After", is featured (with my permission) in this post over at Images for Renewal.
And now to sleep, perchance to uncross my eyes.
As promised, a bit about my reading last night.
The reading took place at the Barnes & Noble in Marlton, New Jersey. I'd been invited by the host of the monthly "Poetry in the Round" series to read for a half an hour, following which there was an open reading, which means (for those unfamiliar with poetry readings, which is most people I know) that people can sign up to read their own poems in front of the assembled group. The number and length of poems is usually specified by the host, and is based on an idea of how many readers there are and how much time they have available. Anyhow, when I visited the store yesterday morning, in addition to the Big Sign at the front of the store, there was a small sign in the area where they set up for the readings. Can you see it on that far wall, past the auspiciously placed Jane Austen table? No?
How about now?
The empty space you see in the above photo actually was filled in with 21 folding chairs set up by the store - four rows of 5, plus one chair pulled to the side up front by the loudspeaker where Barney, our fearless leader, presides. When I got arrived with the kids at 7:10, who were guilted into attending were thrilled to attend, nobody else was there. By the time the reading started, however, there were 13 people in the rows of chairs - and I knew every single one of them. In addition to the kids, my husband and mother-in-law were there, along with several good friends: Heather, who was in a critique group with me a few years back and is writing a sci-fi novel; three friends I've made through the Jane Austen Society of North America - one of whom drove an hour from southern PA to be there; friends Lisa and Barb; local poet friends B.J. (whom I hadn't seen out in a few months) and Bruce Niedt, whom I've posted about before; and, to my delighted surprise, Dan Maguire, who drove all the way from Baltimore for my reading (a two-hour drive if you're speeding). Dan is an exceptional poet, about whom I've posted twice before, including a post with his spectacular poem, "The Lateness of the Day". The poets in the group were impressed with the turnout of pure audience members (as opposed to folks who were there to read their own work).
Barney kindly introduced me, and I started the reading. S was kind enough to take some pictures for me. Of course, she preferred to take them when I wasn't looking, which means that I'm looking at my page in this one, but hey, them's the breaks sometimes. I opened with the five-line poem that won third place in the Writer's Digest Poetry Contest, "Inside the New Mall", then read a few more of my regular adult poems before reading five of the poems from my biography of Jane Austen in verse using period forms, since I knew for a fact that the women from JASNA were hoping to hear some of them. I started with the first poem in the collection - a poem in blank verse based on a letter that amounts to Jane's birth announcement, which I've shared before. The Jane poems went down well across the board (I could tell by the happy-making yet indescribable murmur/hum that greeted the endings on two of them that they had made an impact, which was sososo fulfilling). I was happy that the Jane project went over well, only I have a wee confession to make. In error during last night's introduction, I said I had 172 of the Jane poems done, which meant that when I wrote a new poem today and added it to my Tables of Contents (one to print in Word, one that has lots more info in Excel), I
She put up a lovely post about me and my writing, including a poem I wrote about my grandfather, Paul Stewart. And my very own recipe for Chocolate-Chip Banana Bread. But of course, being from Jama Rattigan, it's one of the prettiest posts on the internet, and it makes me seem all professional and talented and whatnot. Thank you, lovely Jama!
The other day, I posted an explanation of this form, which I tackled as a challenge along with several of my sister poets. For today's Poetry Friday, I'm posting my original poem.
The challenge was to write a rondeau redoublé (my bright idea) that dealt with fresh starts (Liz Garton Scanlon's idea). I started several times to write an upbeat poem about new beginnings, and it never took off. Then one night, I came up with this one, which is, as you will see, not particularly upbeat. But it was a whole poem, and so I kept it.
Rondeau Redoublé
by Kelly Ramsdell Fineman
There's no such thing as a new start.
At least, that's what I think of saying.
I wish things different with all my heart,
That you would go, or I'd be glad you're staying.
Time was, we couldn't bear to be apart;
I couldn't see you go without dismaying.
Now I look forward to your go-awaying.
There's no such thing as a new start.
What was behind my change of heart?
It wasn't sudden, more like a slow fraying,
Our life unraveled, part by part.
At least that's what I think of saying.
I'm not quite certain why I am delaying,
I make up lists, draw up a chart:
Which things are whose, what goes, what's staying.
I wish things different with all my heart.
I cannot stop my memory from replaying
How things between us got their start.
