NaPM April 19, 2017

[Todd]

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 19: Write a poem inspired by pigs.

Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[just mercedes]

Electra


Circe asked me to look after her pigs,
she needed a break. She’ll come back
with more work done on her face, and
I’ll pretend not to notice. We’re BFFs
so I had to say yes.

Busy times, plotting revenge and killing
my mother. She’d killed my father because
he’d sacrificed my sister, to win a war.
I spaced the swine out for a while.

Luckily they had abundant fresh water
but they squealed with hunger, until
Pylades and Orestes dumped the bodies
in their pen.

At first they sniffed, wouldn’t touch,
so I slashed my mother’s breasts.
The pigs smelled blood and tore them
into shreds, even crunching their bones
for marrow.

I wonder - you know, properly prepared
and cooked, what we’d taste like?
Roast pork?

[Todd]

Electra


Circe asked me to look after her pigs,
she needed a break. She’ll come back
with more work done on her face, and
I’ll pretend not to notice. We’re BFFs
so I had to say yes.

Busy times, plotting revenge and killing
my mother. She’d killed my father because
he’d sacrificed my sister, to win a war.
I spaced the swine out for a while.

Luckily they had abundant fresh water
but they squealed with hunger, until
Pylades and Orestes dumped the bodies
in their pen.

At first they sniffed, wouldn’t touch,
so I slashed my mother’s breasts.
The pigs smelled blood and tore them
into shreds, even crunching their bones
for marrow.

I wonder - you know, properly prepared
and cooked, what we’d taste like?
Roast pork?

Awesome choice Mercedes. I thought you might choose something else (Circe and something possibly more modern '74) but this is nice.

[just mercedes]

@Todd - if it's nice, I've failed.

[kolemath]

Why Was It Called the Bay of Pigs?

Exports!  The Spanish exported food-pigs to the Bay.

Maybe not though.
Maybe White America sees the rest of the world
as a pen of pigs.

Train the anti-commie pigs to kill themselves.
Their blood dripped into the Bay,
the Bay of pig blood.

Their blood dripped into the Bay
because White America,
too afraid to deflate the banner of pride
called white, blue, and red capitalism.

Let the pigs die, so America is right.
White America cares not for what is right
but that White America be right.
Let the Bay drip red.
Teach the commies a lesson
even if the battle's  lost.

[Todd]

@Todd - if it's nice, I've failed.

It's a nice choice and execution of topic. It isn't nice in the way potato salad is nice (which it isn't--potato salad is mayonnaise infested).

[Tracy Mitchell]

Twelve Degrees of Sun Dog

April 19, 2017

High in the morning sky
to the right of the sun there shines
twelve degrees of sundog –

a rainbow fragment dislocated
left behind or aside
like an echo of a song
hummed by the earth mother.

For eons, for deepest winter
mornings only, a spirit touch
across the cheek of the people
to lift us through coldest hardships.

Now, in the full cherry blossom of April,
the hogs are amuck– rooting, looting.
Who knew?  On Day Ninety
it has come to this.

[Todd]

Napoleon Named Secretary of Agriculture

I have lived off the blood 
of the land, led the Battle 
of the Cowshed, and though foreign-born,
crops grow and animals graze 
on both sides of this ocean.

What I have done for the Beasts 
of England, I can do here. I care
for worker productivity,
so health is a priority. You work
like a draft horse all your life,
and then get sick. The President
and I will send a doctor’s cart
to every home. So that you
can return to work,
and labor for greatness
even harder than before.

We are all animals and all
are equal before God,
but let’s talk about some animals.

[Keith]

Pigs without blankets

Charlene found
smashed porcelain
and her mother                      
wasted on the change.  
                                   
Mama I can't live
like this, like pigs.
Watch your mouth
fat bitch
make some food
n git yo daddy a drink

Mama squealed 
false nails
in the night
watch and said, be alright

Charlene sleeps streets
locks the door    
beneath a forest floor beat.

Crazy drunk
3rd base mama
beat Charlene
baseball bat

Charlene force fed
her apple
carved a cheek
gave an ear
to social services
and the dog.

