Sunday, April 26, 2015

Day 26 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2015


Day Twenty-Six. Is today an especially unlucky day? Maybe even doubly unlucky? The numeral for today's date, 26, is 13 x 2, after all. Are there still people who believe the number 13 is unlucky? In my hometown, San Francisco, what would be Thirteenth Avenue is instead named Funston Avenue. That probably changed, or began to change, around the time of my birth; one of the bands that had a hit when I was 13 was called The 13th Floor Elevators, one of the earliest psychedelic bands. That hit song was "You're Gonna Miss Me." I wonder if one were to send a letter to, say, 1313 Funston Avenue but addressed it to 1313 Thirteenth Avenue, if it would arrive. Or maybe, you're gonna miss me, baby.

Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt: "Our last two prompts have been squarely in the silly zone — this one should give some scope to both the serious-minded and the silly among you. Today, I challenge you to write a persona poem — a poem in the voice of someone else. Your persona could be a mythological or fictional character, a historical figure, or even an inanimate object."

Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt: "take a word or two invented by William Shakespeare, make it the title of your poem, and write your poem. Click here for a link to some words coined by Shakespeare, who was baptized on this date in 1564. If the link doesn’t work, here are a few: advertising, bloodstained, critic, dwindle, eyeball, hobnob, luggage, radiance, and zany. He invented more than 1,700!"

I was a teenager during the old psychedelic hippie days. Living in San Francisco, I was right there when it was happening. I was 15 years old during the Summer of Love in 1967. In fact, my family happened to live in the Haight-Ashbury district, just 5 or 6 blocks from Haight St. Something I remember very clearly from those days was the artwork of hippie rock concert posters, which would be stapled on light poles and taped onto walls in the street. One of the most memorable hippie artists was Rick Griffin.

Here's one of Griffin's posters, perhaps the most famous and iconic one, showing a flying eyeball with reptilian tail and claws holding a skull, advertising a February 1968 series of concerts starring Jimi Hendrix, John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers, and Albert King. According to collector Eric King, "This image has been found painted on tribal buffalo skulls in the jungles of Thailand, printed on T-shirts in the Chilean desert and tattooed on Japanese punks in Osaka" and "is Rick[ Griffin]'s vision of the all-seeing eye of God the father, the Old Testament 'jealous and angry God' before whom Rick felt we are all wanting, all guilty, all unworthy sinners doomed to burn forever on a lake of fire."
Rick Griffin, Bill Graham Poster, 1968
I am melding today's two "official prompts," the NaPoWriMo persona poem and the PAD poem with a title made from two words Shakespeare coined. The persona speaking is the flying eyeball from the Griffin poster.

Bloodstained Eyeball

You see me every single day
on your dollar bills, eyeing
you from the highest point
of the Illuminati pyramid.

But this is how I truly look,
children, with my tentacle tail
and claws. Alas, poor Yorick
with sunglasses, this is you.

All of you, this is YOUR head.
You cannot escape me. I shall
break through sky with flames
and angel wings to find you.

Bloody veins may stain me but
I see you. I see you. I see you.

—Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Wow, a complete surprise how that poem turned out. I thought it was going to be a light-hearted poem but it asserted itself in a totally different way.

Here's Alan's poem for today. "Shakespeare coined pedant," Alan tells us, "and I am a happy reader of Robert Browning. Combining the two prompts seems to work all right today."

