I’ve had a couple of offline comments on the rhythm in the final lines of Artistry In The Malverns ~ some of you like the dissonance in the original final lines and say it makes the poem more interesting, less plodding, as it stops you and makes you think about what’s being said, and some of you don’t see how it fits and would like consistency. Now, whilst this is largely down to your reading of the poem / your expectations of poetry / your personal preferences, it would be most interesting if you’d vote for the one you like best from the two versions below.
Just reply with A or B and a comment if you wish to make one
Here is the original of Artistry In The Malverns, let’s call it A:
A
Scented hot hay
Hints of damp decay,
Dank smouldering fires
Smokey blue Shires.
Dogs’ yaps ricochet
On archaic byways.
Buzzards ride, sway,
Swoop on small prey.
Fanthorpe and Auden
Write of Malvern
Hills echo poets
With Elgar’s discern-
ing ear.
B
Scented hot hay
Hints of damp decay,
Dank smouldering fires
Smokey blue Shires.
Dogs’ yaps ricochet
On archaic byways.
Buzzards ride, sway,
Swoop on small prey.
Fanthorpe and Auden
Write of Malvern Hills
That echo poets with
Elgar’s discerning ear.
Open to everyone, you were invited to write a poem about an alternative reality. Several bloggers rose to the challenge, all of whom deserve a mention, so consider yourselves mentioned! I really enjoyed reading the responses to the Quickie Writing Prompt and doing it to a deadline clearly focused minds
For those of you who did not see the prompt, it was published 10/06/2012 on this blog and can be found on the Home page with copies of the poems sent in or links to the blogs on which they appear – well worth a look.
OK, suspense over, in no particular order [as the best competition judges always say] here are my selected three with my reasons for selecting them.
Thanks again to everyone who joined in, all the submissions were wonderful to read, it was fun.
They start, sometime after half past midnight.
Just a tiny tap of a chisel-toe mule: the left one.
Inching out from under the bed. The subtle shuffle
of a tossed moccasin, slow-bumping percussion.
Slapping of a sling back. Pinging elastic ankle-strap.
Espadrilles doing doubles and boots beating a stomp.
Laces tie and tangle, tongues loosen, flap and mingle.
Buckles come undone. Soles rub with remembered
chafing, happy sweat of dancing and blisters pinched.
I love the personification of shoes in this poem, the alliteration and wordplay. I can feel that ‘tiny tap’ and see the ‘chisel-toe mule’ as it inches from under the bed. I enjoy the moccasin’s ‘slow-bumping percussion’ and the moves of the others as ‘tongues loosen’ – genius! Here, Holly’s created a superb alternative reality. The thought of footwear friends having a boogie in which causing blisters is celebrated tickles me pink!
There’s a maiden fair
With tendrils rare
Spun of gold with ribbons sheer.
Barefoot lass that traipse the glen
Minstrel bards and strong brave men
Follow her and drink her in, dreams of love
Dreams of men, to follow where the Harpie led.
I have a thing about faeries just now, so Jackie’s submission caught my eye as I found it evocative of woodlands and faerie folk. The language is beautiful, the line breaks effective, we see a gorgeous maid with glorious hair, a sort of siren of the forest drawing all to her – fantastic – awesomely alternative.
As I loll beneath a laughing willow
reading The Wit of Virginia Woolf,
sipping lemon juice from a
ceramic to-go cup…
I am struck by passersby who,
in the cool breeze of mid-August,
saunter to urgent meetings
when they should be hustling fast as sloths.
My blue hair is showing traces of
youth these days, bits of gold that
catch the noonday moonlight,
reflecting a crown-like glory.
Shall I stay on the lush red grass
or wander off past the former Starbucks
(now a café for overground art)
to catch the stagecoach back home?
Green sky at morning,
sailors take warning.
Grey sky at night,
sailors delight.
