Posts Tagged ‘Bad Poetry’

Fun, she said, more fun!

Thursday, April 2nd, 2009

At the end of this post, I have some questions for you but first, it’s National Poetry Month, so here is a poem by yours truly:

Chocolate, A Dirge To Perfection

Just now I finished my hot chocolate
Sadness
Sorrow
Sob
Oh hot chocolate,
My mind is lonely
Without you
And yet the inside of
my belly
Seems quite content.
Such power you have
Over my matter and mind.

And now, just so you appreciate the difference between good and bad, chocolate and no chocolate, here is a poem by a real poet:

At Eleusis, by H.D.

What the did,
they did for Dionysos,
for ecstasy’s sake:

now take the basket,
think;
think of the moment you count
most foul in your life;
conjure it.
supplicate,
pray to it;
your face is bleak, you retract,
you dare not remember it:

stop;
it is too late.
The next stands by the altar step,
a child’s face yet not innocent,
it will prove adequate, but you,
I could have spelt your peril at the gate,
yet for your mind’s sake,
though you could not enter,
wait.

What they did.
they did for Dionysos,
for ecstasy’s sake:

Now take the basket–
(ah face in a dream,
did I not know your heart,
I would falter,
for each that fares onward
is my child;
ah can you wonder
that my hands shake,
that my knees tremble,
I a mortal, set in the goddess’ place?)

Now for the questions:

My blog has been boring lately. What should I do for more fun and games here?

Maybe a poetry blog contest? Like, everyone write a poem on the subject of chocolate and somebody will win something?

Polls?

Quizzes?

What?

How about a picture of your pet contest? And if you don’t have a pet, make one up or lie or something.

Please help.

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Monday – Blech.

Monday, March 23rd, 2009

There. I said it.

Yes, I dislike Mondays. They’re so far away from Fridays and even farther away from Saturday mornings when I can be sleeping when it’s not pitch dark. And they’re too close to the memory of sleeping in on Sunday and then doing whatever I feel like, including staying in bed with the covers over my head pretending it’s still dark out.

Sometimes Monday is a payday, which makes for a better than usual Monday, but that was not today’s Monday. Nor is that next Monday. In fact, the next Monday-Payday isn’t until June 15th.

From time to time, Mondays are a holiday and then I am in charity with the day and I can say, Tuesday — Blech. (as a stand in for Monday. I think we’re all well aware that such a Tuesday is really Monday in disguise. A meta-Monday, if you will.) But a holiday Monday doesn’t come around all that often. The next one’s not until the end of May. Sigh.

Carolyn’s Ode to Mondays – In Free Verse Just for Joyce Kilmer and the New York Times Review of Books*

Mondays — Blech
As a General Rule,
I dislike you Monday
You have goopy eyes
And bitter breath
Your hair is a tangle
And the pillow left
A crease down the right
Side of your face
Your nose is crooked
You stole 15 of my
Twenty winks.
I want them back.
But not at lunch or
In the Boring MONDAY
Meeting when people
Will notice I’m
asleep.

My nose hits the table.

Ouch.

I’m awake now.

Mondays.
You are NOT my friend.

1. The poet Joyce Kilmer was an editor of New York Times Book Review (or maybe it was that whole Sunday supplement) anyway, he HATED prose poetry. People like Ezra Pound and H.D. and others got him all in a twist and he managed to fill pages will all sorts of invective against Free Verse. Not that I don’t kind of admire him and mourn his death in WWI. What a waste that was. I think we would have seen some really astounding things from him had he lived.

P.S. I am not procrastinating.

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Bad Poetry Day (no, there’s no meter)

Friday, November 16th, 2007

Panic, how do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
You turn my stomach into a rock
When I’m cutting pages.
(Don’t worry, that clunk is just the sound of bad writing when it hits the worm hole to the bad writing universe behind my monitor)
You’re the ice that runs down my spine
When I play whack a chapter.
(Once yesterday, twice today!
Whack!
Whack! Whack!

At the gym!)

That squiffy feeling in my elbows?
That’s you, Panic.
All that writing that came from nowhere
And might even be halfway decent?1
That’s from you too.

But I still don’t love you.

1. If you’re not, you’re going into the same black hole you came out of. And yeah, that’s a threat and a promise. Try not to Panic about it.

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