Pedant

That’s my last project, lying on the desk,
looking as if it still matters. I risk
debasing my work now; two dozen chairs
of various departments spent long hours
to fill these forms to suit my tastes. I said
“my tastes” by my design, for none have read
these papers through, administrative stance
reminding them of my significance
when funding issues rise and I am asked
to offer what I’d recommend. I’m tasked
to make these leaders fall in line, who’d teach
as if they have some mastery to reach
their students, having researched, studied years
while holding classes. “Interference” wears
upon them, they complain, as if some words,
a lab, a lecture moves this school towards
desired political expedience.
Of course, we do not sell degrees. Why chance,
however, inciting alumni who
suspect progressiveness is working through
the lectures? Legislators read the news
and ask in public forums what’s the use
of languages, art history, or art
itself, and should their criticism start
on women’s studies and diversity,
then I’d find life more difficult for me.
You don’t think I’d be some officious fool
who’d try to kill these programs through a rule?
Why should I make my motivation clear
when I can make my troubles disappear
by claiming viability’s at stake
and draining their resources? I can make
departments spend uncompensated time
in drafting papers, ream by ream by ream,
and find some point that still will need revised.
Ironically, the more I am despised
by lower ranks, the more I grow endeared
to regents, boards, alumni, too, prepared
to quantify the universities
and measure their success through earned degrees
with standards rooted in the politics
of prejudice and fear. There’s no quick fix
when something sinks, especially when one
who sees the breach controls how something’s done
to mend or mitigate when we’ve begun
to head for shore. Assure the governor
the labor leader’s speech will not occur
because accreditation work is due
too close to any open date. As you
can see, the stadium has broken ground,
and we are certain he will be around
to dedicate it on its opening day.
Our provost’s health is good. I’ll let him know
that you were kind enough to ask. Please go
through here and see the model of the bust
commissioned by the man we’ve just discussed!

—Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Ah yes, the Duke of Ferrara is indeed a fascinating role model. Bravo, Alan!

Friends, won't you comment, please? Love to know what you're thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don't find the word "comments" in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks!

Ingat, everyone.   


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Saturday, April 25, 2015

Day 25 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2015


Day Twenty-Five. Today is the end of the fifth group of five, with one more group of five to go. Five more days. Five more poems. Though today, both Alan and I really up the ante and the numbers.

Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt: "It’s the weekend, so I thought we might go with something short and just a bit (or a lot) silly – the Clerihew. These are rhymed, humorous quatrains involving a specific person’s name."

Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt: write an across the sea poem. This could be a love letter, an electronic submission through cyber space and time, or a travel poem (by air or sea, though probably not car). Modern travel or back in the days of rugged explorers. Wandering or wondering, your choice.

Combining Robert's "across the sea" prompt with NaPoWriMo.net's clerihew prompt. Here goes.

Clerihews for a Famous Literary Sailor

Herman Melville
Was into whale kill,
So he wrote the famous Moby-Dick
Although harpooning was not his schtick.

Herman Melville
Couldn't spell well.
The real guy's name was Israel,
But Herman misspelled it as Ishmael.

Herman Melville
Didn't sell well.
Thousands of Moby-Dick copies left over,
In his attic, his basement, and his mom's, moreover.

Herman Melville
Fished for bluegill.
He said it was almost as fun as whale,
If you don't consider matters of scale.

Herman Melville
Visited Nashville.
Where Moby-Dick didn't get him too far
'Cause he couldn't sing or play guitar.

Herman Melville
Scared a Paris demoiselle.
She said, "Mon cheri, with you it's wrong.
Your Moby-Dick is just too long."

—Drafts by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

If you've been following Alan's bravura poeming all month, the cornucopia of clerihews below probably won't surprise you. Alan says, "The first two fulfill the two prompts. The rest are extra."

Crossing the Sea Clerihews

Annabelle Ridgeway
began her day
by taking a lone three a.m. bus trip for a Slushie
and thereby became (albeit briefly) more well-known than Salman Rushdie.

Vince Gotera
wished to emulate Peter Cetera,
and single-handedly brought about a Midwest embargo
on touring bar bands who cover Chicago.

Billy Collins
is no Henry Rollins,
but he’s sold a zillion
volumes at Books-a-Million.

John Boehner,
the Orange Complainer,
has proven himself no smartier
than the average Tea Partier.

John McCain,
explain
what your next war
is for.

Dick Cheney
belongs in American political miscellany
for being calculating though artless
and for living while being literally heartless.

Mitt Romney,
in spite of his bum knee,
ran for months
just like a dunce.

Rafael Edward “Ted” Cruz
is bound to lose
if he runs out of wingnut sloganeering ammunition
and contributes to GOP voter attrition.

