NaPM 1 April 2022

[RiverNotch]

Okay, the mods have been having this discussion from the start of the year, and I only just got the confirmation -- sorry if things seem a little impromptu. No NaPM this month. Instead the site is pivoting towards drama, and to not waste my work for NaPM, I've just reworked the rules and prompts accordingly. For each prompt, write a *play* instead -- for today specifically, a screenplay. 

Topic: Answer the following question. "Was TS Eliot right or wrong in claiming April's the cruelest month?" Bonus points if you write this in TS Eliot's voice, or if your verse is especially critical of Eliot and his miglior fabbro Pound. Blame dale xD

Form: TV Pilot, Spec Script

Length: At least 60 pages.

Obvious April Fool's is April Fool's! Same prompt though:

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: Answer the following question. "Was TS Eliot right or wrong in claiming April's the cruelest month?" Bonus points if you write this in TS Eliot's voice, or if your verse is especially critical of Eliot and his miglior fabbro Pound. Blame dale xD

Form: Any

Line Requirement: Any

[Tiger the Lion]

The Resurrection of the Dead
 
April is the coolest month, breeding
first fruits from a dead Earth, mixing
the material and the narrative, stirring
the Word into our loss for words.

Winter kept us cruel, covering
us in welcomed dark, feeding
death till it spat out Life.

[CRNDLSM]

Why must April be so cruel
fell asleep and woke a fool,
thought that I was late for school.
3 mile ride by bicycle,
lights turned off and empty halls, 
not considering at all
maybe the clock on my wall
should clearly differentiate between ante- and post- meridian.

[TranquillityBase]

April is not so much cruel
as simply inexperienced
depending so much on March,
abandoned by the winds
and clouds that promised so much more.
Cruelty more surely flocks about
the days of the week, squeaking
like racks in an Inquisitor’s dungeon
put into service to stretch the truth,
amid the screams, a few centimeters more,
to bring it in tune with weekday lies.
April is for the women we knew
and the few that knew us,
hanging by our nails from balconies
that never saw spring come or go
without a reference to Antonioni.
Liebe dauert oder dauert nicht
an dem oder  jedem Ort
says November in reply,  jealous as Pluto
always is.  And I said, no, this is no time
to be on a downhill slope, on a tricycle,
holding on tight to sweet Marie.
We watch television most of the night
and turn amorous in the winter.

[dukealien]

The Coy Song of J. Alden Purfrock (Ms.)



Men speak then of weather without pity

Disarmed by torrents, gelding concrete city

Exhausting filth, their peckers tuckered–

But Aprils in my rooms, men’s trousers rolled-up

At rest in spoonful sunlight on my fold-up

Delight my heart with swains I’ve suckered.

Title is (sic)

[Semicircle]

I met a girl named April once
she was hotter than a bunsen's buns
I was in love, had it bad,
back then I was just a lad
covered with zits
and oozing things.

I went to greet her
with suit and tie
her face went from sick to sicker
when she caught my eye

You ask me
is April bad?
I say no,
but she sure is a piece of work-
nothing compared to that Winter girl though.

[Magpie]

April
your hemline rose
just enough to see
- crude inflation

[RiverNotch]

The function of the Anglican church is to disappear,
to become nothing more than a historical footnote,
having reformed from without all of Right Belief,
only there is no reformation from without,
there is no life apart from the church, there is no redemption
without once travelling through hell. For heaven and hell are one:
the same space, the same passage through motionless time,
the same presence of God experienced by both sinners and saints
in different but equal ways. The Anglican church disappears
swallowed up by parliament, by false dichotomies
of liberalism and conservatism, of tradition and modernity,
Cranmer's raking up of old dead documents
spitting out a single footnote -- and the rest of Right Belief
moves on, growing and wilting and growing again
as it must.

What is a man
who heralds the New Age
leaping over each right step,
despising his wife,
comparing womankind to Jews
and Jews to rats,
pledging allegiance to murderers
and their fools,
mistaking the crunch of dead leaves
for the choir of green overhead,
dust in suspension
for the ever-speeding photon?

What is this man
but a feckless shade, a footnote
we must cite once then be done with
if we are to reach spring, April, and the first full moon
after the equinox.

[Magpie]

Winter never hid
its love for me
when snow drops
and crocuses bloom
on glittering mornings.

April has thawed
the cluttered canal
to damp rainbows
between grey clouds
and homeless geese.

I mourn the ice.

[Quixilated]

My conversations always fall with the leaves.
They burrow deep and wait under the weight
of snowdrifts and solitary stars in a crisp, cold sky.
Like a wild thing, the seasons dictate my days;
the winter commands stillness and solemn thoughts.

Then April pours itself down out of the sky
in fickle torrents of warm snow and cold rain.
The indecisive earth becomes formless,
malleable, easing the way for fragile shoots,
but for those without roots, it only squelches.

April is for waiting with bated breath to see
the first purple crocus fight its way into the sun,
to hear the birds scolding among the branches,
to remember that silence too has its season,
and even I must emerge eventually.

[Mark A Becker]

April wears a foolish grin, beaming
Blossoms from bare limbs, fixing
Forgetfulness with fire, turning
Winter into flowers, uncovering
Secrets from the earth, blushing
Sunshine, between showers.

[Keith]

The peril of peaking too soon

It’s the sprinter
that leaves behind winter
in this cross country run
The pale legs
and black plimsolls
desperate for a glint of sun

Shorts flash white in the mud
frost bites hard on mottled skin
as the stampede of heavy feet
flattens early promise and expectation.

As lungs give out warnings
the race falls flat footed
and the promise of a warm morning
is wrapped in a birdsong blanket.

[busker]

The peril of peaking too soon

It’s the sprinter
that leaves behind winter
in this cross country run
The pale legs
and black plimsolls
desperate for a glint of sun

Shorts flash white in the mud
frost bites hard on mottled skin
as the stampede of heavy feet
flattens early promise and expectation.

As lungs give out warnings
the race falls flat footed
and the promise of a warm morning
is wrapped in a birdsong blanket.

Good to see you back, keith