Personal Challenge Number Three!

Hello, dear Toads, and welcome to Personal Challenge Post Number Three. My challenge was provided by Grace/Heaven, and despite its relative simplicity, I managed to muck it up, as you’ll see below. But welcome to my post, in all its convoluted glory.

Grace’s challenge was for me to write two poems, in sonnet or cinquain form. I’ll spoil this right up front and tell you that I ended up writing three sonnets. (Argh.) You might remember that I wrote cinquains with great fury a while back, and I seem to have burnt myself out on the form. Plus, I find sonnets extremely challenging, so I figured I should really take on Grace’s challenge for what it is: CHALLENGE. Sonnets!

For the first poem, Grace asked me to choose among the recent work of a fellow Toad (as Michael/Grapeling has previously challenged her), and write a response that may be totally different or showing a different point of view. I decided to respond to a poem by dear Susie Clevenger that particularly struck me. Susie’s poem is called Fist Held Verses. Please click through and read Susie's wonderful, inspiring poem. My response is a Kyrielle sonnet:

She Wishes to Loosen the Verse-Grip

Now that you’ve fairly exorcised

every Demon courting you last

night, last week, or yesterday’s lies,

as if your Verses could surpass

The reality of your Truth,

virtue spilled on the page, forecast

cold with a chance of where-are-you

in the simpler Time just gone past

Your prime, your Words resonating

but flying, coming very fast,

sketchily approximating

the Saddest years, already passed

Like yesteryear’s iconoclast,

you stay stuck, scribbling down the Past.

The second part of Grace’s challenge was for me to use the title of the poem Metamorphosis by Sylvia Plath or get inspiration from her work to write a response. Here is where I messed up: though Grace helpfully provided me with a link to the poem to which she wanted me to respond, I unhelpfully did not notice said link, and responded to a wholly different poem. Did you know that Sylvia Plath has TWO poems with "metamorphosis/es" in the title? Well, now you do.

So I wrote another Kyrielle sonnet for poem number two, responding to the very beautiful poem Metamorphoses of the Moon by Sylvia Plath:

For Sylvia, By Moon-Light

In a wish for barren Night

or light or want of foresight,

unbelieving she’d be seen

between the Moon and a dream,

Unleashed, her callous fervor

set lust against lust once more,

but more is not what it seems

when begging the Moon for dreams.

Too soon her spit uncovers,

flits away from Light, lovers

& Night indulgence to breathe

where the dampish Moon meets dreams--

She might wish for simple dreams,

but Moon-dreams aren’t how they seem.

(Actually, the above poem has seven-syllable lines and the Kyrielle requires eight. I claim poetic license.)

Thinking I was all finished, I was reviewing Grace’s challenge over the weekend and discovered her link, to a different poem. Eek! So, I decided it was my own tough luck and wrote a third Kyrielle sonnet, responding to the poem Metamorphosis by Sylvia Plath, as Grace intended:

Unspeakable Pleasure

& In the longest, coldest month,

you’d assume sustenance within,

but she relied on amaranth

to absolve her plentiful sins--

If frozen Heart, still immortal,

caught wind of any beats human,

it lunged like a cur, distorted,

not minding tending many sins

Born in sullen February,

grown in a Crucible of wind,

nurtured amber’s never wary

of her temptation, boozy sin--

Much tragedy, unfading in

a Month of cold and ample Sin.

The title of the above poem refers to a poem called Bereavement by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Don’t ask how I made these connections, because I really don't think I can explain. But, whew! My challenge is (more than) complete.

We do not provide a Linky for personal challenge posts, but if you are crazy enough to be inspired to write sonnets, or are inspired by any other part of this long, long post, feel free to write and share a link with us in the comments. I promise to visit you if you do. And if you are still reading, thank you so much for indulging me. Love & XO, Marian

The World's End

Happy Year-End, Dear Toads!

One of my favorite movies of this year is The World’s End, last in the hilariously remarkable trilogy (directed by Edgar Wright) that also includes Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz.

Why do I think The World’s End so great? Well, it’s belly-achingly funny, of course. It’s also weird science fiction, a win in my book. But in my view, the reason for this movie’s true greatness is the unique and nuanced performance of Simon Pegg as the main character, Gary King.

I am not going to say much about this movie because I don’t want to spoil it for any of you who have not yet seen it (and of course you’ll remedy that oversight pronto). You do not need to see the movie in order to write to this prompt. But trust me, Pegg’s portrayal is wonderful. Gary King is, at first blush, a narcissist pathetically stuck in his raucous younger days when he (supposedly) was at the top of his game. His focus on and living in the past leads to some very funny gags and plot twists, but also creates a sad and realistic character with whom many viewers will empathize and relate.

Our writing exercise today is this: What would it be like if we were stuck in (or have regressed to) the past? Write from the perspective of yourself or another person (real or imagined) who can’t seem to live in the present or look forward; someone who dwells in a supposedly more magnificent or rewarding past time, and behaves accordingly. I look forward to reading your (new) poems!
 