Scott Kevin Walker,
the Koch brothers’ stalker,
has moved from their position on immigration
and compromised his bid for the GOP nomination.

Marco Antonio Rubio
screwed up in the studio
by lunging for water while delivering a GOP response
like a kindergartener who discovers his pants are unzipped during the Pledge of Allegiance.

Mike Huckabee,
really,
is the most effective thing you can say
is that folks should eat at Chik-fil-A?


—Drafts by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Some of those are really quite hilarious, Alan. Depending on which side of the aisle you're on, so to speak, I guess. Well, since you wrote a clerihew for me, I am only too glad to reciprocate.

Associate Dean Thomas Alan Holmes,
of ETSU’s administrative catacombs,
got royally — as the British say — pissed
with his buddy Thomas Crofts, medievalist.

Thomas Alan Holmes,
associate dean, writes poems
that rhyme and scan and chiefly consist
of the exploits of Thomas Crofts, medievalist.

—Drafts by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Thomas Crofts,
medievalist
If you're not familiar with Alan's poems about Thomas Crofts, medievalist, click here. There are quite a few of them here on the blog as well as out in the world, both online and in print. At right is Thomas Crofts, medievalist, himself, brandishing his favorite blade, with which he doth smite all miscreants. Click on the image to see it lo! full magnified.

I got a bit of help with these two clerihews from my girlfriend Kathy. She came up with "catacombs" to rhyme with "Holmes" — a brilliant word given what Alan often says about administration. Wait, did I say that? And also "exploits" for the storied derring-do of Thomas Crofts, medievalist. We both hope to "goon on pilgrimages" to Tennessee — mayhaps this summer? — to finally meet in person Thomas Alan Holmes, associate dean, and his estoc-wielding sometimes-accomplice sometimes-literary-character Thomas Crofts, medievalist.   

Friends, won't you comment, please? Love to know what you're thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don't find the word "comments" in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks!

Ingat, everyone.   


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Friday, April 24, 2015

Day 24 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2015


Day Twenty-Four. Today is the first day, not of the rest of your life, as some say (though I suppose that's true enough), but rather the first day of the last week of National Poetry Month. Counting today, you could write seven poems more.

As a kid, I was enchanted by 24: the numbers 6 and 4 can be multiplied to make 24, and the number 4 is one of those multiplicands as well as being one of the digits in 24 . . . plus the other multiplicand, 6, could be parsed into 2+4, the very digits in 24. Fun, eh? Yeah, I was a weird kid.

Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt: "I challenge you to write a parody or satire based on a famous poem. It can be long or short, rhymed or not. But take a favorite (or unfavorite) poem of the past, and see if you can’t re-write it on humorous, mocking, or sharp-witted lines. You can use your poem to make fun of the original (in the vein of a parody), or turn the form and manner of the original into a vehicle for making points about something else (more of a satire — though the dividing lines get rather confused and thin at times)."

Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt: "write a moment poem. The moment can be a big moment or small moment; it can be a good moment or horrible moment; it can affect thousands or matter to just one person. Some moments happen in crowded rooms; some happen in the most quiet of spaces. Find yours and write a poem."

I'm combining the NaPoWriMo parody prompt with Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt for a moment poem. Playing around with Dickinson's "Wild nights - Wild nights!" (shown below on the right).

Mild moments - Mild moments!
— with apologies to
Emily Dickinson
Mild moments - Mild moments!
Were I eating mushroom soup
Mild moments would be
A whoop.

Mushrooms - in cream -
Could play the part -
Of poor man’s Alfredo -
And later a f— . . . fiddle!

So boil up some Pasta -
Ah - Fetuccine!
Might I but mushroom - tonight -
In thee!
                      Wild nights - Wild nights!
by Emily Dickinson
(Franklin 269)
Wild nights - Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile - the winds -
To a Heart in port -
Done with the Compass -
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden -
Ah - the Sea!
Might I but moor - tonight -
In thee!

