PWoF 2016 - Topic 06 - Sept. 27
#1

         PWoF 2016 - Topic 06 - Sept. 27
         
        Standard instructions:
       
         You should attempt to write a poem inspired by this topic - not a derivative, literal
         interpretation of the topic.   Create a poem that reflects your own true self.
         
         --> Since the officious rules of PWoF 2016 stipulate that you can submit more than
         one poem; may I suggest, if the fit strikes you, that you include, after your major work,
         a second poem consisting of a bit of transient doggerel, a limerick, or a trenchant
         end-rhyming nonsense poem that somehow reflects the intention of this topic.
         
         (And for anyone who's a bit uncertain about starting out here: Ignore my bullshite and
         just string some words together (that's what everybody else is doing Smile ).  
       

        Topic 6:
       

        There are some things that you know you don't know -- there other things you don't know
        you don't know. They are invisible to you; you can go through an entire life and never realize
        they are there.  But sometimes you find out: You make a mistake, get lost and take the wrong
        path, or take drugs, or travel, or talk with a stranger, or try to write a villanelle about haggis.
        You see the invisible!  

        Can you remember when something like that happened to you -- how you felt, what was the situation,
        what did you learn, how did it change your life? (Can't remember? Be a writer, make something up.)

        So:
        1. Write a poem about the above.
        2. Use at least one extended metaphor*.

        *Extended Metaphor - Definition and Examples:
All this is taken from: http://literarydevices.net/extended-metaphor/  
( literarydevices.net is a wonderful site!)

Extended Metaphor:
The term extended metaphor refers to a comparison between two unlike things that
continues throughout a series of sentences in a paragraph or lines in a poem. It is often
comprised of more than one sentence and sometimes consists of a full paragraph.

Extended Metaphor Examples in Prose

Example 1

  “Bobby Holloway says my imagination is a three-hundred-ring circus. Currently I was
in ring two hundred and ninety-nine, with elephants dancing and clowns cart wheeling and
tigers leaping through rings of fire. The time had come to step back, leave the main tent,
go buy some popcorn and a Coke, bliss out, cool down.”

  (Dean Koontz, Seize the Night. Bantam, 1999)

Here, it can be seen that the “circus” has been compared to the author’s “imagination”.

Example 2

  “It never takes longer than a few minutes, when they get together, for everyone to
revert to the state of nature, like a party marooned by a shipwreck. That’s what a family is.
Also the storm at sea, the ship, and the unknown shore. And the hats and the whiskey stills
that you make out of bamboo and coconuts. And the fire that you light to keep away the beasts.”

  (Michael Chabon, The Yiddish Policeman’s Union. Harper, 2007)

In the extract quoted above, the writer has compared “family” with a “shipwreck”.

Example 3

  “One day [Mr. Bixby] turned on me suddenly with this settler–
   ‘What is the shape of Walnut Bend?'”

   “He might as well have asked me my grandmother’s opinion of protoplasm. I reflected
respectfully, and then said I didn’t know it had any particular shape. My gun powdery chief
went off with a bang, of course, and then went on loading and firing until he was out of adjectives.”

   “I had learned long ago that he only carried just so many rounds of ammunition, and was sure to
subside into a very placable and even remorseful old smooth-bore as soon as they were all gone.”

  (Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi, 1883)

Here, it can be seen that the writer makes use of metaphors like “gun powdery”, “firing”,
and “ammunition” to describe the “anger” of Mr. Bixby.

Example 4

  “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players;
   They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.”

  (Shakespeare’s As You Like It)

Shakespeare has compared “earth” to a “stage” in the extract mentioned above.

Example in Poetry

 “Hope is the thing with feathers
   That perches in the soul,
   And sings the tune–without the words,
   And never stops at all,

   “And sweetest in the gale is heard;
   And sore must be the storm
   That could abash the little bird
   That kept so many warm.

   “I’ve heard it in the chilliest land,
   And on the strangest sea;
   Yet, never, in extremity,
   It asked a crumb of me.”

  (Emily Dickinson)

In the poem given above, Emily Dickinson has made use of the tool of extended metaphor by
comparing “hope” with the “little bird”.

