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In! I'm hella rusty but I can try to throw some words together.
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Nov 13, 2019 13:10
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sephiRoth IRA posted:2. This photo From The Airport Observation Deck This city is not Expecting me. The traffic flows, Heedless, running errands; Clouds sit flat in the sky Like unfolded laundry on A kitchen table. The city, my host, is Unready, but here I am, Ringing the doorbell.
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Nov 20, 2019 10:13
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In
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Nov 22, 2019 00:46
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Lament, With Fantasies "And the poor Aphrodite, with tresses unbound, All dishevelled, unsandalled, shrieks mournful and shrill Through the dusk of the groves. The thorns, tearing her feet, Gather up the red flower of her blood, which is holy." -- Bion, A Lament For Adonis A fantasy about that night: I run Into the hotel hallway, naked, bound, Screaming. My friends unbind me, lend me clothes, and walk me to my room to get my things; My rapist watches, silent and ashamed, And then I never speak to him again. After he saw my pain was real that night, He moaned and wailed and wept; he said his hands Should be cut off. My present self agrees, But my past self still loved him all too well. I forgave him. I comforted. I soothed. My tears were not yet dry upon my cheeks. Another fantasy: I slide a knife Beneath his sternum, up into the heart. He sputters, chokes on blood. I say the words He said to me a week after the night He cut a ragged chunk out of my soul: "It's no big deal. Why are you still upset?" I didn't leave him. I tried to pretend My love was not broken and gangrenous. It took me three years to work up the nerve To amputate that rotten limb; I tried To be kind. He cursed me to our friends. "That harpy wouldn't even tell me why!" Third fantasy: he dies in the car crash A year before that night. I mourn. I heal. (A messy thought, but sometimes I think A widow's wounds would heal cleaner than mine.) And as for him, he dies good, victimless. His cycle ends with him and not with me. No, he was never good -- but I pretend To tell my younger self she loved a man Who tried, not a viper waiting to strike. I mince my words for her sake, not for his. For him: If I'm a harpy, let my words Befoul his table. Let him choke and starve.
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Nov 27, 2019 08:50
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Are signups still open? Because I'll sign up if so. If not, ah well.
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Dec 29, 2019 03:00
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Caveat Emptor assembled from e-commerce customer reviews moderated by the author, 2010-2013 i thought that it would be fun to have a smart phone. i am handicapped never leave the house, what was i thinking or not thinking. email fun to use and real efficent. web sites not. the rat is still in the compost bin. who cares if someone is making a wife or a girlfriend out of your garbage, its garbage, forget about it living with this is like waiting for the next bad thing to happen. i don't even have anyone to text. what a jerk i am.
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Dec 30, 2019 07:07
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cda posted:I would love to see the source material for that. The backstory there: for a couple of years, I had a part-time job with a company that managed e-commerce sites, reading and screening customer reviews posted to clients' sites. Needless to say, there were a lot of extremely weird things posted, and after a while I made a private text file of the weirdest or most striking stuff I saw. This poem was pieced together from chunks of those reviews. Anyway! On to the prompt: Week 7: Repeat Yourselves This week, I'd like to prompt you to play around with a poetic form I find very interesting: the pantoum. Derived from the Malay pantun berkait, the pantoum is a form defined by repetition of lines across the stanza. Each stanza of the pantoum is a quatrain (four lines) of no fixed meter; the second and fourth lines of each stanza will become the first and third lines of the next, until the final stanza, where the first and third lines of the first stanza will become the last's second and fourth. Here's an example of the format, assuming a common four-line pantoum: quote:A Each line of the pantoum will be used twice, so a major part of the art of the form is recontextualizing the repeated lines to create new meanings; changing punctuation and verb forms is also acceptable, although the words themselves shouldn't change. This is an intricate form and requires some planning, but I find it a really interesting exercise, and I hope you will too. This week, please write me a pantoum between 4 and 8 stanzas (16 to 32 lines) long. The subject matter and other technical elements are your choice; pantoums typically don't have meter or rhyme, but I can't stop you from it. What I'm looking for is flow and careful use of the repeating lines. Signups Close Monday, January 6th, 11:59 PM Pacific Submissions Close Wednesday, January 8th, 11:59 PM Pacific Judges: Antivehicular ?? ??? Poets: 1. Armack 2. cda 3. sephiRoth IRA 4. Djeser  5. Thranguy 6. flerp 7. Saucy_Rodent Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 11:36 on Jan 7, 2020 |
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Jan 1, 2020 11:19
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cda posted:One of the things I really liked about the poem was I couldn't quite tell if/where there were edits because things can get weird on the internet but also, This is actually the one chunk where I combined two reviews! The first line is from a review of some home-improvement product (presumably to keep rats out of your compost bin?), while the rest of it is from a long, angry review of an Adventure Time video game. (I could probably have made an entire poem out of people angry about Gamestop and/or its products.)
