EXERCISE National Poetry Month 2016: April 3, 4, 5

Discussion in 'REFINING WRITING' started by RiverNotch, Apr 5, 2016.

  1. Been a busy load of days, these past three. Here are the three prompts, each 8 lines or more, with the same freedom-of-form. Again, one post per poem -- note which day yer poem is.

    April 3: "Heslopian would like to see a poem inspired by "Danse Macabre" in the traditional sense as defined by google: a medieval allegorical representation in which a personified Death leads all types of people to the grave, intended to emphasize the equality of all before death."

    April 4: "This topic was selected by ellajam and it could be challenging. Ella would like to see poems inspired by the French phrase "entre chien et loup" which is a phrase that loosely translate to "between a wolf and a dog" and is used to describe that time at twilight when it can be difficult to distinguish between a wolf and a dog or a situation when it is difficult to tell when something is benevolent or dangerous. Write a poem inspired by this."

    April 5: "Write an "ekphrastic" poem - a poem inspired by a piece of artwork. Provide a link to the artwork if you can."

    Prompts from Poetry Forum - - Post poetry, get feedback, give critique.
  2. Dangit, three hard prompts for three busy days!

    April 3:

    My holy brother passing hushed
    through loud skomorokh crowds,
    diamond eyes betray your lies,
    and snorts betray your scorn!

    Though you have wisdom, you have Faith,
    your Hope is yet assured:
    for you, there is no Love in masques,
    just faces torn by glue!
  3. This one was tough -- the concept, I grasped easily, but thinking of a topic.... This'll prolly go through a lot of editing, later.


    It's that time of day again,
    when my arms are cold
    but my loins are cooking --

    when every lady I see unchained
    by childhood, wifehood, motherhood,
    'sa mask to be tored off --

    eyes plucked out,
    noses chewed,
    and mouths glewed shut --
  4. April 5:



    Isolate -- turn of the century
    prostrate to past and present -- tears
    rolling down windless slopes -- wings, loins
    hacked, scattered -- off the immortal

    I AM -- desiring no malice
    seated, flying, fallen -- peacock eyes
    filled with hateful flame -- with rueful power!
    and skin glowing copper
    turned tarnished tin --

    Though my skin is earth
    and Venus is my favored planet,
    Saturn cannot conquer. There is
    only Love within this fire,
    misplaced, cracked, consuming,

    yet nevertheless Hallowed,
    for I AM nothing -- a child
    still, enjoying -- sunset flowers
    in the shattered forms of dusk --




    Note: paintings, second The Demon Seated, 1890, oil on canvas by Mikhail Vrubel, first The Demon Downcast, 1902, oil on canvas by Mikhail Vrubel, both to be found in The State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow, Russia. I was lucky enough to discover these in Russia, neither being Russian or in Russia -- bloody magnificent! and for the interested: Dueling Demons: Mikhail Vrubel's Demon Seated and Demon Downcast - Art in Russia
  5. April 3rd

    Ah, RiverNotch, your poems are a joy to read~

    This is really hard xD Please bear with my awful poetry, I'm trying to get better >.>
    This is kinda based on a game.

    Old Zendar:


    Oh God.

    It's a god. A terrible god.
    With a booming voice
    To which hells rejoice.
    We saw it among the gloom
    Like bone- its pearly, whiteness shone
    And stark against the bone-like white
    Gleamed in eerie self-made light


    Blood. Pouring from the fountain's
    Gut, spilling to the shore
    Also in the rock around us
    Oh- in the rock it bore
    The reeking smell of death and rot
    (The rot, the rot, the endless Naught!),
    Then settled in the fountain's gut
    And then was eaten up again.

    As I now know,
    The fountain hungers- hungers for us!
    It takes, eats... from us.
    The us that died that day- the soul.

    The fountain asked- in a booming voice:
    "Do you choose life, or death?"
    And when the men around me spoke,
    Merchants, armed guards, and commonfolk...
    They chose the clearest choice it left,
    "Life." To live, to breath, and speak,
    But those they did no more.
    For the fountain said-
    And I still hear it in my head:
    "Fools. Life ends- abrupt, and quick
    And rot then takes a hold,
    likewise quick."

    It was all a trick, you see."
    #5 Desu Juice, Apr 5, 2016
    Last edited: Apr 5, 2016
  6. Dude, I bet you'd be more awed by the stuff they have in the site I keep linking to -- they've got all the experience. Check it out!
  7. I did, it's awesome. I'm so making an account. c:
    If it wouldn't be too much to ask... I was wondering if you could let me know if what I write is good, or needs work or whatever. Just a sentience - too wordy, too messy, let me know. I take advanced Literature, yet I am completely incapable of judging my own writing (hah- if you could call it writing).

    April 4th

    In water-wrinkled skin, too-long submerged,
    There are his kind valleys of love and longing,
    So he skims the sand and picks along the bottom,
    Picks up the shells that are too sharp-looking
    And throws them into his throat when words burst out, too quiet... And-

    He was always one length too deep,
    Always over his head and heels and ever-longing,
    Pulled to the surface by a breathing and tonguing
    The bottom lip. On sweetest love, gorging
    Himself full, so he could maybe learn how to float well again, and-

    And Spring needs his seasons for balance too,
    Too temperate her sunlight is, as Shakespeare says,
    To ever be summer. Her vines crawl along and caress,
    The young Adonis, touching to the sharp rise
    Over rivulet ribs, jutting like failing organs - all the time in remission, and-

    And October always becomes a winter, right?
    He pulls her down into the cold with him,
    Past the bellowing, alarm-bell whale calls...
    Through the blue and into his flood.
    Into no words but apologies.
    #7 Desu Juice, Apr 5, 2016
    Last edited: Apr 5, 2016
  8. Rofl, I Googled 'artwork' and this is what came up, so yoloswag. I didn't really want to do this one, but eh.

    April 5th



    Spindle, tapering end of fingers crawl and shred
    Far into the bodyhorror keys to make up for that...
    That thing he said, leave me alone-
    Threw it at her like a broken mouse, by a bat
    It cannot be true- it was blue and cold like his lips when he's underwater.

    Where the toxins spread and make rise,
    He makes way for cirrhosis as her belly swells with love,
    And he swells with his sickness in a hepatic portal vein stove
    Yes, he drinks the bilge - it fits into his stomach like a glove,
    He stares at the fingers of his hand and imagines them as caricatures from above.

    Then meets the gaze of a dainty ankle,
    And finally grows, floats all the way up the leg and knows to not to stop, old enough to meet her gaze.
    #8 Desu Juice, Apr 5, 2016
    Last edited: Apr 5, 2016