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Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 23
Rules: Write a poem for LPiA on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a New Reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month, have written 30 poems for the month of November. (or one, or six, or fifteen) Prompts may be revisited at any time. All members are welcome.
Topic : Write a poem inspired by an Underdog.
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more
Feel free to reply with comments or kudos as you wish.
Questions?
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Threads: 207
Joined: Dec 2017
Nobody expected Ukraine to go to Deuce,
but fold Love-Fifty. In long ago time
the French had their celebrated Maginot line,
yet Erwin Rommel crossed the Meuse;
Rome put to death a king of the Jews;
Varus thought they were safe north of the Rhine;
at Uhud it was grim till a hand divine
saved Mahomet’s life: thus spread the news.
In each instance, the down and out
returned an unstoppable force
and altered B.A. History's course.
None of this proves that the underdog
is morally better. Just able to rout
German on the Volga, Roman in a bog.
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Threads: 6
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"Dignitas Catilinae"
Frost creeps over tents, a slow accusation,
settling on cloaks of men led by conscience.
In uneven rows they sleep at their station,
curled round dead hopes, breath thin as silence.
Soon comes the dawn, and with it, a Republic
that pretends it still remembers virtue.
What else is left for me but to mimic
bold Leonidas' last stand? It is my due.
Cicero. That prancing puppet of the rich.
He spits out poison, cries "conspirator"
beneath the rostra, spewing lies he stitched
from his ambition, drunk on his own awe.
The ground is iron. My sword rests on my knees,
the leather grip worn by a thousand vows.
Its edge carries each oath I've kept, still keen;
Its weight, the lies he whispered into law.
Let him have his triumph. I could have bargained,
begged for exile, traded my name for breath,
sold my honour for that viper’s pardon;
A coward clings to life, and earns his death.
I'll greet them on the field, without debate,
my back straight, my lips disdainfully curled
in patrician sneer, eyes unturned from fate.
Death is the last truth a man gives the world.
Rome demands my death and crucifies my name;
She shall have them both, but not my shame.
Posts: 2,398
Threads: 230
Joined: Oct 2010
Beyond Madness
Villanova shot seventy-nine percent, transformed
Ewing from repeat champion
into frozen envelope,
and broke a decade
of statistical certainty.
Since then, I circle the higher seeds
knowing they win
seventy-three percent of the time,
yet still rehearse the math
as if the line cared about hope.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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Misjudgment
The South, you must consider, did not think
itself the underdog in civil war:
true heirs of Washington, bold Cavaliers–
and Cotton would bring England to her knees.
Her System, in addition, multiplied
her manhood’s martial numbers by five-thirds
for they could march and soldier while their slaves
tilled fields and dug safe trenches in the rear.
What’s more, Central Position was their ace:
able to transfer troops by shorter paths.
They did not see their System, odious,
as voiding British economic stress
nor that Central Position in an age
of steam hemmed them by river and by sea
when, finally, their useful slaves became
a terrifying threat behind their backs.
(11-24-2025, 12:56 AM)Mostly Holy Wrote: "Dignitas Catilinae"
Frost creeps over tents, a slow accusation,
settling on cloaks of men led by conscience.
In uneven rows they sleep at their station,
curled round dead hopes, breath thin as silence.
Soon comes the dawn, and with it, a Republic
that pretends it still remembers virtue.
What else is left for me but to mimic
bold Leonidas' last stand? It is my due.
Cicero. That prancing puppet of the rich.
He spits out poison, cries "conspirator"
beneath the rostra, spewing lies he stitched
from his ambition, drunk on his own awe.
The ground is iron. My sword rests on my knees,
the leather grip worn by a thousand vows.
Its edge carries each oath I've kept, still keen;
Its weight, the lies he whispered into law.
Let him have his triumph. I could have bargained,
begged for exile, traded my name for breath,
sold my honour for that viper’s pardon;
A coward clings to life, and earns his death.
I'll greet them on the field, without debate,
my back straight, my lips disdainfully curled
in patrician sneer, eyes unturned from fate.
Death is the last truth a man gives the world.
Rome demands my death and crucifies my name;
She shall have them both, but not my shame.
The effort was by no means wasted! Grand last thoughts from a character who comes down to us one-sided; next you'll be saying Richard III wasn't such a bad guy (though bad-ass he assuredly was).
 Non-practicing atheist
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(11-24-2025, 05:20 AM)dukealien Wrote: The effort was by no means wasted! Grand last thoughts from a character who comes down to us one-sided; next you'll be saying Richard III wasn't such a bad guy (though bad-ass he assuredly was).
Haha you are too kind, but even looking at it now I am seeing so many things I want to revise ::joy::
Catiline is a fascinating figure. He is something of a historical crush for me, and I have written a possibly disturbing amount of fanfic about him. He was an archetypal aristocrat, proud, unbending, yet motivated by noblesse oblige to oppose his own class interest, only to be slandered and framed for his efforts by the Establishment's lapdog, Cicero. It is a shame his story is not better known, but victors, history, etc.
Ordinarily, I would work on a poem like this for days or weeks, polishing it until all the humanity is gone and it is as soulless and artificial as the rest of my poems, but this LPiA thing has been both intimidating and liberating. I am doing most of them out of order, but I am only giving myself one day for each one and then posting it even tho it is nowhere near done. It is good to get out of one's comfort zone (or so I am told), and it has certainly got me better at drafting, knowing I will not have days or weeks to work on it!
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Threads: 207
Joined: Dec 2017
(11-24-2025, 12:56 AM)Mostly Holy Wrote: "Dignitas Catilinae"
Frost creeps over tents, a slow accusation,
settling on cloaks of men led by conscience.
In uneven rows they sleep at their station,
curled round dead hopes, breath thin as silence.
Soon comes the dawn, and with it, a Republic
that pretends it still remembers virtue.
What else is left for me but to mimic
bold Leonidas' last stand? It is my due.
Cicero. That prancing puppet of the rich.
He spits out poison, cries "conspirator"
beneath the rostra, spewing lies he stitched
from his ambition, drunk on his own awe.
The ground is iron. My sword rests on my knees,
the leather grip worn by a thousand vows.
Its edge carries each oath I've kept, still keen;
Its weight, the lies he whispered into law.
Let him have his triumph. I could have bargained,
begged for exile, traded my name for breath,
sold my honour for that viper’s pardon;
A coward clings to life, and earns his death.
I'll greet them on the field, without debate,
my back straight, my lips disdainfully curled
in patrician sneer, eyes unturned from fate.
Death is the last truth a man gives the world.
Rome demands my death and crucifies my name;
She shall have them both, but not my shame.
Enjoyed this one greatly. Thanks.
On your footnote - I think it makes sense for it to rhyme.
I’m not sure what you gain by blank verse. We aren’t steeped in a classical education and so the themes of Catiline’s revolt, Crassus and Cicero, knowing the fates of these actors also, don’t quite resonate.
It is a period piece, and the rhyme is needed
Posts: 459
Threads: 373
Joined: Sep 2014
Heavy Goat Leaping Lightly
Instead of Memory and Muses,
Ariadne's Thread,
connecting Dulcineas,
bypasses gods and histories;
I live not like—
actually an Ideal.
Humiliation is mother's milk
and future wives.
Father is a prig.
—I'm a goat.
Falling off roofs
like cats—and more.
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