- On April 21st, all day long, I Tweeted lines of poetry from the Academy's Poem-A-Day Archive. You can collect these lines by scrolling back through the @POETSorg Twitter feed, or you can read them on this blog by clicking here or scrolling down past the contest entries.
- Please assemble these lines into a cento (see below for definition).
- By NOON EST on April 23rd, post only your cento, real name or pseudonym (whichever your prefer), and a valid means of contact in the comments section of this post. Email addresses should be formatted thus: * yourname [at] provider [dot] com * to keep your email safe from spam. You may also include special instructions on how to format your cento in the post, should your entry be particularly complex. I'll do my best!
- NOTE: Please do not include bios, images of yourself and/or publications, bibliographies of your work, or the like. Entries that do not follow the guidelines, or arrive after noon EST on April 23rd will not be posted. NOTE: You may enter twice if you, like. Two centos at most!
- I will post your cento as its own entry on this blog as soon as possible (note that this may take a few hours, particularly for entries that arrive in the morning!). Please feel free to link to your poem or the blog on Facebook or your own website, and, of course, to Tweet about it!
- On April 24th, please double check to ensure that your entry has appeared in the comments section and on the blog. This doubling will ensure that every entry is accounted for. Should the cento volume exceed my expectations (yay!), I'll post an update on my progress.
- By April 27th, each judge will send me a list of three top picks for winning cento (click here or scroll down for a complete list of judges!).
- By April 30th, I'll tally the judges' votes and announce our three winners.
- By April 30th, I'll also get in touch with the winners to request a mailing addresses for the wonderful prizes of our judges' signed books! Please note: the prize books can be sent to only a US or Canadian mailing address, though entries may come from anywhere!
- Who is running this contest? I, Danielle Pafunda, am the source and driver of this cento contest, though the Academy of American Poets has kindly handed me the keys to the Twitter feed!
- What if I missed some of your Tweets? At the end of the day on April 21st, I'll repost all the lines I tweeted here on this blog, in case you missed a few! You can also see just what's been Tweeted from @Poets by visiting or subscribing to the RSS feed: feed://twitter.com/statuses/user_timeline/7235452.rss
- How many of the Tweeted lines should be used to construct the cento? As few or as many as you like.
- May I add lines not sourced from the Twitter feed? No, I'm sorry, you may not.
- Must I use the entire line? May I break the line? Etc.? I'm inclined to be a bossy boots and say you must use the whole line as I Tweeted it, but what's the fun in that? Do as you will!
- May I alter the punctuation of these lines? Yes, you may!
- May I add images, audio files, videos, hyperlinks, or the like to these lines? Yes, you may! If you have special instructions for formatting a particularly complex cento, please include them with your entry and I will do my best!
- Where did you get these excellent judges? I posted a call on Facebook and a few listserves, and encouraged folks to pass it along. Judges generously volunteered their services, and chose the books they would contribute to the prize booty.
- What are your guidelines for judges? Judges will simply read the entries and rank in order their top three picks. Judges are on their honor to exclude the poems of particular dear friends, students, loved ones, and the like from their consideration.
- What if I am a dear friend, student, or loved one of a judge? May I still enter? Oh, yes! Please do. The judge with whom you're close will not be able to vote for you, but the other 35 will. That's a lotta judges!
- Why isn't this contest anonymous? One of the pleasures of the contest comes from seeing our cento anthology build! I hope entrants will enjoy being in each other's fine company. If you'd prefer to enter under a pseudonym, feel free, but be sure you've given me a valid form of contact. Please keep in mind that I'm administering the contest solo; it's got to be easy to keep track of everyone!
- What if I am not comfortable leaving my email address in the comments section? Just be sure I have some way to get in touch with you--a blog, a Facebook page, your work/faculty/staff bio page containing contact info, or the like. I won't publish this information in the cento post. It will only appear in your comment.
- Entries are due 36 hours after your last Tweet? Yep!
- May I turn in an entry before you're done Tweeting? Yes; you may turn in an entry as soon as you feel you've enough to complete it.
- What if something weird happens to the Twitter feed? We'll do our best to muddle through together!
- Um, what's a cento? Please see below.
Poetic Form: Cento | ||
From the Latin word for "patchwork," the cento is a poetic form made up of lines from poems by other poets. Though poets often borrow lines from other writers and mix them in with their own, a true cento is composed entirely of lines from other sources. With lines from Charles Wright, Marie Ponsot, Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath, and Samuel Beckett, the staff of the Academy of American Poets composed the following as an example: In the Kingdom of the Past, the Brown-Eyed Man is King Brute. Spy. I trusted you. Now you reel & brawl. After great pain, a formal feeling comes-- Modern centos are often witty, creating irony or humor from the juxtaposition of images and ideas. Two examples of contemporary centos are "The Dong with the Luminous Nose," by John Ashbery and Peter Gizzi's "Ode: Salute to the New York School." Ashbery's cento takes its title from the poem of the same name by Edward Lear and weaves together an unlikely array of voices, including Gerard Manley Hopkins, T. S. Eliot, and Lord Byron. Gizzi employed the form to create a collage of voices, as well as a bibliography, from the New York School poets. A vulturous boredom pinned me in this tree Day after day, I become of less use to myself, The hours after you are gone are so leaden. | ||
117 comments:
OK..do we have to construct cento from your tweets or is it we can choose them from our own poems....do clarify..I am here through NaPoWriMo website
We'll kiss each other on kiss the kiss
in a carousel-sweet dress.
Let silence drill it's hole,
because the continent was clothed with trees,
but no falcons in this green made by the passage of parents.
The pilot alone knows
what he needed from me
I have no idea.
My advice to young people:
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice.
anna.shelby [at] wippies [dot] com
EACH KISS OTHER
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
kiss the places kiss cats won't go
kiss the kiss climbing out kiss the banks kiss
kiss the naked man
what he needed kiss from me I have no kiss idea
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
unveil kiss the mannequin's kiss legs kiss in glee
kiss this is not my own kiss bags were kiss full of kiss salt
which made them kiss shifty kiss hard to lift
drink dark kiss strong kiss poison kiss tiny shards of kiss ice
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
because kiss the kiss continent was kiss clothed in kiss trees kiss
kiss sad beds kiss wide kiss enough for kiss planting
kiss not April kiss and the magnolias kiss
kiss the kiss pilot alone kiss knows kiss
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
kiss sharks are kiss people kiss too
the fake kiss book of kiss kiss beauty of kiss feeling
let silence kiss drill its kiss hole
I have played kiss tennis with so many animals
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
a dark strong kiss poison with tiny kiss shards of kiss ice
kiss carousel kiss sweet kiss dress
only the kiss pilot kiss knows:
the terrible kiss thing kiss happened
by Gary Barwin
himself [at] garybarwin [dot ] com
905-537-3832
Hi, UmaAnandane,
Thanks for asking! To enter the contest, or just to follow today's prompt, you should construct your cento out of the lines that I tweet via http://twitter.com/Poetsorg
Cheers,
Danielle
Hello,
I just have a quick question - are people from outside the US allowed to enter?
To Drink A Dark Strong
But no became the mystery,
green.
Hard to lift places cats wont go.
Sad beds implicit with stars.
Wired minefield. drills its hole
With so many animals.
Let Silence.
I have played the pilot alone.
I have no idea I'm drunk.
Brian Foley
brianjamesfoley{at}gmail.com
April Sharks
I have played
the pilot, clothed
in active orbit.
In the glass
I have no idea.
The trick is only
I'm drunk. I stand
in bathrobe,
the terrible thing weeps
with so many animals
to make it personal
in the air—we slept
on the porch
because the continent
and the magnolias
then happened: lift
the climbing out onto
the places
we'll kiss, but each
lying, implicit with stars.
I love the chill
of the sad minefield,
passage of tennis;
let the naked mannequin's
strong salt dress in drink
what he needed from me.
No, not with silence. Kiss.
That advice is enough
to like the dark
trees on banks
and wrapped in
sleepily closed eyelids.
Someone stands in my
mystery hole. Cats won't go,
are people too,
indifferent, just
a carousel of them
in this green
unveil. A refrigerator
hot and sweet
of falcons, duct tape,
wired for feeling,
for planting beds wide,
but not to my own
theatre kiss,
alone to drill its legs
in shards of ice.
My bags were ten,
black, full of the
kiss made by the
parents. The fakebook
knows glee, a poison
with tiny dunes.
Young people became
other beauty, which
made them shifty,
hard to telephone.
The man was hats.
by Seth Landman
seth [dot] landman [at] gmail [dot] com
osal o_lhamo @ hotmail dot com
The Climbing Out Onto
The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto
the banks. The naked man and a refidgerator
wrapped in duct tape
lying that I, just ten, became the mystery
of sad beds wide enough for planting.
Sharks are people too, someone stands and weeps
in the glass telephone
theatre. My advice to young people
is to like hats but not love them. My own
bags were full of salt, which made them shifty,
hard to lift. Implicit with stars in active orbit,
hot black dunes in the air— we slept.
What he needed from me
I have no idea.
Wired minefield.
I'm drunk.
I stand on the porch
in my bathrobe.
