stonepicnicking_okapi

Title: Reclaim
Poetic form: terza rima sonnet
No. of lines: 14
Rating: Gen
Prompt:
Summary: a terza rima sonnet about an island reclaiming itself after a crime

even before evil strikes, island sands
are lifting. as death assails, as horror stills
dead air, fine grains are shifting. a boat lands.

black boots imprint, clomp-pace, stomp-trample. wills
exert themselves: measure, collect, record
as flying grit abrades, as soft dune-hills

extend themselves inland, onto floorboard,
past threshold. silt alive, hungry in reach.
inquiries conclude. departures afford

unimpeded campaign to smooth each breach,
erase each edifice, to break each frame,
to bury all. seabirds above the beach

bear witness to the canvassing, they name
it in their echoed cries: reclaim! reclaim!

Sonnetto Rispetto in Praise of Literary Devices by okapi

the last carried away by ants, the power
of words at heartbeat until breath expires,
a pocket watch which tells more than the hour,
inflection, misdirection, wit which fires
wonder, a nemesis in pale pink wool,
descriptions which show-and-tell, prank-and-pull,
confirmed opinion of the Church of Rome,
and endings which stick, and clues which come home

for the breadth of an Ave Maria
a respite from the everyday, mundane
at play, anodyne and panacea
what’s gnawing inside is given a name
and maps and diagrams of Pangaea
and contranym, the same and never-same

Alma Perdida by Valéry Larbaud [trans. by Ron Padgett and Bill Zavatsky]

To you, vague aspirations, enthusiasms,
Thoughts after lunch, emotional impulses,
Feelings that follow the gratification
Of natural needs, flashes of genius, agitation
Of the digestive process, appeasement
Of good digestion, inexplicable joys,
Circulatory problems, memories of love,
Scent of benzoin in the morning tub, dreams of love,
My tremendous Castilian joking, my vast
Puritan sadness, my special tastes,
Chocolate, candies so sweet they almost burn, iced drinks,
Drowsy cigars, you, sleepy cigarettes,
Joys of speed, sweetness of being seated, excellence
Of sleeping in total darkness,
Great poetry of banal things: news items, trips,
Gypsies, sleigh rides, rain on the sea,
Delirium of feverish nights, alone with a few books,
Ups and downs of temperature and temperament,
Recurring moments from another life, memories, prophecies,
O splendors of the common life and the usual this and that,
To you this lost soul.


The Way We Live by Kathleen Jamie

Pass the tambourine, let me bash out praises
to the Lord God of movement, to Absolute
non-friction, flight, and the scarey side:
death by avalanche, birth by failed contraception.
Of chicken tandoori and reggae, loud, from tenements,
commitment, driving fast and unswerving
friendship. Of tee-shirts on pulleys, giros and Bombay,
barmen, dreaming waitresses with many fake-gold
bangles. Of airports, impulse, and waking to uncertainty,
to strip-lights, motorways, or that pantheon -
the mountains. To overdrafts and grafting

and the fit slow pulse of wipers as you're
creeping over Rannoch, while the God of moorland
walks abroad with his entourage of freezing fog,
his bodyguard of snow.
Of endless gloaming in the North, of Asiatic swelter,
to launderettes, anecdotes, passions and exhaustion,
Final Demands and dead men, the skeletal grip
of government. To misery and elation; mixed,
the sod and caprice of landlords.
To the way it fits, the way it is, the way it seems
to be: let me bash out praises - pass the tambourine.

Title: Altamont in Paris
Rating: Teen for dark themes (murder, serial murder, made-up corpses)
No of lines: 14
Poetic form: Bref double
Prompt:
Notes: Lines taken from "The Mirabeau Bridge" by Guillume Apollinaire [trans. by W.S. Merwin] I have included this poem (both the translation and the original French) below mine.
Summary: A spy comes across a crime scene and uses it to his advantage.

Altamont in Paris by okapi

Night comes the hour is rung for Mister Altamont
who is taking cover under Mirabeau Bridge.
Disturbing lies and spies, schemes and dreams, the Seine calls
an unforeseen dance, a chance rendezvous with fate.

