Open-Source Poetry Three #3

Our dearest Writers and Readers,

Guess what? Now we feel like teachers in a classroom full of naughty children! Albeit genius children. We gave you a mere few lines and you went running off with them like they were a pair of sharp scissors!

Once we showed our admiration for the poetic maverick geek that is the Great Von, you started to bomb us with your boundless creativity and flagrant disregard of the rules. Are we cross with you all? No! We love it!

BUT—and we say this with a dull tone, adjusting the glasses on our noses—you need to be reminded of the rules. Do you hear us, MiamiMagus, David Koblentz, gregorystackpole, rebel1955 (yes, you’re a real rebel!)? Your submissions were lovely, but alas we cannot accept them!

There’s nothing for it. We shall have to keep you back after class for detention. And you shall write the following line one hundred times: ‘captain ahab, hunting still, with wife and son and daughter’. As for you, Peter Pondering, you may go leave early. Yes, as the originator of this line, you get to cut class before the bell rings! Lucky boy!

Oh! But before that we need to remind you of the rules and reveal our next line. We hope you’ll be more diligent next time! (Such naughtiness!)

1) We provide the next line of the poem.
2) You write the following line.
3) You submit your line via the comments section of this very post.
4) We pick the line we like most and add it to the poem.
5) We publish every line to date in a follow-up post.
6) Steps 1-5 are repeated until we have a masterpiece!

Вензель

wet backs, sharp fangs, dangerous dolphin eyes
waves for crowns and blood in the water
they wade through utter slaughter
captain ahab, hunting still, with wife and son and daughter

their harpoons at the ready, of fearsome size

Вензель_нижний

by TETIANA ALEKSINA, TONY SINGLERUNN1N90NEMPTY’S DAUGHTER & PETER’S PONDERING
© All rights reserved 2019

husk

stones shift, tectonic
the mountain’s deep, pulsing heart
more molten than mine

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Daedalon by J.R. Ackerley

Aye, I am foolish for I know
That I shall sadden when you go,
And I am blind because I see
That you were more than God to me:
A brighter sun than Heaven’s shone
When I was with you, Daedalon.

Can I find strength enough to stand
The last slight pressure of your hand;
Can I find fortitude to bear
The knowledge that you are not there,
Then turn my Book of Life upon
The memory of Daedalon

Remember you! No, no, I’ll shut
The Book, or from its pages cut
The image of you graven there,
The dingy tangle of your hair,
Your ill-kept hands and lifeless face,
And seek friends in some other place.

Forget you? … When my heart repeats
Your wisdom to me as it beats? …
That always you may be the same
My rhymes shall vivify your name …
Aye, cunningly I’ll play upon
The happy name of Daedalon.

But you were cold to me, I know,
Who never dreamed my thoughts to show,
But sat content to hear you speak,
And see the bronzeness of your cheek,
Your sunburnt nose and wounded eye …
But never told you, no, not I.

Yes, I am blind; but still I saw
The beauty of you all the more,
How slowly came your drawled reply,
How gleamed your artificial eye;
And on the morrow you’ll be gone …
Ah, but I loved you, Daedalon.

by J.R. ACKERLEY (1896-1967)
Public Domain Poetry

the genesis flask

you slip through my fingers into the sand
and make a trail in speckle and spick
the prints of your limbs a lost dna strand

sprigs pop in your wake, magic and mayhem
ocean waves give your feet a slavish lick
comets swirl to give form your diadem

in this moment i am the creator
sower of dreams, bringer of time’s tick
standing at the edge of heaven’s crater

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

GUEST POST // all the trappings of winter by Robert Greig

I’ve tried
to write a poem
for the solstice
this winter come,
for the shortest day;

the beginning of the end…

I failed
to find a start
carve a middle
coup de grâce
weave a wordy way;

the beginning
of the end…

I set my traps
the night before
made all the best laid plans
I chose the bait
and lay in wait
and all seemed well in hand;

the beginning of
the end…

patience
that’s the key
so it seemed
but easy said
is rarely easy done;

the beginning
of
the end…

as light became
less light
my eyes
shuttered wide
to closed
and into sleep
I dribbled deep
from yawn to drowse
to doze;

the beginning of the end
came when I awoke
and found
nothing much to find
but pins and needles
muscle cramp
a spider hanging
from my hat
but not a rhythm
not a rhyme
nor any useful line,
nothing fine
that could be used
to light a fuse
or bold enthuse
to glean a verse
to break this curse,
not epic,
blank,
not villanelle,
not idyll,
even terse.

[sigh]

I’ve tried
to write a poem
but despite
my best attempts
I wrote
a shopping list instead:
coffee
tea
turnips
tomatoes
crackers
crisps
and cheese.

by ROBERT GREIG
© All rights reserved 2018