Hi, Julia,
Thanks so much for asking. Anyone may enter, but the book prizes can only be shipped to a US or Canadian address.
Best,
Danielle
What he needed from me I have no idea
The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
in the glaring white gap
Hot black dunes in the air—we slept
the chill of closed eyelids,
not April and the magnolias
The trick is to make it personal:
let silence drill its hole,
sleepily indifferent
– Johannes Beilharz
* jb [at] jbeilharz [dot] de *
The Trick is to Make It Personal
Sleepily indifferent
in the glaring white gap,
the chill of closed eyelids;
wired minefield.
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe.
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre,
in a carousel-sweet dress
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling.
by Coin and Feather
CoinandFeather[at]gmail[dot].com
cento
a hundred times consider what
you've said,
sleepily indifferent –
the chill of closed eyelids
the trick is to make it personal.
i'm drunk – i stand on the porch in my bathrobe
let silence drill its hole
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
what he needed from me i have no idea.
oh plunge me deep in love—
in the glaring gap
by melaenis
melaenis13 [at] gmail [dot] com
http://westillfindallthatweleavebehind.blogspot.com/
Cento Sonnet
Not April and the magnolias/
because the continent was clothed in trees/
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings/
sad beds wide enough for planting/
only steps into the frontier where it was easy to hide/
my own bags were full of salt/
which made them shifty, hard to lift/
while all the protected liminal
woods/
let silence drill its holes/
closed eyelids sleepily indifferent/
the trick is to make it personal/
implicit with stars in active orbit/
but no falcons on this green/
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
By Megan Burns
meganaburns [at] aol [dot] com
I put the line breaks in, as it may format line length different in the post.
Liminal Woods
The beards of young men
glisten’d with wet;
the naked man won’t go,
the terrible thing happened.
Glee, this is not. Poison
with tiny shards of ice
made them shifty.
This is not my advice
to young people:
let silence drill its hole
but not love. One
could breathe it
green trousers and purple velour
obscenely jewel-toned,
the reflected gleams all dopey,
bright, green inside the skull
here. How incidental it seems,
what he needed: wreck, rescue.
sherlonya [at] gmail [dot] com
Hello Danielle,
May I create my own title for the cento, or am I required to use one of the tweeted lines?
Thanks,
Jeremy
Hi, Jeremy,
Good question! Feel free to create your own title.
best,
D
Hostess
count out sherry and ripe plates
and little corners of a kind of ham
the trick is to make it personal
let silence drill its hole
implicit with stars in active orbit
Misti Rainwater-Lites
roxixmas[at]gmail[dot]com
COMPENDIUM OF LOST GIRLS: A CENTO
Because the continent was clothed in trees.
Because I killed a snake the day she was born
while all the wild, protected liminal woods
let silence drill its hole, I had children of my own.
For six months I arranged museum dioramas,
ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham.
Then the terrible thing happened: the naked man,
sad beds wide enough for planting with only
the fakebook of Beauty for feeling. I stay
at his palace and share my room with two
other talents. The young men glisten'd with wet,
it ran from their long hair. One could breathe it.
All is from wreck, here, that I, just ten, became
the mystery of stars, wired minefields, the passage
of parents. The trick is to make it personal:
the nearer she got the bigger she looked.
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
Not April and magnolias, no falcons in this green.
My advice is to a hundred times count out
the steps into the frontier where it is seems easy
to hide, to drink a dark strong poison with tiny
shards of ice. What he needed from me I
have no idea. He wouldn't stand alone, limbs
gone missing, the chill of closed eyelids.
My own bags were full of something offensive:
a revolver, the scissors, the Duchess's baby.
Casey Thayer
caseythayer[at]gmail[dot]com
After the Call
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe,
Sleepily indifferent,
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre,
All dopey in the glass. He wouldn't stand alone,
Implicit with stars in active orbit.
What he needed from me I have no idea.
For six months I arranged museum dioramas,
Let silence drill its hole.
The trick is to make it personal:
Disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course,
A hundred times consider what you've said
In the glaring white gap.
I had children of my own.
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday,
Only steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
--
onegreenlight [at] gmail [dot] com
my cento
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
with only the fakebook of beauty for feeling.
the trick is to make it personal:
the chill of closed eyelids,
sleepily indifferent
in the glaring white gap.
let silence drill its hole.
oh, plunge me deep in love—put out
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams,
the places cats won't go, the climbing out onto the banks. the naked man
all dopey in the glass. he wouldn't stand alone.
what he needed from me, i have no idea.
explorestheworld [at] gmail [dot] com
You write, "I will only approve comments in the form of contest entries or practical questions about procedure." Does that apply only to this post, or all posts on the blog? I'd like to leave some of my favorite centos compliments!
Oh, thanks for asking, Mary! I should make that sentence clearer. That only applies to this post.
Comments on the centos are quite welcome!
yours,
D
"Whitehair Clock Gully"
All dopey in the glass
sleepily indifferent,
feeling drunk in a wired minefield.
Let silence drill it’s naked passage
in the glaring white gap
to a wild continent clothed in trees
where it is easy to hide,
and one could breathe
the mannequin dark a hundred times
to count the advice of so many animals
green conjectured pearls inside the skull.
Brain theatre
a closed colony
salt limbs gone missing after
ripe beards of the young men
drink pungent orange
lying in a carousel of magnolias.
Pulley glitches,
neck-like
implicit in the reflected museum.
Hear the cathedral crash on black dunes
an arranged mystery
the Pilot alone knows
that fibrous choking codex
jars of buttons spilled, recurring:
the trick of active orbit.
I lived on every kind of shortage
to the day the ebony
eye sewing failed;
a jewel-toned wreck
a dog’s candy hospital.
I would have my new closed eye,
learn to rescue
the idea of liminal nets
the places safe from telephone,
the climbing and plunge of the palace falcon.
Now I stand upon the frontier
wrapped in velour
plutonium wings
because I was not born to run from
my own children.
Jordan K. Nakamura
jayngatzby [at] gmail [dot] com
Oh, Old Brain
I'm drunk! I stand on the porch in my bathrobe--
how fibrous and incidental it seems!
When my eye nearly failed,
I had children of my own
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday,
in the glaring white gap
the Avon Lady treks. Door to door,
only the steps, into the frontier! Where it is easy to hide,
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice.
Old brain (inside the new brain inside the skull)
that I, just ten, became the mystery of:
Oh, plunge me deep in love! Put out
green trousers and purple velour sleeves!
You have lived and lived on every kind of shortage.
Adam Atkinson
adamcatkinson [at] gmail [dot] com
Hi Danielle,
Thanks for having this contest. Are we allowed to enter more than one cento?
Choking is okay
Gloves and candy appear
to the Americans in the glaring white
gap—their limbs gone missing a hundred times.
Consider a refrigerator
wrapped in duct tape: the chill
sleepily indifferent, glisten'd with wet.
The trick is to make it personal: For six months
I arranged pulley glitches, gully pitches,
the reflected gleams, the pungent oranges
and bright old brain all dopey in the glass.
Now I am safe in your tiny beak-mouth.
How fibrous it seems, paper sacks stuffed
in our hearts, each letter a treaty
cooked into codex.
Now I hear the clock snap, the whole
cathedral crash at your back: just jars
of buttons naked in your dark hair.
Tony Mancus
tmancus [at] yahoo [dot] com
"the trick"
I. let silence drill its hole (in a carousel-sweet dress)
unveil the mannequin’s legs to drink a dark strong poison
- with tiny shards of ice clothed in trees
let silence drill its hole (in a carousel-sweet dress)
I’m drunk the chill of closed eyelids implicit with stars
we slept we slept we slept we slept we slept we slept
let silence drill its hole (in a carousel-sweet dress)
we’ll kiss each kiss, not April and the magnolias
the continent full of salt sleepily indifferent
l e t s i l e n c e d r i l l i t s h o l e
Livya C. Coler,
coler [dot] livya [at] gmail [dot] com
We’ll Kiss Each Kiss Other On Kiss The Kiss
A hundred times consider what you’ve said,
drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice,
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling.
What he needed from me I have no idea.
He wouldn’t stand alone.)
Myself conjectured, were they Pearls?
Plunge me deep in love, Naked Man.
The trick is to make it personal:
we’ll kiss each kiss obscenely neck-like,
let silence drill its hole in the glaring white gap
of closed eyelids. Kiss the kiss.
The Curse : A Cento
Terrible thing happened
I killed a snake the day she was born.
All the wild protected liminal woods
hoist their nets, weighing the harvest.
So, learn to petrify it.
Because I killed a snake the day she was born
hot black dunes in the air disappear, emerge,
twitch, reverse course - all is from wreck, here, there,
implicit with stars in active orbit.
So, learn to petrify it.
The whole cathedral crash at your back,
in the glaring white gap when my eye nearly failed,
Have lived and lived on every kind of shortage
because I killed a snake the day she was born.
Then the terrible thing happened
That I, just ten, became the mystery of.
Green trousers and purple velour sleeves
And a refrigerator wrapped in duct tape lying
The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
What he needed from me I have no idea.
