2021 napomo bucket brigade thread
#1
If I can remember correctly, we start with a poem, and pass the poem through a message to the next person who makes their own poem based on what they read, then the new poem is passed onto the next person to write their own poem based on the previous person's poem...  Then we post them all in order in this thread.

If you'd like to participate please comment here,
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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#2
yes i do
"Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision."  Dylan Thomas
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#3
(04-12-2021, 08:33 AM)TranquillityBase Wrote:  yes i do

Sure!  You mean like,

Roses are white
violets are purple
love at first sight

(and continue from there?)
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
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#4
'bucket brigade' Guidelines:

The participants of this experiment are required to re-write a text by paraphrasing and the use of synonyms.
The original text is secret and has a length of 110 words.
The length of your re-write should be between 85 and 135 words.
Prose can be turned into free verse or a poem with meter and rhyme and the other way around.
Little details can be added and parts that seem less relevant to content can be omitted, but overall you should
try to keep the core meaning of what you receive.

Practical instructions (how we hope this works):
Aspiring participants should proclaim their wish to participate in this thread.
They will then privately receive a text from the Queen's Verse-Keeper.
Following the sequence of their announcement, each participant will receive the re-written version from her/his predecessor.
(The first participant has the honor of receiving the original text.)

IMPORTANT: All of the re-writes should not appear in this or any other thread, but only be sent via PM back to the Verse-Keeper.

We ask the participants to patiently wait in order to let their predecessors create a re-write without pressure.
To keep the bucket chain from breaking off we ask everyone to finish their re-write within 24 hours (time starting
when they receive their text), otherwise the next person in line will get the version waiting to be re-written.
However, the Verse-Keeper is open for negotiations (via PM) and will extend the time-limit for buckets that are
already in sight and just need a little longer so their content will not be spilled.


Where the chain leads:

When every participant has had the chance to contribute her/his re-write, (or at some point in the future when
curiosity demands it) the resulting chain of versions and the original text will be revealed publicly in this thread.
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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#5
i proclaim my aspiration
"Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision."  Dylan Thomas
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#6
yes why not some of these where really good last time I did it, not mine though, the one I did was rubbish, so I'll try and make up for it. Smile

If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
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#7
I think right now we're at 6 people if anyone else wants in that would be awesome, but 6 would still be fun, might give two days instead of one to make your changes, less pressure, 16 days left of april so I can start this up by Friday, give the workweek folk a few days to think about it
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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#8
Hi CRNDLSM,

I'm in, if that's okay

All best,
Leaf
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#9
I'm in!
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#10
Tranquility base, dukealien, mark, keith, leaf, majestic sun, rivernotch, quix, crndlsm. Ive been posting near the same time everyday for napm 530 pm in houston, I'll try and give you 48 hour notice for your turn, so I can be sure to pass it to the next person on time. There's still time to add more people if they message me.
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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#11
Majestic sun is out
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#12
Oh, that's a shame.
All best,
Leaf
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#13
Is mark a becker still in? Check your messages, there's still time
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#14
Original:
Le Dormeur du Val (The Sleeper in the Valley) by Arthur Rimbaud


It's a green valley where a river sings
Madly catching white tatters in the grass.
Where the sun on the proud mountain rings:
It's a little valley, foaming like light in a glass.

A conscript, open-mouthed, his bare head
And bare neck bathed in the cool blue cress,
Sleeps: stretched out, under the sky, on grass,
Pale where the light rains down on his green bed.

Feet in the yellow flags, he sleeps. Smiling
As a sick child might smile, he's dozing.
Nature, rock him warmly: he is cold.

The scents no longer make his nostrils twitch:
He sleeps in the sunlight, one hand on his chest,
Tranquil. In his right side, there are two red holes.

Translated by A. S. Kline.


Quixilated Wrote:
In this verdant cradle, a busy brook hums a lullaby 

and gently combs through frayed ribbons of pale grass, 

the sunlight iridescent against the stately distant peaks.

It is such a little thing, this green hollow, where beads of light evanesce.



A warrior slumbers here, his mouth like a yawn, 

his head and neck exposed to the sun. 

He rests on a pillow of creeping thyme, 

he reclines under a canopy of cotton clouds, 

pallid against his pallet of soft green lawn 

while sunbeams glitter down like summer rain.



He slumbers with his boots tangled carelessly among the larkspur,  

his countenance wan, like the grin of a sickly child.

