For today’s prompt, write an imitation poem. Some folks say imitation is the best form of flattery. So with it being Thanksgiving in these parts, I thought it appropriate to pick a poem you enjoy and write an imitation of it. You can include poet and poem of the original if you’d like; or see if others can guess.
If you don’t have time to write an imitation poem, then try writing a poem about the act of imitation–whether people, animals, or even robots.
*****
Order the New Poet’s Market!
The 2017 Poet’s Market, edited by Robert Lee Brewer, includes hundreds of poetry markets, including listings for poetry publications, publishers, contests, and more! With names, contact information, and submission tips, poets can find the right markets for their poetry and achieve more publication success than ever before.
In addition to the listings, there are articles on the craft, business, and promotion of poetry–so that poets can learn the ins and outs of writing poetry and seeking publication. Plus, it includes a one-year subscription to the poetry-related information on WritersMarket.com. All in all, it’s the best resource for poets looking to secure publication.
*****
Here’s my attempt at an Imitation poem:
“Cat People”
I know lots of people
who are cat people,
people who like cats,
and I know people cats,
cats who like people,
but I also know people
who are not fond of cats
and anti-people cats.
I wish all people
liked other people
and that all the cats
liked all the other cats,
but you can’t make people
like other people
or force all the cats
to like all the other cats.
After all, not all people
are born to be cat people,
just as not all cats
are natural people cats.
*****
Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of the poetry collection, Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He edits Poet’s Market and Writer’s Market, in addition to writing a free weekly WritersMarket.com newsletter and a poetry column for Writer’s Digest magazine.
He took the easy route and imitated his own poem from a few days back (read the original here). He has had a few cats over the years.
Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.
*****
Find more poetic goodies here:
- WD Poetic Form Challenge: Trimeric. (Deadline: 11/30/16.)
- Rimas Dissolutas: Poetic Form.
- Bryan Borland: Poet Interview.
(with apologies to Ted Kooser’s, “The Witness”)
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=35644
The Witness
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
After days of testimony
by the Prosecution,
the Judge has now called
the Defense up to bat,
which we all know means you –
the girl in angel lace white
at the back of the courtroom
rising up now like a bouquet
just plucked from a roadside,
the transom sunlight slipping
from your shoulders most
hesitantly.
With courtroom eyes upon you
the battered hands which once knew
the interlock idolatry of held fingertips
has slipped like a peach from its skin,
while beyond you, in the harsh
glow of fluorescent lights, picking
the scabs of hundred year old floors,
the voices of justice continue
to drone on, tired and hollow
like the creak a stand of oak
encompassing this floor once made
in a canyon somewhere, in a
different time.
And as you stand,
you’re still unsure what to say
or how much to reveal.
© 2017 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Oh Yeah
there are worse things than
losing ground
but it often takes
a mile in another’s shoes
to realize this
and if you’re lucky
when you do
it’s not too late
‘cause there’s nothing worse
than
too late.
PSC 2016-11
(inspired by “Oh Yes” by Charles Bukowski)
Happiness Project
Hay(na)ku
Try
to imitate
the happiest people.
Adopt
their mannerisms
language, and image.
In
the process
you may transform.
Turn
yourself into
a happy person!
Your Mind
(an imitation of Angelina Weld Grimké’s “Your Hands”)
…….I’ve always loved your mind:
Your witty, candid, beautiful mind;
Nowadays memories drift in and out of lights and shadows….
I see you struggle to recollect portions of your life.
And yet, when you see me,
You know me……. and by name……
………and we smile with our eyes……..
If I might only find the cure today,
Fold you in my arms and kiss it better,
Hold your hands,
Dance with you and sing our song,
So that I might always have “our” thing
…….Even if you forgot the words.
Does Truth Exist Within A Spell?
You who stand on yonder shore
and tell me we can be no more,
will I add you to my score
as my darling sweet Lenore,
another gone from me.
