Day 21 . . . three full weeks of National Poetry Month gone, one more week plus small change.
Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: "[W]rite a poem in the voice of minor character from a fairy tale or myth. Instead of writing from the point of view of Cinderella, write from the point of view of the mouse who got turned into a coachman. Instead of writing from the point of view of Orpheus or Eurydice, write from the point of view of one of the shades in Hades who watched Eurydice leave and then come back."
Robert Lee Brewer’s PAD prompt: "For today’s prompt, write a poem that responds (or somehow communicates) with another poem. You can respond to any poem."
Jed was first up again today, responding to the NaPoWriMo prompt.
Goblin Lullaby
Do goblin mothers love their babies?
Do they give them kisses?
Or just rabies?
Do they tell their boys stories
Of pretty goblin wives?
Or just of glories of war?
Fear not, my little lovelies.
There’s no hobbits or wizards,
With blades so sharp and cold,
With wartless faces, ugly.
The caves are quiet.
Dream of pretty goblin wives.
Or handsome goblins, brave.
Of lives without
The eldritch elven glow
Of awful, shining blades.
Don’t go hunt for gold,
Or dream of metal’s sheen.
Goblin mothers love their children.
Their children love them.
Orcs, however, hate their mothers.
Hate the orcs; they’re not your brothers.
—Draft by Jedediah Kurth [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
Alan merged both prompts today, channeling the fictional painter Frà Pandolf from Robert Browning's poem "My Last Duchess."
My Last Commission
I erred in thinking he enriched himself
through marriage as other great men do
and further erred in complimenting much
too much her modest, comely graces. True,
he overheard me say, “Her mantle laps
o’er my lady’s wrist too much,” and “Paint
must never hope to reproduce the faint
half-flush that dies along your throat,” but she,
poor girl, and do not think she was no girl,
exchanged for reputation, lineage,
a mere parenthesis in history,
reacted just as if no one had said
such gentle words to her before, and I,
who learn to read a soul from how one sits
or holds her head or clasps her hands
commiserated with the child who thought
herself a bartered thing, encouraged her
to find a light within herself to love,
and scarcely laid the last sfumato glaze
before, enraged, he sent me from his house.
I’ve gotten no commission since and paint
no more than what the brothers care to see.
—Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
My poem today channels the supernumerary royal groom in Ann Sexton's poem "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs."
Prince Charming Speaks
after Ann Sexton’s poem
“Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” Well, yeah, that’s what they call me
in the books and movies, but my name
is really Clarence. I like the nickname Ren.
Don’t you think Prince Ren has a royal
sound? But my father The King insists on
Prince Clancy. Why? He’s king! Ha ha.
Last June, I was in the mountains
hunting and found a glass box —
a glass coffin, I guess — in a clearing
with a gorgeous girl asleep inside.
Well, she had to be dead. She lay as still
as a gold piece. . . . doll’s eye shut forever.
She was warded by seven dwarfs,
wise and wattled like small czars.
I wanted the girl and they said no.
What? No? I’m Prince Ren, you freaks!
I drew my sword and brandished it
in the sky. “I’ll shiskebab the lot of you!”
They saw my point. Ha ha. After my band
of armored knights and archers arrived
and tortured two or three of them.
My men, carrying the glass girl down
the mountain, dropped the coffin.
Seems she had a poisoned apple chunk
Stuck in her throat and the glass breaking
Heimlich’d it out, and she woke. Magic kiss?
Nah. Who knows how long she was dead?
Snow White rolled her china-blue doll eyes
open and shut. That made me love her. Ha ha.
We married and now live happily ever after.
But first I had her mother killed and —
can you keep a secret? — also my old man.
King Ren and Queen Snow. Forever. Ha ha.
—Draft by Vince Gotera [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
Ven went rogue today with this list poem. Thanks, Ven!
It shakes.
Do you ever stare at the moon for more than a second or two?
It shakes.
Like a junkie trying to go clean.
Like a fly caught in a web.
Like my hands when I think about death.
Like indignant Christian rage.
Like a woman's thighs after orgasm.
Like an overloaded speaker when the bass drops.
Like a grieving mother.
Like electricity pulsing through organic tissue.
Like a life of unfulfilled dreams.
It shakes.
—Draft by Ven Batista [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
I don't know if you've heard the news, but Prince is dead. Long live Prince's music. A sad day indeed. RIP Prince Rogers Nelson.
 |
| Prince performing "Purple Rain" at Super Bowl XLI halftime show, 2007. |
|
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. ヅ |
Posts
4 comments:
Lots of fun poems today!
Thanks! <3
I really liked Alan's poem for the day. I really like the poem he referenced, too.
But Vince! What you did to Prince Charming is like... It's like giving goblins mothers!
Thank you, Jedidiah!
Post a Comment