Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 


Topic 18: Write a poem inspired by a favorite story.

Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

Antigone


Death upon death upon death stretch out
behind me. I come from a blood-thirsty
family, tormented by Gods, seemingly
without reason, for generations. I still
have many questions.

My father Oedipus was also my brother.
Unknowingly he’d killed my mother’s
first husband, his father. When she learned
she’d married her own son, her husband’s
murderer, my mother Jocasta killed herself.

She’d tried to circumvent the Oracle’s prophesy
by giving away her first-born son. He came back.
Can the Gods ever be tricked, or appeased?

Blinded by sorrow, Oedipus left the kingdom
of Thebes to his two son/brothers, to share.
My brothers killed each other in battle.

My uncle Creon claimed the throne of Thebes,
called my brother, Polydices, a traitor, refused
to allow his body proper burial rites. He then
arrested and imprisoned me for trying.

Had I actually buried him? Or, had I thrown
his ashes to the wind? Did this happen while
Oedipus still reigned? I hanged myself.

I was to marry my uncle’s son Haemon.
He saw my body, and joined me in death.
His mother, aunt Eurydice, killed herself
for sorrow.

Or, did Dionysus intervene, and Haemon
and I were married?

Or, did Haemon rescue me from his father,
hide me in a shepherd’s hut to give birth to
our son Maeon?

Was Maeon recognised by a dragon’s mark?

Did Heracles plead with Creon to spare our lives,
in vain?

Did Haemon then kill us all, so no one
got out of this alive? Do the Gods even know why?

(04-18-2017, 02:19 PM)just mercedes Wrote:  Antigone


Death upon death upon death stretch out
behind me. I come from a blood-thirsty
family, tormented by Gods, seemingly
without reason, for generations. I still
have many questions.

My father Oedipus was also my brother.
Unknowingly he’d killed my mother’s
first husband, his father. When she learned
she’d married her own son, her husband’s
murderer, my mother Jocasta killed herself.

She’d tried to circumvent the Oracle’s prophesy
by giving away her first-born son. He came back.
Can the Gods ever be tricked, or appeased?

Blinded by sorrow, Oedipus left the kingdom
of Thebes to his two son/brothers, to share.
My brothers killed each other in battle.

My uncle Creon claimed the throne of Thebes,
called my brother, Polydices, a traitor, refused
to allow his body proper burial rites. He then
arrested and imprisoned me for trying.

Had I actually buried him? Or, had I thrown
his ashes to the wind? Did this happen while
Oedipus still reigned? I hanged myself.

I was to marry my uncle’s son Haemon.
He saw my body, and joined me in death.
His mother, aunt Eurydice, killed herself
for sorrow.

Or, did Dionysus intervene, and Haemon
and I were married?

Or, did Haemon rescue me from his father,
hide me in a shepherd’s hut to give birth to
our son Maeon?

Was Maeon recognised by a dragon’s mark?

Did Heracles plead with Creon to spare our lives,
in vain?

Did Haemon then kill us all, so no one
got out of this alive? Do the Gods even know why?

A lot of people get pissy about the use of dashes or and/or and whatnot. In this case, sons/brothers is spot on from what I remember about Sophocles and whatnot.

                               
                                el Tiempo de Juego - Josefina Borbúa


                                my favorite story
                                has feet
                                instead of faces
                                confuses you
                                with me
                                and us
                                with ourselves

                                it's lush
                                with mangoes and sequoia trees
                                and streams that run to filthy slums and starving children and righteous revolutionaries
                                who
                                sometimes
                                (but not always)
                                become dictators

      Frank And Jesse Got Away

It makes a better story if Jesse was with ‘em,
but I never believed it.  They came up from
Missouri, hot with passion fueled Civil War grudges,
thought the Northfield bank was easy.

But Heywood, the head teller, had more in him than
anybody thought.  “There’s a time lock on the safe,”
Heywood lied, “and it can’t be opened now.” They shot
him anyway, as if that could change anything.

The Youngers and Millers ran their big chestnuts
and palominos up Division Street firing off pistols
and rifles to scare folks into the buildings, but

that’s where the shopkeepers kept their shotguns
and Division Street became the kill zone. Most shot–
Clell Miller, Billy Chadwell shot dead.  The rest of
them surrounded, captured near Madelia, bleeding out.

Cole Younger survived 13 bullet holes, then 26 years
in Stillwater Prison. Became a writer, publisher,
and supposedly a Christian in later life.

Mr fox had never known
there was a supermarket
with endless varieties
for all the woodland creatures.
He just knew there was better
than his hole, his newspaper
column and psycho farmers.
If this book was about communism it's pretty fantastic.

Enhancements


Puts one in mind of a story,
doesn’t it?

Many days ago, in fact
almost all the days except the last few
a man who was pretty much still a monkey
hit a stone nearby with
a stone he had with him.

Quite a few of those days later
a second man who was just as much a monkey
started hammering, too
they noticed they were making something
neither of them had before
call it rhythm.

This kind of thing kept happening:
one brought melody
and another brought melody
and they found they had harmony
sound to sound, speech.

