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idgi either. free verse it is! in and  me a subject!
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Dec 6, 2019 06:47
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lofi posted:idgi either. free verse it is! in and Your subject is Solitude
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Dec 6, 2019 23:57
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Nice, on it.
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Dec 7, 2019 00:17
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1. in 2. i didn't want you to toxx me a subject, but i wrote on lofi's subject, like the dick that i am 3. i'm finished, here it is Ode to Solitude I. O Solitude! Thou allow'st me To Jerk My Pud where none shall see. Upon my monitor, the porn Uprises with the stiff'ning morn. I tastelessly consume too much And do not miss a woman's touch. Whilst She may screech that I am rude You suffer me, O Solitude, To pick my nose unto its core And set my bedsheets in a roar, Bold billowing clouds of fart expel Where none can hear and none can smell. II. A day may pass thus senselessly A mute wave on thy murm'ring sea Or snowfall from th'Olympian ceiling Numbing foolish fellow-feeling, For who would waft Ambrosial scents Perceiving no rapt Audience? Your empty sky, I cannot draw. Your sweetness, sugar in the raw. On this vacation, our embrace O Solitude, this bed's the place I penetrate your Zero Zone, And even thou leav'st me alone. III. The sensible inhabitants of Earth, The ordinaries of the spinning Real, May need t'affirm their dignity and worth By telling others what they think and feel. They hold their wrists out waiting to be chained And turn their faces from the streaming tide Of teenage nymphos looking to be trained, And never break the wind, and never ride The oceanic void. They'll never know Cold Ramen eaten by the crunchy brick. Their mothers, wives, and girlfriends wouldn't go For such shenanigans. It'd make them sick. But in you, Solitude, I swell with pride, Until I bust, as when groom first meets bride. cda fucked around with this message at 02:31 on Dec 8, 2019 |
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Dec 8, 2019 02:00
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nailed it.
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Dec 8, 2019 11:13
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To Solitude Crowds press like ocean depths. Abyssal weight and eyes that bulge, Fangs gape in unhinged mouths, Bloated death-pale flesh shudders. In the cold currents Where no light dares reach A vortex of abominations Mindlessly grasps for me. But oh! Here is my castle. Alabaster walls to protect me And an unbreachable lid closed tight, To hold me safe inside its sculpted fist. And here, secluded within my shell, I can finally become a pearl. The shrieking mob will never know The calm of being still. They writhe around and into each other, I am discrete. Their howling as they Claw at my walls Only proves me correct.
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Dec 9, 2019 18:01
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Jesus.
Elentor fucked around with this message at 16:09 on Dec 12, 2019 |
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Dec 9, 2019 21:29
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Sign ups close in one hour-ish. I’m still looking for a spare judge if anyone is interested!
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Dec 10, 2019 07:27
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Signups?! Lol, I totally misread, thought that was the submission deadline. Oh well, done early.
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Dec 10, 2019 13:57
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Real and Imaginary We do not hold the adder to account, Not celebrate the triumph of the tides. The choice of multiplying drops amount Not to some chosen course of the mudslide But praise, expound, the primacy of will In human agency and rationed choice We unmoved movers owning every whim. But we are meat, not shells that ghosts may fill. Does that make every song just blind meat's voice? Or does complexity compose the hymn?
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Dec 12, 2019 04:50
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[redacted for submissions]
Armack fucked around with this message at 16:15 on Dec 23, 2019 |
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Dec 12, 2019 05:08
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Dec 12, 2019 05:13
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Nowhere Step across the city line. No, that's not enough. Further, until the roads Begin to lose their names, Our names for them, until No one is left to insist on them, Where the soil has never Been told to whom it belongs, Or has forgotten where The edges of our thumbprint are. Here's no place. Oh, we try To name it, divide it, But its pride is unmatched, Because we can never create Nowhere. The tree doesn't care If we make shade of it, The cliff stays unmoved no matter How beautiful the view, And there will be no rain checks In case of inclement weather. Slip into nowhere. Feel it In your spine and in your feet, And wash the aftertaste Of everything from your mouth. No place expects nothing. You begin to lose your name, Our name for you, now that There is no place to insist on it. The world is flattened. The sky is just above your head. Here is nothing But you and the world.
