This is how you start a poem

Rook wrote:sticky sunshine

omg this is a perfect bit of gross that is summer and i love it

A/N: ok this one is a weird one. The prompt I followed said to pick a poem written in a language I don't know and write a poem that explores the way I interpret it. Basically, I wrote what I thought the poem might be saying first (poem labeled 1), then I read the translation of the poem and wrote a response that combined them (2), the I further refined that response (3). Take a look at the original poem in both languages and see how I did it!
Original poem: https://www.poetryinternational.com/en/ ... LE#lang-en

(1)
Green. Symbolizing metal in my morning.
The morning borealis has built a green dungeon.
A vast green dungeon. Green seer sound again.

Somewhere I've been gardening.
Or rather, I was in the steppes,
learning more of the road of art.

Tonight I've stopped leaving green wood on Brennen's house
name my invaders and they will break my mother
horns for her while. My Arcadia in opposition.

Tonight I will play lake music in Limburg chapel
knowing my song is also in the North Sea in February.
I hold the door for the worst in my bedroom

Here genius is popular. The worst herding dog.
My wonderment. My pride in afloofness. The best
partizan war in wolf country. Green druids

kill ravens and my busted-up car.


--

(2)

Forty green landscapes. Forty aurorae.
We were in the steppes, you in red moreland,
me on the road of art. Art was always red to me.

Your father's breath was an invader,
our mothers lie broken on the rocks.

It is February and we are rioting
in Arcadia. Afterwards, in Limburg,
you lie dead in a ditch while I play
music to the North Sea
that kisses your eyes.

I've been fooled once again into thinking
the poplar genus was a popular genius
but at least we both can recognize a dog.
Your wounds, my wonderment.
Your flag and faith, my pride in aloofness.
The partisan wolf war hides in mountain country,
this we both know. Forty million raven-black beads

filling the green interior of a busted-up car.

--
(3)

It is February and we have defeated the wolves
that broke our mothers. There are forty aurorae,
all green. We tore Arcadia down and you're lying
in a ditch in Limburg. Somewhere close by I am
playing lake music for the North Sea. The water
kisses your eyes. Your wounds, my wonderment.
Your flag and faith, my pride and aloofness. We were steppe-children. We ate red art, drank in the genius poplar trees. Maybe the wolves were just
a dog. Maybe the car was green, the ravens, jet.

I'm really loving all of your poems, Rook! The 'turn' in each one is always new and interesting. 'The World is Full of Apricot Jam' already starts off with this kind of surreal premise but you add to that with the "donut-earthers" and the new "faction" and the speaker's insistence on eating the jam even if everyone else is like no. The play on 'dulce et decorum est' was neat as well. Your day 10 poem definitely got me thinking it was a sweet little love poem at first, until the turn haha.

Don’t spill, Silver Satin’ll take the paint off a ship
but I’m making pickled pike in little jars
and it don’t matter if the wine tastes like shit
since it’s going to guys who know where the fish are.

Kill the tapeworms plaguing fish in the great lakes.
Head it, gut it, butter against the white fleshy grain,
onions, salt, and pepper, throw it in to bake.
Never freeze: it’ll never taste the same.

Alder and apple branches off the tree
softer smoke for trout, like maple vines.
Hot smoke for salmon: cherry, hickory.
Then soaked in molasses or soy-based brines.

A weaver in Bucovina has no doubt
the air holds smoky dreams of all her trout.

With this poem, I started with this poem that I wrote that I think is Bad:

Sometimes the critics get it wrong.
This is not a new take, and most will agree.
And yet/But still/Nevertheless,
there are scads of poems
(yes a poem about poetry, sue me)
overlooked, and most for good reason,
that sit in thrift shops. They sit
there, sentimental, lovely, droll,
the perfect shape and size
to turn your nose up.
They’re lazy, uninspired, unedited.
They laugh at a world where poetry
needs to hold its own weight,
where verse cannot ride on emotion
and strong feeling alone.
And yet/But still/Nevertheless,
although the critics might not see it,
(even if they were to read the poem)
I agree: sometimes trout are smoke.
It has nothing to do with hunger,
there’s no meaning but beauty,
no method but peering into
the stained glass of the heart
and writing what’s written there.

This is a poem I do not like, but I did like one singular image from it: “trout are smoke.” And in the moment when I closed the window and Word asked what if I wanted to save the document and what it should be called, I put in “smoke for trout.”

This phrase haunted me. I really liked it. But what did it mean? I tried to just use it in a poem but it wouldn’t come naturally. I had to see if someone else had ever, ever used the exact phrase “smoke for trout” before.