[dukealien]

Pigs


One dark fall years ago
(when woods were my back yard)
a cute pink pig appeared
on my driveway’s other side.
Storybook-clean and tiny
she stood, innocent
pig a city kid expects
to live in little houses
and wear clothes
(which she did not).

Then up beside her leapt
her miniature boar
about twelve inches at the shoulder
gray, hairy and pot-bellied
with white tusks as big
as carpet tacks.  Bold he stood
body shielding his pink lady
snout dipped warningly in my direction
pawing pavement
as if his tiny trotter
would strike sparks.

I stepped back, not wishing
my ankles gored or snouted.
Mini-boar eyed me suspiciously
then, reassured, nudged his lady.
Round they turned and trotted
four small hams twinkling
into underbrush, two pink, two grey.

I never did see them again
but wonder now
what was their future
and their history?
Which was an escaped pet
or both?  Did one help or tempt
the other to run wild
or were both abandoned?
Were they big enough
to fend off feral cats
and great-horned owls?
Did they raise a family
live in a little house
of bricks, whose owner
learned to shave
and wear overalls?
No, stop.

They were the only pigs
I’ve met personally;
I feel as if we’ve spoken.

[CRNDLSM]

A prolate spheroid
tapered at both ends,
tanned natural brown,
in perfect spiral.

If a person lives in filth, they're a pig.
If that person has fake hair, it's a pig wig.
If that person's head is huge, it's a big pig wig
If he buries his hair, his expedition is a big pig wig dig.
And I'm sure he sets up a big pig wig dig rig.
If that rig had a tree it'd be a big pig wig dig rig fig?
And if his fruit made a drink he'd take a big pig wig dig rig fig swig.

[Donald Q.]

Truffler

 
The relaxed belly drags,
gathering leaves like a
rake as the hog charges
headlong. The air heavy
with desire, rushing into
the twin tunnel nostrils.
It doesn't matter how deep
they are buried. He senses
all the growing beneath.
Lazy drool flies back
in a slipstream.
He dives the dirt
like a homecoming.

[rayheinrich]

               


                                                The Pig was peeved:
                                                The hyper-spatial drive had been repairing itself again
                                                which totally pissed off the temporal matrix
                                                which started tweaking the semi-autonomous directives
                                                which left the pig as the only sentient being
                                                standing between chaos and an orderly lunch.
                                                 
                                                The pig was tempted to do a bit of fiddling himself,
                                                but (considering the last time) thought better of it
                                                and punched the Type III Responder button:
                                               
                                                 "Time to call The Goat in!"
                                                echoed across space-time.
                                               
                                                Chapter 1: Exemption filter
                                                Chapter 2: Getting to know The Goat
                                                Chapter 3: Algorithmic intervention
                                                Chapter 4: Treacherous waste bin
                                                Chapter 5: Revanche
                                                Chapter 6: Not really absolute zero, but...
                                                Chapter 7: Psychometric anomaly
                                                Chapter 8: An orderly lunch
                                                Chapter 9: My afternoon with Algernon
                                                Chapter 10: Boxing up the hyper-spatial drive
                                                Chapter 11: The Cat arrives
                                                Chapter 12: Bubble of infinitude
                                                Chapter 13: Intrinsically evil
                                                Chapter 14: This was meant for you
                                                Chapter 15: You might experience slight irregularities
                                                Chapter 16: Never mention bacon to a pig
                                                Chapter 17: The sanitation system proves intractable
                                                Chapter 18: Contemporaneous usually isn't
                                                Chapter 19: Dinner (on the lost continent)
                                                Chapter 20: The filter revisited
                                                Chapter 21: Choose your apocalypse

[Franklin'sMan]

The Stockyard

Even for a man it’s bewilderin’.
Just how much more confusin’ for the pigs?
Slaught’rin’ a lot’s like killin’ pre-school kids.

Snout to ass, you lead ‘em to the killin’ door;
one by one to the killing floor - behind
the stockyard’s full of minotaurs with long
lashes. Escape would take an Ariadne.

