NaPM April 03 2016

[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 03: Heslopian would like to see a poem inspired by "Danse Macabre" in the traditional sense as defined by google:  a medieval allegorical representation in which a personified Death leads all types of people to the grave, intended to emphasize the equality of all before death.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[heslopian]

The Old Carnation-Seller

- She lives in leaves, he said,
much more than in the walkways of
this town, the school, the bridal shop
in which her sister's due to stand.

The sermon went like that,
a glory to the dead and bright.

The tomb was much the same:
her pale face designed to stand
above the place where Christians might,
on bended knee with gaze upraised,
observe a tear inside
the cranny of a downcast eye.

The year was 1868.
I loved her more than any lad,
who may have given dowry to
her selfish dad, her sullen mum.

(Does each and ev'ry saint
deserve a cold and vacant home?
The root as stony as the sprout?)

I saw her in the churchyard last,
immersed in conversation with
an old and hobbled man.
A wicker basket hung on one
outstretched and resting arm,
across the low stone wall.

His basket brimmed with carnations,
the centre beige, the skirts red-flecked.
- A metaphor for life, he grinned,
along his worn and charming face.

(These things I somehow knew,
despite a space betwixt ourselves
that should deny the eavesdropper.)

She listened, rapt,
and like a dream the earth gripped me,
so even though I saw the end
that waited for her crippled gaze -
although to break this union
I would insult the tombstone maze,
and vault the graves to take her arm -
I couldn't save her from the harm
this old carnation-seller brought...

Away they danced,
and as I watched, below a tree
I saw him find a new captive:
a rich man decked in livery,
divorced from his lost horse-and-trap.

[milo]

The Old Carnation Seller

- She lives in leaves, he said,
much more than in the walkways of
this town, the school, the bridal shop
in which her sister's due to stand.

The sermon went like that,
a glory to the dead and bright.

The tomb was much the same:
her pale face designed to stand
above the place where Christians might,
on bended knee with gaze upraised,
observe a tear inside
the cranny of a downcast eye.

The year was 1868.
I loved her more than any lad,
who may have given dowry to
her selfish dad, her sullen mum.

(Does each and ev'ry saint
deserve a cold and vacant home?
The root as stony as the sprout?)

I saw her in the churchyard last,
immersed in conversation with
an old and hobbled man.
A wicker basket hung on one
outstretched and resting arm,
across the low stone wall.

His basket brimmed with carnations,
the centre beige, the skirts red-flecked.
- A metaphor for life, he grinned,
along his worn and charming face.

(These things I somehow knew,
despite a space betwixt ourselves
that should deny the eavesdropper.)

She listened, rapt,
and like a dream the earth gripped me,
so even though I saw the end
that waited for her crippled gaze -
although to break this union
I would insult the tombstone maze,
and vault the graves to take her arm -
I couldn't save her from the harm
this old carnation seller brought...

Away they danced,
and as I watched, below a tree
I saw him find a new captive:
a rich man decked in livery,
divorced from his lost horse-and-trap.

Jesus Christ this is good, Jack.  You were waiting for this one, weren't you?

[heslopian]

Thanks, milo I started writing it straight from the hip, didn't really know where to go with it for a while, then decided to make it a ghost story, just 'cause I fookin' love Victorian ghost stories.

[milo]

Thanks, milo I started writing it straight from the hip, didn't really know where to go with it for a while, then decided to make it a ghost story, just 'cause I fookin' love Victorian ghost stories.

I am envious.  Stuff this good should not come easy.

[heslopian]

Oh, it didn't come easy. At one point I slammed my fist on the desk and almost spilt me Coke everywhere

[milo]

Good, I feel better now.

[just mercedes]

Madre Muerte



Delicate night fruit
her feet, light-sensitive.
She rejects worshippers.
She is mother, must eat,
ignores embroidery from
cathedrals abandoned
to despair. Stumbling
with her skirts up
down Calle Dolores,
her skull necklace muttering
through dark rank alleys,
incense smouldering
in chalices, shadowed,
she defines pain and light.
Snuffing black candles,
shaking bone posada,
the scowling goddess
surfaces into full sun
to dance your death
tongue-kissed,
homing in.

