NaPM April 15, 2017

[Todd]

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 15: Write a poem from the perspective of an unreliable narrator.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[just mercedes]

Tamara


This book is a city, a cage, a woman, Queen of a Kingdom.
The walls, covered in signs and messages, directions
and holes, are pages you turn to decipher the news
of quelled rebellions, exiled husbands who attack
backed by Turkish forces, the state of the markets,
harvests, and banks. Victory belongs to eyes like
fresh water pearls from an Oriental river.

Above the river on a bleak crag broods a tower,
ancient, rocky. Light glows at night from the top
like sympathy, a huge room holds a billowy bed,
a woman, beauteous, who lies legs spread, waits
for a traveler to ensnare. She’s also a virgin.

She calls “Farewell”. The traveler leaps into the river
or takes wing. Her voice is the voice of a woman, a city,
a cage, a Queen, the voice of an unopened book
in the library that is this world, faint weeping, tender
and sweet.

[CRNDLSM]

'He had to have cheated on her,
she's such a horrible person.
If they're such a perfect couple
why would they split?

I heard them shout at each other!
It was horrible to listen,
Their relationship had trouble
She deserves it.

Of course I'd have made an offer,
He should be with a real woman 
At least someone who's not sterile,
who can have kids.

He'd make an excellent father,
I have no doubt she's the reason,
always has to be in control,
I could just spit!'

[rayheinrich]

       
                        My name is George and I'm a friend of Ray,
                        the person who is writing this.
                        Ray has yet to tell me that he's writing this,
                        but knowing Ray,
                        I'm pretty sure he intends to tell me later.
                        If he does,
                        I'll probably agree it's pretty close to what I would have said.
                       
                        I have another friend whose name is Mike.
                        Now Mike isn't his real name,
                        but I'm going to call him that because he doesn't trust the government.
                         
                        Mike believes there is a one true god and he believes that it's his.
                        I believe that all the gods that everybody claims to be
                        the one true god are the same god.
                        Ray assures Mike that I'm right.
                        I think Mike is a fanatic and Ray is a weasel (but the nice sort).
                       
                        Mike thinks there's a reason for everything; I don't.
                        Ray not only agrees with Mike, but claims that most of the time
                        he can figure out what the reason is.
                        Mike was skeptical when he first heard this and asked Ray if he knew why,
                        out of all the billions of people in the world,
                        the 142 people on American Airlines Flight 641 had to die.
                        Ray told him that, at that moment, they were the only people in the world
                        running into the ground at six hundred miles per hour.

                                                            - - -



Author's note: George suffered a serious head wound when he was in the army and is considered very unreliable (especially around beer).

[Tracy Mitchell]

Kenneth Patchen Comes to Lunch

I make collard green rollups with carrot,
avocado innards, tofurky, and Sriracha–  
sliced on the diagonal.  I forget whether
he writes or paints his poems these days.

He declares art is a perched walnut
then launches a story about squirrels
enough to make Dostoyevsky blush.

We drink lime water from canning jars.
The cat curls in his lap, its tail flitting
like a broken windshield wiper as he

tells the story of Two-finger John at the riverbed.
We watch the sun go down, which is always
a good ending to lunch.  Rexroth sleeps in the car.

[Donald Q.]

2

to sleep                               popping pills across
perchance                           the highway
to dream                             Pac Man's

FUCKING WIERD COUSIN
RUBBING MYSELF ON THE
GLASS OF YOUR WINDSHIELD

I am your alarm, here to wake you, as you requested.

to snooze                            the clock
perhaps                               knows you
to change                            have failed

I am the gate, tenable, waiting.

A GHOST ENTERS
THROUGH THE MIRROR
SCARED

[rayheinrich]

I swear to the gods! If we ain't the best damn group of poets around, then (even better) we've got brains large enough to think so.

