NaPM April 3 2015

[milo]

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 3: Ray would like to see a poem about the Circus, particularly concerning nostalgia, food or a terrible accident.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[just mercedes]

I never went to the circus as a child
 
 
I wanted to go. Once I was sent to buy tickets
and I gripped the banknote tightly, pleased
to be trusted. The office wasn’t open yet
so while I waited I checked out the monkeys
in cages. One came close to me, held out his paw
through the bars, and I held out my hand -
he looked so sad - and he stole my money
right out from between my fingers,
put it in his mouth, and chewed.
I went home crying. My father laughed.
 
A lifetime later, when my father was 30 years dead
I went to the last traveling circus in Australia.
A frosty high-country autumn night; in the ring
a dejected elephant kept picking up sand
and tossing it over her back, sand warmed
by the Big Top lights. My friend flirted
with the elephant keeper - a big girl, Barb,
good-natured and ponderous, he handled her easily.
It’s cruel to take an elephant into snow country.
I’ve hated Hannibal ever since.
 
 
 

[ellajam]

Cause and Effect or Coincidence

The view is fine from this close space
so near the tight-pulled patchwork tarp;
the bubbleheads are packed below,
each hat confetti on the mass.

I set my sights across the span,
align my spine, my shoulders squared.
I find my center, set my smile
and take off on my usual walk
with pole in hand, the wire taut.

Each step is sure, while one small boy
whose mother thinks he is so sweet,
gets itchy from the silent awe.
A glow of mischief in his eye,
he burrows round until he's found
the sharpened pencil in his pack
to prick his souvenir balloon.

The pop rings out, it carries sharp,
a bullet through the magic spell.
A pause, a slide, a wobbled step,
I spread my wings but catch no air.

[cidermaid]

At thirteen I went to the circus.
He took me, after he had deserted us;
with his new girlfriend of course.
We walked right in on fresh grass,
with ringside seats and a stage pass.
There was no where to hide
from Father’s lack of guile,
or her over egged fake smile.

The pony was a tedious bore.
The dog was an attention whore
and his girlfriend laughed like a horse.
I briefly enjoyed the trapeze tricks,
but the clown looked sad and sick;
quite frankly he looked undignified.
The two best clowns to be found
were sat holding hands spellbound.

[billy]

april 3rd naptha month

An Elephant Called Me with it's Trumpet:

The big top spun;

poster-painted panels
turned me upside down to see, a tiger at one corner
chimps upon its back, and jugglers throwing
knives that flew up high while falling back.
Feather-crested horses stepped the foxtrot
to the right, and midget clowns in braces
raced around in orange light.

At first i bought some candy floss
the pink cloud tasted sweet
when i showed my ticket to the blond
she showed me to my seat;
ringside.

I caught a splash of custard
as the high wire act began
and with mouth agape i stood
to almost shit my pants.

A team of dogs played football
the monkeys ate some tea
and all the time an elephant was serenading me.

[jasmine.m.wardiya]

I am rooted to the seat
and yet flying,
arms reaching for threads too fine,
legs wrapping poles that slip
away...

In a breath they vanish, into smoke and glittering colours
but they're still flying, still calling -
They reach out their hands and I fly with them

And then the thunderous applause shatters
this dream: broken glass underfoot
and this numb cushion of mine, unpalatable
after the sweet cold air in my throat
and on my back in this tight fitting
wingsuit I'd worn...

They've taken the wingsuit now
and their illusion as well.

[Erthona]

Circus Memories  

Elephant poop:
horse poop
and the smell of vomit
from having too much
cotton candy:
popcorn
and
excitement.

Erthona



©2015

[Todd]

The Flying Graysons

When you’re a child,
and have never suffered loss.
You only see the bar swinging in space,
feel the familiar rhythm
of catch and release.
You are a spinning coin tossed
in the air, caught
forever in the uncertainty
between life and death.
 
There is no net, no illusion of safety.
Life is motion, always motion
even when you fall—
especially when you fall.
Your parents understood.
 
You will no longer see the crowd,
but they will see you:
like a photograph,
a boy knelt down
tracing the bloody smiles
of his parents.
 