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Jan 2, 2020 11:44
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Signups are closed. Two days for poeming remain; use them wisely.
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Jan 7, 2020 11:37
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Submissions are closed.
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Jan 9, 2020 13:08
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Sorry for the judging delay; life is doing as it does. Anyway, results: This was a hard choice because I feel like the quality level this week was very tight and overall, everyone did a good job. Thank you to everyone who gave this a shot! Your winner this week is flerp, for something simple, effective, and particularly deft at recontextualization. Your loser is cda; this isn't a bad piece, and I applaud you for trying a found pantoum, but this doesn't really flow very well and I found it a little unsatisfying. Throne's yours, flerp.
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Jan 10, 2020 21:57
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In, line plz
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Jan 10, 2020 23:34
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Visiting My Parents 381 words There are too many cats in this house. There are the familiar ones, the dear dead ones, who perch on the arms of the living-room couch: Luke, all softness, free of his golf-ball heart and the clouded whorls of his lungs; Puff, in perfect dignity, without shame and without shamelessness. I want to stay with them, but there is too much house and too many cats. The house is all bathrooms and corridors, and in each are countless cats who have never existed. I find one in the toilet bowl, sun-gold tabby and white, placid and purring. She wanders to the bathmat to lie damply next to a brown tabby tom, bowling-ball round, grooming one neat white sock. In the living room, my father is feeding Puff a potato chip, laughing as his sweet old bear does her old tricks; my mother has left empty ice-cream bowls all over the floor, and the never-cats have descended on the dregs of vanilla. Luke is still on the couch, untrusting, a once-cat who remembers what was once good for him. Ice cream is only for never-cats. Out in the backyard, under the slide next to the half-tree, is Dream-of-Rex: a kitten, storybook orange, with blue eyes like marbles. Dream-of-Rex is old enough to rent a car. I sit on the swing set and wish I had time for him. There are still too many cats and too many places cats should be. In the attic, an empty dollhouse waits for full-named sister-cat Camellia Rose; there's a hallway shrine for Nermal, a plate of powdered donuts and plastic animals. The back door is always open. I walk across the lawn to the raspberry bushes, and I call to the absences: Cammy, come home, Mom misses you more than she ever missed me. Rex, come show me what you've got in your mouth, and I promise I won't be mad. Nermal, are you lost? Diddle, I forgive you. Cotton, you're the first thing I ever mourned. I call out every name I can think of -- grandparents' cats, strangers' cats, Black One and Gold One and Bootsy and Martin and Jazz -- and the only reply is the song of the ice-cream truck. The change in my pocket buys a Bomb Pop and two pints of vanilla.
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Jan 22, 2020 08:29
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Re: All The Goddamn Dishes These loving dishes. Aren't mine. All I've had to eat Is your cereal.
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Jan 24, 2020 23:32
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| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 01:24 |
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rickiep00h posted:Aw I had one, I just didn't get to my computer til now. You can and should still do the main prompt!
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Feb 9, 2020 07:32
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