But once, I think, it happened, though.
Last June, 88 pigs were going through,
88 hooks were filled up, too, but still:
I think it happened.

The day was running hot, my tongue hung long,
the flies were thick, the smell was strong and hazed
my thoughts as down along the chutes I snapped
the prod. Then Jear, I saw, was acting odd.

He stood too long down by the gate. A sow,
I saw, was standing face to face with him.
She nodded, he nodded. His gaze cast wide.
Stepping back, I hid. He caught Willy’s eye:
“Holla boss! Hold up!” Jear said. The sow
ambled up the chute. The bell rung. Lunchtime.

Maybe half an hour gone by - back I came
to find that Jear had quit. Then we gathered 
to work, but waited. Waited. No one knew where
Willy was. They sent us home with pay.

Now, I hear you say “so what? Days off with pay
sure ain’t no hardship.” But Willy’s missin’ still!
And Jear - Well, Jear… in I dropped on Jear one time:
        and found that ugly fucker’s wife’s a sow!

[nibbed]

Heated

When they sprinkle
their fairy dust on her,
she changes into a sow.

At first she fretted, imagining
a pomegranate in her mouth,
a piercing spigot pirouette,
even the sounds
of eager sharpening.

Now she finds
the fury of their flab
beautiful, delicate,
whispy veils of safety:

her speed pass
outta here.

[Todd]

               


                                                The Pig was peeved:
                                                The hyper-spatial drive had been repairing itself again
                                                which totally pissed off the temporal matrix
                                                which started tweaking the semi-autonomous directives
                                                which left the pig as the only sentient being
                                                standing between an orderly lunch and chaos.
                                                 
                                                The pig was tempted to do a bit of fiddling himself,
                                                but (considering the last time) thought better of it
                                                and punched the Type III Responder button:
                                               
                                                 "Time to call The Goat in!"
                                                echoed across space-time.
                                               
                                                Chapter 1: Exemption filter
                                                Chapter 2: Getting to know The Goat
                                                Chapter 3: Algorithmic intervention
                                                Chapter 4: Treacherous waste bin
                                                Chapter 5: Revanche
                                                Chapter 6: Not really absolute zero but...
                                                Chapter 7: Psychometric anomaly
                                                Chapter 8: An orderly lunch
                                                Chapter 9: My afternoon with Algernon
                                                Chapter 10: Boxing up the hyper-spatial drive
                                                Chapter 11: The Cat arrives
                                                Chapter 12: Bubble of infinitude
                                                Chapter 13: Intrinsically evil
                                                Chapter 14: This was meant for you
                                                Chapter 15: You might experience slight irregularities
                                                Chapter 16: Never mention bacon to a pig
                                                Chapter 17: The sanitation system proves intractable
                                                Chapter 18: Contemporaneous usually isn't
                                                Chapter 19: Dinner (on the lost continent)
                                                Chapter 20: The filter revisited
                                                Chapter 21: Choose your apocalypse

This would also make a great list poem. Enjoyed!

[Keith]

The Winwick Pig (an old one)

We worked two days,
bread n water, stone n stick,
showin what was flat
for all o'th big bottom slabs.
The second night, we ardly slept
our repose was all but done.

We seen it see, we seen it running
Pig wa possessed
devil eed sent er mad.
Wee-ick, wee-ick it screamed
all night
runnin round doin his work
I tell thee it wat devils doin.

I’ve heard tell of devil tricks
afore, in Kirby Lonsdale
there’s a bridge over stones
carried from hell in his apron
dropped when a string gave way.

Morning broke and we brave few
walked up ta site,
Pig wa dead
and all our stick and stone wa gone
Pig ad moved em all,
laid it out in just one night,
right were old St Oswald had is last.

Founder said we should build it there
and we did, else we should all be took.
That first night, after the priest ad opened his doors
the devil, he came again,
this time he stamped his foot
on the church wall, laughing
and left behind the mark of a pig.

