Young Writers Society

I have two poetry portfolios to fill so most of my attempts this year will fit one or the other.

The first:

Title: Sirens in Suburbia; required.
Length: 15-20 pages of poetry.
Themes: Myths and their impact on modern day society. Myths in the modern world. Mythical characters. Legends. Modern myths. Seperating the fact from mythdom. Rebirth, misunderstanding/ misinterpretation. Unruliness. Conflict.
Styles: Limericks, ballads, common metre, sestinas, avoid free verse.

The second:

Title: Pending; not required.
Length: 150 lines.
Themes: From how I killed your mother to buttercups and daisy chains. Also known as anything goes.
Styles: Experimental poetry only! Homonyms, phrase manipulation, mesostics, the coin game, googlism, alphabeticals etc.

I'll be writing the first later today and I'll put a warning at the head of any that require a rating. Good luck to anyone else taking part!

Challenges:

Feel free to challenge me to write a certain kind of poem; I like fun games! (Plus there's a good chance it will fall under the experimental poetry catalogue.)

1A) The Man in the Moon

There was a young man with a spoon
who thought he made all ladies swoon
One night he got drunk
and fell out of his bunk
so now there's no man in the moon

Acrostic chance poems, using Virginia Woolf's Between the Acts as the template. The last two are combinations of two, taking my favourite lines from each. I'll have to decide how much of the original language I'm allowed to change when I edit later. I may go with punctuation and subtraction; no additions.

2A) Between the Acts of the Acts

big room with the windows open
Entangled, by her husband the stockbroker
tackle there, he was still so very particular
was not in books the answer to his question
emotion circling them, excluding her
excluding her. She waited, as one waits for the strain of an organ to die
not, where we go not, neither know nor care
The words were like the first peal of a chime
History – and had spent hours between three and five
eyes, gobbling, 'Please, Mrs Giles Oliver, do me
a summer's night and they were talking
cesspool. The county council had promised
the first peal of a chime of bells.
She saw the Arch In Whitehall; through the Arch

2B) Between the Acts of the Acts

Village idiot, who always tore down
in his fright, and saw
rain at times. He put down the paper and
gaping Lucy, or the wind'll change
it. He turned. 'Heel!' he bawled
no human being ever came, never
if he were commanding a regiment.
a summer's night and they were talking
was chuckling over the placard under the shade
old men in rooms off Jermyn Street
of the book cases: The moor is dark beneath the
looking-glass, for a word to fit the infinity
for her favourite reading – an Outline of History.

2C) Between the Acts of the Acts

very clever woman, had she fixed her gaze
into the past or future; or sidelong down
reflecting. What? What remedy was there for her
glass case there was a watch that had stopped a bullet
in that very room rebuking her
not, where we go not, neither know nor care
in that very room – but in a very different world,
a summer's night and they were talking
would settle it; or the Encyclopaedia
old ladies at Wimbledon who were so proud
O'Neils, of their descent from the kings of Ireland
little game with the paper hadn't worked
from her chair, in her faded dressing-gown.

2D) Between the Acts of the Acts

But you don't remember
early morning. The dew was on the grass
the cross with her fingers
was chuckling over the placard under the shade
eight times. Mrs Swithin drew the curtain
escape from nature. Weren't four horses needed to
never, never, never, the books would be mouldy
they are – the darlings!
House; man had built his house in a hollow.
eighteenth-century winter; when for a whole month
a summer's night and they were talking
circled with a tangle of dirty duckweed
the darlings! The perambulator was passing
says: Variable winds; fair average temperature; rain at times.

2E) Between the Acts of the Acts

very clever woman, had she fixed her gaze
into the past or future; or sidelong down
reflecting. What? What remedy was there for her
glass case there was a watch that had stopped a bullet
in that very room rebuking her
not, where we go not, neither know nor care
in that very room – but in a very different world,
a summer's night and they were talking
would settle it; or the Encyclopaedia
old ladies at Wimbledon who were so proud
old men in rooms off Jermyn Street
looking-glass, for a word to fit the infinity
for her favourite reading – an Outline of History.