Something offensive: a revolver.
Let silence drill its hole.
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday
In the glaring white gap
Sleepily indifferent.
The chill of closed eyelids
In a carousel-sweet dress
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre
Carrie Padian
carrie.padian [at] hotmail [dot] com
Sewing up the kinks in this film I'm the whole cathedral crash at your back, pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams in the glaring white gap, the chill of closed eyelids implicit with stars in active orbit, paper sacks stuffed full of orange, then the terrible thing happened when my eye nearly failed in a carousel-sweet dress, hot black dunes in the air. Oh plunge me deep in love—put out wired minefield, something offensive: a revolver, green trousers and purple velour sleeves, sad beds wide enough for planting, just jars of buttons spilled, recurring, obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like. All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—we slept and candy their limbs gone missing their old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course in our hearts, learn to petrify it so, let silence drill its hole. The pilot alone knows the pungent oranges and bright, green wings hoist their nets, weighing the harvest because the continent was clothed in trees, sleepily indifferent, all dopey in the glass. He wouldn't stand alone, the nearer she got the bigger she looked; until you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage the Avon Lady treks door to door, sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair, while all the wild protected liminal woods count out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. This is not to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice, not April and the magnolias. Now I hear the clock snap I swipe an ant, appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night. A hundred times consider what you've said: we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss is cooked into a codex. I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe, the trick is to make it personal: gloves, blame her, how fibrous and incidental it seems.
Something Offensive
I killed a snake the day she was born in the deep V.
Consider what you've said:
The terrible thing happened.
The naked killed a snake
and the magnolia.
The passage of parents became the mystery of stars in active orbit.
Each one a place.
In the air—we slept
in the glass telephone theatre
in the air—we slept
wrapped in duct tape.
Consider what you've said:
to rescue one—
limbs gone missing.
Men glisten'd with wet
put out every kind of shortage.
The bigger she looked
(cathedral crash)
cooked into a codex climbing out.
The naked man alone knows I'm drunk.
Amy Lawless
aelawless [at] gmail [dot] com
Something Offensive
I killed a snake the day she was born in the deep V.
Consider what you've said:
The terrible thing happened.
The naked killed a snake
and the magnolia.
The passage of parents became mystery of stars in active orbit.
Each one a place.
In the air—we slept
in the glass telephone theatre
in the air—we slept
wrapped in duct tape.
Consider what you've said:
to rescue one—
limbs gone missing.
Men glisten'd with wet
put out every kind of shortage.
The bigger she looked
(cathedral crash)
each one a treaty
cooked into a codex climbing out.
The naked man alone knows I'm drunk.
Amy Lawless
aelawless [at] gmail [dot] com
All is from wreck. Here. There. To rescue one,
the whole cathedral crashes at your back—
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring.
Myself conjectured they were pearls.
we'll kiss each other on (kiss) the kiss-
wired minefield, where plutonium safely resides.
The pilot alone knows the chill of closed eyelids,
only, the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
Oh, plunge me deep in love. Put out
old brain. Inside the new brain, inside the skull,
you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage,
with only the fakebook of beauty for feeling.
Something offensive—a revolver—
is cooked into a codex,
each letter a cameo appearance, each one
a treaty, each one a place.
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre
as paper sacks stuffed full of orange
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
How fibrous and incidental it seems!
Sophie Mores
pink[dot]sara[dot]10[at]gmail[dot]com
The Crime Scene Photographer Speaks
How fibrous & incidental it seems--
obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like,
to open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks as if it would never open.
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull,
a dog's skull is slightly thicker than our own.
The whole cathedral crashes at your back,
you have lived & lived every kind of shortage
& all is from wreck, here, there to rescue one--
the chill of closed eyelids
& gloves. Blame her
in the glaring white gap.
The trick is to make it personal.
Adam Tavel
conte.poetry[at]gmail[dot]com
WERE THE SCISSORS IMPULSIVE OR INEVITABLE?
Sewing up the kinks in this film, I'm
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like,
Something offensive: a revolver
In the glaring white gap
Implicit with stars in active orbit.
The trick is to make it personal:
The pilot alone knows
I have played tennis with so many animals.
I stay at his palace and share my room with two other talents.
What he needed from me I have no idea.
How fibrous and incidental it seems
That I, just ten, became the mystery of
Sad beds wide enough for planting
The chill of closed eyelids.
Then the terrible thing happened:
I had children of my own
Count out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham.
For six months I arranged museum dioramas
In a carousel-sweet dress.
Matt Cozart
majawalk [at] gmail
Laura Pena
iselapena@hotmail.com
My Eye Wandered-A Cento
I’m drunk I stand on the porch
In my bathrobe
Sleepily indifferent
Because I killed a snake
The day she was born
Now I hear a clock snap
I swipe an ant when my
eye nearly failed
Pulley glitches gully pitches
The reflected gleams
You have lived and lived
On every kind of shortage
Wired minefield
Disappear, emerge, twitch,
reverse course how fibrous
and incidental it seems
old brain inside new brain
inside skull oh plunge me
deep in love-put out
sad beds wide enough
for planting
sleep-fallen naked
in your dark hair
gloves-blame her
Each One a Treat
The pilot alone knows
what he needed from me. I have no idea.
Something offensive (a revolver?),
but no falcons in this green made by the passage of parents,
not April and the magnolias
obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like.
The pilot alone knows
that. I, just ten, became the mystery of
the places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
to open your tiny beak-mouth that looks as if it would never open
paper sacks. Stuffed full of orange,
I stay at his palace and share my room with two other talents.
Then the terrible thing happened:
I hear the clock snap. I swipe an ant.
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe.
'Someone' stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre
(the pilot alone, k?), now's
all dopey. In the glass he wouldn't stand alone:
the Avon lady treks door to door.
The nearer she got, the bigger she looked.
"Old brain inside the new brain! Inside the skull
let silence drill its hole,
oh! Plunge me deep in! Love, put out--"
(disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course)
"Choking ... okay." Mocha, ebony,
hot black dunes in the air. We slept.
I have played tennis with so many animals.
Michael Glaviano
michael.glaviano [at] gmail [dot] com
The Trick is to Make it Personal
I stay at his palace and share
my room with two other
talents. It's more of an artists'
colony than a hospital. It was not
really necessary to eat the food;
one could breathe it. I’m drunk,
sleepily indifferent. I stand
on the porch in my bathrobe.
Someone stands and weeps
in the wired minefield,
each letter a cameo appearance.
The Avon Lady treks
door to door. The nearer
she got the bigger she looked,
until paper sacks stuffed full
of orange disappear, emerge,
twitch, reverse course.
My own bags were full
of salt, which made them
shifty, hard to lift.
Then the terrible
thing happened.
How fibrous
and incidental it seems.
What he needed from me
I have no idea.
Josette Torres
girlinblack [at] vt [dot] edu
Cento for Betty Draper
In a carousel sweet dress,
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch
in my wired minefield,
with only the fakebook of Beauty
for feeling.
Sewing up the kinks in this film,
I'm something offensive:
a revolver.
Let silence drill its hole,
a dark strong poison
with tiny shards of ice.
In the glaring white gap,
sad beds wide enough for planting.
Sarah Nichols
jabberwock[at]yahoo[dot]com
True Love Way
We’ll kiss. I stand on the porch.
We’ll kiss each other because
the continent was clothed in trees.
In a carousel-sweet dress, I’m drunk.
I stand. Someone stands on the porch
and weeps. Let silence drill its hole.
Sad beds wide enough for planting.
We’ll kiss each other on.
The trick is to make it personal:
Andrew Terhune
andrewterhune [at] gmail [dot] com
Magnolias
I had children of my own,
just jars of buttons, spilled
candy. Their limbs gone missing
The chill of closed eyelids
A hundred times consider what you’ve said:
A dog’s skull is slightly thicker than our own
Let silence drill its hole
All is from wreck,
here, there, to rescue one –
I killed a snake on the day she was born
The nearer she got the bigger she looked,
until the terrible thing happened:
Open your tiny beak-mouth
In our hearts, learn to petrify it so.
The trick is to make it personal:
Sad beds wide enough for planting
the magnolias
Amy Holwerda
amylholwerda[at]yahoo[dot]com
Mistress
I’m easy to hide
in the deep V of a weekday
in my bathrobe
hear the clock snap
a hundred times consider what you've said
learn to petrify it so.
Sad bed, wide enough.
The naked man
sleep-fallen
the chill of closed eyelids
tiny shards of ice
spilled, recurring
a dark strong poison.
What he needed from me I have no idea.
AJ Roberts
ajrverse [at] gmail [dot] com
Tweeted Line CENTO
It's more of an artists' colony than a hospital
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings -
sad beds wide enough for planting
It was not really necessary to eat the food; one could breathe it.
count out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
For six months I arranged museum dioramas;
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre
green trousers and purple velour sleeves
all dopey in the glass. He wouldn't stand alone.
The Avon Lady treks door to door
in a carousel-sweet dress.
The trick is to make it personal
I had children of my own,
the places cats won't go, the climbing out onto the banks, the naked man,
and a refrigerator wrapped in duct tape lying
in the glaring white gap.