He is at rest.  

Gentle Earth, swaddle him in a cozy embrace, 

for he has lost his warmth. 



He does not smell the perfume of the garden around him.  

He rests in the haze of a sunbeam, 

one limp arm draped casually across his heart. 

He is at peace.  

Two deep wounds bloom red against his side.




dukealien Wrote:
Short way from foughten field he lay

eyes clouded as yon crowded sky

his hauberk stripped from limbs away

his gambeson rent red and by

his side no sword or shield.



So dispossessed his warrior face

though helmetless and wan displayed

that confidence in saving Grace

his cross-emblazoned surcoat laid

beside his cor’se revealed.



Around him glistened early dew

about him wafted fresh perfumes

not of sweet sanctity he knew

from incense, but wild flowers’ blooms

upon that sparkling field.



Swift shadows crossed his face and chest

as seagulls, ravens, crows and kites

began to gather near the blest

to choose out liver, tongue and lights

as to each fowl appealed.






Leaf Wrote:


The dying dream, again. 'Like last time?' asked Nicole.

'Not quite,' Matt managed, as his pulse began to slow,

relieved to be in bed, not lying on the knoll

(as they had named it); but outside a single crow



was cawing and he saw the scavengers once more,

so many in their flight towards the battleground,

there came the sickly stench of flesh, the ghastly gore,

some sudden shouts, a trumpet and a howling hound;



the sounds were new, Nic thought, and wondered if they signed

a different meaning to her boyfriend’s nightly hell

amidst the closing wildflower rings; what in his mind

was surfacing with every sound and sight and smell?



The cross upon his tunic, maybe, was the key,

or was it just his meds, the morphine (MST)?








Keith Wrote:
The twitching hand that death comes to shake

is the moment when Matt should wake but tonight

Nicole is behind black glass, he can hear the muffled

thumping as his mind cracks, her hands pulling him

breathless, back to their bed; But the crows are still

cawing his name.



He can see their dark swarm, pulling on entrails,

wings spread wide to hide their battlefield murder.

He feels the hot breath of hounds, howling with

the advancing trumpets, the sudden shouts

of butchered voices are somehow talking to him.



Nicole was always in white, she waits on her sofa,

stainless steel tools laid out ready, excited by new news,

another deep-red thread to pull out and twist, hoping

that somethings exists just beneath the surface.



She believes that the cross, he dreams to his chest

is the best place to make the first cut, she hopes

it will be the deepest, so that everything can get out.








TranquillityBase Wrote:
Nicole is trapped behind black glass, 

he can hear the muffled cries 

as his consciousness cracks shut, 

her hands unable to pull him back to their bed.

Restless death marks the moment 

when Matt should wake but tonight

the crows are cawing his name.



He can see their dark swarm, 

pulling on entrails,

wings spread wide 

to hide their battlefield feast.

He feels the hot breath of hounds, 

howling with the advancing trumpets, 

the sudden shouts of butchered voices 

following him through the night.



Nicole was always in white, 

she lounges on her sofa,

stainless steel tools laid out ready, 

another deep-red thread to pull out and twist, 

hoping that the real Matt 

exists just beneath the surface.



His Crusader cross

is the best place to make the first cut.

She hopes it will be the deepest, 

so that everything can get out.






CRNDLSM Wrote:
Obsidian locks the stifled cries of

restlessness, wrestling her arrested hands.

Nicole and matt's consciousness lift above

their bed, separate, reaching, showing they can.

The corvid carrion eaters devour

intestines, at war amongst each other

swarming and feasting, a murder sour

and stench-ridden, only to be smothered

by dogs and axe weilding barbarians.

A stark contrast to Nicole, queen of light,

with her own instruments, caesarian,

delivering truth from her sleeping knight.

The imposter is but a shell, a spout

to crack, and she can help the red 

get out.






RiverNotch Wrote:
A jubilee together multiplied to millions,

now's a work of ages wringing pleasure

out of wrinkled flesh. Wrapped in darkness,

their blushing bodies bubble up the sheets

like lava up the earth. See him sink:

the sea of sweat and tears flooding the pit

carved out by years shrinks, if by an inch. Watch her float.



His bellows felt but never fully followed,

her sermonettes dismissed to niggling nags:

now speech is stripped of syntax, bursts of words

reduced to bleats, to bursts of steam

beatwise with the quaking of their crib.

