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Perspective

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She drove us around town
pointing to the homes
of the rich and famous.

“Twenty-five en-suite bathrooms!”

“Indoor olympic-size pool!”

“Fifty seat theater!”

But I was not listening.
I kept running my hands
over the leather seats
of her BMW.

Imagine owning a car!

 

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Kim is hosting at dVerse today and asks us to write a poem of exactly 44 words (not counting the title), including the word “rich.”

I am intrigued by how our point of reference influences our view of the world.

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News

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I cannot read the newspapers anymore.
The world as we know it
is dying  — fast,
faster than we thought.
Our bellies are full of plastic.
There will be no more
(fill in the blank with anything but cockroaches)
in the next 50 40 30 20 10 years.
Doomsday, people.
We are talking Doomsday.

I cannot listen to news radio anymore.
No one speaks hope.
No one talks about
compassion,
humanity,
brotherhood.
It’s ME-this and I-that;
We don’t give
a (fill in the blank with the expletive of your choice)
about anybody/thing else.
“SHUT the (expletive) UP!”

I cannot watch news on television anymore.
Everything is being burned
or blown up.
The (fill in the blank with anything but the cost of living)
is falling —
falling down like fat eggs on walls
and we can’t fix it.
W E     C A N N O T     F I X    IT!
People are shooting our children.
Our children are shooting people.
Floods, drought.
Earthquakes, mudslides.
Before our eyes
the world is crumbling.
We all fall down.

I cannot bear the news anymore.
Read me a bedtime story.

 

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Over at Writer’s Digest, Robert Lee Brewer in Poetic Asides is offering the Wednesday Poetry Prompt. For today’s prompt, he asks us to write a negative poem.
Why not write along?

Elemental Composition

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Take
and break
the word
(like so much decomposing vegetable matter),
using teeth to chew
it into bits.
Then spit
them
on the south side of the hill
and the north bank of the river.
The naked sun
will bake them
into hard round pebbles
which will then roll
into rings around Saturn
before falling back to Earth
where they will form
a perfectly planned,
random
poem.

 

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Amaya is hosting at dVerse today and asks us to write a poem about or tangential to our element.  (Chinese Five Element Theory https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_astrology)

I am a  “yang earth dog” according to this.  I worked these elements into the poem answering the question “Of what am I made?”

The Theory of Pointless Housework

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Based on thermodynamics
and the four basic laws thereof,
I’ve a theory why housework is pointless.
(So toss away those rubber gloves!)

The zeroth (0th) law states clearly:
systems which to each other have access
will come to an equilibrium,
all rooms will reach a balanced mess.

The first (1st) law then tells us
that energy is constant (though it can change).
It cannot be created or destroyed,
so clutter will just be re-arranged.

The second (2nd) law is my favourite —
closed systems tend toward chaos there
and fighting disorder requires great energy
which simultaneously increases turmoil elsewhere.

The third (3rd) and final law is absolute,
for when temperatures drop really low
(like at minus two hundred and seventy-four degrees Celsius)
disorder and entropy cease . . . SO

0)  Everything reaches a balance
1)  Disorder is constant and everywhere
2)  Clean in one place, another gets messy
3)  When hell freezes over, who will care!

 

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Merril is hosting at dVerse today and asks us to write a poem about theory or theories – how we make sense of the natural world, our bodies, space, or whatever.

I apologise for my loose interpretations of the laws of thermodynamics.  I have always been fascinated by entropy and order.

 

We All Fall Down

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Wind puffs the leaves
one by one
from their respective branches
like so much dandelion fluff
and they swirl
to the dusty ground.
Autumn pulls all things down —
leaves, birds, weather, shades, blankets —
even me.
But from my knees
upward rises
a prayer.

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De is hosting the Quadrille over at dVerse today.  Join us!

Sonnet 27: Valley-Style

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I am just so tired from working all day that I, like, go straight to bed with my clothes still on,
and I, like, sink into that mattress, my arms and legs so exhausted from running all over the show;
But, of course, I can’t fall asleep because, like, my mind is racing all over the place
So my body, like, stops, but my stupid brain, like, just keeps going:
I can’t stop thinking about that cute boy in the second row of bio class
and, like, how he has such an amazing smile,
And even though I am, like, so incredibly tired, my eyes won’t close,
and now I am, like, imagining him there in the room with me for a while
and thinking about what I will say to him tomorrow when I see him in second period,
and I am so, like, wrapped up in thinking about him
that even though I am, like, so tired, the night seems brighter
and I am, like, so filled with inner energy.
….So I wear myself out physically in the day
….and then keep myself up all night thinking of him.

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I “rewrote” Sonnet 27 on the 27th of May from a different perspective.  And so I thought I would do the same again and rewrite it this time in “Valley Girl Teen” lingo.

2 May:  He Do the Police in Voices: Dialect & Idiolect: Translate or compose a poem or other work into a different dialect or idiolect, your own or other. Dialect can include subculture lingo, slang, text messaging shothand, etc. For example, Steve McCaffery’s translation of the Communist Manifesto in West Riding of Yorkshire dialect.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired:
For then my thoughts–from far where I abide–
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

Integer, earth

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Sling across slopes
fastening on sky. A lot of which
the pulmonary organs won’t receive.

Then everything is rotating fireworks, I am
the centre.  The young lady
on her backside

throwing a fit
on the ground of the pharmacy
up to the point where her mom rises and departs.

The red beetle’s blue-grey
lower limbs pumping automatedly
till they quieten

and crease.  The frame
is a sleeve.
The atmosphere dark

gems and inert fas
I am much too distant
to mourn.

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I’m a bit sad that NaPoWriMo has come to an end, so I found some online prompts that I will try to follow in May, just to keep the writing going.
Why not write along!?  🙂

Today I am writing a homolinguistic translation.  The prompt is below in red, the poem which I “translated” is Figure, ground by Melissa Stein.  This was quite fun!
(Thank you and apologies to Melissa Stein. She is an American poet who holds an MA in creative writing from the University of California at Davis and is a freelance editor and writer in San Francisco.  I adore her poem Figure, ground!)

1 May:    Homolinguistic translation: Take a poem (someone else’s, then your own) and translate it “English to English” by substituting word for word, phrase for phrase, line for line, or “free” translation as response to each phrase or sentence. 

Figure, ground

by Melissa Stein

Catapult through hills
locking on air. So much of it
the lungs won’t take it in.

Then all’s a pinwheel, I’m
the pin. The girl
on her back

having a tantrum
on the drugstore floor
until her mother stands up and leaves.

The ladybug’s gunmetal
legs pedaling machinely
until they still

and fold. The body
is an envelope.
The air black

diamonds and helium
I’m far too far
to grieve.

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