I offer you this plea–
was it not love you felt for me?
A witch who casts her spell;
alas, I never knew you well.
Your true self was kept from me,
now you say we can never be.
Pray, watch me search among my books
for a clue to enlighten why your took
my telltale heart into the crook
of your arm. Yet why do I pine
for one who was never truly mine?
I ponder this both night and day.
Perhaps I am cold
when the time for being bold
stands in front of me, blind me.
Nevermore will I learn
not to let myself be burned
by a witch who casts her spell.
Alas, I never knew you well.
(Based on Edgar Allan Poe’s, A Dream Within A Dream)
Imitations of Life
“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” — Alfred Hitchcock
Dioramas,
miniature dramas;
Paintings,
scenes fading.
Books,
an unreliable narration,
Music,
a canorous condensation.
Plays—
life’s sincerest flattery,
and television,
where books go to die,
where smash cuts and sound bites—
like hors d’oeuvres that do not satisfy—
but ferment,
fomenting discord;
but the best depiction of all,
is posted on our pages—
the CliffsNotes editions
of our life stories,
putting friendships in remission.
Greed and Spite
(Apologies to Frost’s Fire and Ice)
Some say the world is lost to greed.
Some say, to spite.
From all I know of want and need,
I might well side with raging greed,
but since we so enjoy a fight
to stoke our hate, malice, and fear,
I’d say I would be mostly right
to say that here
we love our spite.
Anecdote of the Seed
(apologies to Wallace Stevens, Anecdote of the Jar)
I tucked a seed in Carolina clay
and watched her eyes round orbs
widen to think a seed could split
inside her mind.
Sure, there were other seedlings tangled
sprawling in her head, but this sprout
sorted them, their runners staked
in rows, ordered, blooming there.
Now when she looks on the world,
this seed sends up its tendrils of hope
as if the earth birthed something new
in Carolina clay that day.
Wallace Stevens would want no apology for this gem, Jane!
Want Ad
by Patrick J. Walsh
If you can keep your head
while all those around you
are losing theirs
give me a call
I’ve been looking for someone
like that
Nice.
Thank you!
cat people
by Dawn Kvernenes
Robert likes cat people
I like them too
nice when all get along
cat’s have selectivie invites for their domestic clowder
dogs are more inclusive become a pack in an area
humans live in people groups or families or tribes
each will fight to defend
cats are like special forces
dogs like ground troups
humans the most deadly more like a sniper
remembering sins again
cats have longer tmemories than proverbial elelephant
can’t really don’t forget
most likely to take direct revenge but it might be years later
in the end cats and dogs will be in the heavenly clowder pack
as well as lions and lambs laying side by side together
maybe not all humans those who have a harder time getting along
TREES
By Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast
(Just a few excerpts)
NOTHING QUITE THE SAME
A true signature mark found
Any tree upon the ground
A strong stand against the wind
Nothing mighty makes it bend
Love this, Janet!
FACE TO FACE
Shooing monkeys off my deck
Took a most surprising turn
They warned me in India
To stay alert
They are aggressive
When I experienced one
He imitated my face
Scowl and growl
(It was so surprising and funny, it was the laughter that actually scared him off! The monkeys really do copy our facial expressions and, not necessarily, in a good way!)
before if
(after Rudyard Kipling’s “If”)
If you can let your gaze wander, let it happen where it will;
if no flower passes by without you wondering about the aroma;
if you sign on, merely at the mention of the word “adventure”;
if you’ll take the scenic route, regardless of the extra effort or time;
if no shell on the shore is too small or dirty to warrant further inspection;
if you can hold in your hand a frog, fish, or turtle,
and attain a communal level of consciousness;
yours is the sky and the promise of the future,
and, what is more, you’ll be a boy, my man.
gpr crane
Imitation of Nikki Giovanni’s “kidnap poem”
kidnap poem
ever been kidnapped
by a painter
if i were a painter
i’d kidnap you
brush you into my blues and basquiat
crown you
take you to the wrong side of the tracks
or maybe behind the laundromat
or maybe just to my bed
palette you in pastels
bleed you
ease you onto the easel
to picasso my view
wear make-up for you
love you lavender
anything to keep you
drown you in a golden hue
show you off to mama too
yeah if i were a painter i’d kid
nap you
Wow! This is excellent, Michelle. I love, ‘palette you in pastels.’