[dukealien]

Tax Narrative


The business didn’t clear a cent this year
in fact, its salaries and bonuses
exceeded by themselves its revenue;
fixed costs and office space were very dear
while our competitors were geniuses
and customers ignored their payments due.
With seven years of losses it is clear
the time has come to halt its businesses -
close shop before more losses can accrue.

So welcome, buyer waiting for your turn
to buy up carried losses that will burn
through liability for all you’ll earn.
This sort of thing’s become the modern norm:
fat bonuses and paychecks raise a storm
of losses on a business’s tax form.

[Lizzie]

Control

I read food labels three times
before eating; one or two grams of fat
is my limit. I halve the suggested portion –
I need to cut my size in half. I'm strength training,
resistance training – resisting hunger,
containing desire. There are rules:
only the tip of my fork can touch food,
and food can't touch my lips.
I want to see my collar bones.
I want my hip bones to rise like islands
out of the sea when I lay on my back.
When I stretch out my hands, there should be
a hollow like a hammock of skin
above my thumb. Once I realize these goals,
I'll know I'm strong. Once I've achieved asceticism,
I can say I'm worthy. Until then, I must run
longer, farther, steeper – order only coffee.
There's always pain, the ache of a hollow body, but it's mine –
once I pay my penance in pounds, I'll be free.

[Franklin'sMan]

From the Cook Pot to the Fire

“Peter” I press against the weight of my
bedspread. Red coals lick the fire dogs an arm
away in the night. I loll. “Peter”
The rough hewn mossy logs I’d leaned above
me seem to be a slight bit red. The voice
still weighs in my ear. “I’m here,” I say.
Then a fortress gate upon ungreased and rusty
hinges creaks, creaks beneath the needled boughs
and out of sight. The winds then rustle more.
More unmanned partitions creak above me.
There, and there and there they’ve rooted
to the forest floor. I strain to integrate
my eyes - they’ve come unbound together, or
the coals are licking more than stumps. I sit
up on my bench and toss my spread away
to find the air revolting on my skin.
Bird feather fingers pressing in! IN!
“Heaven!” I roll to fall to earth. Pine needle
worms are strewn there - their teeth are bared. I’m on
my feet again, but the bench has blown
away as wind. Earth’s matter grows thin so
the fires within taint red the trees and shadows.
The coals alone seem to be. I leap
on them like a man on a turtle in the sea.
They’re cool like stones on a beach in the moonlight.
Blue light from somewhere then shines on her feet
- her nine pink nails glow violet.
I violently crawl to them, clasp them and
kiss them; I cling to her calves, climb to her knees,
but they’re open to the breeze like ashtrays
- blowing soot in the moonlight. “Heaven!”
--- They’ll think an old woodsman succumbed to
bad mushrooms. He succumbed to his grief
in the forest in the night of his life.

[ellajam]

Showing some skills there, FM. Strong, interesting breaks and how is it possible that this line did not read as over-alliterated?

I violently crawl to them, clasp them and
kiss them; I cling to her calves, climb to her knees,

That hard C just pulls the line along in a rush that suits it and with the sonics of the rest of the piece being more subtle it just works. Fun read, something you might want to work on down the road.

[ellajam]

2

to sleep                               popping pills across
perchance                           the highway
to dream                             Pac Man's

FUCKING WIERD COUSIN
RUBBING MYSELF ON THE
GLASS OF YOUR WINDSHIELD

I am your alarm, here to wake you, as you requested.

to snooze                            the clock
perhaps                               knows you
to change                            have failed

I am the gate, tenable, waiting.

A GHOST ENTERS
THROUGH THE MIRROR
SCARED

[Franklin'sMan]

Showing some skills there, FM. Strong, interesting breaks and how is it possible that this line did not read as over-alliterated?

I violently crawl to them, clasp them and
kiss them; I cling to her calves, climb to her knees,

That hard C just pulls the line along in a rush that suits it and with the sonics of the rest of the piece being more subtle it just works. Fun read, something you might want to work on down the road.

Dog-it if I know why. I know that was the most meaning-rich image for me, and I know I strongly tend to alliteration and assonance. So lucky break? Anyway, I'm pleased you liked it. I'll think of work-shopping it next month.