How I would feel the breaking of my heart
When you would go, and I'd be glad you're staying.
I've seen it written losing is an art.
Not one I've mastered, I guess. I keep praying
That losing will grow easier, in part
To suffocate the small voice that keeps saying
There's no such thing.
Cheery, no? What can I say? Dour moods can create poetry, too. The phrase "losing is an art" is borrowed from the wonderful villanelle by Elizabeth Bishop entitled "One Art".
Analysis of form: If you're wondering (and even if you're not), the poem is written in a mix of iambic tetrameter and iambic pentameter, meaning that the lines have either four or five iambic feet each. An iamb is a two-syllable poetic "foot" composed of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed one (taDUM). In keeping with one of the more obscure "requirements" of the rondeau redoublé form, I've alternated a "masculine" and "feminine" ending. A masculine ending is a straight-up iamb; a feminine one has an additional unstressed syllable at the end (taDUMta) - a three-syllable foot also known as an amphibrach.
To read the rondeau redoublé written by my fellow poetry princesses, you may follow these links:
Tanita Davis
Sara Lewis Holmes
Andromeda Jazmon
Laura Purdie Salas
Liz Garton Scanlon
0 Comments on Rondeau redoublé for Poetry Friday as of 3/5/2010 4:46:00 AM
Yestereve, I mentioned the writing exercises I undertake with . This week, I set out to write a poem based on this prompt from The Write-Brain Workbook by Bonnie Neubauer: "Dear Dolores, I know it has been 37 years since I have been in touch". Since the line following the greeting falls naturally into iambs (two-syllable poetic feet composed of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed one), I resolved to write a sonnet using iambic pentameter, and following one of the usual sonnet rhyme schemes (if you're interested in them, I've discussed them before).
I wrote the first four lines using the ABAB rhyme scheme. The last word of line four was "clutch", so as I entered into the fifth line, I was surprised to find what my gentleman narrator was clutching at. If I was surprised in line five, I was positively startled in line six to learn he had an official diagnosis.
I should mention that these are supposed to be 5-10 minute exercises, and by this point, I'd already put more than three hours into this poem, and I was starting to ponder how to get out of it so I could get back to work on the Jane project, what with Jane standing over my left shoulder, arms crossed, foot tapping, throat clearing and all. And I realized that just as I'd interrupted myself, perhaps someone might interrupt my gentleman writer.
Having given you Angela's response to the short poem, I figured I ought to let you see it. It's no masterpiece, but I don't think it sucks, either. It would undoubtedly benefit from time and revision and a better title; nevertheless, here it is as it now stands:
Dear Dolores
by Kelly R. Fineman
Dear Dolores,
I know it has been 37 years
since I have been in touch. You meant so much
to me back then. I find, as old age nears,
I think of you quite often, and I clutch
at memories as if they'd hold me afloat,
a life preserver in Alzheimer's sea –
"Excuse me, Mr. Loomis, here's your coat."
"This note – it's to Dolores. Who is she?"
Analysis of form: It ends up being two cross-rhymed quatrains written in iambic pentameter. This means there are five iambic feet per line (taDUM taDUM taDUM taDUM taDUM), and the ending words use the following rhyme scheme: ABABCDCD. The second quatrain is split to make the alternating lines of dialogue easier to follow, but otherwise it's a fairly simple, traditional form.
1. Today I've got a brief review of a book called Quicksand: HIV/AIDS in Our Lives up over at Guys Lit Wire. The book is written by a woman who prefers to remain anonymous, given that she shares some information about her brother-in-law, who was diagnosed with HIV, developed AIDS and, eventually, died from related illnesses. Having lost a dear friend to this illness several years ago, I was eager to read the book, which provides concise, clearly presented factual information about the HIV virus, how it is (and is not) spread, what the treatment is like, and what it feels like to receive word that someone you know has HIV or AIDS. I hope you'll check out my review and, more importantly, that those of you in the library field will be sure to get this one for your libraries. The book says it's suitable for ages 10 and up, and that felt about right to me, given the content.
2. This month, I've got an article up at Kid Magazine Writers about the clerihew: what it is and how to go about writing one. It includes two original poems I wrote to illustrate my point: one about Edmund Clerihew Bentley and another about, well, Derek Zoolander.
Derek Zoolander,
Model grand-stander,
Excellent eugoogolizer
And terrorist neutralizer.
