WW(X)D?
Today, ask your muse to make contact with another poet, living or dead, and write a poem in their style. Psuedo-cummings? Ersatz Suess? Fake Frost? Give it a go.
For super-bonus points, write a poem meta-channelling-- Mary Oliver in Shakespeare style, or Billy Collins as voiced by Poe.
PS: I found out at least one reason why the comment section is tricky--it's hard to find on some browsers. To post your entries, to post there, look BELOW each blog and click the tiny "comment" link.
Today, ask your muse to make contact with another poet, living or dead, and write a poem in their style. Psuedo-cummings? Ersatz Suess? Fake Frost? Give it a go.
For super-bonus points, write a poem meta-channelling-- Mary Oliver in Shakespeare style, or Billy Collins as voiced by Poe.
PS: I found out at least one reason why the comment section is tricky--it's hard to find on some browsers. To post your entries, to post there, look BELOW each blog and click the tiny "comment" link.
4 comments:
EZRA:
IN THE TWILIGHT AT THE METRO
the demolition of these spaces in the shroud
teethmarks on a slick flat cloud
LI PO:
climbing the mountain hand in fist
you me and the morning mist we leap
from dewdrop to daisy to dusk
wine and moon shines through us
EMILY DICKINSON:
To make a blazing star
It takes one lightning bug
and a jar
The jar alone will do
when I'm with you
GRANNY DEE:
Don't put that bug in a jar!
He'll suffocate!
What is the matter with you children!
Bugs have feelings too.
Watch out. And leave the wings
on that butterfly!
Heathens.
When are your parents coming home?
JUDY GRAHN
I am the flea at the lip of the otter.
I am the book that refused to be tattered.
I am the monkey the matron the other.
I have been many a sweet cowgirl
and I shall be many an eater of doughnuts
licking sugar from your lips
(with apologies to Rainer Maria Rilke)
Thou, Rose, whose coral ephemerality
belies the lasting sentiment of thy cloying scent--
must forever linger in thine own memory,
thine own desecration,
hallmark'd into servitude of false holy days
not of thine own making (thou,
whose blowsy blooms mark but days),
but of the banal exhortations of those
valentinarians who cannot let love languish.
(sorry, e.e. cummings)
pity this skinny scarecrow, womankind
not. Anorexia is a serious disease:
your image (fotoshopped front and behind)
fucks with the vulnerability of her realbeauty
--pixels deify one cheekbone
into a statuette; bodyparts isolated
unconnected from soulless whichwhat to unthat desiring only sex.
A desire of sight
is not a love of womanborn---pity this face
and starvation, poor skeleton goddess, but never this hyperdigital
airbrush, adobe and art. We women feel
a tragic layout if---hey: there's a great
new wine bar down the street, let's talk.
(oops, here it is without typos)
pity this skinny scarecrow, womanunkind,
not. Anorexia is a serious disease:
your image (fotoshopped front and behind)
fucks with the vulnerability of her realbeauty
--pixels deify one cheekbone
into a statuette; bodyparts isolated
unconnected from soulless whichwhat to unthat desiring only sex.
A desire of sight
is not a love of womanborn---pity this face
and starvation, poor skeleton goddess, but never this hyperdigital
airbrush, adobe and art. We women feel
a tragic layout if---hey: there's a great
new wine bar down the street, let's talk.
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