Random Lines / Found Poetry

David Elzey, over at Fomagrams, and Gwenda Bond at Shaken and Stirred, have come up with found poems that consist of their blogs' first lines from the first post of each each month this year. I wanted to try it, but since I've only been doing this since July (six months) that would make for a short poem for me, and one that more often than not began, "In honor of Poetry Friday...." I decided instead to go with a random line from each one of my 48 posts., starting with the very first one back in July and moving forward chronologically post by post. I didn't add any connective tissue, so it's a bumpy ride - huge potholes. But what an interesting experiment. It felt sometimes, when I put the random sentences next to each other, that there were two voices speaking, so I added italics for the second voice. It still didn't quite feel like a poem, so I just turned it into mini-prose-poems, divided when they reached some kind of closure, tonally or logically.

Here goes:

2008

So, welcome!! Firm opinions, fine cuisine, and lots of laughter - what more can you ask for? Meanwhile, just look at the fascinating lectures my colleagues on the faculty are delivering. Suddenly, everyone is in context – which is sobering and pleasing. (Someone get me a doctor.)

I love the art of parody and this certainly qualifies. If it does, maybe the message is mistaken. Here’s a link to more information. Here’s a link to the glowing review. The poet sometimes smells a question when the answer is a rose. It’s a lovely puzzle to write/solve.

You can break the rules. Imagine. Below is a sample. Incredible. Perfect blending of the formal elements. I can’t resist the tunk-a-tunk-tunk. I like those tunes and those dancing bears, too.
…delight…mystification….Poets, cows and scientists - we like to investigate what our gaze falls on.

“But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: 'It’s clever, but is it Art?’ ” I’d vote for him just for this. Hell of a skeleton there on the table. Preaching to the choir. Obviously. It’s so lucky there’s an audio link. Giving metal a tongue. Don’t miss the prize to be won. Think about giving a subscription to someone.

I was a goner, even before I knew the alphabet. Some say there is a malevolent spirit….But I’m still optimistic. What? Check it out. Just be prepared: because it breaks your heart.

Tomorrow, when I have my coffee, I’m going to pretend I’m in the park. Other than that. Life's little -ifuls (merc, bount-, beaut-) are no tethers to keep me secure.

Here’s my contribution, guided by syllables. The line breaks are strange. It feels like a difficult form to end. There’s a devil at your side….The goofier the better, that’s what I was taught.
Tongue in-cheek, skull-and-crossbones. Every once in awhile, I’m in the mood for John Keats. I blame the light.

Love is strange. I find myself drawn to the unserious this time of year.

Poetry Friday: Rounding Out the Year

I sometimes think it would be good (as in, good form) to be serious at year's end. But I find myself drawn to the unserious this time of year. Here, to round out 2008, is a quotation about poetry from the always quotable Calvin Trillin: “When it came to poetry, my father was not an absolutist. Pie was his favorite subject for a couplet, but every three or four weeks he would write about something else….” I am hoping to do a pie poem or two in the near future. Meanwhile, I offer up this poem, which sends a nod to Trillin, as my own way to close out the year:

MONTHS OF THE YEAR

Jan: Champagne. Hope. Sleet. Rain.
Feb: Sleet. Rain. Hearts. Hope again.
March: New babies. Chicks. Piggies. Lambs.
April: Easter dinner—lamb, chicken, hams.
May: Merry --as in may I / may I not?
June: Marry -- bride in white, groom hot.
July: Lonely Planet. Cameras. Shorts in Paris?
Aug: Beach. In the bookbag, Trillin and Sedaris.
Sept: 9/11 and its everlasting postseason.
Oct: Dressing up for candy & dandier reasons.
Nov: Turkey dressing. Obama won, thank God.
Dec: Virgin Birth. Wise men in the Middle East? Jihad.

--------------------
Poetry Friday today is being hosted by Tricia over at The Miss Rumphius Effect.

A Poem to Honor Two Strange Things

Today would have been my mom and dad's 64th wedding anniversary. Though my dad died in 1985, I still call my mom on their anniversary. Sunday my husband and I will celebrate our 37th anniversary, and we still have no idea, really, why it all works. Love is strange, and marriage even stranger. So here is a light-hearted poem in honor of those two strange, deep-hearted things:

To My Husband

Yes, we’re odd as ginger snaps
dunked in Turkish coffee,
we’re hot, beneath the sugar.

We stir each other’s chai
until a foam forms.
We sip, we sleep.

Honey, you still toast
every sesame seed in me—one bite
and it’s Madagascar all over again.

------------------------

Poetry Friday is being hosted this week over at Authors Amok.

Terza Rima for The Stretch

Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect set a difficult challenge for yesterday's Monday Poetry Stretch: terza rima. It's a form that pulls you forward, because the rhyme scheme goes like this:

ABA
BCB
CDC
DED
EFE

It's built of tercets - and the second lines of each stanza rhyme with the first and third lines of the next. An elegant form, as Dante proved. Here is my terza rima: it's an interesting experiment, but the form deserves better - my rhymes are too loud. I'm looking forward to seeing other responses linked over at Tricia's site.

The Doctor Says, "He Has Meningitis”

Something flies across the frame.
Then it's gone—the day appears
then disappears. Same

as most days. But when I clear
my throat, the hospital wall
sways. And when I near

the sill, something hits: small,
a bird's body, a bird’s eye.
How strange life is when all

the world seems to be dying.
Today it's a sparrow fooled
by glass. I blame the light.

The story's true:
The child lives.
But the bird dies. And the view.

Poetry Friday: Oh, Why Not Some John Keats?

Every once in awhile, I'm just in the mood for Keats:

On the Grasshopper and Cricket

The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead –
That is the Grasshopper's. He takes the lead
In summer luxury; he has never done
With his delights, for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Elaine Magliaro at Wild Rose Reader. is in charge of the Poetry Round-Up this week. Thanks, Elaine!