Amy’s poem made me giggle and gasp, a delightful romp through alternatives or transpositions – a ‘laughing willow’, not a paper to-go cup but a ceramic one, not an ‘our world’ drink but lemon juice – heh-heh. Even literary allusion here! This fabulous world has red grass, aging blue hair going gold rather than grey, and people sauntering to urgent meetings heh-heh – just love it.
Thank you all again for entering – let me know if you’d like another prompt
Here is a challenge started at the Bank Holiday and it ain’t over yet! You’ll see below the start of a short story. Your job is to write the next paragraph once you’ve read the story so far. You can join in as often as you like – the only rule is no two consecutive paragraphs by the same writer.
Comments on each writer’s contribution(s) will appear on my Facebook timeline under ‘A Bank Holiday Writing Challenge’ to avoid interrupting the flow of the story. Comments off-topic will be removed so please use the Facebook link or email your comments to pollyrobinson@mac.com
Remember to post your submission to the comment section below, anywhere else and your piece will not be part of the challenge.
The original intention was to end the challenge midnight Monday 7 May. I have decided to extend the deadline as it’s been such fun reading everyone’s paragraphs and clearly the story is not yet finished – so get writing folks – like I said, it ain’t over yet! The finished work will appear on this blog and in an e-book anthology of stories and poems the proceeds of which will go to Rotary charities.
A Bank Holiday Investigation
Katherine’s clients say if you want to play away, you have to have a good cover story, maybe develop an interest in pottery or painting for example. No good going to a lonely hearts website, far too easily discovered, Katherine knows that as a PI. Katherine’s clients frequently say that they ‘just know’, that’s where most of her work comes from, people who ‘just know’.
The prompt for Day 17 from napowrimo was to write an epistolary poem — a poem in the form of a letter.
‘… include at least 4 of the below in your poem:
1) a song lyric
2) a historical fact
3) an oddball adjective-noun combination (like red grass or loud silence)
4) a fruit
5) the name of a street in your neighbourhood
6) a measure of distance.’
Quite a challenge, I felt. Here is my response:
To British Weather
Today you are for me
And against me. Raindrops keep falling on my head
You invite me to catch up
With things I
Should have done
Or
Could have done
But
Didn’t do.
An interruption, intrusion!
An amazing fact is that
Animals can
Rain from the sky,
Don’t ask me why,
I looked it up
To satisfy
A requirement,
A demand,
For a poetic challenge.
Another!
One hundred yards away
Is Crown East Lane,
Where you can buy
Soft, hand-made, fragrant leather gloves
Near the Church of St Thomas.
Here, at harvest time,
The children bring baskets of
Apples, pears,
Plums and damsons.
Anyway, weather,
Where were we
Before I so
Rudely interrupted me?
Oh yes, catching up with
The things
I should have,
Could have,
And didn’t
Do.
No chance of
Gardening,
Don’t want to
Get drowned.
You are for me
Drowning
In words,
You are Against me
Gardening.
I listen and hear, Raindrops keep falling on my head
Dribbling, scribbling
On the windows
Dripping, gripping
The brickwork,
Soaking, cloaking
The wooden, now wet and dark,
Garage door.
And inhale the freshness of moist drops – the scent of rain.
Here is an Easter challenge, a competition for all you creative fiends! You’ll see below the start of a nasty piece of work. Your job is to write the next paragraph once you’ve read the story so far. You can join in as often as you like – the only rule is no two consecutive paragraphs by the same writer. Let’s see where we can go with this one!
Comments on each writer’s contribution(s) will appear on Facebook under ‘A challenge … a competition for all you creative fiends …’ to avoid interrupting the flow of the story.
Remember to post your submission to the comment section below, anywhere else and your piece will not be part of the competition.
Competition ends midnight Easter Monday.
It was nearly midnight, Maggie looked through the window. Fear held her silent, her throat constricted and she felt herself screaming inside, agape at the evil, snarling, rictus-drawn face that hissed ‘I am coming for you when the time is right’. She looked at her phone, just 23:31. What did it mean, ‘when the time is right’?