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Dec 12, 2019 06:03
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To Sheila (I Named Her When I was Four) The wait for your death was crueler than your death. The lady at the front desk smiled when we walked in, asked if the bundle of orange fur wrapped in the red blanket was her, as if you were an offering to some Mayan god. She sent me to a room with two chairs and I held you close and felt each tug of your breath, felt each struggling muscle pull your lungs up and down. It was a mercy, I had to tell myself, to craddle you deep into my chest, because you were four pounds, down from six, and that, if I wasn't here you would be curled in that dog bed next to the off fireplace, and it was summer so we couldn't turn it on, even though during the winters you would sit next to it for hours and bleed this heat when I touched you. It was hard to not cry when you dug your head deeper into the blanket, because I knew what this place was. I did manage for a time to hold my breath and not cry. It is winter now and you have been gone for months and it feels like I am not supposed to be here in this poem, writing of your death, as if the empty space where you sat between me and the pillows was supposed to be so easily filled. You are, after all, a dog. Can I tell you the truth? I cried when you died, when I placed you on that operating table, when the vet set that needle into your body, when I moved your body and saw how your eyelid struggled and resisted, how the blanket was wrapped underneath your belly, how your body was still warm but empty and the vet said, "she's gone," and I didn't want to but I kept crying and can I keep telling the truth? I didn't cry when I was told my grandfather died. You are gone and my mom threw out the beds you slept on and got another dog who is white not like you and barks not like you and shoves herself into my arms not like you. When I feed the new dog, I do not have to tear the meat because she has all her teeth not like you. It is winter and it will be spring and then it will be summer and there will be a divot in the grass where you used to sit to sink in the heat of the sun. There are still days where I cry, where I want to not cry, where I do not want to be this person, crying over a dog, but I am like a fireplace rolling smoke out of my eyes and there was a time when you sat there in front of me, soaked in all of that heat, and I miss those times where I could say to myself that when you died, I wouldn't have cried.
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Dec 12, 2019 06:08
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I think that’s everybody! I will have my judgements up tomorrow night. Detailed crits might not happen for another day or two.
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Dec 12, 2019 07:40
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Armack posted:For My Cat Have you ever read Christopher Smart's "For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffrey"? It's the first thing I thought about when I was trying to think of a poem of praise with lofty language in it. It's not an ode, but it kicks total rear end https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45173/jubilate-agno
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Dec 12, 2019 17:49
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Hadn't come across it before, but this is cute, thanks for putting me onto it. "For by stroking of him I have found out electricity." lol
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Dec 12, 2019 19:06
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Winner: Amrack HM: Thranguy DM: no DM Loser: cda Detailed crits later. I’m on a business trip and things went about as hosed as they could go today so please be okay with just results for now 
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Dec 13, 2019 03:25
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gently caress yeah middle of the pack baby, check me out! Getting better!
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Dec 13, 2019 03:40
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Week V: Rolling a Bard Write a Shakespearean sonnet, also known as an English sonnet, also known as an Elizabethan sonnet. It must conform to the usual Shakespearean sonnet format: 14 lines, iambic pentameter, rhyme scheme of abab cdcd efef gg, and so on. Here's an example: William Shakespeare posted:Sonnet 2 Yes, you do have to rhyme, but please be sure your rhyming words look like they're there because they are the best possible words for you to use, and not like they were shoehorned in just to fit the rhyme scheme. Usual submission rules apply (see the OP). Signup Deadline: Monday, December 16th @ 11:59PM PT Submission Deadline: Wednesday, December 18th @ 11:59 PT Judges Armack Poets Djeser cda sephiRoth IRA Armack fucked around with this message at 02:13 on Dec 18, 2019 |
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Dec 13, 2019 08:32
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in
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Dec 13, 2019 10:15
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sephiRoth IRA posted:Winner: Amrack Ode to Losing by cda, copyright 2019 cda The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
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Dec 13, 2019 15:51
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I’ll have time to help judge Armack!
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Dec 13, 2019 16:52
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cda posted:Ode to Losing drat, colour me surprised, I thought yours was great. Too jokey for the judge, I guess? Or they objected to you stealing my prompt.
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Dec 14, 2019 00:04
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I did not like the juxtaposition of the old-timey language with the poems content. And while the poem was funny, it did not capture the rich and wholesome language I asked for in the prompt.
