Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Day 23 Homophone soundalike translation of a foreign language poem

Choices plus bells

Hear sweet bells of motels come on and row the pier
Red moon scene, Shawn can jest - move Bertie!
Jay throw dance I say you're a comer
of U.S. sphinx income please June in course, the knees
Aha branch banker day signature!
Jay has lemons minty tea place, less ligaments
Red jammies Jenny blue air, Red jammies Jenny Reese
Less Loretta on campus grand Saskatoon
Okay Jay, lay in your dumpster
all plus fear monuments consumer reports lures yours
and the stare attitudes
Car Jay pur faster says Don's silly mount
Deputy smores quit Fonsie to you choices plus bells
Messy angst messy races you all clear out u-turn left


Here is the source:
http://fleursdumal.org/poem/116

La Beauté
Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme un rêve de pierre,
Et mon sein, où chacun s'est meurtri tour à tour,
Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour
Eternel et muet ainsi que la matière.
Je trône dans l'azur comme un sphinx incompris;
J'unis un coeur de neige à la blancheur des cygnes;
Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.
Les poètes, devant mes grandes attitudes,
Que j'ai l'air d'emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,
Consumeront leurs jours en d'austères études;
Car j'ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles:
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles!
— Charles Baudelaire

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Day 22 a poem for children


A short one today

Sense a flower

Gently hold a flower growing in the ground
Lightly touch the pretty petals
Feel it blow in the wind
Breathe deep smell its scent

Day 21 NaPoWriMo New York City poetry

I don't know much about New York, so transforming a more familiar story through 15 minutes of Google search yields:

Urban Rainbows

So Jerohn
the Municipal Art Society doesn't like neon colors
blocking out entire unacceptable sections of the spinning rainbow wheel
millions of possibilities out the window

Andrew Berman of the Village Greenwich Preservation Society is frantically shuffling through Architectural Digest
David Rivera is cursing worse than a sailor
Andre Allaire won't walk and look on
Julian Schnabel's Chupi Palazzo
hot pink condo buildings along West 11th Street
when we take Jane Jacob's walk tour route
Andrew says "It's an exploded Malibu Barbie house"

So why do you say colors are important?
It's just an unimportant vibration traveling from reflections of the sun
to perception of the human condition
After all, the Village preservationists defeated the Robert Moses Lower Manhattan Expressway
and saved Westbeth, South Village, East Village and Webster Hall from certain development in 2010
Jane Curtin lives there, that's the news, good night and have a pleasant tomorrow

So why all of this importance assigned to perception?
Is it a sign of a gentrifying transitional superficial place
that prides itself on running the naughty bits and addicts to hopeless for all to see
in the drive-thru

How can one love or hate a color?
Dali certainly did with his list of the favorite and the forbidden fruit bowl
with crutches and nakedness all over the giant canvas

Do I see those objectionable colors when I dream and light slides to darkness
when your colors and mine change, react, mix, blend and fade


Sunday, April 20, 2014

Day 20 NaPoWriMo prompt, write in the voice of a family member

A poem from the point of view of a few relatives. We all may be there one day.

Going Home

I don't know why I'm here in this hospital. I feel fine. The pay here must be lousy, there are new nurses and doctors and every day. They all smile and bring what I ask for. This hospital gown is so flimsy, it's  so cold in this new room and it needs a good cleaning. I want my room in my house. There is nothing wrong with me, I feel fine, I can take care of myself and I want to go home.

I'm glad my brothers, sisters, parents and grandparents are here all of the time. It's funny how they haven't changed a bit. Without them I don't know what I would do.

My daughter and son-in-law were here a minute ago. I must have taken a short nap, because they are gone. In their place are some strangers I don't recognize. Who put their pictures on the dresser where I had family photos?  I don't like it here, I want to go home.

Today we had a nice young fella come in and play us music. It's fun to sing all the good old songs. I don't know who the other people were in the big room.  More new workers I suppose. Time to watch all the news on television, I can barely hear the announcer. Such a nice-looking young man.

They put me in a new room again, serving some strange new dish for dinner. It's supposed to be good for me. It tastes awful, I don't want to eat it. My parents are asking me to go with them on a vacation. Am I going, you betcha, maybe mom and dad will take me home. It beats laying around this place.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Day 19 Sea shells poem

Day 19 NaPoWriMo prompt to write a poem based on sea shell names. An apparent unfair advantage since I live in Florida and really have no clue about identifying or interest anything sea shells. As an aside I started a Facebook group for MaPoWriMo prompts poems. Had to deal with the first self-promotion ad. Spent the day doing yoga, yardwork, and painting rainbarrels, on a day that a long time ago would have headed to the beach. So here it goes.

Broken Seashells Are Everywhere

On the beach many years ago walking, crunching barefeet on shifting broken seashells just past the high tide line. Heavy salt smell in the air is pervasive. The rumble of the surf and cry of the gulls. Just like in the movies. Beach volleyball tediously shuffling feet systematically sifting through the sand court , tossing sea shells aside. No fun to step, jump or land on a broken shell. Bleeding feet and beach volleyball don't really mix.

In the waves shuffling feet along the shallow bottom light body bobbing session of partial weightlessness. Gently shoo stingrays away, searching for jellyfish and broken seashells. Swim against the undertow. Bleeding feet and swimming don't really mix. Watching tourists dig for their prize to take back home to ell all their friends.

I've lived in Florida for 45 years and still I can't tell you the difference between a false cup and saucer and a shoulder blade sea cat.

Under house foundations when I had the job of post-hole digging one feet wide through five feet of shell for six hurricane anchors. That's the kind of digging that the men on chain gangs used to do when the state used to use prison labor to build roads in the bad old days. Think of the movie Cool Hand Luke and the Sam Cooke song. Bleeding hands.

On unpaved roads and driveways, some people even use seashells instead of landscaping with native plants or grass. Try walking on those broken shells barefeet on any hot sunny day.

Under the Peace River, wading hip deep in cold (to us) water. Digging through layers of clay for fossils. Muscling the shovel loaded through five feet of water. Sifting through sea shells since most of Florida was underwater.      

I live fifteen miles from the beach and still I can't tell an incised moon from a striped enigma. I also can't tell what kind of shells we will leave when the sea reclaims Florida again and future descendants are digging through broken sea shells for our fossils.

Friday, April 18, 2014

Day 18 - NaPoWriMo duba'i AABA rhyme schem poem

Another freewrite about obsessions of the mind that took an interesting twist

My Brain is a Bad TV News Reporter

It jumps to conclusions too fast
with a predetermined fabrication of facts
My brain - looking back - is a lousy prediction model
basing hopes on a narrow view of the past

It is quick to concoct a new scheme
confusing life with dreams
My brain locks itself into the fourth story screaming from the ivory tower window
Leaving today in between

It has a subscription level of one
Finds a way to ruin any fun
My brain is a shock and stun bad TV news reporter
Filming stories on the run

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Day 17 Napowrimo Three senses

I freewrote about a page and a half at lunch, went to a poetry reading tonight at the Lee County Alliance for the Arts where artists created broadsides from poems. Inspired to write less, so it boils down to this:

Walk in the wind smell the auto exhaust along the Boulevard
feel the air rustle over arm hair
hear the leaves rattle as cars rumble
taste what is left of breakfast between my teeth
smell brackish river water near the mouth of the Gulf
anchored to earth in a small ocean swirl under a forever sky