---

Oh, it didn't come easy. At one point I slammed my fist on the desk and almost spilt me Coke everywhere

But you said 'betwixt' and I love you for that.

[Weeded]

Awoke in a cold sweat
in a grand casino
surrounded by women and men regal
when I seen a poor little boy who was dancing
naked and covered in mud and some weeds,
smiling wide with a set of half missing teeth.
He motioned toward me, but I turned
thinking how I'd much rather throw down on a turn
of dice, of rollers and pimp games
like poker, or anything with a nickname.
I called for a drink but it never came,
so I tried to escape but there wasn't a way.

The boy tugged with the strength of a horse-man,
He got me to dance but my spirit worsened,
this is not how it should be I know first hand
after seeing so many a man in danse.

We made it outside and I found my ride,
but couldn't get in it cuz it wasn't mine,
I cursed and I cursed I became so wicked,
I'm at the end of the line and without a ticket
to the danse, so now im forced to dance,
without my J's or my chains or Versace pants,
in the cold winds under a Karachi sun
we all do the danse when our time is done.

[just mercedes]

Powerful work. Sir Slant

[Weeded]

Thanks JM, same to you, as always

[Queerventions]

The Old Carnation Seller

- She lives in leaves, he said,
much more than in the walkways of
this town, the school, the bridal shop
in which her sister's due to stand.

The sermon went like that,
a glory to the dead and bright.

The tomb was much the same:
her pale face designed to stand
above the place where Christians might,
on bended knee with gaze upraised,
observe a tear inside
the cranny of a downcast eye.

The year was 1868.
I loved her more than any lad,
who may have given dowry to
her selfish dad, her sullen mum.

(Does each and ev'ry saint
deserve a cold and vacant home?
The root as stony as the sprout?)

I saw her in the churchyard last,
immersed in conversation with
an old and hobbled man.
A wicker basket hung on one
outstretched and resting arm,
across the low stone wall.

His basket brimmed with carnations,
the centre beige, the skirts red-flecked.
- A metaphor for life, he grinned,
along his worn and charming face.

(These things I somehow knew,
despite a space betwixt ourselves
that should deny the eavesdropper.)

She listened, rapt,
and like a dream the earth gripped me,
so even though I saw the end
that waited for her crippled gaze -
although to break this union
I would insult the tombstone maze,
and vault the graves to take her arm -
I couldn't save her from the harm
this old carnation seller brought...

Away they danced,
and as I watched, below a tree
I saw him find a new captive:
a rich man decked in livery,
divorced from his lost horse-and-trap.

I love the vocab you used in this. It's very descriptive.
Sorry if I don't have much in the way of constructive feedback. Up until this year I've disliked poetry lol
Anyways! I had a slight hard time visualizing the words. The part about the wicker baskets was good though.

[Leanne]

Hi and welcome, Queerventions -- you don't need to leave critiques here in the NaPM threads, so if you want to jump straight in and write your own poem, go ahead. It will go through moderation so it won't appear straight away, but we'll get onto it as soon as we can.

[Queerventions]

Thanatos

I lay deep within the crevices
of the unknown.
Many know me yet do not.
None have seen me
but cannot erase my image.

Some believe they have the answer.
Others refuse to give me credit.
Few live as if I do not exist.
Fools.

I have seen many faces.
Traveled vast distances.
All in the pursuit
to get what I deserve.
To get my rightful earnings.

I will pluck every fruit.
Steal each bond.
Destroy all earnings.
And replace nothing.

I am the angel.
I am the beast.
I am the savior.
I am death personified.

[cidermaid]

Just a woodcut.


Tradesman:       I cannot stop and dance, I must to market to sell my wares.
                        I will not tarry with you; damask drapes will only waltz
                        and I must trot along. I’ve been allotted a plot to trade;
                        to this spot I must haste,  before the day is laid to waste.