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Dec 14, 2019 01:50
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in for the sonnet
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Dec 14, 2019 02:03
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not my entry, just trying to encourage participation! Dear posters of CC, please say you’re in. It’s not that hard to write a sonnet when The wit and wordcraft of the Bard has been Condensed at Rhymezone and his perfect pen Well-matched by https://www.languageis avirus.com/sonnet-gen erator.php, so that this Week’s Dome does not require that you be Ben Jonson or John Milton or Edward Spenser, Or even Petrarch with his distant Laura. You can compose untouched by fear of censure And post your poem on your favorite fora, Remembering what Thom Stearns said with zeal Good poets borrow but the great ones steal.
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Dec 15, 2019 23:01
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In for the sonnet
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Dec 16, 2019 19:45
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Sorry, not got time this week!
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Dec 16, 2019 23:18
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In for the sonnet. FML
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Dec 17, 2019 05:50
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Submissions closed. Good luck, poets.
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Dec 17, 2019 18:30
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ok here's my sonnet Found Sonnet: JSTOR search: ecology agency climate change Achieving change in individual [1] taxon-specific strategies that will [2] been coarsened in the ways that casual [3] in climate-driven range expansion (Hill [4] 2001) [5] determine the ideal [6] intrusion of the natural world into the inner world of consciousness might feel [7] conceived of as a force for making new [7] see adaptation as an urgent need [8] without the pressure of having to meet [9] SRES scenarios; indeed [5] host–parasite relationships, and heat wave frequency [10] dispersal were derived [4] emerging, or obscure. We have arrived [6] [1] Smith, Mark Stafford. “Responding to Global Environmental Change.” Change!, edited by Gabriele Bammer, ANU Press, 2015, pp. 29–42. [2] Chown, Steven L., and Ary A. Hoffmann. “EDITORIAL: Ecophysiological Forecasting for Environmental Change Adaptation.” Functional Ecology, vol. 27, no. 4, 2013, pp. 930–33. [3] Solnick, Sam. “Reverse Transcribing Climate Change.” Oxford Literary Review, vol. 34, no. 2, 2012, pp. 277–93. JSTOR. [4] Vos, Claire C., et al. “Adapting Landscapes to Climate Change: Examples of Climate-Proof Ecosystem Networks and Priority Adaptation Zones.” Journal of Applied Ecology, vol. 45, no. 6, 2008, pp. 1722–31. JSTOR. [5] Berliner, L. Mark. “Uncertainty and Climate Change.” Statistical Science, vol. 18, no. 4, 2003, pp. 430–35. JSTOR. [6] Schwarz, Kirsten, and Dustin L. Herrmann. “The Subtle, yet Radical, Shift to Ecology for Cities.” Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment, vol. 14, no. 6, 2016, pp. 296–97. [7] Kainulainen, Maggie. “Saying Climate Change.” Symplokē, vol. 21, no. 1–2, 2013, pp. 109–23. [8] Salamanca, Albert, and Ha Nguyen. Climate Change Adaptation Readiness in the ASEAN Countries. Stockholm Environment Institute, 2016. [9] Martinez, Grit. “Let’s Say It in Their Own Words.” RCC Perspectives, no. 4, 2019, pp. 105–14. [10] “Toward a General Theory for How Climate Change Will Affect Infectious Disease.” Bulletin of the Ecological Society of America, vol. 91, no. 4, 2010, pp. 467–73.
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Dec 17, 2019 22:49
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Going to have to renege on sonnet. I apologize.
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Dec 18, 2019 00:32
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Only one entrant. Congrats cda, you are the winner. I guess technically you are also the loser. Anyway, the week is yours.
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Dec 19, 2019 12:42
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Lol
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Dec 19, 2019 15:48
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Well I think it's cool to win with some weird experimental poo poo, and also honorable to lose with some weird experimental poo poo, so I am both cool and honorable.