Then it all became more mixed
as the second monkey brought
speech to melody: song
speech to rhythm: poetry.

Each monkey brought little;
each took more away
(but lost some monkey-ness).
That story had a name
“Stone Soup.”

My favourite story

Will be written by a man with a limp
who only writes in the mornings
when the light fills his study.
He hobbles down a cobblestone path
to buy fresh pastries and strong coffee,
always say good morning to a lady watering
her flowers who only smiles, then answers
himself yes I'm fine, how are you?

He works with an old typewriter
and inks the ribbon each day
his desk has a brown leather inlay,
the edges are dented and scuffed.
It has a drawer with pencil shavings
in the corner, a dictionary for when
the words aren't sharp enough.

When he finishes a chapter
as a treat he takes a cream tea
under his favourite tree
and watches the swallows
long into the afternoon.

His face has lines, eyes are kind
with a thought he takes a journey
beyond the pain in his leg
around the agapanthus out
through the open window
to travel across the downs,
running like a child along
the edge of the beach,
he cries when he types,
and stops to wipe his glasses.

Esther Afua Ocloo (1919 – 2002)

A Ghanaian entrepreneur,
pioneer of micro-lending, making small loans,
mother of business,
founder of Women's World Banking,

born in the Volta Region,
to a Ewe blacksmith and potter,
traveled weekly from home to the school,
taking food supplies each week,
which she cooked for herself to avoid expenses,
won a scholarship to Achimota School,
obtained the Cambridge School Certificate,

started a food processing business in the Gold Coast,
built a business of marmalade and orange juice
sponsored by Achimota College to study in England,
earned a cooking diploma from the Good Housekeeping Institute in London,
the first African,
returned to Ghana,

overcame prejudice against locally produced goods,
formed the first "Made-in-Ghana" goods exhibition,
elected as the first President of the Federation of Ghana Industries,
promoted credit to women, with small micro-loans,
found an economy for mothers and children,

died in Accra, Ghana of pneumonia
received a state funeral in Accra,
and was buried at her hometown, Peki Dzake,

honored by Evangelical Presbyterian Church, Ghana,
honored by all women association of Ghana,
honored by International Federation of Business and Professional Women,
honored by Junior Achievement,
honored at First Global Women Investment Exhibition,
honored by Peki Union,
honored by Women World Banking Ghana,
honored by Women World Banking International in Beijing,
honored by Beijing Women of Rochester,
honored with a Google Doodle,
honored on the Pen.

Tale off

I began telling the story, but
it soon became clear that I should write
it down. The pencil did at first, then a pen,
but things grew quickly from there, the typewriter
lasted only a day as the story grew in its dimensions.
Two was do-able, three was getting rather much, I booted up
the pc as it grew into the fourth. Now the shape of it is unregonisable,
extending in all directions. I have recently made the world's largest quantum
computer, just to hold the burgeoning story. I wonder if I should have started it at all,
it seems well beyond my control now and it is now bigger in size than the real world that we inhabit
now. It is infinite in scope, contains wisdom beyond telling; immeasurable secrets. I can't imagine what would happen if anyone were to read it.

(04-19-2017, 08:09 AM)Donald Q. Wrote:  Tale off

I began telling the story, but
it soon became clear that I should write
it down. The pencil did at first, then a pen,
but things grew quickly from there, the typewriter
lasted only a day as the story grew in its dimensions.
Two was do-able, three was getting rather much, I booted up
the pc as it grew into the fourth. Now the shape of it is unregonisable,
extending in all directions. I have recently made the world's largest quantum
computer, just to hold the burgeoning story. I wonder if I should have started it at all,
it seems well beyond my control now and it is now bigger in size than the real world that we inhabit
now. It is infinite in scope, contains wisdom beyond telling; immeasurable secrets. I can't imagine what would happen if anyone were to read it.

Love it Donald! Best read of the day, and that's saying something.

(04-19-2017, 08:09 AM)Donald Q. Wrote:  Tale off

I began telling the story, but
it soon became clear that I should write
it down. The pencil did at first, then a pen,
but things grew quickly from there, the typewriter
lasted only a day as the story grew in its dimensions.
Two was do-able, three was getting rather much, I booted up
the pc as it grew into the fourth. Now the shape of it is unregonisable,
extending in all directions. I have recently made the world's largest quantum
computer, just to hold the burgeoning story. I wonder if I should have started it at all,
it seems well beyond my control now and it is now bigger in size than the real world that we inhabit
now. It is infinite in scope, contains wisdom beyond telling; immeasurable secrets. I can't imagine what would happen if anyone were to read it.

all the love

---

Two Suns


Open to wind blowing over distant sands,
dome to the left and spire to the right.
The boy exits -- climbs out of the buried door,
swaggers on to the ridge just ahead.
Close up to his face, young and handsome,
with eyes that match the darkening horizon.
Two suns ahead, the lower sunset orange,
the higher white hot. The boy bows,
looks up again. Cue epiphany. The wind
combs his hair. Fade to home, interior...