2F) Between the Acts of the Acts

But you don't remember
early morning, her husband the stockbroker,
the cross with her fingers
was not in books the answer to his question
emotion circling them, excluding her
excluding her. She waited, as one waits for the strain of an organ to die
not, where we go not, neither know nor care
The words were like the first peal of a chime
History – and had spent hours between three and five
eyes, gobbling, 'Please, Mrs Giles Oliver, do me
a summer's night and they were talking
cesspool. The county council had promised
the first peal of a chime of bells.
says: Variable winds; fair average temperature; rain at times.

2D, "But you don't remember/early morning." Love. That. I may have to steal it I like it so much. <3

A little early to be resorting to line stealing, dear? With that said, doooo it!

3A) A Visit From the Bone-Man

There is no rain where the bone man goes
and he drinks the rivers dry
and a man who meets the bone man knows
that the bone man's not alive.

But the man's left dead on the sandy bank
by the river that's drunk dry
but his wife, she doesn't know what to think
but she knows that the bone man's a lie.

Well the wife's found dead below the bridge
where the river was drunk dry
well the boy sees a man atop of the ridge
well he knows that the bone man's alive.

Now the boy goes hunting with his bow
near the river that's drunk dry
Now he draws and he waits and he goes
Now he shoots and he hits and he knows
the way the bone man dies.

Not happy with this one. I wanted to get in other details like how the myth follows that the bone man's heart is secretly in his little finger. I also want to bring in the modern day rag and bone men and how they've been revived recently because of the value of scrap metal. So yeah... this one's more of a starting point to get me thinking about the bone man.

Alright so reading other NaPo threads instead of writing poetry does not result in poetry. I really need to learn how not to procrastinate.

Neither does watching Lolita.

This one has a 16 rating for some mild language and a generally disturbing context. Or it will when it's actually a poem.

4) Scraps, eventually to be known as The Sandman

Nabokov wrote a book on it; Lolita
doesn't mean a damn of course
'cos no-one understands.
My first was the neighbour's daughter; Jailbait.
Why? Because I'm sick in the head,
because I can.

There is a window in the nursery
eighteen inches by twenty-four;
I measured it one time
out of curiosity while she sat kicking
her legs on the lilac throw.

I tell them I'm the sandman,
come to put them to sleep
but there's a tooth fairy exchange;
dreams come at a price
and so do children.

Jailbait.

So, did you want that in writing?

5) Theseus to Ariadne
After helping Theseus defeat her half brother, the Minotaur, Ariadne is abandoned on an island.

What would you have done
with a kingdom of sons
(not to mention the daughters)
depending on you.
I'd have made the same pledge
with the devil
and shook with my left -
though we never did shake.

I'd enter a gamble
at a hundred against
that you'd find a man
with an uglier face
than the one on your head
or a man that would willingly
take you to bed.

I was deceived;
it was dark in the hall
and now you have the gall
to call me the thief.

I'd do it again without all your help;
take back the sword
and the twine and if I die
I'll meet a heroes' end.

5. I really love this. Great use of the myth, great tone, good flow. The only thing I'd change is the second last line, which I'd have as:
"and the twine: If I die".
Think that would make it more powerful.

Also, "heroes'" should be "hero's".

Thanks Jas!

Today has been crazy so just a short one and only just in time.

6) Spring

Snow laden branches
devoured by calm tongues of fire:
the phoenix is life.

It's going to be a sestina, this is what I have so far and it will hopefully be done before I go to bed:

*Edit* Well it's getting closer! Just two stanzas and the closing tercet to go

7) A Hero's Day Off

I knew the moment I woke up. It was time for a break.
Before I scratched my balls or smoked my cigarette
or watered the flowers outside my window; make no mistake
it wasn't anything personal. I can only express my sincere regret
for what followed on. That it should fall on your day to be saved
that I needed the rest. But I think you'll agree that it had to be done.

I scratched my balls and I knew already, something had to be done
about the mountain of clothes that needed a wash, about the break
in the fence that needed a patch or the coupons I'd saved;
nothing but mould in the fridge and on the side my last cigarette
that I smoked as I pissed on the flowers – which I half regret
but it was later, after the screws and the scream that I made my mistake.