[nibbed]

Birthday Surprise


Yes darling, it's dad,
well, I love you, too!
Ya know, it's that time of year!
I was wondering...
since you are unemployed,
yes, and struggling
I am so sorry...
I was wondering if I could,
I mean maybe it's a wee bit dishonest,
and you haven't lived with me in over 15 years...
but, I was wondering...today's the deadline...
I'm on the other line with my accountant.
Can I write you off as my dependent?

[RiverNotch]

elegy for a dead voice


i will not apologize
for what i did not do.
i know, in my heart,
behind the lies,
lies someone true.

a flat line divides
allusion and mere reference.
metaphors can be hints,
can be overextended.
the moral prerogative now

is to destroy division, but 
we all know there is no such vision 
without the same symbols, 
the same syntax.
still, i cannot rejoice

for the inevitable --
it is incomplete.
voces mortui in
tegminibus sub terra in
trabeculis carneis refugient.

my translation: dead voices find shelter underground in the trabeculae carneae

ELEGY FOR A DEAD VOICE


I VVILL NOT APOLOGIZE
FOR VVHAT I DID NOT DO
I KNOVV IN MY HEART
BEHIND THE LIES
LIES SOMEONE TRVE

A FINE LINE DIVIDES
ALLVSION AND MERE REFERENCE
METAPHORS CAN BE HINTS
CAN BE OVEREXTENDED
THE MORAL PREROGATIVE NOVV

IS TO DESTROY DIVISION BVT
VVE ALL KNOVV THERE IS NO SVCH VISION
VVITHOVT THE SAME SYMBOLS
THE SAME SYNTAX
STILL I CANNOT REIOICE

FOR THE INEVITABLE ---
IT IS INCOMPLETE
VOCESMORTVIIN
TEGMINIBVSSVBTERRAIN
TRABECVLISCARNEISREFVGIENT

[Keith]

Mills & Boon

One night in Paris


I should start by telling you this is a tale of two sisters
I'm Valarie Goodridge , my sister is Isabelle
This is a story about our lives.

You will read how I left school, went to uni, slept with the first boy
I thought I loved and who said he loved me, then married him.
We both got jobs, bought a house and two cars,
I miscarried twice before giving birth to my daughter,
who is now starting at the same school her dad and I went to.

You will learn that my sister never married,
stayed at the same law firm she joined
after leaving uni and is now a full partner,
she has had a string of relationships
but always calls time before things get too serious.
She has her own apartment in the city and has started
thinking about children and what that would mean.

So here we are in Paris on a sisters only weekend,
my shit of a husband pissed off with a woman
he met at work, good luck to them both.
My sister wants to try for a baby and she's booked
herself into a clinic next week and I'm
going to be with her every step of the way.

So here we are in Paris
in a night club after several glasses of champagne.
Taking each day as it comes and having a good blow out.
We have a little sister thing that we say to any guy
that tries to chat us up.
"Fuck off were talking"
Now on with the story.

[kolemath]

Believe Me


I'm a used car salesman,
and I have a deal for you!
Here’s a gently used Ford Pinto, great gas milage.
You need something for accommodate all your children?
Sure it’s safe!  
Who ever wants to see an airbag hanging from a steering wheel?
It just looks unnatural.


My family?
I’m a great dad!  Believe me, I’ve fathered children
from five women. I know exactly what I’m doing.


In fact, I’m engaged for my fifth marriage.
I left my kids ‘cause my fiance’s pregnant.
My kids love me.

So about that car . . .

[Todd]

Clear as Glass Slippers
 
Of course, we’re the same size.
Sisters share
the same bone structure.
We only look different
because we don’t share
parents. I don’t know why
you would need me to put on
that old thing. It should be clear
I was the one with whom you danced.
My hair didn’t smell like a chimney
when I pressed my cheek
against your chest. I left the shoe
so you could remove more,
not so you would dress me again.