[Lizzie]

At what age do our opinions about dirt change?
As babies, we eat sand by the fistful
and mouth gravel. As preschoolers, we wallow
in mud like pigs and hippos, sculpting
mud castles and towers, monuments
to ambition and unsanitary abandon.
As grade schoolers, we search for earthworms,
grubs, and obscure beetles with magnifying glasses,
assignments for science classes that would never fly
with high schoolers. Do you remember

the first time you realized
that your hands were dirty?
I suspect it was when a friend
or a clean cut girl
told you that dirt isn't sexy,
and you'd better clean up
if you ever wanted to get filthy.

[ellajam]

Heated

When they sprinkle
their fairy dust on her,
she changes into a sow.

At first she fretted, imagining
a pomegranate in her mouth,
a piercing spigot pirouette,
even the sounds
of eager sharpening.

Now she finds
the fury of their flab
beautiful, delicate,
whispy veils of safety:

her speed pass
outta here.

Lovely

[RiverNotch]

Girl


Man.
Don't let the sea get to you, son --
no country lies on the other side
of the horizon. The sun
hangs in the air --

Boy.
She breathes. She has legs. Her skin is smooth.

Man.
Someday, like your father, you'll settle down,
you'll fall into a role. People will follow you,
you will follow the gods. You'll find a house,
perhaps found a city. The call will reach you and you will ride
to the palace where her father will say Choose your weapon!
and the boar will run and the brass will sound
and you'll deal the first wound and wipe away the blood
and take her by the hand and say I've won! fate has chosen.

You and your wife will have many children.

Boy.
Her eyes are open, a color I've never seen:
blue like the sky, like the sea.
No, she is not like any one I've ever seen.

Man.
You and your wife will have many children.
Some of them will drown in the womb, their faces calm and blue.
Others will grow to breathe, to cry, to speak,
only to die of fever, of first wounds.

Boy.
Canvas, rope, nails.
Bits of wood, from splinter to beam.
She was on a ship, and it sank.

Man.
Her ship came from the east, where neighbors lie.
We have no neighbors to the west. We have no neighbors to the south.
And to the north, there is only land.

It was the storm that took her ship, the clouds we saw
gather last evening in the horizon. We have no neighbors to the south:
the gods are cruel, and cannot be called neighborly.

Boy.
She lies awake. She is very beautiful.
I wonder if she can understand us.

Man.
There is the splinter, which in the summer
turns black with rot. Then there is the mosquito's kiss,
silent herald of many deaths. 
Forget the snake, the boar, the rabid dog --

those are things I can protect you from.

Girl


Man.
Don't let the sea get to you, son --
no country lies on the other side
of the horizon. The sun
hangs in the air --

Boy.
She breathes. She has legs. Her skin is smooth.

Man.
Someday, like your father before you, you'll settle down.
You'll fall into a role. People will follow you,
you will follow the gods. You'll find a house,
perhaps found a city. The call will reach you and you will ride
to the castle where her father will say Choose your weapon!
and the boar will run and the brass will sound
and you will deal the first wound and wipe the blood from your face
and take her by the hand and say I have won! fate has chosen.

You and your wife will have many children.

Boy.
Her eyes are opening. They are a color I have never seen:
blue like the sky, like the ocean.
No, she is not like any one I have ever seen.

Man.
You and your wife will have many children.
Some of them will drown in the womb, their faces calm and blue.
Others will grow to breathe, to cry, to speak,
only to die of fever, of first wounds.

Boy.
Canvas, rope, nails.
Bits of wood, from splinter to beam.
She was on a ship, and it sank.

Man.
Her ship came from the east, where neighbors lie.
We have no neighbors to the west. We have no neighbors to the south.
And to the north, there is only land.

It was the storm that took her ship, the storm we saw
gather last evening in the horizon. We have no neighbors to the south:
the storm gods are cruel, and cannot be called neighborly.

Boy.
She is awake. She is very beautiful.
I wonder if she can understand us.

Man.
There is the splinter, which in the summer
turns black with rot. Then there is the mosquito's kiss,
silent herald of many kinds of death. 
Forget the snake, the boar, the rabid dog --

those are things I can protect you from.