My Autumn Visitor
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
My Melancholy, visiting
this bitter cold November day,
thinks that the hours of autumn bring
an apt and honest offering
of chilly winds and shades of grey.
Routine demeanor laid aside,
the autumn brings her full awake.
Her silence shed, her arms thrown wide,
she talks about the ebbing tide,
the dismal field, the frozen lake.
Her strength returns as cold winds blow.
She revels in the shorter days,
how the shadows build and grow,
a crippling frost, a blinding snow,
how all will pass, how nothing stays.
She may not be the kindest friend,
but she is winter’s company,
returning every autumn’s end
and my spirit will attend
her joyful, aching misery.
*After Frost’s “My November Guest”
My November Guest
by Robert Frost
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
I LOVED this exercise! What a delight to settle into the rhythm and rhyme scheme of Robert Frost, to deepen the sense of how his structures hold the meaning.
The Night Is Darkening Round Me
Emily Bronte
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow ;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow ;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below ;
But nothing drear can move me :
I will not, cannot go.
I Sink Into The Arms Of Oblivion
I have a dim memory of light
flooding my senses, or is it just
nostalgia painting mirages
that appear as beacons
in this desert of darkness
flayed by wild winds of neglect.
Somewhere the day does dawn
but I have receded
so far into the shadows
I cannot tell when the night ends
And as the last flicker of hope dims
I sink into velvet arms of oblivion
Wonderful writing, Beth!
CASH IT IN
G. Smith (BMI)
—-+—-
I did my time in prison,
When I was running on my own,
Answering to no one,
Living all alone.
And for a while I’d been,
Leaning towards the blues,
Didn’t seem like there was,
Anything else to do.
Then I heard the Man in Black on the radio,
And the answer was so simple, don’t you know?
Cash it in,
Walk the line,
Face the fire,
Know what’s mine.
Be careful who I love,
And always let her win,
Cash it in;
Cash it in.
One Sunday morning I was,
Coming down,
Drinking a cup of coffee,
Wondering where I was bound,
Guessing things just happen that way;
Not quite sure what to do or what to say,
When the man came back around,
With the answer that I’d already found;
Cash it in,
Walk the line,
Face the fire;
Know what’s mine.
Be careful who I love,
And always let her win,
Cash it in;
Cash it in.
I thought I’d found another,
Broken hearted girl,
Riding her own blue train,
All around the world.
I knew she was hurting,
By the way she cried, cried, cried;
I hoped she knew how much I cared,
By the way I tried, tried, tried.
After all, what had worked before,
Looked like it work for me once more;
Cash it in,
And walk the line,
Face the fire;
Know what’s mine.
Be careful who I love,
And always let her win,
Cash it in;
Cash it in.
Cash it in.
—-/—-
After Eric Church’s songs “Record Year” and “Pledge Allegiance to the Hag”
and Alan Jackson’s song, “Playin’ Possum.”
Despair’s a thing sans feathers,
That sinks claws in the soul,
And sings a dirge without the words,
And never stops at all.
Discordance is the gale I’ve heard;
And darkening the storm
That could bash in the little bird
and threaten us with harm.
I’ve heard the wail on chilly land
and on the churning sea;
This year of stark extremity
Will not make crumbs of me.
(original by Emily Dickinson)
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
You’ve done Emily proud, Bruce!