So I googled “smoke for trout” in quotes. And found, as is often the case when you google weird combinations of common words, a bunch of unlikely websites. Sites I would have never, ever seen were it not for this specific string of words being pretty rare.

So I copied all of the interesting instances of the phrase (along with some interesting other tidbits from these sites) into my document. Here’s an example of what that looked like from a fishing forum:

“…[Silver Satin] actually tastes like sh**, and will take the paint off the boat – so don’t spill.

“I know how to get pickled, I’ve read how some of you pickle your fish and I ate lots of northerns prepared this way as a kid, but I wonder if anybody has pickled lake trout?

“never freeze lake trout it just dont taste the same after. I use an apple wood and box alder smoke for trout or bake it by heading it gut it butter the inside onions salt and pepper

“He’s right about the Silver Satin too…most god-awful stuff I ever tasted.

“Apple all the way, baby … From the dried branches off my tree. :dance:

“Think softer smoke for trout, white meat fish with apple or alder woods, and for stronger smoke on salmon or others where you prefer more dominant smoke flavor, Cherry or Hickory. Alder and Cherry mix is bit lighter mix that work well with salmon and steelhead – particularly where you hae high moister content that will require a longer time in the smoker. Cherry is nice flavor for Salmon particularly when using molasses or soy based brines.

“Roughly chop the dill, and then pat the herb down onto the paste-covered salmon/Trout … Press well so that no pink(orange) from the salmon/Trout is visible … Quickly but not frenziedly, turn the fish over without its losing its paste and herb coating.

“Actually prefer the taste of a hot smoke for trout…”

And there were other sites that had the phrase “smoke for trout” too, including, most noticeably, a travel site for Bucovina.

I was really taken by all of these strangers’ writings that were in no way written to be poetic. So I took their lines and rearranged them into a poem! Here’s that poem:

Simply amazed by the beauty of wool rugs,
Bikes for everybody, including the young!
Learn how to make the thread, wave the carpet
You can learn how to smoke for trout.

For pike-Hot pink Super Fluke,
If you fish it with faith-they will come.
For Bass; a tube, Slow, circular fall
Either Black or smoke. For Trout,
Panther Martin With dressed treble.

THIS IS THE ONLY REASON TO KEEP THOSE SLIMY THINGS:
Put into small containers, pickled pike
Makes a welcome gift to friends
OFFER THIS ONLY TO YOUR BEST FRIENDS
AND GUYS WHO KNOW WHERE THE FISH ARE.

I know how to get pickled.
He’s right about the Silver Satin… most god-awful stuff I ever tasted
It’ll take the paint off the boat so don’t spill
No problem with y-bones, they will dissolve.

Never freeze lake trout it just don’t taste the same after.
Use an applewood box and alder smoke for trout
Or bake it by heading it gut it butter the inside onions salt and pepper
Apple all the way, from the dried branches off my tree.

Think softer smoke for trout,
White meat fish with apple or alder woods,
And for smoker smoke on salmon or others,
Cherry or Hickory.

Hopefully you can see how I used the exact quotes here. I actually really like this version of the poem, looking back on it. It’s quirky and I think a full-on cento is always kind of fun as a reader too. But there’s this little part of my brain that needs to refine and process and refine until it’s smooth as a stone. So I rewrote this in more of my own words:

Wine that takes the paint off a boat
pickled pike in little jars for the holidays
given to guys who know where the fish are

To kill white and writhing tapeworms
nosing for a home in small intestines
you must bake the lake trout.
Head it gut it butter the inside onions salt pepper
Never freeze: it just don’t taste the same after.

Applewood, dried branches off the tree
Think softer smoke for trout,
alder and apple, vine maple.
Hot smoke for salmon, cherry, hickory,
molasses and soy-based brines.

There’s a little place in Bucovina
with forest fruits and a skilled weaver.
Wool rugs, embroidery, mushrooms, a sauna.
The air holds the dreams of all her trout.

Then, because my brain loves to point this kind of thing out to me, I noticed how close the word “vine” was to rhyming with “brines” and thought, “how cool would it be if I made those rhyme?” I think seeing “lake” and “bake” close together also made me think this. So poetry-poisoned person that I am, I thought, “I bet I could make this into a sonnet. Wouldn’t that be funny if this crunchy poem about the technical aspects of fish smoking was actually a sonnet, a form of poetry most known for frilly, silly, lovey-dovey fluff?” So anyway, I wrote the sonnet that you read at the top of the page.

Let me know what you think! Which version of this did you like the best? The sonnet? The cento? The weird middle evolution?