Day 27 . . . 3³ with 3 days left. Lots of 3s!
Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today’s prompt comes to us from Megan Pattie, who points us to the work of the Irish poet Ciaran Carson, who increasingly writes using very long lines. Carson has stated that his lines are (partly) based on the seventeen syllables of the haiku, and that he strives to achieve the clarity of the haiku in each line. So today, Megan and I collectively challenge you to write a poem with very long lines. You can aim for seventeen syllables, but that’s just a rough guide. If you’re having trouble buying into the concept of long lines, maybe this essay on Whitman’s infamously leggy verse will convince you of their merits. Happy writing!"
Robert Lee Brewer’s PAD prompt: "For today’s prompt, write a take off poem. Take off work for you admin assistants out there (and any other workers). Take off a runway – for those of you who like to fly. Take off from a dangerous or weird situation – or maybe even a comfortable one. Or maybe you have a completely different take off of a 'take off' poem. Go on and take off on your poetic paths."
Well, all right. Here's yer seventeen syllables, every line. And "take off" too, x 3.
Rest in Purple
Prince took off from Paisley Park on Thursday, the 21st of April,
In a little red Corvette or maybe a pink Cadillac, flying
headlong into magenta clouds, needled by electric purple rain,
radio blasting Parliament Dr. Funkenstein slap-and-pop grooves.
Took off to jam with Janis, Jimi, and James, the Godfather of Soul,
his symbol axe with its Salvador Dali mustache riding shotgun.
But that’s all smoke. The man just broke. Just taking off some time in the sun.
His third eye staring straight into the liquid light-blaring furnace of God.
Prince of Purple finally with his Prince of Peace, trading dazzling smiles.
—Draft by Vince Gotera [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
I've been wanting to write an elegy for Prince for several days now. And this may not be it yet, but it's a try. I wanted to get a sense in there of Prince's deep, Christian, Jehovah's Witness faith.
Jed worked with the 17-syllable line today. Well, sort of . . . 17 syllables, for sure, just not how you'd expect.
Lonely Visitor
Her breath blows cold on my face,
A ghost of memories from times long past.
My superstitious heart begins to throb
As I shiver with the draft.
My back should not be chilled so.
Warm covers are in place and I should rest.
Easier than this, for time does not press
To rob me of peaceful sleep.
The phantom draft that chills me,
From whence, I wonder, groggy, can it blow?
But I already named a ghostly source
As sleep refused to settle.
Shade! Do as you fancy, then;
Whisper not on my cheek but in my ear,
If you wish to by the living be heard.
I’ll faithfully write your words.
Or if, in restless wanderings,
Jealousy moves you, and you wish to take
The slumber you eternally forsook
From my eyes, and share your curse,
Show yourself; test my mettle.
Your forlorn visage I would gaze upon.
—Draft by Jedediah Kurth [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
Jed says, "I thought to myself, '17-syllable lines? You've got to be kidding. It wouldn't sound like poetry anymore.' So I settled for alternating 7- and 10-syllable lines in a 7-10, 10-7 pattern. It gives the poem a very weird rhythm." Weird, yes, but perfectly matching Jed's eldritch theme.
Alan gets some long lines in today, perhaps more than 17 syllables here and there, but also some short ones, as short as 5 syllables, in keeping with his title and theme.
Meander
Oh Jesse, last night I dreamed we were presenting papers
at a literary conference in Atlanta,
and we attended a posh reception in the hotel’s scenic ballroom,
each with only the one drink ticket
covered by the conference registration fee,
and we encountered Jim Kenney,
a classmate of mine in the Alabama English Graduate Program,
and I expressed my surprise at seeing him
but did not tell you that even in the 1980s
when he and I were in our 20s,
he looked to me as portentous as Samuel Johnson,
all jowl and beard and round head
above an even rounder belly,
with long, spindly legs and long, narrow feet,
in beetle proportion,
and a voice all attitude,
and, when I introduced you as a poet,
Jim began to hold forth on Whitman,
a favorite of yours,
and he started talking about “the meandering verse of Whitman,”
the type of phrase one finds readily on Internet sites,
and I saw your eyes dart, Jesse,
and you were starting to cover your mouth with your hand,
a sure sign that you are about to say something good,
and then I woke up before you said it.
So, Jesse, we’re going to Atlanta in November
to a literary conference in a fancy hotel,
and we are likely to encounter
some old classmate of mine,
and, because as I have grown older
I have come to associate dreams with subconscious interpretation of pattern,
I will not be surprised if that person,
in, perhaps, a misguided attempt to engage you,
makes an Internet-sanctioned comment about meandering Whitman,
so be ready, Jesse,
feel free to tell my old friend that meandering water
always seeks the lowest level,
but water with purpose drives and courses,
eroding the weak,
exposing the strength of the supporting strata
beneath the loose, the fragmented, the temporary,
while shaping the land, sustaining the deeply rooted, and sweeping the debris away,
and, although you will cover your mouth,
my old friend will read your laugh lines
and understand my smile.
—Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
Ven blends both prompts in a refreshing romp of a poem.
Take Off
Take off all your clothes, feel the sun hit your bare skin. You’re an animal
after all. Just meat — and blood, and hair, and cum. You are bestial.
So swing your thick limbs, shake your wet, shimmering tongue. You are just a man.
Clothes do not make you. So take ‘em off, all the way. You’re not a slave, right?
—Draft by Ven Batista [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
As always, many thanks for the poems, Alan, Jed, and Ven.
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