When eggs decay they smell of potent sulfur:

what rot divides, sex hotly pacifies.




Mark A Becker Wrote:
A reverie together multiplied to eternity

becomes a work of ages, wringing pleasure

out of writhing flesh.  Wrapped in duskiness

pulsing bodies prime satin sheets like

a sturdy pump pulling water from a well.



See me sink with salty sweat and tears flooding

the contours, charting moments unskakeable,

and by minutes watch her rise- my breathing felt

now fully followed, her whispers murmur

minor chords, purring, perfect phrasing

then blurted notes that fade-

then rise in bursts of steam, keeping time

among a quake pillows.



As dreams dissolve, we smell of potent earth:

whatever I might have added, her body multiplied.







I didn't change any formatting, tried my best to copy paste cleanly, of anyone would like to edit it and fix it for clarity I won't mind. Out of the three river picked this wasn't my favorite, I went with this because it had already been translated so that's like another person in line. Im sure rivernotch knew which I picked once he got it. I hope my and his pre knowledge didn't compromise the integrity of anonymity too much, this was fun thank you all!
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#15
(04-25-2021, 11:50 PM)CRNDLSM Wrote:  Original:
Le Dormeur du Val (The Sleeper in the Valley) by Arthur Rimbaud


It's a green valley where a river sings
Madly catching white tatters in the grass.
Where the sun on the proud mountain rings:
It's a little valley, foaming like light in a glass.

A conscript, open-mouthed, his bare head
And bare neck bathed in the cool blue cress,
Sleeps: stretched out, under the sky, on grass,
Pale where the light rains down on his green bed.

Feet in the yellow flags, he sleeps. Smiling
As a sick child might smile, he's dozing.
Nature, rock him warmly: he is cold.

The scents no longer make his nostrils twitch:
He sleeps in the sunlight, one hand on his chest,
Tranquil. In his right side, there are two red holes.

Translated by A. S. Kline.


Quixilated Wrote:
In this verdant cradle, a busy brook hums a lullaby 

and gently combs through frayed ribbons of pale grass, 

the sunlight iridescent against the stately distant peaks.

It is such a little thing, this green hollow, where beads of light evanesce.



A warrior slumbers here, his mouth like a yawn, 

his head and neck exposed to the sun. 

He rests on a pillow of creeping thyme, 

he reclines under a canopy of cotton clouds, 

pallid against his pallet of soft green lawn 

while sunbeams glitter down like summer rain.



He slumbers with his boots tangled carelessly among the larkspur,  

his countenance wan, like the grin of a sickly child.

He is at rest.  

Gentle Earth, swaddle him in a cozy embrace, 

for he has lost his warmth. 



He does not smell the perfume of the garden around him.  

He rests in the haze of a sunbeam, 

one limp arm draped casually across his heart. 

He is at peace.  

Two deep wounds bloom red against his side.




dukealien Wrote:
Short way from foughten field he lay

eyes clouded as yon crowded sky

his hauberk stripped from limbs away

his gambeson rent red and by

his side no sword or shield.



So dispossessed his warrior face

though helmetless and wan displayed

that confidence in saving Grace

his cross-emblazoned surcoat laid

beside his cor’se revealed.



Around him glistened early dew

about him wafted fresh perfumes

not of sweet sanctity he knew

from incense, but wild flowers’ blooms

upon that sparkling field.



Swift shadows crossed his face and chest

as seagulls, ravens, crows and kites

began to gather near the blest

to choose out liver, tongue and lights

as to each fowl appealed.






Leaf Wrote:


The dying dream, again. 'Like last time?' asked Nicole.

'Not quite,' Matt managed, as his pulse began to slow,

relieved to be in bed, not lying on the knoll

(as they had named it); but outside a single crow



was cawing and he saw the scavengers once more,

so many in their flight towards the battleground,

there came the sickly stench of flesh, the ghastly gore,

some sudden shouts, a trumpet and a howling hound;



the sounds were new, Nic thought, and wondered if they signed

a different meaning to her boyfriend’s nightly hell

amidst the closing wildflower rings; what in his mind

was surfacing with every sound and sight and smell?



The cross upon his tunic, maybe, was the key,

or was it just his meds, the morphine (MST)?