(04-19-2017, 08:09 AM)Donald Q. Wrote:  Tale off

I began telling the story, but
it soon became clear that I should write
it down. The pencil did at first, then a pen,
but things grew quickly from there, the typewriter
lasted only a day as the story grew in its dimensions.
Two was do-able, three was getting rather much, I booted up
the pc as it grew into the fourth. Now the shape of it is unregonisable,
extending in all directions. I have recently made the world's largest quantum
computer, just to hold the burgeoning story. I wonder if I should have started it at all,
it seems well beyond my control now and it is now bigger in size than the real world that we inhabit
now. It is infinite in scope, contains wisdom beyond telling; immeasurable secrets. I can't imagine what would happen if anyone were to read it.

Delightful

The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch

In every man I see, it’s you I see.
Mechanical handed, you masticate,
with mechanical teeth, better CAN-D.
You’re proximate cause for a better fate
than pliable Pat. You substantiate
that grief is truest here. A bubble head
won’t get a girl who’d go obliviate
her self. A god would get it. I am lead
through darkest Martian nights, revive what’s dead
in me, when I Chew-Z. I am Chew-Z,
and one with God when you choose me. My head
is yours, my heart, and through your eye I see
that death has come for me in you, and you,
in me, will see the best of me, in you.

Hope this amuses my fellow Dickheads here (if there are any). If you've not read the book, I would guess this thing is little more than gobbly gook

(04-19-2017, 03:56 PM)FranklinsMan Wrote:  The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch

In every man I see, it’s you I see.
Mechanical handed, you masticate,
with mechanical teeth, better CAN-D.
You’re proximate cause for a better fate
than pliable Pat. You substantiate
that grief is truest here. A bubble head
won’t get a girl who’d go obliviate
her self. A god would get it. I am lead
through darkest Martian nights, revive what’s dead
in me, when I Chew-Z. I am Chew-Z,
and one with God when you choose me. My head
is yours, my heart, and through your eye I see
that death has come for me in you, and you,
in me, will see the best of me, in you.

Hope this amuses my fellow Dickheads here (if there are any). If you've not read the book, I would guess this thing is little more than gobbly gook

On some level, I hate that I understand this. I think you captured a lot of Dick's drug trip that resulted in this novel. Very cool.

(04-19-2017, 11:06 PM)Todd Wrote:  

(04-19-2017, 03:56 PM)FranklinsMan Wrote:  The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch

In every man I see, it’s you I see.
Mechanical handed, you masticate,
with mechanical teeth, better CAN-D.
You’re proximate cause for a better fate
than pliable Pat. You substantiate
that grief is truest here. A bubble head
won’t get a girl who’d go obliviate
her self. A god would get it. I am lead
through darkest Martian nights, revive what’s dead
in me, when I Chew-Z. I am Chew-Z,
and one with God when you choose me. My head
is yours, my heart, and through your eye I see
that death has come for me in you, and you,
in me, will see the best of me, in you.

Hope this amuses my fellow Dickheads here (if there are any). If you've not read the book, I would guess this thing is little more than gobbly gook

On some level, I hate that I understand this. I think you captured a lot of Dick's drug trip that resulted in this novel. Very cool.

I'm glad you liked it. When writing this, I better understood that story than I had when reading it. I hadn't realized how troubling it is. Still a good read, though.

(04-20-2017, 06:03 AM)FranklinsMan Wrote:  

(04-19-2017, 11:06 PM)Todd Wrote:  

(04-19-2017, 03:56 PM)FranklinsMan Wrote:  The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch

In every man I see, it’s you I see.
Mechanical handed, you masticate,
with mechanical teeth, better CAN-D.
You’re proximate cause for a better fate
than pliable Pat. You substantiate
that grief is truest here. A bubble head
won’t get a girl who’d go obliviate
her self. A god would get it. I am lead
through darkest Martian nights, revive what’s dead
in me, when I Chew-Z. I am Chew-Z,
and one with God when you choose me. My head
is yours, my heart, and through your eye I see
that death has come for me in you, and you,
in me, will see the best of me, in you.

Hope this amuses my fellow Dickheads here (if there are any). If you've not read the book, I would guess this thing is little more than gobbly gook

On some level, I hate that I understand this. I think you captured a lot of Dick's drug trip that resulted in this novel. Very cool.

I'm glad you liked it. When writing this, I better understood that story than I had when reading it. I hadn't realized how troubling it is. Still a good read, though.

    Dick was a non-fiction writer. His precoging of the internets created them.

The Albuquerque Door

Ben doesn’t like carrots 
anymore, and Denise is no longer 
his wife. The rabbit missed
the left turn, and hunters
are coming through the depths
of the fog. It’s Wabbit Season,
a time to travel without scars,
and not return—
even when you do.

A New Way of Delight

Sweetest Diana, won't you come over?
I'll make you raspberry cordial
and spike it on purpose – amaretto
would be divinity. Maybe we'll reveal
the truth about our friendship,
loosen our bosoms and make untainted
plum pudding together.
I'll quote you Tennyson by lamplight,
and forget about Gilbert's carrot forever.