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Dec 19, 2019 15:48
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PROOOOOOOOOMPT
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Dec 20, 2019 04:56
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Saucy_Rodent posted:PROOOOOOOOOMPT
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Dec 20, 2019 08:42
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Ok, here's the prompt, but given that this is a holiday week, I'm not sure about deadlines...would it be horrible to have the deadlines for two weeks from now instead of next week? Week 6: Found Poetry “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.” - T.S. Eliot Winter blahs got you down? Visions of holiday woes dancing in your head? Are you thinking to yourself "I simply cannot write a single line of poetry under the present, gloomy, conditions?" Fear not! This week you don't have to write anything. You just have to do what any mature poet would do and steal. Found poetry is poetry that takes existing texts and cuts them up, reworks them, changes them into something else: a poem which speaks for itself while also speaking to the source material. Although there has been a thread of found poetry running through the poetry of the 20th century, from Eliot's borrowings in "The Waste Land," to Burrough's' cut-ups, to the "field poetics" of Susan Howe, Anne Carson, and Charles Olson, Found Poetry is arguably having its first really big moment in the 21st century with M. NourbeSe Philips' Zong and Robin Coste Lewis' Voyage of the Sable Venus, which won the National Book Award in 2015. Both of these works reflect on black history, using historical texts in unusual ways to comment on the power of the word to make, and unmake, the lives of individuals and communities. Philips' entire poem is composed only of words found in the legal documents of the Gregson v. Gilbert court proceedings which decided the infamous Zong case in which dozens of slaves were thrown overboard from a slave ship. Lewis' poem is made up only of the titles and exhibit descriptions from art and historical museums featuring objects which have a black woman in them somewhere (often not in the picture itself, but in a frame around the picture, etc). Here's a section from Zong! (sorry for them being big but at smaller scales they get kind of hard to read)   and here's a couple of pages from "Voyage of the Sable Venus"  In general, history tends to be a big topic for Found Poetry; beyond the two mentioned here, Charles Reznikoff has a book-length poem called Testimony which is made up of testimony from Holocaust trials, and the aforementioned Susan Howe, Anne Carson, and Charles Olson also take history as one of their main subjects. But really, found poetry can be about anything. It can be silly or serious, long or short. What makes for good found poetry is that the poem creates an interesting relationship between its content and the text or texts that it was created from: for that reason most found poetry avoids texts which are already "literary," instead turning the texts into literature by arranging or breaking the texts in interesting ways to reveal surprising depths of emotion or insight. This idea is captured by Annie Dillard when she says "The original meaning remains intact, but now it swings between two poles." Anyway, here are a couple of other found poems to get your creative juices flowing. The first is maybe my favorite one: a letter to the editor turned into a sestina. Dear Thrasher: Adapted from a Letter to the Editor Printed in Thrasher Skateboarding Magazine, April 2003 by Sonia Huber Dear Thrasher, I love your skate mag. It rocks, even though you guys print too many shoe ads. And what’s up with the posers doing handrails? Don’t they know real skaters do it in the street? Well, you know even skating the street sucks ‘cause cops won’t let us skate anywhere. But kids here know some killer secret pools and ditches. You would poo poo to skate the Blood Bowl—eats posers for lunch. Put the Blood Bowl in your ads. I got a serious beef, though—the ads with those skate-betty chicks standing in the street in thongs made me think you’re all Cali posers! It makes me want to give up and screw this skate bullshit. I mean, God, why don’t you sell your souls for cash, you know? I don’t want to ride your asses—you know you rock my world even with the lame ads. It’s like, I need a lifeline here, you can’t imagine Rankin, Georgia—mullets, no street courses, one lovely skate park. I skate with four cool punks, try to steer clear of posers. We’ve got a big problem in Rankin with posers. I’m 12 and not stupid. I know guys here think us girls can’t skate— That’s crap! It’s your fault. Running those ads makes idiots here think it’s street last, clothes and babes first. It’s on you. Guys even rape girls in the park crapper. You see a porta-potty shaking with a poser and a screaming chick inside, guys on the street high-fiving, whatever, it’s gross, and I know this poo poo happens all over. So be cool and drop the ads. It’s not about tits. Get on your board and skate. They’re everywhere, you know, poser, thick-necked Fitch-bitches like in your ads. I don’t want ‘em. I lost my cherry to the street. I’ll die or skate. Formed in the Stance by William S. Burroughs The beautiful disease and The government falls along the weed rooms flesh along the weed government/ / / / The girls eat morning Dying peoples to a white bone monkey in the Winter sun touching tree of the house. $$$$ Argue second time around such a deal. The middle artist unknown and probably hostile in his hands scouting be obligation for force main body dependant on in from ate……… The usual procedure viruses graphed Time. Ours THAT???? HER feet at? Morning the thunderous read the front page” ” ” ” star blazing but She read the stories beyond lines. . . . They can take over viruses &&& make one The Scientists formed in the stance. . . traits ride many. . . thorough equipped street few days::: Cut up Paris Herald Tribune articles on Met performance and polio virus Burroughs poem New Clues To Cancer Cure SATURDAY EVENING POST Oct. 31, 1959
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Dec 20, 2019 16:07
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Dec 20, 2019 17:39
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