Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a city poem. You can make the title of your poem the name of a city and write your poem. Or you can mention a city in your poem. And, of course, you can just set your poem in a city without naming which one it is. It's also okay, if you're more rurally inclined, to just write a poem about them city slickers. As always, have fun with it.”
Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Because it’s Friday, today I’d like you to relax with the rather silly form called Skeltonic, or tumbling, verse. In this form, there’s no specific number of syllables per line, but each line should be short, and should aim to have two or three stressed syllables. And the lines should rhyme. You just rhyme the same sound until you get tired of it, and then move on to another sound. Here’s a short example I came up with.
A toad beneath a log
Cares not for storm or fog.
He’s not a bee or frog
Or a naïve polliwog.
No! He’s wise and bumpy.
His skin is thick and lumpy.
He doesn’t work for money.
And his disposition’s sunny.
Skeltonic verse is a fun way to get some words on the page without racking your brains for deep meaning. It’s a form that lends itself particularly well to poems for children, satirical verse, and just plain nonsense.”
Okay, doing both prompts again. Some silly Skeltonics about the city of my birth.
The City, 1977
“Don’t Call It Frisco”
is the name of a disco
owned by Kid Cisco,
who hails from Jalisco.
The disco’s in the Haight,
where hardbodies skate,
and sous-chefs create
with m. glutamate
in the disco’s café,
called “A Beautiful Day,”
with a meatless array
of soufflés gourmet.
Every night, Kid dances
and endlessly prances
with his old lady Frances.
But the Cisco finances
are taking a nosedive.
His accountant Clive
is working to deprive
the Kid of his forty-five
millions. Just one story
in the huge repertory
of San Fran outlawry,
California allegory.
—Draft by Vince Gotera [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
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| | A San Francisco photo from 1977. In the foreground is Chinatown's International Hotel, with the Transamerica Pyramid in the background. This photo is noteworthy because it was 1977 when the residents of the International Hotel, mainly elderly Filipino bachelors, were evicted so the hotel could be demolished and condos built in its place. This photo thus highlights the contrast and divide between rich and poor in San Francisco, represented here by the Pyramid and the International.
There is no connection between this picture and the narrative in the Skeltonics above . . . just the year 1977 and The City (as we native San Franciscans call our home). |
Alan's poem today also comes from both prompts. When he sent me the poem, Alan said, "This poem will work a whole lot better if your accent is right, especially if you pronounce 'Appalachian' the way we do here in the Mountain South."
Bristol, TN/VA
Well, dang!
Big Bang
of Country Twang:
Carters sang,
bent a string,
then a gang
craved a tang
of something fine,
purest shine.
Engines rang,
bringing swallers
one distills
in the hills
and the hollers,
lawman follows
like the races
thunder ridden
in the hidden
routes and traces,
catch as catch can,
Appalachian
tale or riddle,
down the middle,
mountaineer
and Volunteer,
hopeful, wistful,
concealed pistol,
lonesome whistle,
Goddamned Bristol.
—Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks!
Ingat, everyone. ヅ |
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1 comment:
These are fun, aren't they? You may remember I wrote a skeltonic about a skunk that Maureen featured ob NaPoWriMo in 2017. I posted that today along with my new one.
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