Functions of Extended Metaphor:
Extended metaphor provides the writer with an opportunity to make a larger comparison
between two things or notions. The device of extended metaphor is usually employed in
prose and poetry to project a specific impression regarding things or notions in the
reader’s mind. Further, the tool serves to project the comparison intensely in the
reader’s mind, than is the case when simple metaphors or similes are used.
                                                                                                                a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
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#2
Where I make a mistake, get lost and take the wrong path, take drugs, travel, and talk with a stranger, without ever trying to write a villanelle about haggis.


Where are you going? a photographer wants
to know. I’m lost on the ship’s vast stairway,
people dressed for a party milling around me.

I ask where I can disembark and he laughs
Do you even know where you are? He opens
a map made of tiles, points out a tiny island
near the Pole. Confused I shake my head but
his feral assistant insists it’s true.

10 o’clock, a mechanical voice announces,
the bar is now open. I follow the crowd but
they go to the Post Office’s waterproof door
and wait near a brass band tuning up.

I ask a uniformed guide Where is the bar? He
finds it marked on his map, leaves without me.

I follow a coloured line to where tiny gay waiters
walk like Qantas stewards carrying trays, jugs
of liquid and white glasses, down the sloping
deck. I’m still wondering about photographers

and who is that woman dressed all in in red,
watching - is she following me, and why?

I stop a waiter and order a Scotch and ice, drop
coins, passport, tickets, while trying to find my card,
ask him to repeat the price. I still can’t hear clearly.

Each time he answers it increases until I don’t
have enough money. He serves others whose drinks
all cost a dollar. Something is very wrong. Outside
they’re letting lifeboats down. An iceberg looms.

We lurch.
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#3
(09-27-2016, 05:57 PM)just mercedes Wrote:  Where I make a mistake, get lost and take the wrong path, take drugs, travel, and talk with a stranger, without ever trying to write a villanelle about haggis.

Apart from the Titanic, I also got The Matrix and Pirates of the Caribbean - whether intended or not! Nice!
~ I think I just quoted myself - Achebe
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#4
Exceptional Beasts


These are the tired themes:
my love, my sex, my dreams.

O life, you are a lion's den,
all love is for the children:
there is no sex among the grown,
and all your dreams are wicked.

Meat -- torn from the bone,
no fillets, only enjoyed
raw, red. Water -- how you fear it!
as if your pride can be sustained
by a dry well in this sweltering plain.

O love, you are an eclipse,
with God the sun and sex the moon
and life in your shadow a dream.

How I long for egress, however rare
these seven minutes in heaven are --
hell could not possible be
how plants eat, how men see!

You demand too much of me,
demand I take off my thinking cap,
demand I pull out my taroc pack.
Can't you be content
with my rose-tinted lens?

O sex, you are a flute duet,
and dreams, they are the flautists.

I am bathing naked in a stream,
my long hair (for my hair is long,
the air about my neck is how I hide it)
flowing freely with the fishes' eggs.

You are stunned -- I cannot believe
it is the song that my dreams play
whose notes you see dance across the air
and land like drops of dew upon your hair.
It is lust, red and black -- let us mingle

in the water like hot blood
prefers to mingle in the dark,
with black stone, on the arc
that resurrects the night.

Let embers turn to flame
and fire turn to ash!
Let the audience suffer
an unresolved chord
until the Liebestod...

O dreams, you are a television screen.

From this distance that is sleep, I watch
another farce: Hippomenes winning Atalanta
with golden apples gifted by a goddess.
I cry out: do not forget! do not forget!

But the pyres remain unlit,
and the show goes on as written.
In Cybele's temple, they elope,
and in Cybele's temple, Ovid sings
another song of metamorphosis.

That is their egress. My egress is this:
from boyhood love to manhood life I move.
Trapped in a lion's den, God protected me
until I learned these crafted hands could hold

a pen. Lost in an eclipse, love guided me
until I learned the mind and heart were one.
Tamed by river songs, lust heated me
until the season drew me into sun.
And dreams: was not my childhood Song of Life

fulfilled? Yes, that show is done,
and the summer of my poetry begins.
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#5
Try This (First Sex or Drug)

Inhaling sulfur and magic.
Shifting from fluid to frames.
Bursting shouts from lower than toes.
Tingling up body in giggles.
Giggling more tickles.
Tickling more cackles.
Cackling the brain into crackling.
Falling over into the leaves.
Greening the brown with the blue.
Chirping birds in nests of purple nova.
Catching breath after chasing for hours.
Emerging addicted.
Thanks to this Forum
feedback award
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#6
Modern Day Cauldron
or, Why I Don't Eat Crunchy Peanut Butter