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday
while all the wild protected liminal woods
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
sleepily indifferent.
_____
Barbara Young
briarcat [at] gmail [dot] com
Cento
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theater.
I’m drunk.
I stand on the porch in my bathrobe,
Implicit with stars in active orbit;
Let silence drill its hole.
Margo Jodyne Dills
mjdills@gmail.com
Lying: to drink a dark with tiny
shards plunge me deep in love. Put out.
Emerge, twitch green trousers,
naked man full of salt
all dopey in the glass. To open your tiny...
Beak-mouth, the trick
is to make it pilot-personal.
Little corners of a kind of ham,
candy limbs. Something offensive?
A carousel-sweet dress, someone
stands and weeps in the glass.
I stand in duct tape, lying. I stand
on the porch, bathrobe wired minefield.
Me deep in love? A refrigerator wrapped.
(Not really necessary to eat the food.)
Put out pungent oranges
wet from long hair.
"Lying: to drink a dark with tiny" by jojo lazar
burlesque.poetess (at) gmail (dot) com
p.s. query, can we submit more than one? thanks for the great opportunity/fun times Danielle!
i meant to include an image. that cld go above or below my poem :) it is art of mine as well.
http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5043/5245300785_eba89a5f01.jpg
very best wishes, jojo
THE PILOT ALONE KNOWS
My bags were full
Of salt, which made them
Shifty, hard to lift
Into the frontier where
It is easy to hide, disappear
Emerge, twitch, reverse course.
The pilot alone
Knows pulley glitches, gully
Pitches, the reflected gleams,
Pungent oranges, and bright
Green wings, implicit
With stars in active orbit.
How fibrous and incidental
It all seems, just jars
Of buttons spilled, recurring,
Sad beds wide enough
For planting, impulsive or inevitable
Each letter a cameo appearance.
Sara Huntsman
sara.huntsman [at] gmail [dot] com
Notes for Cento CXX
A hundred times consider what you've said:
we'll kiss each kiss
the continent was clothed in trees
green trousers, purple velour sleeves
all is from wreck, here, there,
let silence drill its hole
to rescue one
cara[at]icerocket[dot]com
Voyeur Explorer
In the glaring white gap the pilot alone knows:
the naked man in the glass telephone theatre
the continent clothed in green sweet dress,
knows each place where plutonium resides.
The pilot knows I stay at his place (it’s more artists’ colony
than hospital) and share my room with two other talents
(the beards of the young men wet)
The pilot knows hot black dunes in the air
implicit with stars in active orbit.
The pilot knows how fibrous and incidental it seems,
knows I’m drunk in my bathrobe—all wreck to rescue.
The pilot alone knows I have played tennis
with so many animals, each one
a codex—each letter a cameo appearance, a treaty,
a skull obscenely jewel-toned, slightly thicker than our own.
The pilot knows my eye nearly failed a hundred times
(it metamorphoses into a pig and runs away).
Oh plunge pilot, plunge me
deep in love, you have lived and lived
on every kind of shortage, every cathedral crash
in our hearts, sleep-fallen, sleepily indifferent.
Mike Krutel
makrutel[at]gmail[dot]com
Cento
The pilot alone knows
The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
let silence drill its hole.
What he needed from me I have no idea.
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
Oh plunge me deep in love — put out
hot black dunes in the air — we slept
wired minefield
and a refrigerator wrapped in duct tape lying
sleepily indifferent
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre
in a carousel-sweet dress
implicit with stars in active orbit,
the chill of closed eyelids.
A hundred times consider what you've said:
Unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. This is not
because the continent was clothed in trees
and candy their limbs gone missing their
gloves, blame her
sad beds wide enough for planting
not April and the magnolias
The trick is to make it personal:
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
in the glaring white gap
My own bags were full of salt, which made them shifty, hard to lift.
I.A.
ivyai [at] yahoo [dot] com
HOW MANY TIMES CAN I ENTER?
Hello, all,
Gracious, I didn't think about that. After consideration: everyone may enter up to two centos.
Thanks for asking!
20
You have lived and lived
on every kind of shortage--
in the glaring white gap,
the chill of closed eyelids,
because the continent was clothed in trees.
For six months I arranged museum dioramas--
all dopey in the glass, sleepily
indifferent, while all the wild
protected liminal woods disappeared,
emerged, twitched, reversed course.
Let silence drill its hole
to open your tiny beak-mouth,
that looks as if it would never open.
A hundred times consider what you've said.
The trick is to make it personal.
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch
in my bathrobe. Someone (you?)
stands and weeps in the glass telephone theater,
in a carousel-sweet dress.
We'll kiss each (kiss) other on (kiss) the kiss.
--
shanna[at]shannacompton[dot]com
also that is my name ;)
TO ANDREW WHO WROTE: "PLAIN SPACE AND A LEVELLED TOWN"
Please repost your entry with a valid mode of contact, and I'd be happy to post it to the blog. Thanks so much!
Danielle
“The Places Cats Won’t Go” – Meaghan Elliott
He wouldn’t stand alone
all dopey in the glass,
climbing out onto the banks,
each letter a cameo appearance.
Oh, plunge me deep in love:
the pungent oranges and bright green wings
(each one a treaty),
paper sacks stuffed full of orange.
It was not really necessary to eat the food;
one could breathe it – hot
black dunes in the air. We slept:
the chill of closed eyelids.
Sad beds wide enough for planting
all the wild protected liminal woods.
(Not April and the magnolias in the glaring white cap,
because the continent was clothed in trees.)
For six months when my eye
nearly failed weighing the harvest,
I arranged museum dioramas, each one
a place where I swipe an ant.
Hoist their nets to open your tiny beak-mouth
that looks as if it would never open.
Pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams,
the beards of young men upon the cloudy night.
What he needed from me I have no idea.
My own bags were full of salt, which made them
shifty, hard to lift. Only the steps into the frontier
where it is easy to hide.
I stand on the porch in my bathrobe; now I hear
the clock snap. Then the terrible thing happened,
something offensive: a revolver.
Disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
You have lived and lived on every kind of shortage
to drink a dark strong poison
with tiny shards of ice, the whole cathedral
crash at your back. All is from wreck.
Paths to Prosperity
A Prose Cento
Ten hundred times consider what is said, sleepily wrapped, cooked into a codex. The trick is to make it personal - the pilot alone knows.
Appear to the Americans on the cloudy duct-tape night, all indifferent in the glass, old brains in new skulls; pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams implicit with dark stars in active orbit, they stand and weep in the wired minefield, the glass refrigerator theatre.
How fibrous and incidental it seems! to open, obscenely, jewel-toned, neck-like, your tiny beak-mouths that look as if they would never open (not necessary to eat with) to the glaring gap, the deep V, - myself conjectured, were they pearls or snakes? - while the wild protected mannequin legs unveil a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice with only fakebook feeling to breathe or swipe, liminal woods wide enough for planting, lying, sad beds put out, - they wouldn't want to stand alone upon the tennis dune, - and when Alice is made the Duchess's baby they metamorphose into a pig (and so many other animals) and run away from her, run away. The nearer she got the bigger she looked.
Appear to the American, learn to petrify It so, the whole crash at your back, paper sacks full of hearts, every kind of shortage: you have clothed the whole continent in a carousel-sweet dress.
Door to door, disappear, twitch, emerge, reverse course, count only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide - a dog's palace - to rescue from the wreck one naked room stuffed with purple sleeves choking at your neck.
Each cameo appearance, each missing artist colony, each place where gloves blame their missing limbs on candy they steal from hospitals and children, each slightly thicker revolver, each missing trek and green museum, each failed eye, just jars of buttons spilled, sewing up corners and films…
Oh sleep-fallen nets! are the scissors impulsive or obscenely inevitable? is the harvest in our bathrobe really safe in the air where they hoist ripe plates, climbing to banks, to places where people won’t go?
Advice for young people: you are not just falcons on a porch of blame made by the passage of parents, not kinks in someone’s clock, not hats for safe cats and sharks, not born to put your wings inside shifty weighing dioramas, not the chill of closed eyelids, not the food of the pungent weekday or the cathedral of talents, you are each the appearance of an idea in a little letter from the naked silence of the terrible things that have happened here.
The more glisten’d mystery that’s drunk, the more they drill their hole; the trick is to make it personal, each kiss a kiss to go.
by Matt Yates
mattdyates [at] hotmail [dot] com
Sewing up the kinks in this film,
I'm in a carousel sweet dress.
We'll kiss each other on the kiss,
the kiss unveil the mannequin's legs in glee,
this is not disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course,
let silence drill its hole.
Hot black dunes in the air-we slept
the chill of closed eyelids
How fibrous and incidental it seems
in our hearts, learn to petrify it so,
just jars of buttons, spilled recurring.
e.w.evans
display(_)some(_) adaptability (at) yahoo (dot) com
An Agent's Lament
Unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. This is not
because the continent was clothed in trees.
Sewing up the kinks in this film, I'm
implicit with stars in active orbit.
A dog's skull is slightly thicker than our own.