A Toad's Favo(u)rite: 33-1/3 RPM

Friends, I was all set with another favorite poem to share. And then I found myself on a road trip, listening to music, ruminating about how people discovered new music years ago as compared with how we find it today. For me, it went like this:

Hear a tune on the radio

or read it in Rolling Stone

head off to National Record Mart

at the mall

to buy the album

zip off the shrink-wrap at home

place it oh-so-carefully

on the record player

of my father’s stereo

(nickel on the arm)

insert a cassette tape in the slot

press record/play

TURN UP THE VOLUME

settle cross-legged

in the oversized chair by the speakers

read the lyrics on the record liner

as the music plays. Repeat.

The artists to whom I gravitated as a young person were the lyricists, the storytellers, the poets. My young mind was blown, over and again, sitting there poring over the lyrics in the liner notes, reading the words, listening to them being sung, committing them to memory.

I am sharing today two musician-poets and the particular song-poems for which I have a specific memory of being blown away, hearing them for the first time as a teenager, and over and again to this day, whenever I hear or read these words. I’m guessing one or both will be familiar to many of you, so perhaps this will be a happy re-visiting. Or if these are new to you, so much the better. I am not including the audio, in order for us to focus on the words. (And you all know you to find them, anyway.) Enjoy!

Thunder Road

by Bruce Springsteen

The screen door slams, Mary's dress waves

Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays

Roy Orbison singing for the lonely

Hey that's me and I want you only

Don't turn me home again

I just can't face myself alone again

Don't run back inside, darling you know just what I'm here for

So you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we ain't that young anymore

Show a little faith, there's magic in the night

You ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright

Oh and that's alright with me

You can hide 'neath your covers and study your pain

Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain

Waste your summer praying in vain for a saviour to rise from these streets

Well now I'm no hero, that's understood

All the redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood

With a chance to make it good somehow

Hey what else can we do now

Except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair

Well the night's bustin' open, these two lanes will take us anywhere

We got one last chance to make it real

To trade in these wings on some wheels

Climb in back, heaven's waiting down on the tracks

Oh oh come take my hand

Riding out tonight to case the promised land

Oh oh oh oh Thunder Road, oh Thunder Road, oh Thunder Road

Lying out there like a killer in the sun

Hey I know it's late, we can make it if we run

Oh oh oh oh Thunder Road, sit tight, take hold, Thunder Road

Well I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk

And my car's out back if you're ready to take that long walk

From your front porch to my front seat

The door's open but the ride it ain't free

And I know you're lonely for words that I ain't spoken

Tonight we'll be free, all the promises will be broken

There were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away

They haunt this dusty beach road in the skeleton frames of burned-out Chevrolets

They scream your name at night in the street

Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet

And in the lonely cool before dawn

You hear their engines roaring on

But when you get to the porch they're gone on the wind, so Mary climb in

It's a town full of losers, I'm pulling out of here to win

Human Hands

by Elvis Costello

I've been talking to the wall and it's been answering me

Oh darling, how I miss you

I'm just the mere shadow of my former selfishness

I crave the silhouette of your kiss

With only the blue light of the TV on

Lip-reading threats and false alarms

There's a boy somewhere holding hands with himself

And a girl in a window on the Reeperbahn

Whenever I put my foot in my mouth and you begin to doubt

That it's you that I'm dreaming about

Do I have to draw you a diagram?

All I ever want is just to fall into your human hands

With the kings and queens of the dance hall craze

Checkmate in three moves in your heyday

But the girls don't listen to your line anymore

Now you're part of someone else

On the factory floor you still say "Where’s the action?"

Now you manufacture happiness

And get sold on the cheap for someone's satisfaction

Whenever I put my foot in my mouth and you begin to doubt

That it's you that I'm dreaming about

Do I have to draw you a diagram?

All I ever want is just to fall into your human hands

All you toy soldiers and scaremongers

Are you living in this world? Sometimes I wonder

In between saying you've seen too much

And saying you've seen it all before

Tighter and tighter, I hold you tightly

You know I love you more than slightly

Although I've never said it like this before

Whenever I put my foot in my mouth and you begin to doubt

That it's you that I'm dreaming about

Do I have to draw you a diagram?

All I ever want is just to fall into your human hands

In Tandem! Mexican Radio meets runaway sentence: Bonding with Muriel

(Corey and Marian went down to Boo'ya Moon and brought back this story to tell to our friends. Hope you enjoy.)
 
Bonding with Muriel

          When exactly did you lose your Soul?