Draft by Vince Gotera
[Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Click on the image for more information.
Here, on the right, is a photograph of the original manuscript of this Dickinson poem in her own handwriting.

You probably know that in the early book publications of Dickinson's work, which appeared after her death, editors removed the dashes she used in most of her poems. To the readers of her own time, the dashes could have been too unusual and even shocking. When I first encountered Dickinson's poems in school as a child, there were no dashes, I'm pretty sure. It was not until quite some time after those early books that scholarly editors editing the poems to be studied re-inserted the dashes.

An interesting fact about Dickinson's dashes is that they are not uniform. She used several different kinds of dashes, if that's indeed what they are. In this single handwritten manuscript, we can see at least two distinctly varying kinds. Most resemble hyphens, though they are different lengths. The marks after "Futile" and "winds" in line 5 are shorter than the ones in the middle of line 1 and the end of line 9. Notice, though, that the mark after "Ah" in line 10 is more vertical and not dash- or hyphen-like at all to my eye. It's more like an apostrophe, don't you think? But the various scholarly editors have all rendered that mark as a dash. It's a tough call. The dash has become the consensus among Dickinson experts, but really we don't know with certainty how she herself might have had those marks rendered in print as opposed to handwriting.

Okay, on to our good friend Alan. "The combined prompts call for a parody and an important moment," he says. "I have been working with both Flannery O'Connor and Gerard Manley Hopkins lately (there's a project I'm perhaps participating in), and it just struck me that there is a moment in 'Good Country People' that could fit the dual prompts. One character in the story is named 'Manley Pointer.' I think you have an idea of where I am going."

The Wooden Leg
— Gerard Manley Pointer
              To Joy Hopewell

I’d brought along this morning my valise
because you just can’t tell what you might need
when courting. So, I let you take the lead,
and you believed you’d use me for release,
but you are all the same, as dumb as geese;
you think my ignorance is guaranteed,
but my fake name’s protection. Beg and plead —
there’ll be no point in calling the police.

And, all this time, I thought you were some girl
with no beliefs in anything. You beg
and whimper, helpless, skittish as a squirrel,
because your learning’s weaker than your leg,
my trophy I’ll keep precious as a pearl
beside a glass eye smooth as a boiled egg.

—Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Again a Petrarchan sonnet. Bravo, Alan. I'm impressed at how you can spin out these rhymed and metered forms so easily and gracefully. And I love the Gerard Manley ____  jest, as you surely knew I would, right? You capture well Flannery O'Connor's signature weird humor.

Friends, won't you comment, please? Love to know what you're thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don't find the word "comments" in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks!

Ingat, everyone.   


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Thursday, April 23, 2015

Day 23 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2015


Day Twenty-Three. I don't know what to say about 23. I think last year I pointed to that surreal Jim Carrey movie, The Number 23. Year before that, I pointed out that 4/23 is Shakespeare's birthday . . . that's pretty cool. Okay, on to the prompts.

Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt: "write a historic poem. It could be a poem about a landmark event, specific battle, an era in time, or whatever you consider a historic happening."

Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today, I challenge you to take a chance, literally. Find a deck of cards (regular playing cards, tarot cards, uno cards, cards from your Cards Against Humanity deck – whatever), shuffle it, and take a card — any card! Now, begin free-writing based on the card you’ve chosen. Keep going without stopping for five minutes. Then take what you’ve written and make a poem from it."

A couple of years ago, Kathy gave me an "Authors Card Game," which you can see in the photo below. The card I happened to choose at random was Washington Irving, author of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and "Rip Van Winkle" — two of my most beloved stories as a child.

I gotta say, though, I had hoped for Nathaniel Hawthorne (really, I wanted Herman Melville but he's not one of the authors sanctified by this deck). I thought I could write a historic poem about the moment when Hawthorne and Melville first met. Hawthorne wrote his wife that Melville was "rather heterodox by way of linen"; I’ve never forgotten that phrasing, which meant, I'm pretty sure, that Melville could have changed his underwear more often. Of course Hawthorne could only have known that by sense of smell, I would guess, so Melville’s underwear must have been pretty ripe.