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
I have played tennis with so many animals
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
Now I hear the clock snap I swipe an ant;
Sharks are people too.
Michele Brenton
banana_the_poet[at]yahoo[dot]com
Sleepily indifferent in the glaring white gap,
the trick is to make it personal.
Implicit with stars in active orbit,
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe.
Then the terrible thing happened
in a carousel-sweet dress:
I had children of my own.
kkaschock [at] hotmail [dot] com
A Matter of Perspective
by Shirley Franklin
Unveil the cathedral.
Open the purple clothed neck
I lift my eyes in glee
to drink in each appearance,
but, love, let silence open
your mocha, jewel-toned mouth.
Now I hear the clock:
How incidental it seems.
Because I have needed you.
Just stay now, and share my room
Cooked into a codex – a cento
The beards of the young men glisted’d with wet
While all the wild woods hoist their nets,
Weighing the harvest: the pungent oranges and bright, green wings
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
My own bags were full of salt, which made them shifty, hard to lift –
Pulley glitches, gulley pitches, the reflected gleams implicit
with stars in active orbit, the continent was clothed in trees.
I'm sleep-fallen, sewing up the kinks.
Also posted at: http://soulclapitshands.blogspot.com/2011/04/cooked-into-codex-cento.html
cinnamontwignest[at]gmail[dot]com
"I had children of my own"
by angie werren
*aewerren(at)yahoo(dot)com*
in the glaring white gap
how fibrous and incidental it seems
a hundred times consider what you said
to open your tiny beak-mouth / that looks as if it
would never open / let silence drill its hole
I had children of my own
the pungent oranges and bright green wings
(because I killed a snake the day she was born)
it was not really necessary to eat the food
one could breathe it / my own bags were full of salt
which made them shifty / hard to lift
I had children of my own
old brain inside the new brain
inside the skull / a hundred times
consider what you said
_____________
(special instruction: the slashes are to hold inline spaces. they tend to disappear in blogger. thanks!)
Wired Minefield
Because I killed a snake the day she was born,
for six months I arranged museum dioramas;
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
all dopey in the glass. He wouldn’t stand alone.
I stay at his palace and share my room with two other talents;
hoist their nets, weighing the harvest –
paper sacks stuffed full of orange,
obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like.
Unveil the mannequin’s legs in glee. This is not
when my eye nearly failed,
not April and the magnolias
sleepily indifferent.
Sad beds wide enough for planting
something offensive, a revolver,
in our hearts, learn to petrify it, so
you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage.
How fibrous and incidental it seems,
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring.
Disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course,
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair.
Coinandfeather[at]gmail[dot]com
April Graves We Filled
Before the Fire
pulley glitches, gully pitches
the reflected gleams
implicit with stars in active orbit
sleep fallen, naked in your dark hair paper sacks stuffed full
of orange, obscenely jewel-toned,
obscenely neck-like
how fibrous and incidental it seems
to open your tiny beak-mouth
[that looks as if it would
never open]
a hundred times consider
what you've said:
in our hearts learn to petrify it so for six moths i arranged
museum dioramas-all dopey
in the glass-
he wouldn't stand alone
[the chill of closed eyelids]
the trick is to make it personal:
not april and the magnolias-
sad beds wide enough for planting
because the continent was clothed
in trees, and a refrigerator
wrapped in duct tape lying,
the pungent oranges bright, green
wings dissappear,
emerge, twitch, reverse course
while all the wild,
protected liminal woods
hoist their nets
[weighing the harvest]
we'll kiss each kiss other
on kiss the kiss
to drink a dark strong poison
with tiny shards of ice,
hot black dunes
in the air-we slept
[let silence drill its hole]
Shannon Smith
shannonsquirt [at] gmail [dot] com
Sad Beds Wide Enough for Planting
What he needed from me I have no idea:
not April and the magnolias
because the continent was clothed in trees
while all the wild protected liminal woods,
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
A hundred times consider what you've said:
That I, just ten, became the mystery of
the whole cathedral crash at your back,
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring,
all dopey in the glass. He wouldn't stand alone
in the glaring white gap
implicit with stars in active orbit,
only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
Then the terrible thing happened--
were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre.
You have lived and lived on every kind of shortage
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling,
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
The chill of closed eyelids.
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
But no falcons in this green made by the passage of parents.
Let silence drill its hole.
mgauthier [dot] hunger [at] gmail [dot] com
Let the naked man drill
the continent,
lift its hole of silence,
legs guide poison, full of salt.
because the young people
clothed in trees
drink tiny ice shards
to the galaxy in glee!
This is not the banks to the
terrible thing which happened
so many animals, me and the otters,
made shifty, played with a dark strong postcard from the forest
then he needed tennis hats
from the lighthead’s mannequin’s.
My own bags were climbing
to unveil the “inheritance”
but not like the notes from me.
my advice: love the places
cats won’t go.
Shannon Smith
shannonsquirt [at] gmail [dot] com
Sewing Up the Kinks
Because I killed a snake
the day she was born,
because the continent
was clothed in trees,
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch
in my bathrobe
sleepily indifferent.
The pungent oranges
and bright, green wings
let silence drill its hole.
Now I am safe in the deep V
of a weekday.
The trick is to make it personal:
implicit with stars in active orbit
while all the wild protected
liminal woods are cooked
into a codex.
Oh plunge me deep in love—
put out a wired minefield.
We'll kiss each kiss other
on kiss the kiss
in a carousel-sweet dress,
drink a dark strong poison
with tiny shards of ice
only steps into the frontier
where it is easy to hide April
and the magnolias.
In the glaring white gap
Let silence drill its hole
We’ll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
In a carousel-sweet dress
Implicit with stars in active orbit
We’ll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
Hot black dunes in the air- we slept
Implicit with stars in active orbit
The chill of closed eyelids
Hot black dunes in the air – we slept
A hundred times consider what you’ve said
The chill of closed eyelids
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull
A hundred times consider what you’ve said
Disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like
Disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like
The whole cathedral crash at your back
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one
Paper sacks stuffed full of orange
The whole cathedral crash at your back
Choking okay mocha ebony
Paper sacks stuffed full of orange
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable
Choking okay mocha ebony
Sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable
When my eye nearly failed
Sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
Let silence drill its hole
Monica A Hand
marshaheart[at]aol[dot]com
Sewing Up the Kinks
Because I killed a snake
the day she was born,
because the continent
was clothed in trees,
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch
in my bathrobe
sleepily indifferent.
The pungent oranges
and bright, green wings
let silence drill its hole.
Now I am safe in the deep V
of a weekday.
The trick is to make it personal:
implicit with stars in active orbit
while all the wild protected
liminal woods are cooked
into a codex.
Oh plunge me deep in love—
put out a wired minefield.
We'll kiss each kiss other
on kiss the kiss
in a carousel-sweet dress,
drink a dark strong poison
with tiny shards of ice
only steps into the frontier
where it is easy to hide April
and the magnolias.
Gloves, blame her:
Because the continent was clothed in trees what he needed
from me I have no idea (The pilot alone knows.)
My own bags were full of salt, which made them shifty, hard to lift.
Let the silence drill its holes; unveil the mannequin’s
legs in glee. This is not not April and the magnolias: in a carousel-
sweet dress: sad beds wide enough for planting. We'll kiss each kiss
other on kiss the kiss (because the continent was clothed
in trees.) The trick is to make it personal: Someone
stands and weeps in the glass
telephone theatre. In the glaring white gap count out sherry and ripe
plates and little corners of a kind of ha(r)m: only
the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
A hundred times consider what you've said: and a refrigerator wrapped
in duct tape lying, and candy their limbs gone missing their—.
Hot black dunes in the air—we slept sleepily indifferent,
implicit with stars in active orbit. You have lived and lived on
every kind of shortage: the whole cathedral
crash at your back, paper sacks stuffed full of orange,
while all the wild protected liminal woods: just jars of buttons
spilled, recurring.
cwinrock [at] gmail [dot] com
A Dog’s Skull
for Vanessa Place
in our hearts
a dog’s skull
you have lived
a dog’s skull
learn to petrify
a dog’s skull
to rescue
a dog’s skull
how fibrous and incidental
a dog’s skull
when my tweet time’s up I’ll collect
a dog’s skull
something offensive?
A sleepily indifferent dog’s skull.
Let silence drill a hole in
a dog’s skull
When my tweet time’s up I’ll go for
a hole
in a dog’s skull
the mystery of
a dog’s skull in one cento
Something offensive?
a dog!
Something offensive?
skull!