Chewing the burnt end of Cherub Root waters her eyes

Sitting cross legged, knee to knee, she spoke of her legacy

You touch her breast pocket and your fingers find no purchase

She exhales and lets out a low laugh, a smile through yellowed teeth

She told you your hair was ablaze with Asher’s fire, but you knew

The Gods wouldn’t burn your memories without reason

The root plays its restless song and for the moment, you understand Muriel

Lucky for you, the gods do not approve human sacrifice

You sprawl in a bed strewn with paper dolls and daisy chains

Dreaming of salt water, wishing for that crosswalk moment

Like navigating a quicksand Moat, slow progress across

Sinking until your lungs begin to collapse and you encounter him

The glitter of his purpose an aura, redolent like a bachelor’s aftershave

An elixir, eternal youth promised, or joy, if only you can last this bog

          Why exactly did you paint your Heart?

When you ask him of her intentions he shrugs and leaves your head hollow

She picks all moments, not just the ones you ask for

And you must hope to all hell that her womb doesn’t quicken

For progeny born of a union consecrated on the root becomes his child

Beautiful in scope but hideous where justice and compassion are concerned

Have you learned nothing from your childhood tales of beasts and banalities

She is Muriel and you are a faded memory before her horse rides south

It’s hard to know what will work if we are to learn to cross this bridge

Sitting Indian-style, your earth-earring warms your celestial lobe

And you imagine all the days you have ahead together, a Kodak moment

Slide-show to come, but first, the span. You have no fucking idea

You squeeze your eyes until the red behind your lids glows fire-wise

Like the gash on your breast, the one you keep pasted with gauze, never looking

Avoiding the service, it’s better to remember his mouth on your heart

          When exactly do you expect to Return?

Mourning never ends as yesterday fades into a year later, and then masked

As night it’s the moment you always anticipated, but wait, where’s your hovercraft

And how are you supposed to acclimate when you recall what it’s like to tumble

Through the apex of a reflective Triangle on the bumper of a horse-drawn buggy

Sugarcubes wait in a saucer for your coffee as you bum a smoke from that farmer

Beard but no moustache, tall hat but bare hands chapped from shoveling

Your memories into the incinerator and man, you gotta locate an analyst pronto

“Muriel?”

“Yes, my light?”

“Is that scar on your cheek from me?”

“No, my light.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Leave it be, it exists only as a reminder of your birth.”

“Why my birth?”

“It’s not my scar, it’s a bastard. You, my light, are a bastard.”

“Yeah.”

The soil of an inherited future is hard to scrape from the sole of one’s shoe

But Muriel had a stick and could wash free any sediment with a glance and a sigh

He would try and stop her, shouting that Gods don’t pour watered down drinks

On Monday, she would kill him with his own words and take you as a prize

It was your dream but it always caught in the back of your throat with a click

Forever was as much sin as savior in those days, days with Muriel

Always with your protestations, Muriel this and Muriel that
                                                 A pipedream, all it ever was

Felix Vallotton, The Dordogne with Carrenac, 1925

I Say Roundel, You Say Rondelet

Toads! It’s day 16! Whew!

I can’t believe we’ve written ourselves half-way through April without a form poetry prompt. I loved seeing several sevenlings in response to Hedgewitch’s Sunday prompt, yay! But it's time for a true form challenge, people, it's time. I don’t know about you, but if I feel a bit stuck with my writing, I’ll often reach for a strict form, and the words come out. So maybe this will help if anyone’s feeling a bit tapped in mid-month. Ahem.

We’ve studied both of these forms before--waaayyyy back at the beginning of Grace O’Malley’s tremendous form challenges. The French forms and their relations--roundel, roundeau, rondelet, triolet, and more--are wonderful and fun to play with. I’ve chosen ROUNDEL and RONDELET today because they seem the most palatable for quick turn-around during this crazy month.

Here is Grace’s introduction to the ROUNDEL. It is an eleven-line, three stanza poem with a refrain and this rhyme scheme:

A

B

A

R (refrain)

B

A

B

A

B

A

R (refrain)

The roundel features ten-syllable lines, with the refrain consisting of six syllables. The refrain is intended to come from the beginning of the first line.

There’s an example of one of my roundels in Grace’s article, and here are two others of mine, if you’re interested: with my good hand and goodbye to all that.

Here’s the article about the RONDELET, which is a more abbreviated and possibly more manageable form for this week. It’s a seven-line poem with four eight-syllable lines and three, count ‘em THREE, of the lines are a four-syllable refrain. The rhyme scheme looks like this:

A (refrain)

B

R

A

B

B

R

I like the rondelet and have written a bunch of them, if you’re looking for ideas about how to use this form. This one’s my favorite (it appears in my book, Responsive Pleading): 

"mount to the sky" by Marian Kent 

You looked like rain

before the wild hurricane flew.

You looked like rain.

Clamoring down tin eaves, the pain

rollicked like thunder. Meanwhile, you

colored outside the lines. All blue.

You looked like rain. 

Okay! So your challenge for today, my dear Toads, is to pick one, the roundel or the rondelet, and write one! Link up a new, fresh-as-Spring poem, and for those of you playing along, count it as Number Sixteen for April. Can’t wait to read!