Vegemite (created after reading The Purple Cow by Gelett Burgess)
I’ve never eaten vegemite
I’d hoped to never eat it
My mum tells me to take a bite
It’s in the Aussie diet.
–ShennonDoah
She Walks in Beauty ~ Lord Byron
alternate wording: KT Morley
She moseys aimlessly, in a fog
In morose times and dreadful skies;
While sun’s harsh light assaults the smog
And mankind hides amidst its lies
Far too enfeebled to unclog
Moving forward in dull gray guise.
Her clothing hung from wraith like form,
Her beauty, clouded in disgrace,
And hid its splendor amidst the storm
Half in shade the rest, light to face
Where winds scour her icy form
How pure, how dear this earthly place.
And on this orb hung deep in space
With blue and green and white and brown
Flowers that bloom, rivers that grace,
Clouds hung in sky like wedding gown
She’s beaten worse with no disgrace
Will still spin proud with humans gone.
Original
She Walks in Beauty
BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Yes!
This Is Just To Say {Again}
(after William Carlos Williams ‘This Is Just To Say’)
I have breathed in
the nom de plumes
that were in
the night sky
and which
you were certainly
saving
for another poem.
Forgive me
they were enchanting
starspun
and so bold.
::
Happy Thanksgiving, Poets! So thankful for all of you.
It bears repeating. And sending back atcha!
Oh, marvelous!
Although it looks the same
and smells the same,
imitation vanilla is
not
the place you want
to skimp,
according to my
penny-pinching grandma.
–ShennonDoah
Reconciliation
In the forest shrine, the trees have awoken
And talk in strange mysterious ways;
Mortals wander through their cryptic maze
The forest forging with them a connection unspoken.
Some sound hides deep within the plantation,
Heard as whispers, joint in harmony,
Both of inner dark and outer verdancy,
So smell, shade and sound effect reconciliation.
So many scents, fresh as the morn,
Carried by soothing breeze, lifted from the grass
-Others harsher, sharp to the senses,
With sensations stretching and vast,
And so much for eyes, ears and nose to discern,
All coming together in a chorus of consensus.
(In respectful imitation of):
Correspondences
(Charles Baudelaire, The Flowers of Evil)
Nature is a temple, where the living
Columns sometimes breathe confusing speech;
Man walks within these groves of symbols, each
Of which regards him as a kindred thing.
As the long echoes, shadowy, profound,
Heard from afar, blend in a unity
Vast as the night, as sunlight’s clarity,
So perfumes, colours, sounds may correspond.
Odours there are, fresh as a baby’s skin,
Mellow as oboes, green as meadow grass,
-Others corrupted, rich, triumphant, full,
Having dimensions infinitely vast,
Frankincense, musk, ambergris, Benjamin,
Singing the senses’ rapture, and the soul’s.
(Translated from the French by James McGowan, Oxford World’s Classics Edition of The Flowers of Evil)
Beautiful!
Thank you! 🙂
Lovely writing!
A crane is a bully
Apologies to the late Leonard Cohen,
an imitation of his ‘A kite is a victim.’
A crane is a bully whose fist you’ve felt.
You hate it because it taunts,
love it for its wealth,
weak enough to lure you in;
because it lives
like a king on a hill
in the high foul air,
and you can’t knock it down,
only admit it is there.
A crane is a criminal, police haven’t caught
on the streets with no money,
so you cannot see him lurking,
and hope he won’t see you,
or follow you home.
A crane is a story you’ve written,
so you throw it at the trash,
but your basket it misses
and a friend finds it
wondering what you do.
A crane is a contract of nightmare
that must be made in the dark,
so you make friends with the graveyard
the hollows and the alley,
then you pray the whole hot day before,
under an oppressive burning sun,
to make you worthless and prosaic and raw.
A kite is a victim
Leonard Cohen
A kite is a victim you are sure of.
You love it because it pulls
gentle enough to call you master,
strong enough to call you fool;
because it lives
like a desperate trained falcon
in the high sweet air,
and you can always haul it down
to tame it in your drawer.