I also wished I had drawn Louisa May Alcott, the only woman in the deck, pretty surprising for a game from the late 1980s. Did we learn nothing from the Equal Rights movement? I also kinda hoped for Shakespeare, simply because it's his birthday today, and he would be a half millennium old if he were still kicking. Well, I’m not sure he’s not kicking, though he’s probably nothing but bone fragments by now, if that. Sir Walter Scott would have been a good draw too because as a child I loved Ivanhoe almost as much as "Sleepy Hollow." Well, maybe more, actually. You gotta love good swordplay in a story. There’s only bowling — nine-pins — in "Rip Van Winkle" and crazy horse riding in "Sleepy Hollow."

There would have been plenty of possibilities for a historic poem with those writers, other than Irving. (By the way, those author cards are depicted in the photo . . . from left to right, Irving, Scott, Shakespeare, Hawthorne, and Alcott. Still annoyed at no Melville.)

Anyhow, Washington Irving was the card I drew and so Washington Irving it is. Here we go.

The Birth of the American Short Story
Washington Irving inspected an artillery
battery in 1814 when he was serving as
aide-de-camp to the Governor of New York.

Walking behind the line of cannon pointed
through gaps in the heavy earth fortifications,
Irving flinched each time the cannons fired.
He fought the strong urge to duck his head.
The army captain in command of the battery
took Irving’s elbow, smiling. “Come closer
to this piece, sir,” he said. “Nothing to fear.”
As they came up behind the 6-pounder brass
howitzer, artillerymen swarmed around it,
ramming gunpowder and a 6-inch ball
into the muzzle, then touching off the fuse.
Again, Irving ducked and then looked over
at his companion to see if his momentary
weakness had been noticed. The soldier’s face
was surrounded and obscured by smoke,
his blonde hair lit red by the setting sun.
For a moment, Irving thought the man’s head
was gone, supplanted by a nimbus of fire.
Then the moment passed. Irving asked him,
“Please tell me your name again, sir?”
His blue eyes glowing in the brassy light,
the officer said, “Ichabod Crane, sir,
at your service. Captain Ichabod Crane.”

—Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Irving never admitted that Captain Ichabod Crane was the namesake for his hero in "Sleepy Hollow." An anti-hero, actually, because Irving's character was no soldier. The real-life Ichabod Crane served almost 50 years in the American military, both the Marines and the Army, and died while still on active duty as a Colonel. I surmise that while the bookish schoolteacher inherited the Captain's name, perhaps the Captain's personality might have been the model for the schoolteacher's rowdy competitor for Katrina Van Tassel's hand. That's the premise for my poem, anyway.

Incidentally, Colonel Ichabod Crane was the great-uncle of Stephen Crane, author of The Red Badge of Courage. Since his great-uncle would have been well-known as a soldier in the Crane family, the younger Crane's novel was surely influenced in some way — even if negatively — by the storied military career of his great-uncle. The protagonist of Red Badge is himself also an anti-hero, not at all like the Colonel, who served and fought in four wars.

Moving on to Alan's poem for today . . . he tells us, "I'm attempting to combine the card prompt with the history prompt."

Four of Cups

In August, 1996, I sat
among my unpacked books and pulled a card
from some tarot deck given me by friends
I’d left to take this job; this card, the four
of cups, was drawn in such a way that it
alluded to Manet, a lunch where men
in gentlemen’s fine clothes are served
by women dishabille, the foreground one,
leg curled in such a way that we can see
her bare instep, as intimate as eyes
as she is turning to our gaze. The card
suggests a restlessness, that one engaged
in contemplation might dismiss what joy
or temporary respite from the world
might lie so close at hand. And while I know
Manet’s men have the women there, I think
the foreground woman’s gaze invites the thought
that she wants more and dares us all to want
much more as well, not sit and wait for some
to get some appetite for what we have
but make them yearn for what we will not give.

—Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Here's that very card. Alan, I like how you drew the card not today but almost 20 years ago. Good play with the prompt.
And the matching Edouard Manet painting, Le Déjeuner sur l'Herbe (The Picnic). No Speedo for the guy on the right.   

Friends, won't you comment, please? Love to know what you're thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don't find the word "comments" in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks!

Ingat, everyone.   


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Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Day 22 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2015


Day Twenty-Two. It's Earth Day, everyone! Both our official prompts are connected to that celebration, I think.

Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today is Earth Day, so I would like to challenge you to write a 'pastoral' poem. Traditionally, pastoral poems involved various shepherdesses and shepherds talking about love and fields, but yours can really just be a poem that engages with nature."

Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt: "write a nature poem. For many poets, the first thing that may pop to mind includes birds, trees, waterfalls, rivers, and such. But there’s also human nature, nature vs. nurture, and other things natural, including natural selection and being a 'natural' at something. Let your nature take it where it will today."

I gotta confess, I'm not very nature-oriented, and pastorals don't come easily to me. I have lots of allergies to pollen and other plant-y whatevers, and so spring is not my favorite season, by a long shot. In fact, while probably many of you are happy that here north of the equator spring has sprung in the springliest fashion, I was up most of last night with painful sinuses, a congested head, and heavy sniffles — the antihistamine and painkiller I took not even making the littlest dent in the discomfort.

So while probably many NaPoWriMo/PAD-ers wrote about flowers and such today, I did not. One thing I've wanted all my life, though, is to be able to fly. (I'm still upset about why we haven't gotten — as we were "promised" when I was a kid — jetpacks and rocketpacks available in stores and also flying cars like the Jetsons had. What's up with that?) Anyway, I wrote about natural creatures that can fly. I really wanted to slip dragons into the poem, but I'm told they've never existed in nature. You'll see how I solved that problem, though.

Flyers

Across meadows
Bumblebees flutter,
Cumbersome
Dancers,
Ever searching for the best
Flowers, colorful faces above
Green seas of grass.

Hummingbirds dash and hover
In wide loping arabesques,
Jumping red yellow orange,
Kissing the wide-open
Lips of blossoms.

Macaws, blue and gold Amazon
Natives, dart sweep soar from
One tangled branch to another.

Pterodactyls,
Quetzalcoatlus northropi,
Ruled their kingdoms from vast
Skies, gliding diving snatching
Tiny furred mammals
Unaware of wheeling death.

Violet and teal dragonflies,
Wings translucent
X's,
Yaw and
Zip through azure air.
Photo by fir0002/Flagstaffotos

—Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

About his pastoral/nature poem today, Alan said, "This one hurt me." I'd be interested to hear why you think he says that. Here's the poem.

Lost Pasture

The last time I stood in the pasture, clover bunched
to my midshin, and bees were busy, petaled puffs
of clover bobbing when they clung to blossoms round
as life is round, the egg, the eye, the open mouth,
and I was calm among the bees, the clover bunched
midshin, and I could smell the beeves across the stream
that curled from underneath the hill, a cave as low
as half a room, the water cold enough to blue
my feet in minutes till I climbed to find relief
among the sunny bee-filled clover, lowing beeves
as drowsy as the bobbing clover blossoms clung
to almost lovingly by bees at work as I
would stand to watch the sky vault blue, the subtle drone,
the lowing, bees on clover blossoms bobbing low
as soft as warming earth I pressed between my toes
as they dug in like tendriled, hungry roots to home.

—Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

This is an excellent example of alexandrines, also called dodecasyllables . . . that is, 12-syllable lines. Done very gracefully, Alan. He also says, "I was not concerned with end rhymes, more with echoes throughout, such as referring to cattle as 'beeves' to echo 'bees,' near rhymes within lines, and, of course, assonance, which can be the most emotive musical device one can write in words." Thanks, Alan.

Friends, won't you comment, please? Love to know what you're thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don't find the word "comments" in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks!

Ingat, everyone.   


NAPOWRIMO / PAD 2015 • Pick a day in April: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30


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