They will remember you,
like they remember me.

[Tiger the Lion]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uG4PxO3u5pk
I'm not sure if I could top John Lennon on this Good Friday. But if I could sing for him...
Being for the Benefit of Poetry
 
For the benefit of poetry
imagine you, imagine me
on trampoline.
 
The Joneses in their flashy cars
don’t make the stops at topless bars
and miss the scene.
 
Over tea and crumpets, buttered scones,
and lastly through a dog’s head of real time,
I could own Mr. Jones and challenge the world.
 
The celebrated travesty
of topping you to better me
is out of date.
 
The Joneses don’t view trampolines
as springboards to financial means;
they delegate.
 
Missus J and I assure the public
our debate will never be second to one.
And of course, if we get hoarse we’ll dance a waltz!
 
The band begins at ten to ten
I hope we are both drunk by then
and hear the sound
 
of artists in their element
performing their experiments
for common ground.
 
Having spent our days in reparation
catharsis is now guaranteed for all.
And tonight my flee or fight is paying the bill!

[Erthona]

Pretty high level pieces by all, good work.

Dale

[rayheinrich]

              < Headin' down the Midway* >       (*Sideshow Alley)
               
                Foot-long flaming hot dogs
                guaranteed to save your soul.
                Jesus slips his meat in
                while the Devil toasts your roll.
               
                Women slice their breasts off,
                then each man cuts off his balls.
                They fry them up in butter
                and the best get Kewpie dolls.
               
                Gypsies snap your head off,
                let you toss it in a ring.
                If it stays inside it
                then you get to keep the thing.
               
                Burning men and women
                light the midway up at night.
                Doused in wax they're screaming,
                it's distracting, but it's bright.
               
                Ask them where the Circus is,
                they'll tell you with a smile:
                "Stay here on the midway,
                  it's about a half-a-mile."

                            - - -

[milo]

Circus Days

The circus was a song 
that started the day they came town
and father caught the tune.

A railroad pocket watch
tarnished next to the brass of the big top;
his fangspanner spent time

taunting imaginary lions.
I've never seen an elephant
smile. Mother follows now

in doleful slowness, tied 
to an invisible rope that leads her
from circus to circus.

She never lifts her eyes
to see the high-wire tumblers
flipping like a grifter's

50-cent piece. glinting 
in the spotlights.  She stares at safety
on the sold ground
and waits.

[Keith]

Bringing down the tents

The hammers clanged
on mushroomed spikes
that held the big top
high at night.

The seats were stacked,
dense bails of hay,
but something mechanical
came our way.

Sawdust gone,
toffee apples rot
the waltzer spins
a circus forgot.

The family trades,
the skills the passion,
lost to screams
teddy boy fashion.

Look to the hill
see lions cry
and into the sunset
elephants fly.

[billy]

just read them, looking good guys.

[bena]

Sorry I'm so far behind, I'm trying, I swear.  It's annoying (but typical) for me to be blocked when I need to be flowing. \



In a Nutshell

The acrid artificial taste
of baby aspirin orange
plied my 4 year old nervousness
about this three ringed fiasco.

Fear of tiger attacks,
of tossed confetti water,
of the vast unknown
hit my stomach hard,

and when the tightrope walker slipped
off her wire,
my trust in the net waned.

Screaming and puking clown-colored vomit,
mother dragged me out.

To this day,
circus peanuts turn my stomach--

three times.

[Todd]

I liked the entries here. Most of the poems ended on a really somber note. Standouts for me were:

Milo's Circus Days, especially a really beautiful opening strophe. I always tend to identify the circus by its music and the way he did that opening just set the mood for a haunting little piece.

I liked how AJ's poem really picked up momentum in the second half and used the circus to deal with a child's disappointment and disillusionment in a parent. It became a nice frame to hang everything on.

I liked Keith's mushroomed spikes, and everything from the sawdust line down. It seemed sad like the end of childhood.

My favorite parts of Ella's and Billy's were the final stanzas.

There was more I liked clown colored vomit, men and women doused in wax. Good images, hard prompt I thought, but a lot of well put together pieces.