3. Those of you who've written poetry and are interested in free verse, and who happen to be interested in attending the New England SCBWI Conference come May might be interested in the workshop I'll be leading on Sunday, May 16th: "Tactics and Techniques to Fix Up Your Free Verse". Here's the official write-up on it:
Whether you write individual poems or entire novels in free verse, this workshop is for you. It will focus on improving free verse poetry using devices such as alliteration and assonance, refined imagery, improved use of line breaks, fine-tuned similes and metaphors, and more. The workshop is suitable for experienced poets working in free verse who are interested in taking their work to the next level, and will include a folder with handouts and exercises for reference and use at home.
*
Note to self: get those folders and handouts together!And here are three things I hope people will take home from the workshop:
1. Enhanced understanding of the importance of structural components such as line breaks and stress patterns.
2. Knowledge of specific strategies, devices and poetic techniques to improve the quality of free verse poems.
3. Revision pointers and tactics to polish your work, with take-home exercises.
Here's
the link to the conference website, where you can learn more about this terrific event.
Last year, Jenn Knoblock, Jim Danielson, and I ended up in some strange sparring in which we tried to use the highest proportion of high-scoring letters in Scrabble... in a poem. Jim took top honors with an average score of 2.8194 points per letter. (My own score was 2.725.) Anyway, gluttons for punishment that we are, we're back. Here's my new horror:
The Quartz Zyzzyva (Just Kidding)
Kooky Jack's poxy yak
grew boxy with ivy and fuzz.
Folk took it for grizzly if it was drizzly.
(Quizzically often, it was.)
Vexed, with his ax, Jack gave a whack,
then—zip, zap—gave it a buzz.
Scoring (Scrabble points/number of letters):
Kooky 16/5 Jack's 18/5 poxy 16/4 yak 10/3
grew 8/4 boxy 16/4 with 10/4 ivy 9/3 and 4/3 fuzz. 25/4
Folk 11/4 took 8/4 it 2/2 for 6/4 grizzly 29/7 if 5/2 it 2/2 was 6/3 drizzly. 29/7
(Quizzically 43/11 often, 8/5 it 2/2 was.) 6/3
Vexed, 16/5 with 10/4 his 6/3 ax, 9/2 Jack 17/4 gave 8/4 a 1/1 whack, 17/5
then 7/4 —zip, 14/3 zap— 14/3 gave 8/4 it 2/2 a 1/1 buzz. 24/4
Total: 443/143=3.097
I really hope I got the math right. I am far too tired to check it again, but please feel free. I daresay I hope this is the nerdiest thing I do for the rest of the year, because I am drained! I do not want to admit how much time I spent writing this thing. TOO MUCH.
Lately I've been plagued by existential gloom and doom. I guess most of us experience it at one time or another. "Why are we here?" "What's the point?" Etc.
A few days ago, as I walked through the cold rain to meet a friend for tea, I thought: why am I trying to define my purpose in terms of an end state? Maybe the question isn't, "Why are we here in the long run?", but rather, "Why are we here at this moment in time?"
This poem is my attempt to answer that question.
Why I’m Here
To walk in the misty drizzle
beneath an orange umbrella,
and hear the raindrops’ sizzle
against my sunny mandella.
To pause in a cozy café,
its rain-streaked windows glistening.
To serve up my stories au lait,
a friend beside me, listening.
To fall asleep to the patter
and dream of shipwrecks all night.
To wake to the sparrows’ chatter.
To pick up my notebook and write.
Welcome, all! Today's Poetry Friday round-up is here. I like to do things the old-fashioned way, so if you'd like to participate, please leave a comment with a link to your contribution. I'll check in throughout the day and add your links to this entry. And, of course, if you'd just like to say hi... please do!
This week, Tricia’s challenge at The Miss Rumphius Effect was to write a poem about something found “behind the museum door.” I cast into my soupy sea of memories for an idea, and this is what surfaced.
When I was five years old, my family lived in Madrid, Spain. We split our time between “normal” life (for me, kindergarten, church, and walking the dog in the Casa de Campo) and tourism. On one of our outings, we viewed Picasso’s painting Guernica, which portrays the bombing by German and Italian forces of the Basque village Guernica on April 26, 1937.
You can’t fully appreciate Guernica’s power except in person. The painting is 11 feet tall and over 26 feet wide. It makes an adult feel small; at five years old, I was utterly overwhelmed. I hated everything about it: the wailing people, the shrieking horse, but most of all the baby, its nose like an accusing finger, hanging limply from its mother's arms.