Hand within hand, the lovers are blind to all, but death
has left a grotesque rouge on cheeks, a carmine haunt,
and stains of walnut leaves about unblinking lids
burnt cloves and troves of pearly sheen gild love’s last wait

And hope is so violent a thing. Altamont palls
before the scene, lined in fine soot, arranged in strange
folie à deux, but only for a breath, these deaths
absurd might serve to deconcoct affairs of state

The days pass the weeks pass and are gone. Murders taunt
multiply in disguise, distracting wicked dolls.

( The Mirabeau Bridge & Le pont Mirabeau )

This is prompt #7 of the 52 series by Jo Bell: sport.

Runner's That'll-Do by okapi

April morning, the familiar path bends
as geese watch and winds slap and spit and blow
pink petals in scattershot odds and ends
by plodding footfall, reluctant and slow,

as boredom sets in, tiny beeps compete
for attention with stop-motion fur-tails,
a dead fish, and worms, which jog-slogging feet
sidestep, avoiding slippery entrails

a second wind is met by plump birdsong
and ebbing of protest (now the end is near)
at last, the ache arrives, the former wrong
made right by tired feet which persevere

no high, but a certain satisfaction,
to prove, to move, inertia to action

okapi by okapi

shy, dear forest forager’s forays be-
-tween sun-striped leaves and trees in loping ease,
elude each eye.
of dark velvet cloak which leaches to repel thick damp, and long wry
Tongue which reaches, in and out, by degree
again and again! a rare hide, hiding, quietly.
at no-sound sounding, silent hooves up-cry
and down to pound lush carpet floor. Oh fly,
employ all camouflage, that none will see

that grace which taut-strung bones, honed ossicones,
made ears to flick at danger. Oh, be a stranger
even unto me.

apricity by okapi

Crunching snow under cracked-sole boots,
I go. Pink sleeping child and silver birthday
balloons cross my path. Cold air

burns the good burn. Desiccated browns
slice through the flat white and dull grey
like split ends turned upwards for inspection

or pruning. Ribbons of tracks overlap
and intersect in imprecise and
improbable journeys. ‘But the woodducks

have nowhere to go!’ The puppy in red cable wool
is also amused. Or confused.
Fat geese parade, bumptiously unstuck.

The frozen lake is beautiful in winter.
Plump feather balls alternately pose
and shun the camera’s eye.

But I am thinking of tiny pink coats and
shiny balloons and how, were I homeless,
I could live in that unnaturally warm restroom.

( Photos of the lake which inspired the poem )

Title: the sages say
Format: Italian sonnet
Length: 111
Rating: gen
Notes: a spiritual sonnet about the nature of self-realization and the concept of original goodness. maya is the lure and distortion of the material world

( Read more... )

Title: sublime
Fandom: Original
No of lines: 28
Rating: Gen
Inspired by this photo:
Notes: Supernatural elements. Also for vocab_drabble prompt 108: sublime
Summary: Part 5 (of 5) Our formerly heartbroken heroine becomes a fae oracle in the woods.

( Read more... )

Title: Visceral Tracks
Rating: Gen
No. of lines: 28
Prompt:
Summary: Part 3 (of 5) A change of fate after romance and then break-up.

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Title: Redamancy Revisited
No. of lines 28
Rating: Gen
Prompt:
Summary: Part 1 (of 5). Love and break-up.

before. they kissed beside the carousel.
romance and redamancy after dark.
the blared tune-joy of the amusement park
could neither dull nor drown the common swell
of love. their love was now bound to the smell
of deep-fried spun sugar. it left its mark
on brown paper, grease-stained, sticky and stark.
lightbulbs glared. they didn’t see, couldn’t tell.
they clung. they kissed. and the world disappeared.
no sound. no scent. no flavor but their own.
their island beside the merry-go-round.
and time stretched on, they kissed, and midnight neared,
surrounded by squeals of glee, all alone,
they kissed, amazed at this new thing they’d found.

after. a memory which happened to a stranger:
that kiss beside the carousel. not real.
not true. the smell of grease now makes her feel
like vomiting. how the pain must change her.
but first denial, then deadness, there’s danger
in not-feeling, not-caring, she must steel
herself for ‘next,’ brace herself for the peal
of children’s laughter. she must exchange her
everyday tragedy for something new.
not yet. the spinning hasn’t stopped. she must
wait. but time is such an awful liar.
who to be, where to go, and what to do
‘til she’s someone else and that kiss is just
a pretty postcard she sets on fire?