When my tweet time’s up
a dog in one cento
When my tweet time’s up
I’ll collect
A dog
wrapped in duct tape
Let silence drill
a dog
Let silence drill
hot black dunes
when my tweet time’s up
the wired
dog’s skull
The trick is to make
One cento or
a dog
The trick is to make
a dog’s skull cento
By Isabel Shark
put out all
is wreck
just jars
the nearer
she got the nearer
trekked
to the door
now I am safe
a hundred times
consider
and candy their limbs
share my room with two
and incidental
paper sacks
my eye nearly failed
in your dark
put out all
is wreck
just jars
the nearer she got the nearer
trekked
to the door
now I am safe
a hundred times
consider
and candy their limbs
share my room with two
and incidental
paper sacks
my eye nearly failed
in your dark
Rachel Daley
*rdaley[at]burlington[dot]edu*
Cento: Tonight No Rich Poetry Will Serve. All is from wreck, here.
the naked man, hard to lift, was clothed in trees -
not april and the magnolias.
all dopey in the glass. he wouldn't stand alone.
sleepily indifferent
something offensive
in the glaring white gap
weighing the harvest.
then the terrible thing happened:
i became the mystery of a hundred times.
i'm drunk. i stand on the porch in my bathrobe
that looks as if it would never open.
unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. this is not
okay mocha. obscenely jewel-toned ebony, a dark strong poison with tiny shards of
hot black dunes in the air—we slept
the places cats won't go
where it is easy to hide.
naked in your dark hair
just spilled, recurring
limbs gone missing.
oh plunge me deep glisten'd with wet
it was not really necessary to eat; one could breathe it.
i have played with so many … which made them shifty.
sad beds wide enough for planting every kind of shortage.
wired minefield
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling.
sleep-fallen. a revolver,
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
it metamorphoses into a pig and runs away from her, runs away.
climbing out, the trick is to make it personal: blame her.
in love—put out.
impulsive or inevitable?
while all the wild protected liminal woods.
what he needed from me I have no idea
the pilot alone knows.
my own bags were full. old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
let silence drill its hole.
now i am safe in the deep V of a weekday
how fibrous and incidental it seems.
my advice to young people is to like but not love them.
there, to rescue one—
* Chelsea Rae Prax *msraeabc@gmail.com*
Cento: Ecclesiastes
I'm drunk.
I stand on the porch in my bathrobe.
When my eye nearly failed
To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks
as if it would never open,
(because I killed a snake the day she was born)
I had children of my own;
sad beds wide enough for planting.
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
patchworkjackie (at) gmail (dot) com
Joannie Kervran Stangeland -
The Nearer She Got the Bigger She Looked Until
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
implicit with stars in active orbit
wired minefield
only the steps into the frontier where
it is easy to hide
Disappear, emerge, twitch
reverse course
The trick is to make it personal—
the chill of closed eyelids
not April and the magnolias
sad beds wide enough for planting
A hundred times consider what you've said—
each letter a cameo appearance, each one
a treaty, each one a place
where plutonium safely resides
paper sacks stuffed full of orange
To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks
as if it would never
open
Count out
sherry and ripe plates and little corners
of a kind of ham
You have lived
and lived on
every kind of shortage
Sewing up the kinks
in this film, I'm
sleep-fallen, naked
in your dark hair
All is from wreck, here
there, to rescue
one—
the whole cathedral crash at your back
is cooked into a codex
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
Old brain inside the new
brain, inside the skull
A dog's skull is
slightly thicker than our own
It's more of an artists' colony than a hospital
in the glaring white gap
in our hearts, learn
to petrify it so
* joannieks [at] msn [dot] com *
(I have no idea whether the line breaks will come across.)
DEGREES
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like,
all dopey in the glass – I'm drunk.
(This is not a refrigerator wrapped in duct tape.)
A hundred times consider what you've said:
blame her.
The nearer she got the bigger she looked, until –
emerge, twitch, disappear –
something offensive: a revolver,
gloves, blame her,
b-l-a-
each letter a cameo appearance,
. . . Me.
each one a treaty in our hearts.
mcooley2 (at) gmail (dot) com
Lines 5 & 10 should indented once; line 12 should be indented twice. An indent should be approximately equivalent to the width of the characters in line 10 plus a lowercase "n." All three of these lines should also be in italics.
Not April
Not April and the magnolias
Wide enough for planting, we slept
In this green made by the passage
of closed eyelids;
Not April and the magnolias
That I, just ten, became the wild
harvest of spring, a hundred
continents of silence.
Kawita Kandpal
kawitakandpal[at]ymail[dot]com
When my eye nearly failed
Then the terrible thing happened:
something offensive
in the deep V
The naked man
naked in your dark hair
glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair
a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice
Unveil the mannequin's legs in glee.
sad beds
for feeling
kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
we slept
Sewing up the kinks
Someone stands and weeps
the whole cathedral crash at your back
Jessi Joy
delphiandreams(at) hotmail (dot) com
Unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. This is
something offensive: a revolver,
in a carousel-sweet dress
sleepily indifferent
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling.
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
Green trousers and purple velour sleeves.
implicit with stars in active orbit,
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
and candy their limbs gone missing
while all the wild protected liminal woods
appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night.
Because the continent was clothed in trees
the Avon Lady treks door to door
in the glaring white gap
obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like
sleep-fallen, naked in her dark hair
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice,
sewing up the kinks in this film,
in our hearts, learn to petrify it so,
let silence drill its hole.
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
The trick is to make it personal.
Elizabeth Shuler
ewambeke [at] gmail [dot] com
Autumn Cento
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
when yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
and will not bare the secret of their shame.
Smoke of autumn is on it all,
then leaf subsides to leaf.
There is a singer everyone has heard.
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long time.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold.
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf.
Consumed with that which it was nourished by,
or sinking as the light wind lives or dies.
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
so Eden sank to grief.
---
saw the guidelines late, and already made this from various autumnal poems. just sharing.
Paul Welch
polwelch@gmail.com
GROVE MOTHER
When my eye nearly failed—
the chill of closed eyelids (sleepily indifferent)—
I had children of my own:
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams…
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
The trick is to make it personal
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like
hot black dunes in the air
something offensive: a revolver
When Alice steals away and consoles the Duchess's baby,
it metamorphoses into a pig and runs away from her, runs away…
The Avon Lady treks door to door,
the nearer she got the bigger she looked, until
green trousers and purple velour sleeves
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
Paper sacks stuffed full of orange
hoist their nets, weighing the harvest
Kathrine Keller
ka.keller[at]yahoo[dot]
Cento Quattro
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling,
It was not really necessary to eat the food; one could breathe it.
Sewing up the kinks in this film, I’m
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice,
each letter a cameo appearance, each one a treaty, each one a place where plutonium safely resides,
only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
Appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night.
now I hear the clock snap I swipe an ant
count out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham.
the whole cathedral crash at your back
paper sacks stuffed full of orange
you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage.
in our hearts, learn to petrify it so,
Because I killed a snake the day she was born.
A dog’s skull is slightly thicker than our own.
I.A.
ivyai [at] yahoo [dot] com
Easy to hide
Places climbing out
naked continent clothed in
what he needed.
Full of salt, hard to lift, to drink
strong poison, Light-head
mannequin's legs pilot alone
the magnolias in a carousel
implicit in active orbit.
In the air someone stands,
in the theatre closed eyelids
indifferent times consider
ripe plates of ham.
In the glaring gap
limbs gone missing
in the deep
gully pitches old brain
in the glass
weighing the harvest
with two other talents.
A cameo appearace
naked in your dark jars recurring.
"Easy to hide" by Kevin Corzett
kevincorzett (at) hotmail (dot) com
In my poem 'We'll Kiss Each Kiss Other On Kiss The Kiss' the second line in the second stanza goes like this:
(He wouldn’t stand alone.)
The opening bracket had been missed by me during the cutting and pasting of the poem. Can you make this correction? Sorry for bothering you. Thanks.
Song
Pully glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
In the glaring white gap when my eye nearly failed
unveil the legs.
The naked man,
I stand on the porch
only steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
someone stands and weeps
I swipe an ant
climbing out on the banks
one could breathe bright green wings
But no falcons in this green.
One could breathe it.
I had children of my own
the day she was born
she glisten'd with wet
sleep-fallen, naked in dark hair.
I killed a snake, plunge me inside the skull, slightly thicker than our own...
Now I am silence in the deep.
Climbing out onto the green breathe bright green not necessary to eat
glaring white, the places cats won't go,
ebony palace, my room.
e.w. evans
display(_)some(_)adaptability(at)yahoo(dot)com
A tennisgame
I have played tennis with so many animals, wired minefield in a carousel-sweet dress sleepily indifferent. How fibrous and incidental it seems. A hundred times consider what you've said: the pungent oranges and bright, green wings, something offensive: a revolver, in our hearts, learn to petrify it so, you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage paper, sacks stuffed full of orange. Sharks are people too.
Personal poem
The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man. Then the terrible thing happened. The pilot alone knows, that I, just ten, became the mystery of sad beds wide enough for planting not April and the magnolias, the chill of closed eyelids, the whole cathedral crash at your back, just jars of buttons spilled, recurring. Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable? Appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night. When my eye nearly failed because the continent was clothed in trees. Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull. Because I killed a snake the day she was born. The trick is to make it personal.
spring reel of day & travel
sewing up the kinks in this film, I'm
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
into the frontier
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings
green trousers and purple velour sleeves
obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like,
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring
in the glaring white gap
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling
their limbs gone missing
while all the wild protected liminal woods
safe in the deep V of a weekday
where it is easy to hide
*megalopoet[at]yahoo[dot]com*
Centro
It's more like an artists' colony than a hospital.