A kite is a fish you have already caught
in a pool where no fish come,
so you play him carefully and long,
and hope he won’t give up,
or the wind die down.
A kite is the last poem you’ve written,
so you give it to the wind,
but you don’t let it go
until someone finds you
something else to do.
A kite is a contract of glory
that must be made with the sun,
so you make friends with the field
the river and the wind,
then you pray the whole cold night before,
under a travelling cordless moon,
to make you worthy and lyric and pure
And thanks to Toronto poet and author Bruce Meyer for putting this poem in my head through telling his story over beers of how he witnessed the birth of the line, “You don’t like music, do yah?” when he visited and interviewed Leonard.
He would love this!
Imitations of Life
“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” — Alfred Hitchcock
Dioramas,
miniature dramas;
Paintings,
scenes fading.
Books,
an unreliable narration,
Music,
a canorous condensation.
Plays—
life’s sincerest flattery,
and television,
where books go to die,
where smash cuts and sound bites—
like hors d’ourves that do not satisfy—
but ferment,
fomenting discord;
but the best depiction of all,
is posted on our pages—
the CliffsNotes editions
of our life stories,
putting friendships in remission.
Stopping by the Words on an Autumn Day
Whose words these are I think I know,
one of my favorite poets, though.
He will not see me stopping here
to see the peace his words bestow.
My cousin Jane must think it queer,
that arrogance could give a sneer.
Such mimicry not overtake
and overshadow my career?
She gives her head a scolding shake,
a basic rule I chose to break;
so, I explain that what I reap
is food for my poetic sake.
His words are wonderful and deep,
as inspiration starts to seep,
sequencing shining light to creep
within creative process deep.
Copyright © Ellen Evans – 2016
PAD 11.16 an imitation poem
Love it!
fireflies
and moonlight
weave between trees
– – –
Basho’s original:
just butterflies
and sunlight
in the whole empty field
Thank you for these – such lovely images!
Well done. Elegant simplicity.
SNOWDROPS
by John Yeo
Jostled and pushed in a graveyard cloud
That sits by the church high on the hill,
Immediately surrounded by a crowd;
A host of pure white snowdrops, uphill,
Around the graves, under the bush,
Peeping from the long grass lush.
As numerous as the planets that shine
On the edges of the Milky Way
They spread unruly out of line
Around the borders of the churchyard grey:
Countless saw I in a seconds glance,
Bobbing their heads in sprightly prance.
The graves beside them solemn; but they
Outdid the marble solemnity:
A poet could but happily pray
In such a joyful company:
I stared-and-stared but I never thought
What richness to me that scene had brought:
For often; when in grieving pain I lie
In a sad solemn pensive mood,
They crowd into my inner eye
Which is the centre of my solitude;
Then my happy heartbeat almost stops,
Prancing with the wild snowdrops.
(With grateful apologies to William Wordsworth)
I
loving e.e. cummings
it is winter (they
tell me )
somewhere and so we
bring out the coats
(only some needed)
of course carols commence
before (really are
you sober?)
Thanksgiving so we can
stuff (ourselves
and bake in heated houses
then trees (for rea l)
all the terrible stuff we
so because
( don’t you see, my dear?)
it
is
tradition !
sorry about putting this in twice. I tried to make it look like cummings….this is not at all how I wish it to look, but it won’t show it as I had it
AN IMITATION
it is winter (they
tell me)
somewhere and so we
bring out the coats
(only if
needed…..
of course carols commence
before (really are
you sober?)
Thanksgiving so we can
stuff ourselves
and bake in heated houses
then trees (for real)
all the terrible stuff we
do
because
(don’t you see, my dear?
it
is)
Tradition !