Keith Wrote:
The twitching hand that death comes to shake

is the moment when Matt should wake but tonight

Nicole is behind black glass, he can hear the muffled

thumping as his mind cracks, her hands pulling him

breathless, back to their bed; But the crows are still

cawing his name.



He can see their dark swarm, pulling on entrails,

wings spread wide to hide their battlefield murder.

He feels the hot breath of hounds, howling with

the advancing trumpets, the sudden shouts

of butchered voices are somehow talking to him.



Nicole was always in white, she waits on her sofa,

stainless steel tools laid out ready, excited by new news,

another deep-red thread to pull out and twist, hoping

that somethings exists just beneath the surface.



She believes that the cross, he dreams to his chest

is the best place to make the first cut, she hopes

it will be the deepest, so that everything can get out.








TranquillityBase Wrote:
Nicole is trapped behind black glass, 

he can hear the muffled cries 

as his consciousness cracks shut, 

her hands unable to pull him back to their bed.

Restless death marks the moment 

when Matt should wake but tonight

the crows are cawing his name.



He can see their dark swarm, 

pulling on entrails,

wings spread wide 

to hide their battlefield feast.

He feels the hot breath of hounds, 

howling with the advancing trumpets, 

the sudden shouts of butchered voices 

following him through the night.



Nicole was always in white, 

she lounges on her sofa,

stainless steel tools laid out ready, 

another deep-red thread to pull out and twist, 

hoping that the real Matt 

exists just beneath the surface.



His Crusader cross

is the best place to make the first cut.

She hopes it will be the deepest, 

so that everything can get out.






CRNDLSM Wrote:
Obsidian locks the stifled cries of

restlessness, wrestling her arrested hands.

Nicole and matt's consciousness lift above

their bed, separate, reaching, showing they can.

The corvid carrion eaters devour

intestines, at war amongst each other

swarming and feasting, a murder sour

and stench-ridden, only to be smothered

by dogs and axe weilding barbarians.

A stark contrast to Nicole, queen of light,

with her own instruments, caesarian,

delivering truth from her sleeping knight.

The imposter is but a shell, a spout

to crack, and she can help the red 

get out.






RiverNotch Wrote:
A jubilee together multiplied to millions,

now's a work of ages wringing pleasure

out of wrinkled flesh. Wrapped in darkness,

their blushing bodies bubble up the sheets

like lava up the earth. See him sink:

the sea of sweat and tears flooding the pit

carved out by years shrinks, if by an inch. Watch her float.



His bellows felt but never fully followed,

her sermonettes dismissed to niggling nags:

now speech is stripped of syntax, bursts of words

reduced to bleats, to bursts of steam

beatwise with the quaking of their crib.

When eggs decay they smell of potent sulfur:

what rot divides, sex hotly pacifies.




Mark A Becker Wrote:
A reverie together multiplied to eternity

becomes a work of ages, wringing pleasure

out of writhing flesh.  Wrapped in duskiness

pulsing bodies prime satin sheets like

a sturdy pump pulling water from a well.



See me sink with salty sweat and tears flooding

the contours, charting moments unskakeable,

and by minutes watch her rise- my breathing felt

now fully followed, her whispers murmur

minor chords, purring, perfect phrasing

then blurted notes that fade

then rise in bursts of steam, keeping time

among a quake of pillows.



As dreams dissolve, we smell of potent earth:

whatever I might have added, her body multiplied.







I didn't change any formatting, tried my best to copy paste  cleanly, of anyone would like to edit it and fix it for clarity I won't mind.  Out of the three river picked this wasn't my favorite, I went with this because it had already been translated so that's like another person in line.  Im sure rivernotch knew which I picked once he got it.  I hope my and his pre knowledge didn't compromise the integrity of anonymity too much, this was fun thank you all!
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#16
Fun indeedy  Thumbsup
All best,
Leaf
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#17
thanks for the fun!
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#18
Well done everyone very much enjoyed these re writes, you are an incredibly talented bunch, thanks for letting me join the party

If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
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#19
Way to go everybody! 

It is so very interesting to see how the original morphs into something so entirely different as it moves through each iteration.

Just fascinatin', ain't it?

Of course there's also the feeling that, as the saying goes "no good deed goes unpunished", for those also slogging through the trials of the poem-a-day experience.

Virtual handshakes and fist bumps all around,
- Mark
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#20
Reading these I thought they were all good, except the best one I saw was probably CRNDL.
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