For six months I've arranged museum dioramas,
the chill of closed eyes
sewing up the kinks in this film. I'm
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring,
old brain inside the new brain inside the skull.
How fibrous and incidental it seems
in the glaring white gap.
Disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday
implicit with stars in active orbit.
Let silence drill its hole.
(not sure it will copy correctla but it should be set up in three-line stanzas)
Linda Hofke
LNSHofke [at] yahoo [dot ] com
In liminal woods,
I have played tennis with so many animals.
For six months I candy their limbs gone missing,
arrange museum dioramas—
the chill of closed eyelids,
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings,
old brain inside the new brain inside the skull.
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice.
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre.
Someone stands and unveils the mannequin's legs in glee—this is
something offensive: a revolver, wired minefield.
The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
sleepily indifferent
all dopey in the glass. He wouldn't stand alone
in a carousel-sweet dress.
What he needs from me I have no idea.
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
count out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham.
It is not really necessary to eat the food; one can breathe it.
In our hearts, learn to petrify it.
The trick is to make it personal—
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling.
Krysia Orlowski
krysia_orlowski [at] hotmail [dot] com
"This is not glass telephone theatre"
How fibrous and incidental it seems,
to rescue every kind of sad
bed wide enough for planting
the wired minefield in active orbit.
You have lived and lived on,
into the frontier it is easy to hide the naked man
because the continent was clothed in trees.
The places appear to the Americans upon
the chill of closed eyelids
while wild scissors naked in dark hair unveil
the glaring white beards of men
glisten'd with wet Beauty one could breathe —
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams:
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings —
the Avon Lady treks door to door,
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse,
green trousers and purple velour —
The nearer she got, the bigger she looked,
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like…
The trick is to make it personal.
The trick is to let silence drill its hole
in each cameo appearance.
This is not glass telephone theatre.
Someone stands and weeps
jars of buttons spilled into a codex.
Sewing up kinks in the mystery,
a carousel-sweet kiss the kiss,
indifferent,
sleepily.
Contact: Amanda Ventura
mandaven5 (at) gmail (dot) com
A hundred times consider what you've said:
each letter a treaty, reflected gleams -
each kiss cooked into a codex.
A hundred times consider what you've said:
you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage.
How incidental it seems.
A hundred times consider what you've said:
each letter a treaty, reflected gleams.
cinnamontwignest[at]gmail[dot]com
The Chill of Closed Eyelids
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings,
how fibrous and incidental it seems.
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
Something offensive: a revolver.
Let silence drill its hole.
by Eleanor Paynter
eleanor [dot] paynter [at] gmail [dot] com
The Chill of Closed Eyelids
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings,
how fibrous and incidental it seems.
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
Something offensive: a revolver.
Let silence drill its hole.
by Eleanor Paynter
eleanor [dot] paynter [at] gmail [dot] com
"This is not glass telephone theatre"
How fibrous and incidental it seems,
to rescue every kind of sad
bed wide enough for planting
the wired minefield in active orbit.
You have lived and lived on
the frontier it is easy to hide the naked man
because the continent was clothed in trees.
The places appear to the Americans
on the chill of closed eyelids
while wild scissors naked in dark hair unveil
the glaring white beards of men
glisten'd with wet Beauty one could breathe —
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams:
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings —
the Avon Lady treks door to door,
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse,
green trousers and purple velour —
The nearer she got, the bigger she looked,
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like…
The trick is to make it personal.
The trick is to let silence drill its hole
in each cameo appearance.
This is not glass telephone theatre.
Someone stands and weeps
jars of buttons spilled into a codex.
Sewing up kinks in the mystery,
a carousel-sweet kiss the kiss,
indifferent,
sleepily.
Contact: Amanda Ven.
mandaven5 (at) gmail (dot) com
Postcards to the Galaxy
across a Great Wilderness
Someone stands and weeps.
In the glass telephone theatre, I have
played tennis with so many animals,
paper sacks stuffed full of orange—
my own bags were full of salt,
which made them shifty, hard to lift.
My advice to young people is to like hats
but not love them.
The trick is to make it personal:
implicit with stars in active orbit
each letter a cameo appearance,
each one a treaty,
each one a place where plutonium
safely resides—
hot black dunes in the air.
We slept because the continent
was clothed in trees,
not April and the magnolias,
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring
sad beds wide enough for planting –
the places cats won’t go.
The climbing out onto banks.
The naked man let silence drill its hole
What he needed from me I have no idea.
The pilot alone knows I’m drunk.
I stand on the porch in my bathrobe,
the chill of closed eyelids sleepily indifferent,
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice.
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
Carol A. Stephen
carolstephen2[at]aim[dot]com
Note: had trouble posting, second post went but my contact info was missing
reel of spring day & travel
sewing up the kinks in this film, I'm
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
into the frontier
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings
green trousers and purple velour sleeves
obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like,
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring
in the glaring white gap
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling
their limbs gone missing
while all the wild protected liminal woods
safe in the deep V of a weekday
where it is easy to hide
Nicole Cartwright Denison
*megalopoet[at]yahoo[dot]com*
Amazing. Lots of good stuff here. I'm very impressed by all the wonderful talent.
ANGRY BIRD
you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage
because the continent was clothed in trees
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring
paper sacks stuffed full of orange
choking okay mocha. ebony,
sleepily indifferent
it is cooked into a codex
not April and the magnolias
hot black dunes in the air – we slept
implicit with stars in active orbit
and a refrigerator wrapped in duct tape lying
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Then the terrible thing happened:
The Avon Lady treks door to door.
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one –
in the glaring white gap
only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide
gloves, blame her
in our hearts learn to petrify it so
in a carousel-sweet dress
wired minefield
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre
A hundred times consider what you've said:
A dog's skull is slightly thicker than our own.
My advice to young people is to like hats, but not love them.
Unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. This is not
something offensive: a revolver,
green trousers and purple velour sleeves.
When Alice steals away and consoles the Duchess's baby, it metamorphoses into a pig and runs away from her, runs away.
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull
hoist their nets, weighing the harvest
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls –
It's more of an artists' colony than a hospital
the nearer she got the bigger she looked, until
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair
Because I killed a snake the day she was born
I had children of my own,
and candy their limbs gone missing their
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
It was not really necessary to eat the food; one could breathe it
while all the wild protected liminal woods
Appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night
let silence drill its hole
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
the chill of closed eyelids
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling
sad beds wide enough for planting
When my eye nearly failed
For six months I arranged museum dioramas
each letter a cameo appearance, each one a treaty, each one a place where plutonium safely resides,
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
the whole cathedral crash at your back
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like
My own bags were full of salt, which made them shifty, hard to lift.
now I hear the clock snap I swipe an ant
I stay at his palace and share my room with two other talents
How fibrous and incidental it seems
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday
count out the sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham.
To open your tiny beak-mouth that looks as if it would never open
That I just ten, became the mystery of
The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
The pilot alone knows
all dopey in the glass. He wouldn't stand alone
Oh, plunge me deep in love – put out
What he needed from me I have no idea
But no falcons in this green made by the passage of parents.
I have played tennis with so many animals
Sharks are people too.
Sewing up the kinks in this film, I'm
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice,
The trick is to make it personal:
-----
Crystal Kile
craftsandcoolaid at gmail dot com
Midnight
Then the terrible thing happened: The places cats won't go.
The climbing out onto the banks.
The naked man the pilot alone knows
because the continent was clothed in trees.
I have played tennis with so many animals,
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling,
in a carousel-sweet dress—
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice,
implicit with stars in active orbit.
My own bags were full of salt, which made them shifty, hard to lift—
only the steps into the frontier, where it is easy to hide:
let silence drill its hole, hot black dunes in the air—
the chill of closed eyelids: sleepily indifferent
Holly M. Wendt
holly[dot]wendt[at]gmail[dot]com
MotherSong
Because the continent was clothed in trees
in a carousel-sweet dress—
I had children of my own,
lived on every kind of shortage.
For six months I arranged museum dioramas,
sad beds wide enough for planting:
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
in the glaring white gap, all dopey in the glass.
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
A dog's skull is slightly thicker than our own.
Then the terrible thing happened:
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre.
Implicit with stars in active orbit,
the whole cathedral crashes at your back.
I stay at his palace and share my room
with two other talents.
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
while all the wild protected liminal woods
became the mystery of dark strong poison
with tiny shards of ice.
He wouldn't stand alone
because I killed a snake the day she was born.
A hundred times consider what you've said:
gloves, blame her. This is not
something offensive: a revolver, wired minefield.
How fibrous and incidental it seems:
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
Unveil the mannequin's legs in glee.
What he needed from me I have no idea:
sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham;
perhaps only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
Or, the chill of closed eyelids,
surely not April
and the magnolias…
The trick is to make it personal,
in our hearts, learn to petrify it so:
let silence drill its hole.
Nicole Cartwright Denison
*megalopoet[at]yahoo[dot]com*
The trick is to make it personal:
When Alice steals
away and consoles
the Duchess's baby, it
metamorphoses into a
pig and runs away
from her, runs away
in the glaring white
gap while all the wild
protected liminal woods.