The Mouse and the Blackbird
The Mouse and the Blackbird caught a train
From Euston to Gretna Green
They had no money, but the day was sunny
So they sat content and serene
The mouse looked out on the fields passing by
And sang a beautiful song
“Oh glorious Blackbird!” he sang with a sigh
As the train rocked and rumbled along
He sang and
He sang as
The train rocked and rumbled along
The Blackbird replied with tears in her eye
“I love you, adorable mouse
I do not know why, you love such as I
Once married we’ll purchase a house.”
Through fields and towns the train made its way
To Scotland and Gretna Green
With just the bouquet, they married that day
Their smiles were the widest you’ve seen
That day
That day
Their smiles were the widest you’ve seen
The Mouse and the Blackbird
The Mouse and the Blackbird caught a train
From Euston to Gretna Green
They had no money, but the day was sunny
So they sat content and serene
The mouse looked out on the fields passing by
And sang a beautiful song
“Oh glorious Blackbird!” he sang with a sigh
As the train rocked and rumbled along
He sang and
He sang as
The train rocked and rumbled along
The Blackbird replied with tears in her eye
“I love you, adorable mouse
I do not know why, you love such as I
Once married we’ll purchase a house.”
Through fields and towns the train made its way
To Scotland and Gretna Green
With just the bouquet, they married that day
Their smiles were the widest you’ve seen
That day
That day
Their smiles were the widest you’ve seen
(The Owl and the Pussycat)
Thanksgiving Day
Many birds rely
on
last night’s rain
pooled
in the dry
birdbath
near the yellow
feeder
Homage to William Carlos Williams’ Red Wheelbarrow
So much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
Good one, Anthony!
Two Cats
___With Apology to W.S.Merwin
One cat has stretched, a shadow along the bench
Set under the window, and one cat
Is nodding curled on the back of the couch.
Resting like two mismatched pillows, black
Satin and grassland camouflage, or embassies
Of two warring nations at neutral corners
Of a neutral city street or their studiously dozing spies
Propped behind newspapers in the winter park,
Nothing about them is similar. Only the shapes
And functions of ears, noses, whiskers, claws,
Skeletons. They only drink and eat from the same
Sources, evacuate and cover their scat in the same
Manner. They are disparate Finger Lakes, Texas
And Mexico, two leaves come to rest by one thin path.
A Yellow Dandelion
With hints of A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns
My love is like a dandelion
That’s just a common weed
His bright ideas scatter about
So like the flower’s seed
And with its roots sunk firm in earth
All bright and cheery yellow
And so my love does spread his joy
He’s such a funny fellow
And many know the dandelion
Can crush into good wine
So with the pressures of this life
My love is just as fine
There was a Little Dog
There was a Little Dog
Who had an attitude
Right across her ass
When she was good, she was very good
But, when she was bad, she was a bad ass
Copyright © TMC 2016
(imitating Mary Oliver’s “This Morning Again It Was in the Dusty Pines”)
IN NOVEMBER SHE CAME TO THE NESTBOX
Not in fear, but indifference
the house wren
ignored my presence and popped
into the hole, hurrying
the season – out of sight
until she slipped
out the side-door I’d left open
when in July I cleaned out her nest,
and was gone. Into November oaks
losing their leaves
even as the grassy fields turn
unseasonably green as spring,
when she might start thinking again
of the future,
of carrying twigs in her curved bill,
jimmying them through
the hole in the box we built,
heaping them
ramshackle inside, so no one
but a house wren –
surely not a clumsy-fingered
human like me
could find her eggs inside.
How could I improve her home
but – now she’s gone –
shut the side-door
I left ajar, and tell her in words
she cares not to understand,
come again in May,
let me watch
twig by twig as you build the future
on a dumb post of my deck.
IN THE DARKNESS
I cannot sleep, my neighbor’s on a tear,
Darkness has fallen at the end of day.
Stop, stop your caterwauling over there.
I have to work tomorrow, you don’t care,
and you won’t listen to a word I say!
