PROMPT National Poetry Month 2016: April 7

Discussion in 'INSPIRING MUSES' started by RiverNotch, Apr 6, 2016.

  1. Again, the rule is you've got to write something on the topic or form described, with yer poems being in different posts. And that month thing -- prompts'll stop by April 30.

    TODAY'S TOPIC: "Jack would like a prompt about lycanthrope so write a poem inspired by metamorphosing into an animal, being an animal or from the point of view of an animal."
    FORM: Any
    LINE REQUIREMENTS: 8 lines or more

    Credit where it's due; the idea and the prompts come from this site:
    Poetry Forum - - Post poetry, get feedback, give critique.

    The hero's journey
    cannot end in triumph. Death
    is not the abyss, it is
    the return, the final descent
    down the mountain. To the living,
    only the boon is truly known,
    the summit behind the hero
    reeking of corpses.

    The war came when he was a child,
    and afterwards, he joined his generation
    in telling tales only of this glorious past,
    choosing for himself a mundane path. He became
    an officer of the law -- a guardian,
    perhaps, or the dragon
    holding the goddess captive. He found my grandmother
    at an investigation in the provinces,
    falling in love
    first with her cooking,
    then with her quiet rural manner.

    Now the silence haunts him.
    He sits by the door of their house
    and dials up a channel
    on his battery-powered radio,
    a gift from his three daughters.
    Before my grandmother's sickness, it would be
    the news -- now that she lies on the couch,
    a bag of vomit nearly spilling out beside her,
    he prefers the worship channel.
    But even this must end. My mother,
    busy accounting for pensions,
    complains about the noise.

    Siegfried returned to the world of men
    with the Tarnhelm before his death.
    And as the flames of his funeral pyre
    rose to the heavens, the world of the gods
    burned down -- the hearts of men
    were purified. That is the real boon,
    the power to transform.
    If my grandfather is to offer us
    anything more than his life,
    he must die like a dog.
  3. Sibyl Vane

    Dorian, sweet Dorian, sprawled out on rich Egyptian cotton,
    Dorian, who bore the creamy-white innocence of youth
    To painter Basil, while summer flowers danced on the wind.
    Dorian, whose thin-tipped fingers traveled too far south
    On the idolized canvas, and thus he bound himself to be a fiend.

    Now Dorian opens jagged mouth and howls in laughter,
    Bays like a wolf at the ceiling of the opium den,
    Bites down hard on living flesh to taste new sensations
    Just like Lord Henry taught him. Women and men,
    No one is safe from the hooked claws of his fixations.

    He tore into society and it smiled, whispered behind, back at him,
    Like a finely-tuned violin, answered to every trill of the bow,
    Because upon his brow was beauty. But, in his heart, an animal.
    ... And one night Sibyl Vane took her last teary-eyed bow:

    Vane's veins throbbing, and rosy cheeks wet with tears,
    Dorian, oh Dorian, so vain, had torn her asunder to live like Harry, again,
    Like the devil himself - an aesthete. She was only a colorful canvas,
    One evening she was Rosalind, and the next evening she was Imogen.
    ... Then one evening she could not be any, and was found in the sea-grass.
    • Like Like x 1
  4. I also like that one! I think it could be cleaned up, but with a good scrubbing, it'd be a real kicker -- my favorite bit is the last stanza, which has that right sharpness to it. I could try and cut deeper, but I'm not sure this is the right forum (that is, this is for challenges, and a bit of commenting on them) -- and anyway, I know I'm no good critic [yet?].
  5. Thanks for the critique, I really appreciate it! c: Yeah, I also think it could be cleaned up a bit. Ah, this is the first time I'm happy to actually be forced to write everyday rofl. xD
  6. She had bristling fur,
    And fangs that ripped his heart.
    She had icy eyes,
    But he still loved her.

    She had claws to tear,
    Sharp teeth to dig in,
    And the cruel cunning of a fox,
    But he still loved her.

    But one day he had enough,
    And he set her free,
    Hoping she would understand,
    But she didn't love him back.
    • Like Like x 1
  7. She glared with fiery hatred
    At the men who thought to trap her
    They saw a damsel and the coin she could bring
    But soon they would feel the brunt of her anger

    A shrill cry rang out as her back tore open
    And leathery wings erupted from within
    Claws protruded from hands turned to talons
    A long serpentine tail grew as did a devilish grin

    The woman transformed to ten times her size
    Red glowing eyes and sharp fangs meant to feast
    The men tried to run, but alas twas too late
    They were food for the dragon a woman turned beast
  8. Henry Huyten was a boy when he saw the frontier,
    where a farmstead did he raise with his family dear:
    a sister named Amelia, a mother named Elaine,
    a strict and hard-nosed father John, on the windy plain.

    Henry Huyten quickly grew into a strong young man
    and his mother wisely knew that they would have to plan
    for the day her dear young boy would want to find a wife
    and move away from the farm to start off his new life.

    But Henry Huyten's father was a domineering sort.
    "He'll marry who I say he will. Love is just for sport."
    And Henry Huyten did not cotton to this idea so well
    for he had fallen in the clutches of true love's sticky spell.

    Off he went into the night to find his would-be lover,
    his mind intent on relaying that he desired no other.
    Across the fields went the boy, on a moonless night
    to find his girl and propose to her that she be his wife.

    But Henry Huyten did not see the garden he ran through
    to make it to his bonny girl, his lovely Betty Lu.
    A woman came from out the cottage, spying a large youth
    tracking flowers, peas, and cabbage, arugula, forsooth!

    "Ugh!" she cried, "my garden! You cad, you rake, you cur,
    for this you'll pay, you nasty knave, as soon as Sun hits Earth!
    And so long as you may live, you offensive, rotgut troll,
    only on a moonless night will comfort find your soul!"

    Now by this point our good boy Henry had already gone,
    halfway to farmhouse of the girl he'd grown so fond,
    which explains to you, dear friend, why he showed little dismay
    at the curse the witch spoke out so spitefully his way.

    He spent the night in her room, discretely and in silence
    lest he wake her parents up and inspire a father's violence,
    and on these grounds fled the house right before the dawn,
    unaware of the curse which had upon him fall'n.

    Halfway home the sun rose up, and a strange thing did occur
    that his body felt a-fevered, his mind a raging stir,
    His whole form contorted into agony and pain,
    while fur and fangs protruded, while he screamed in vain.

    His feet soon turned to paws, and his hands soon did the same
    while his ears grew floppy, long, his legs growing lame
    as they pushed and pulled and twisted into longish hinds
    and his face pushed ever forward, under magic binds.

    He'd become a hound, you see, a mangy little cur,
    the type with a baleful look, in redbone striking fur.
    Henry dashed right to his house in a blind panic,
    barking, bawling, dashing, thrashing, altogether manic.

    Henry's father came outside and was taken quite aback
    at the hound on his front door, trying to attack
    his little girl Amelia, his poor dear wife Elaine,
    jumping up and bowing down, again, again, again.

    So he took the shotgun off the mantle to dispatch the dog,
    while his wife and daughter pleaded with him, agog
    that he would kill a hound who just wanted to play,
    but he said, "Now I said no. He's got to go. The easy or hard way."

    And Elaine, overcome, begged him to spare the hound
    and John, convinced, stayed his hand, and took him to the pound
    where that night a poor dogcatcher would color himself surprised
    to look within a single cage to find a man inside.