My last cigarette in the pack had been smoked. It was a mistake
to think I could function on cravings alone. And after I'd done
and after the flowers I gave it a shake and thought with regret
that I needed to shop. I left with the coupons and left through the break
in the fence, reminded of screws that needed to follow my next cigarette
so I stopped by the house of a man from last week, a man who I saved

from a cigarette fire. It's hard buying cigs when the money you've saved
is from hand-outs or coins or those snack bar machines. An easy mistake
is to think I'm a bum from the way that I rummage or scrummage a quick cigarette
with the hook of my thumb. Resuming my walk to the shop on the corner, I'd done
some thinking about screws and then screwing your grandmother's daughter. A break
you remember, that's what you said. Hardware and hard times but I only regret

that I pissed on the flowers picked from my garden. But I lie, I digress for I also regret
the waking and wanting a break from the boredom. I couldn't count how many I've saved

I'm not sure if these are all one poem or a string of poems. That's what you get with Experimental Writing! Basically it's the 'Lost in Translation' exercise, where you take a poem and translate it back and forth between other languages.

Still working on yesterday's.

Lost in Translation

There were words you used to whisper,
strings of incoherency
like the wings of a butterfly.
I'd sit one side of the telephone
and listen for the echo of your brain
but it was paper
and the ink was missing.

Lost in Translation

there were the words that you use,
a whisper,
strings of disjointed therefore,
as the wings of a butterfly.
I was sitting a side of the phone
and you hear the echo of your brain,
but it was paper and the ink is missing.

When the translation lost

there were words that the use,
flüstern, strings of inconsistently
therefore as wings of a between.
I would like a page,
the phone numbers of seats,
listen for the echo of their brain,
but it was paper and the ink is lacking.

Translation is lost

the terms used when the flu,
while for the stern,
as the wings were a string.
I am the phone number for the seat
of the brain for echo to listen to it,
the page, but the paper and ink are missing.

Translation is lost

the terms used when influenza,
whereas for the stern,
as the wings were a string.
I am the phone number
of the headquarters of the brain
of echo to listen to it,
the page, but the paper and ink
are missing.

"", "has been destroyed

when the terms of influenza
is used for strictly while,
as one of the wings are not.
I am in the headquarters of the brain
of telephone number to listen
to understand it,
paper and ink left, but are missing.

Rated 16 for swearing and pathetic-ness

9a) Bamboozled

Violets are red
Roses are blue
I've stolen a poem
Haha fuck you.

9b) Untitled

Addled brains caught
dancing ever forward.
Guarded, Hidden. In
Jeopardy's kingdom lies
minotaurs, Narcissus
opposed.
Potent questions rise
south, tried under
velocity; wayward x-rays
yield zen.

9a sums up my entire *life*. Well, sort of. It made me giggle, which I needed. <3 And uh, the translation one is epic. Yes.

There will be two poems from me today to make up for my lack of anything yesterday. First, a collab using lines from ScarlettFire, Cadi, PenguinAttack and myself:

10) Peter Took my Socks to Neverland

I always failed at paper dolls
two sheets short of a line.
I’d sketch out noses, hidden trees,
still working the margin for letters that count,
penning tales of pots and bellies and pigs
or eight-legged beasts, the oak debris.

I think Peter took my socks to neverland
where the nymphettes swallow their pride,
snuffling softly beneath shady trees
(Leaves greener than my inky scrawls).
The Nymphs wore black today
Paper weird like my mind's eye,
betrayed in a wooden mask
of their doppelganger kind.

Charming words in silky spaces
and charm is green ink on white paper.

So much for two poems yesterday. Let's try this again, shall we?

Here's draft one:

11) Sirens in Suburbia

You wait for the sunrise
with your lips half open
to swallow it whole,
a pocket-full of naivety behind your eyes
and your halo of hair,
tangled.

You creatures of light are
all the same,
conformity. Row upon row
of little houses like dominoes
and I will huff and I'll puff-

for I am a siren
and the ice cream truck doesn't stop
here in the winter.