But I couldn’t look away. And I’ve never forgotten it. Picasso did his job all too effectively. Here’s my rondelet about this painting which has made its way from the Museo Reina Sofia to the museum in my mind.
Guernica Burns
Guernica burns,
its slaughter prelude to the war.
Guernica burns,
the tourists stare. My stomach churns
at blank-eyed babies splashed with gore.
I clench my eyelids shut; still poor
Guernica burns.
Catch this week’s Poetry Friday round-up at Becky’s Book Reviews!
This week's Poetry Stretch at The Miss Rumphius Effect was to write a bite-sized sonnet. The poem follows the (English) sonnet rhyme scheme, but each line consists of only one syllable. This is what we call "deceptively simple." Or "deceptively complicated." Whichever it is when it's harder than it looks!
Downturn
Slow
day,
no
pay.
Drab
news,
grab
booze.
Thick
wrists,
quick
fists.
Stay.
Pray.
If nothing else, you can always count on me for a cheerful poem.
Catch this week's Poetry Friday round-up at Ayuddha.net!
This week's Poetry Stretch at The Miss Rumphius Effect was to write a triolet. The pattern of repetition reminded me of riding a swing, swooping one direction, then retracing your path.
Swing Song
Over the rooftops I go swinging
‘til I know no up or down.
Silent as geese, moonward winging,
over the rooftops I go swinging—
body sailing, heartbeat singing.
Waving goodbye—or hello?—to my town,
over the rooftops I go swinging
‘til I know no up or down.
Julie Larios has this week's Poetry Friday round-up at The Drift Record!
Tricia's Poetry Stretch at the Miss Rumphius Effect this week was write a poem using opposites in the body and title. This is what I came up with; was I trying to channel Edgar Allan Poe or something?
Blind/Sighted
I glimpsed a loathsome creature with my face
and trapped her in a heavy wooden box.
The latch was stiff, the hinges caked with rust;
there was no need to bother with a lock.
I thought to suffocate her, starve her dead—
and with no room to stretch an arm or leg,
her body soon would atrophy, I hoped.
My heart was stone, no matter how she begged.
For years, I kept her blind and deaf and mute,
and I took comfort, knowing I was safe
from her gaunt visage, gnarled limbs, and eyes
like tarnished coins—that gruesome little waif!
In time, the creature ceased to caterwaul;
I thought her fate she’d finally stopped fighting.
But little did I know, in shadows deep,
the wretched beast her time was merely biding.
For one day, when a tremor shook the earth,
and rattled that old box across the floor,
the latch popped open, hinges creaked a crack;
the creature flung herself against the door!
She burst into the daylight, ghostly pale
and whisper-thin. She blinked when she saw me.
Her clawlike hands reached hither, and I cried
in terror, for the beast I’d feared was free—
and lo, her years in thrall had made her fierce!
I feared she’d slay me, now she had the chance—
and yet she didn’t; rather she embraced
me—did I dream?—and she began to dance.
I struggled to break from her, flee her grasp,
and hide myself—inside the box, perhaps?
My victim was now victor, it would seem,
and showed no sign of weakness or collapse.
She whirled us faster, till I couldn’t tell:
was I still I, or had she thieved my soul?
Would she usurp my station, claim my name?
Or did she have another, darker goal?
We danced till night, when in moon’s silver glow
I could, as in a mirror darkly, see:
her hands were mine, her head, her heart, her eyes—
no monster but a replica of me!
The creature whom I’d thought to nihilate
took substance when I cleaved my soul in twain,
thinking to destroy the parts I shunned.
As long as I survived, she’d do the same.
But in the open air, the truth sprang free!
Just as she couldn’t die while yet I breathed,
without her heart I’d lived but half a life,
inside a box. Myself I had deceived.
So, leaning close, I kissed her pallid cheek.
Our essence merged, we melted into one.
And though I mourn the years we spent apart,
hope flares within: our new life has begun.
You'll also find this week's Poetry Friday round-up at the Miss Rumphius Effect!
Last week, a reader commented that poetry prompts can be gimmicky. True, but sometimes they’re also great creative un-stickers—not to mention fun! Here’s a Poetry Friday post of prompted poems.