[The trick is to make it personal]
:
While all the wild protected
liminal woods, the beards
of the young men glisten'd
with wet, it ran
from their long hair.
[The trick
is to make it
personal]
:
The beards of the young
men glisten'd with wet,
it ran from their long
hair. (Were the scissors
impulsive or inevitable?)
[The trick is to make it
personal]
:
Were the scissors impulsive
or incidental? You have lived
and lived on every kind
of shortage—
Now I hear the clock snap
I swipe an ant
[The trick is to make it personal]
:
Now
I hear
the clock
snap
I swipe
an ant
:
To open your tiny beak-mouth,
that looks as if it would never
open in the glaring white
gap sleepily indifferent—
the whole cathedral crash
at your back— all is from wreck,
here, there, to rescue
one—
:
How fibrous
and incidental
it seems: paper
sacks stuffed full
of orange—
:
A hundred times consider what you've said:
When my eye nearly failed
[The trick is to make it personal]
:
Sleep-fallen, naked
in your dark hair not April
and the magnolias the chill
of closed eyelids.
Metta Sama
mettamss[at]gmail[dot]com
For Six Months in a Carousel-Sweet Dress,
I.
You have lived and lived on, lived on every kind of shortage
It’s more of an artists’ colony than a hospital
in our hearts, learn to petrify it so,
all is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
How fibrous and incidental it seems, inside the skull!
Old brain inside the new brain, New brain inside the old; skull the skull.
I had children of my own
—a dog’s skull
is slightly thicker than our own.
For six months, in a carousel-sweet dress,
I arranged the day she was born; the Duchess’s baby
For six months, I arranged
the day she was born in a Carousel-sweet dress the Duchess’s baby
Sad beds wide enough
made by the passage of parents—
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring.
It was not really necessary to eat the food; one could breathe.
What he needed from me, I have no idea.
II.
The trick is to make it personal:
We’ll kiss each kiss, each other on kiss the kiss
Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
something offensive: a revolver,
III.
The chill of closed eyelids. To open
open your tiny beak-mouth, That looks as if
it would never open.
The nearer she got, the bigger she looked, obscenely neck-like,
until my eye nearly failed, sleep-fallen.
Naked in your dark hair, unveil the mannequin’s
legs in glee. This is not
choking, okay mocha? ebony, ebony?
IV.
Sewing up the kinks in this film, I’m
the whole cathedral crash at your back
[ ]
V.
in the glaring white gap
glitches, gully pulley pitches, the reflected gleams
glisten’d with wet
The pilot alone knows Now,
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday
and a refrigerator, wrapped in duct-tape lying
Someone stands and weeps in the Glass—
Only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide,
Appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night.
Myself conjectured were they Pearls—
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling,
My own bags were full of strong Poison with tiny shards,
shards of Silence, because the continent, americans,
was on the porch, each one a treaty, a frontier,
Then the terrible
terrible thing happened: I stand clothed in trees (not the magnolias)
their limbs gone missing their gloves,
too liminal the wild, protected, while all the—we slept
Anastasia Rodionova
Please contact me through twitter.com/goturtlego or goturtlego.wordpress.com . Will certainly provide an email address if absolutely necessary. Thanks so much for a terrific contest!
Plunge Me Deep
For six months I arranged museum dioramas;
now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday.
Sewing up the kinks in this film, I'm
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair,
sleepily indifferent, because the continent
was clothed in trees, just jars of buttons spilled.
My own bags were full of salt, which made them shifty, hard to lift.
To drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice,
implicit with stars in active orbit,
let silence drill its hole.
I had children of my own.
Because I killed a snake the day she was born,
in a carousel-sweet dress
and candy limbs, gone missing, their
paper sacks stuffed full of orange,
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings,
green trousers and purple velour sleeves,
obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like,
all dopey in the glass. He wouldn't stand alone.
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe,
unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. This is not
what he needed from me. I have no idea.
The pilot alone knows
the chill of closed eyelids.
Oh plunge me deep in love—put out,
you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage.
Not April and the magnolias in
sad beds wide enough for planting.
In our hearts, we learn to petrify it so
hoist their nets, weighing the harvest,
the whole cathedral crash at your back.
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
by Meredith Purvis, meredithpurvis [at] gmail [dot] com
A Hundred Times
Where it is easy
limbs gone missing their
gloves, blame her!—impulsive or inevitable?
Then the terrible
gloves blame her,
the terrible thing
I stay at his place—his palace!—and share my room with two
A hundred times consider what you’ve said:
That I, just ten, because the mystery of
paper sacks stuffed full of orange
green trousers and purple velour sleeves,
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings,
hot black dunes in the air
…my bathrobe,
each one a place where
plutonium safely resides.
I’m drunk in my bathrobe
sleepily indifferent
wired minefield—
Obscenely jewel-like, obscenely neck-like,
hoist their nets, weighing the harvest—
Sharks are people, too.
I have played tennis with so many animals
now I hear the clock snap I swipe an ant
when Alice steals away and consoles the Duchess’s baby,
it metamorphoses, into a pig, and runs away from her, runs away…
Count out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham
is cooked into a codex
all dopey in the glass. He couldn’t stand alone
places cats won’t go. The climbing onto the banks
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse, course
the Avon Lady treks door to door my Advice
to young people is to like hats but not love them.
I stand on the porch,
deep in love, kiss the kiss, oh my bathrobe,
The trick is to make it.
Anastasia Rodionova
Contact: Twitter.com/GoTurtleGo
AND THE LEMON FLOWER IS SWEET
What he needed from me I have no idea;
the pilot alone knows.
I stay at his palace and share my room with two other talents.
It's more of an artists' colony than a hospital—
for six months I arranged museum dioramas,
unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. This is not
old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull,
all dopey in the glass—he wouldn't stand alone.
Let silence drill its hole,
not April and the magnolias.
I had children of my own,
then the terrible thing happened.
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
The trick is to make it personal.
Stephen Caratzas
stevecaratzas [at] yahoo [dot] com
April and the Magnolias
I, just ten, became implicit with
all the wild protected liminal woods,
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings
(the continent was clothed in trees,
in a carousel-sweet dress
and candy)
Ripe plates climbing out onto the banks
It was not really necessary
to eat the food;
one could breathe it
Katie Booms
kbooms [at] uwyo [dot] edu
(Formatting is regular. Happy Belated Earth Day to everyone, since it made me write this poem)
I’m drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night,
open my tiny beak-mouth, that looks as if it would never open.
The beards of the young men glisten with wet, it runs from their long hair.
Are the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
What they need from me, I have no idea,
each one a cameo appearance, a place where plutonium safely resides –
sad beds wide enough for planting.
A hundred times I consider what I must say.
The trick is to make it personal
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling
the Avon Lady treks door to door.
Let silence drill its hole,
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course,
step into the frontier where it is easy to hide
the chill of closed eyelids,
wired minefields,
candied limbs gone missing.
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre.
Someone counts out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham.
Someone is cooked into a codex.
My advice to young people is to like hats but not love them,
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice
in a carousel-sweet dress.
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
You have lived and lived on every kind of shortage
in the glaring white gap, the places cats won’t go.
The climbing out onto the banks, the naked man,
the whole cathedral crush at your back,
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring.
Rob A. Mackenzie
rob.anne[at] blueyonder[dot}co.uk
Were they pearls
Sleep-fallen, just jars of buttons spilled
recurring naked in your dark hair,
implicit with the stars;
plunge me deep in love,
the whole cathedral,
put out paper sacks stuffed full of orange
weighing the harvest
when my eye nearly failed.
You have lived and lived on every kind of shortage,
little corners of a kind of ham;
count out sherry, and ripe plates crash at your back---
and the trick is the pungent oranges and
bright green wings to make it personal.
It was not really necessary to eat the food:
one could breath it, the mystery of
---now I hear the clock snap just ten---
that I became
hard to lift: my own bags were full of salt
which made them shifty in our hearts.
Learn to petrify it so.
Hoist their nets,
sleepily indifferent,
we’ll kiss a hundred times
kiss the kiss to open your tiny beak-mouth
each kiss other, consider:
what you’ve said that looks as if it would never open
the magnolias
and not April
the wild, protected, liminal woods
the naked man;
in the glaring white gap,
in a carousel-sweet dress
I’m drunk,
each one a treaty, each one a place
where, glisten’d with wet,
I stand on the porch,
the reflected gleams
myself conjectured.
heocat008@gmailc.om
TO ERIN AUTHOR OF "DEMENTIA CENTO"
I received your cento, but you didn't include a valid mode of contact (your Blogger profile isn't publicly available). I'd be happy to post it as an entry, if you resend with some mode of contact. Thanks very much!
Danielle
Thanks for your note, Danielle. I'm re-sending, and hopefully my email address will show up. It's ecmurphy14_at_gmail.com, just in case.
"Dementia Cento"
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull,
wired minefield,
implicit with stars in active orbit.
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
Let silence drill its hole
in a carousel-sweet dress,
in the glaring white gap,
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams.
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
Post a Comment