These days the witches work on the line
their cauldrons boil
as they toil
in factories that maximise time
an old gargoyle
skims off the oil
then bottles the magical slime

over and over the mouse falls in
the spoon turns round
his bones are ground
over and over his fur and skin
are swirled and wound
never to be found


they bottle up their mousy brew
then cast a spell
called “never tell”
on the food inspector’s spoon
he rings the bell
he’ll let them sell
forgets the bit he had to chew

over and over the mouse falls in
the spoon turns round
his bones are ground
over and over his fur and skin
are swirled and wound
never to be found


and people smear it on their bread
they never know
can’t see the glow
of the magic that hides the dead
and so it goes
the brew still flows
a graveyard in your spread

over and over the mouse falls in
the spoon turns round
his bones are ground
over and over his fur and skin
are swirled and wound
never to be found


“Why won’t you eat?” she wants to know
“what is it dear,
what can you fear?”
I close my eyes and watch the show:
a small grey ear
reduced to smear
a peanut butter toe

over and over the mouse falls in
the spoon turns round
his bones are ground
over and over his fur and skin
are swirled and wound
never to be found
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 
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#7
^yikes.
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#8
I know right!?????!!!!!  I still eat peanut butter ... but sometimes I wonder if those little flecks are mouse parts.   Sad
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 
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#9
Learning to swim (the hard way)

Why are you dressed like a ring master?
my brother just smiles
and cracks his whip.

I have donned my flame proof underpants
pulled tight the chin strap on my skull cap
and climbed inside his cannon,
my protests are muffle
by the hand that lights the fuse.

The drums roll and in a sequined flash
I glisten across the sawdust ring
to land in just four foot of water
skipping like a rock, just one plop.

Underneath I squirm like an escapologist
bubbles build and break the tension
handcuffs open as I snatch for air,
survival thrashing in my arms and legs.

The microphone clicks and feeds back
"I told him he could swim"
shouts the ring master with his grin.
And even though I paint a frown
the mirrored lights reveal my clown.

(09-28-2016, 01:46 AM)Quixilated Wrote:  I know right!?????!!!!!  I still eat peanut butter ... but sometimes I wonder if those little flecks are mouse parts.   Sad

Ha ha the poem is excellent, really well done

If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
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#10
Blush Thank you.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 
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#11
Missed Turning


Ever been struck
driving fast
long freeway stretches - journey’s all
route, purpose, schedule
destination nothing -
by a thought you missed
your turnoff some miles back
and as lettering inside that LST informed,
“It’s too late now?”

Rapid City, South Dakota
spring, seventy-seven
twenty-six years old
at the range, rolling
two plastic tubs with the forty-five
one-two, three-four, five-six
seven-reload-can I swap
fast enough to keep both rolling -
something like a wooden stake
seemed to gently pull up
from my head between shots
leaving a wedge-shaped space that said
“I should have a son here now
teaching him how
to do this.”

Not a perfect time to ponder
- finish the drill
safe and holster -
then turn that idea over
before its empty space filled up
with flying, code-controlling,
training, care of Documents.

First thought:  damn,
heard of this.
Second, so I’m an animal after all
with instincts, biologic timers
all that jazz.
Interesting and, so what?

Then - and since, I never did retrace
a route back to a “marriage” exit
on my highway or
sneak out byway access roads
that run through bastardy
and child support -
how disappointed Dad must be
with my killing off a boy or two
that carry on his name as ghosts
in cities bypassed on
my self-regarding journey.
He never said.

Finally, as with real deaths, acceptance.
Road runs, tires spin
fuel injects, air mixes and combusts
engine turns, dead air exhausts
schoolmarm dashboard voice commands,
“Turn around!”
Then, after long enough, resigned,
“Recalculating.”

Missed turn, cities bypassed with
their murdered infant might-have-beens
all that remains is knowing
with acceptance, driving on
the journey’s all
recalculating.
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
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#12
topic not speaking to me, but I want to trying to write something for each prompt....


One Too Many

Shots get thrown
back easy till they shoot me
off my stool.
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