At The Miss Rumphius Effect this week, the Poetry Stretch was to write a poem in “diminishing” or “nested” rhyme. Each rhyming word is contained within the previous one. Here’s mine:
Lunatic’s Lullaby
Hush, little child, do not be afraid;
the fabric of sanity ever was frayed.
Surrender your sense when the hobgoblins raid,
for no one but madmen will come to your aid.
Following last week’s lipogram, Jennifer Knoblock threw down the gauntlet, challenging me (and anyone else foolish/brave enough to try) to write a poem using letters that get high points in Scrabble. We decided success would be measured by taking the ratio of Scrabble points to the number of letters. (Yes, it's admittedly silly.) Here’s my dubious contribution:
Limerickqxz
A foxy young doxy blew sax.
With hip-hop, she hardly was lax.
But when she played jazz,
her lip work lacked pizzazz;
then nightclubs would give her the ax.
And here’s how I figured the score (Scrabble points/letters):
A (1/1) foxy (17/4) young (9/5) doxy (15/4) blew (9/4) sax (10/3).
With (10/4) hip-hop (16/6), she (6/3) hardly (13/6) was (6/3) lax (10/3).
But (5/3) when (10/4) she (6/3) played (12/6) jazz (29/4),
her (6/3) lip (5/3) work (11/4) lacked (13/6) pizzazz (45/7);
then (7/4) nightclubs (18/10) would (9/5) give (8/4) her (6/3) the (6/3) ax (9/2).
327 points divided by 120 letters = 2.725
I'll be getting a MacArthur genius grant any day now... And yes, saxophones are VERY POPULAR instruments in hip-hop culture! How dare you suggest otherwise?
I am, of course, reminded of this wonderful Threadless shirt, "Well, This Just Really Sucks..."
This week’s Poetry Friday round-up is hosted by Wild Rose Reader!
Each week, Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect presents a Poetry Stretch, inviting everyone to write a poem of a particular form, on a particular topic, or so forth. She attracts some pretty big names in the children's poetry world, too. This week, though, I may be the first to respond to her challenge to write oulipos.
And to say I wrote them feels like a stretch, because I took the "S+7" option: take an existing poem and substitute each of the poem's substantive nouns with the noun appearing seven nouns away in the dictionary. Because I'm a youth librarian, I decided to try it with some nursery rhymes. (And I must confess to a small amount of fudging; the dictionary is full of weird abstract nouns that I decided to skip over.)
As I was going to Saipan,
I met a manatee with seven wikis.
Each wiki had seven saddles.
Each saddle had seven catalogs.
Each catalog had seven kiwis.
Kiwis, catalogs, saddles, wikis—
How many were going to Saipan?
I love the serendipitous rhymes— Saipan/manatee and saddle/catalog—and the inversion of kiwi/wiki. Two more:
Baa baa, black shekel,
have you any worms?
Yes sir, yes sir,
Three bailiffs full.
One for my mastadon
and one for my damselfly
and one for the little bozo
who lives down the lantern.
Sing a son-of-a-gun of skateboards,
a podiatrist full of sabers.
Four and twenty black biscuits
baked in a piezometer.
When the piezometer was opened,
the biscuits began to sing.
Wasn’t that a dainty dispatch
to set before the kipper?
Aaaand I'm left wondering, was that really the best use I could have made of the last hour? Ah, well! So it goes.
This week, Poetry Friday is hosted by Laura Salas, she of the 15 Words or Less poetry challenge (to which I contributed this week). Check out the round-up!
Welcome, all! It's my privilege and pleasure to host Poetry Friday this week. Seeing as it's the day after Thanksgiving, I'm particularly, well, thankful you've found time in your busy schedule to drop by.
As you may know, I've been working through the exercises in Stephen Fry's poetry book The Ode Less Travelled (highly recommended). I ought to be writing a Ballade this week, but I'm skipping ahead to the Rondeau because it seems well-suited to jolly holiday poems.
Thanksgiving Rondeau
We give our thanks for autumn sun,
for turkey smells and cinnamon.
With open arms, our friends we greet
and guide each to a comfy seat.
We drink a toast to everyone,
and now, at last, our feast’s begun.
For every drumstick, corn cob, bun,
and slice of pumpkin pie we eat,
we give our thanks.
And when our bellies weigh a ton,
and Dad can’t make another pun,
we stagger back onto our feet.
At last the yawning guests retreat.
For quiet house and chaos done,
we give our thanks.