I cannot sleep, my neighbor’s on a tear,
I’d love to shut you up, but I don’t dare,
the officers would come; take me away,
Stop, stop your caterwauling over there.
I’d understand if you were dying there,
your rage against the night would be okay,
I cannot sleep, my neighbor’s on a tear,
The dying of the light is not so rare
to have you shouting all the live-long day!
Stop, stop your caterwauling over there.
You dirty mother, you’re starting to wear
upon my nerves, now at the close of day
I cannot sleep, my neighbor’s on a tear,
Stop, stop your caterwauling over there.
(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2016
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
DRUNK AT WOOD’S ON A SNOWY EVENING
It feels I’ve gone ten-thousand miles,
I’ve shaken hands, exchanged some smiles;
I grow more tired, very slow,
I long to rest here for a while.
The wind, it blusters driving snow,
the woods are deep and still they grow,
I need to stop and find my base,
or not much further can I go.
The frozen lake reflects my face,
so slippery, it slows my pace
and I made promises to keep.
but have no will to leave this place.
At Wood’s they have a good barkeep,
he pours me lagers, dark and deep,
and no more miles until I sleep,
and no more miles until I sleep.
© Walter J Wojtanik, 2016
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Delightful imitation! Has me smiling.
very clever indeed
Very enjoyable.
Well done, Walt! Love the title.
Oh, Loathsome Me
(An Anti-Howl)
Staccato stutter of futile black
riding the A Train
left on a seat
Yackitty yacking itself
all the way back to the womb
and then some
Dumb bastard didn’t
even know what hit ‘em
then as second generation
Flagrant vagrant yuppies
call out for more war
more money yo quiero mas
And when did mommy ever say
that acid paper was good
for anything
(Tripping tripe on the tongue)
but jet black vomit of
written word
On tortured tree
and where the hell did
Kerouac get you from
The dime-store
fragile novel of beats and rhythms
and who is responsible
For the smell of this garbage
force fed to swallow streams
of sickness shoved down our throats
Because it don’t mean nothing to me Jack
but disgruntled rotting hideous
humans who care so much
That they can’t get off the
****ing keyboard and
blah blah blah about the
Big Bad World and
whose fault is it
anyway?
WHEN I HAVE DIED
When I have died think only this of me:
that there is some part of a Cornish town
that will be forever me. There shall be
in that rich town a richer dust laid down.
A dust whom Cornwall bore, shaped, made aware,
gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam.
Body of Cornwall’s, breathing Cornish air,
washed by the jet streams, blessed by suns of home.
And think, this house, all clutter shed away,
a seaside haven well could be, no less,
repaying back the investment given.
Her rooms could provide a dream holiday
for family or friends, with happiness
in this home, under a Cornish heaven.
With apologies to Rupert Brooke
THE ROAD OFTEN TAKEN by DeAndre Oolong
Infinite ways that my path could go
for free choice is a glorious beast.
And being me, I pretend I know
which are best to ignore or follow.
(But who knows about paths traveled least?)
So I took the road I always claim
because I know how its twists will end.
With family and pets, a good friend
or two. No other can be the same –
(Though I’ve never tried another’s bend).
I never feel a need for detours
or think about the many options
that are stocked with other happy stores.
Why question a choice that oft restores
my untossed faith without adoption
of risks that I never need to fear?
Perhaps, at some point I will question
everything I know and hold dear.
But today, that’s for another year.
Though, I am open for suggestion.
Imitation of Robert Frost, THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Great DeAndre! A true imitation. I went the other route with Frost with “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”. Nicely done!
Wonderful–enjoyed this!
FIRST FIG
BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!
My computer runs for days on end;
I know it is not right;
But oh, my readers, and ah my friend —
Social media is hard to fight!
Candle v. computer–nice juxtaposition. And both versus are true!
Yes, Robert, I like cat people too
and my dog likes most cats
but some cats don’t like my dog
and she don’t like those cats.