                       Besides, you cannot hide behind the subtlety
                       of your disguise.  You seek to entertain me unawares,
                       detain me ‘til the sun has set and closed the fair.  
                       My enemy has sent you.  A snare to fool me late.

                       I will not danse with you.  I like my partners
                       plump and ripe.  I know not this tango, of which
                       you speak.  I do not seek to twist or tangle feet,
                       or be footloose in freedom’s feast.  Although…

                       it brings to mind the stomp of older times;
                       when the clonk of clogs was used to keep
                       the roaring beasts at bay the night before,
                       whilst the coffin lay in wait, for day-break.

                      Then we would prance in clogs, down to the grave.
                      A last dance, before we laid our love to rest and…
 Death:           Wait!  I see a lion creep to feast upon thy flesh.
                      Here take my clogs to beat the bounds on his intent.

Tradesman:     Alas, I need a wooden box to jump upon, to make
                      sufficient noise to get that sort to leave his prey.
Death:           This yonder yard, will doubtless provide, a casket
                     broad and wide, to ward the lion’s wiles away.

Tradesman:    I will not lay my burdens down, for I will soon
                    be going to town.  Alas again.  It weighs heavy
                    upon my back; I lack the strength of youth,
                    to leap and strike my feet in drum like beats.

Death:          Is that blood that gushes from below?  I fear
                   you may have stubbed your toe.  It is but
                   a small wood cut and yet a cruel and bitter blow,
                   mortal from the flow.  The danse infects thy wound.


Inspiration taken from Holbein's woodcut of the tradesman on his way to Lyon.  (Might yet post up image if I workshop this and turn this into a ...forgotten the name of it type of poem!)
Looked it up Ekphrastic poetry.  

[Achebe]

Danse Macabre

School picnic photo c 1965:
in the background, Chester cathedral risen
like a mountain of stone.

The boy with a book died last year from the love
of cigarettes, though the girl
smiling through her malachite eyes
(can you tell from the sepia tints?)
tried for years, disappearing from our lives,
sweet Miranda, flower of stone.

In the centre, three children strike dancing poses
hands interlocked, soundless laughter ringing,
as at their side, another prepares to dismember 
a liquorice stick while enjoined in the singing
of ring-a-ring-o-roses
under the gargoyles' noses,
old song that old stones remember.

[bedeep]

Your Turn Soon

in the nursing home
I turn the old gal side to side
every two hours
bedsores at least
we can avert

downstairs in the lounge
they're gathered
with their drool and walkers
some wheeled in chairs
whether they wanted to go
or not

today for an hour
two smiling performers
drum for the elders
a gentle rocking tatoo
that thrums in the floor
turns figures on the air

now see the chorus
of hypnotized ancients
lift up and walk on
turn by turn with the beat
these drums are kind
to keep a slow pace
for the meek

[billy]

The two-step darkly

Whimper and wallow in your self
pity a life of waste; ready your husk
to tread the floorboards of my house.

Hearten to the evening's call.
No walls of pain beyond
only solace in the arms of your demise.

Draw me near like autumn draws
a winter where no spring follows.
How you lived; how you failed to live.

The abyss cares not for queens or beggars
I only admit entrance to those willing or no;
I am the entrance and the exit.

Let us leave like a memory, let us wash us away
you and I, you in your riches and poverty;
you in your youth and age... all of you.

Come or wait; do not wait too long though,
lest i take you like the wind takes a leaf;
without consent.

[ellajam]

Jig No More

Fair Annie was starting her twenty-third year
with a job, a home, her favorite dog;
a moon face of freckles and ginger hair,
a laugh as pure as her ancestors' brogue.
She'd piece the puzzles, solve the clues,
and grab for life with a glittering eye.

Her mama's dead aunt spread family news
by tilting a painting to warn someone'd died,
on Annie's last day it lay on the floor.
The priest spoke hopefully that we might believe
"A bad day for us but a good day for her."
A disaster for us but for her a reprieve.

She left behind the smoking gun:
a cupboard of empty bottles of rum.

[Achebe]

a moon face of freckles and ginger hair,

is great!