OK, yeah, that's the Hallmark card version of the day's events. Just the same, I am deeply thankful to have shared a delicious Thanksgiving meal with friends and family (my father's puns and all). I hope you were able to find some joy and comfort in your own life this Thanksgiving and that those good feelings warm you into the winter.
If you would like to be included in this week's round-up, please leave a comment with a link to your contribution. I'll check in throughout the day and add you to the list below!
I'm still avoiding the sestina. If I'm ever bedridden for several months at a time, maybe I'll get around to it. Until then, don't count on it.
Meanwhile, the next exercise in The Ode Less Travelled is to write a pantoum. Stephen Fry compares it to bells tolling, but I thought that with a few more exclamation points it would suit the circular mentality of my dog Carly very well.
Pantoum of a Canine Spaz
I leap up from my latest nap—
ohboyohboyohboyohboy—
charge to my water dish for a lap,
jump-attack my favorite toy.
Ohboyohboyohboyohboy!
There’s so much I’ve gotta do:
slobber up my favorite toy
andchewandchewandchewandchew.
But that’s not all, there’s more to do!
Bite the heads of squirrels and rats!
Andchewandchewandchewandchew
the tails off little kitty cats!
I’ll bite the heads off squirrels and rats,
show them all that I’m the boss—
and not those stupid kitty cats.
Each of us must bear a cross,
and mine’s to prove that I’m the boss.
There’s cunning in my doggy head,
an intellect you dare not cross.
But now it’s time to go to bed;
I’ve overtaxed my doggy head.
I race to my water dish for a lap,
turn three times, flop into bed.
It’s time to take another nap!
That actually could have gone on another ten stanzas, come to think of it. We'll just pretend that was Carly on a 90-degree day, when her energy level is below average.
This week I also participated in Laura Salas's 15 Words or Less poetry challenge, inspired by a delicious photo of a pomegranate.
Yat-Yee Chong has this week's Poetry Friday round-up. Check it out!
Observant readers may have noted that while I love fall, with that love comes anxiety over winter. I guess this poem is me reminding myself that I get through this every year; winter's part of the cycle, not The End. (Unless we're living in Life as We Knew It, in which case the sun has been blocked out by volcanic ash and we're all screwed.)
The next task Stephen Fry sets in The Ode Less Travelled is a sestina, but I wasn't feeling that ambitious. Just the same, I decided to play with repeated end words, cycling through them like the seasons... or something.
Oh, and Mom? If you're reading this? Please note, it's happier than the last one.
Phoenix Feathers
With fall comes the phoenix, darkening the sky
with outstretched wings. It swoops down to our ash
tree for its final roost, its feathers a blaze
of vermillion, cadmium, copper—a fiery sweep
bold against the blue—until a strong wind
rips feathers from bone, stripping limbs bare,
showering shimmering flakes. The bird cannot bear
the coming winter, cannot endure the savage wind.
The fallen feathers soften our steps as we sweep
them up, rake them into rusty barrels, set them ablaze.
Our throats swell with savory smoke and flecks of ash,
as charred phoenix feathers swirl back to the sky.
Catch this week's Poetry Friday round-up at Check It Out!
A few months back, Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect posted a suggestion to write "colorful" poetry based on Hailstones and Halibut Bones, by Mary O'Neill. I remembered that my own third grade teacher used that very book with us way back when, and I'd written several four-line verses on different colors. But I didn't step up to the challenge until this week, when I used O'Neill's book as part of my junior literary magazine's opening exercise. If I was asking them to write a colorful poem, shouldn't I do it, too?
So, here's the first non-doggerel poem I've written in... I have no idea how long... five hundred years? It's a rather sentimental ode on summer and the color pink. You have been warned. (Thanks to Jim Danielson for the encouragement last week. Jim, for the record, this took me considerably longer than 15 minutes.)
PINK SUMMER
Dawn smears pink fingers across the dark lake.
Fifty mosquito bites itch you awake.
The day is a strawberry, poised at your lips,
a wheel of melon without any pips.
Out to pick raspberries in the cool morn,
your legs tic-tac-toed by each saber-tooth thorn.
Now run to the beach, let the sun bake you sore.
Gobble a hotdog, then gobble two more.
A peppermint ice cream cone stickies your face
as pink sun melts away and pink moon takes its place.
Catch this week's Poetry Friday round-up at The Well-Read Child!
Nice summary of a super evening, Kelly - glad I could be there!