You think you know your fairytales? Sophie Bowns takes 12 classic tales and retells them with new turns and twists, all while putting them to verse!
Some follow the originals (as I remember them) pretty closely, the big change being the transfer to verse – Rumpelstiltskin and the Shoemaker and the Elves. But others take the familiar tales down new paths. All are good but my particular favorites are her dark retelling of the Little Mermaid, a flight-filled retelling of the Happy Prince, and her Not So Snow White. This is an excellent short read. Recommended!
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I have had the pleasure of reading Jessica Mehta’s fine collection of poetry, Secret-Telling Bones. This is a collection of incredibly personal poems; I felt Ms. Mehta's soul as I read each one. They are deep poems, with layers of meaning. I found myself re-reading them at different times of the day and in different moods and each time the words told a different story. And yet, they are easily read; you grasp the first story, whatever it is, in the first reading, the first breath. They are also, deeply connected poems, connected to their objects, their experiences, their secret-tellings.
Ms. Mehta tells of experiences I can only imagine. They become real. Her NDN heritage is front and center, you can feel the emotion of identity and heritage, pride and shame, and hope and triumph. The poems bring a cross-culturalism, with humans and animals that is intense, honest, and unique. The emotions are often raw, the telling unvarnished and for that, all the more powerful and real and compelling. My favorite was “Landmarks Made of Stone”. Importantly, this collection is published by the operating system which is dedicated to keeping books in print, on paper. I whole-heartedly recommend Secret-Telling Bones. Follow the link buy new from an Indie bookseller recommended by Ms. Mehta. Four poems this week that caught my eye last month and led me to think about the insights into the human condition that some people seem to make effortlessly (like these poets) where the words are often difficult to come up with.
First up, Vikki (@VWC_Writes) talks of deep love. She brings all the senses together beautifully: The night becomes us, a hint of jasmine and wild berries competing with salt winds evoking our senses to the delicate seams of moonlight, our fingers coaxing stories from each other's souls as we marvel at the purple skies pooling behind our silhouettes. Then @an_angsty_teen tells us that acts and deeds are different in the life of anyone: sorry isn't always enough it can be a bottle trying to hold a waterfall or a band aid covering a stab wound sorry is not a magic word that suddenly makes everything you do okay sorry means you regret it doesn't mean the same hand won't strike again @alanlovespoetry gives a dark Resume but it is true - life will end, I think he's saying make the most of it, because it won't matter a whit to you when you're dead: Once I am dead will it matter if it was a stabbing or a stroke at 53 does it matter that only mom saw me graduate that at 18 I made so many nice people cry no math in it it adds up exactly to nothing no alphabet not enough even for one good poem. And finally, back to love and hope, so perfectly crafted by @ZanneQuinn: Open you mouth, my love and taste my promises Use both hands hold tight to my chances Open your eyes and paint my body opportunity Write a little poetry on my pale skin Give me hope If you like these works as much as I do, please give these writers a read, a follow, and your appreciation. Wherein a certain blogger (me) reprints some samples of authors whose work deserves More. More readers, More accolades, and, I fervently hope, More excellent works from the authors!
First up, perfectly catching at least one goal of an author, is LiDe Castro (@QueenofCastoria): "Look at the all," he said, staring straight ahead. "Each and every one of them lured me in, and it was all nothing but make-believe. Manipulative bastards!" His friend looked at the bookshelf, and turned to him, confused, "Who are you talking about?" "Writers." A second flash fiction, more sinister showing the darker potential, from Cheyenne Bramwell (@PoemsbyCheyenne): She kept her desiccated dreams in the box at the foot of her bed. They would make low moans, calling to her from inside. They smelled like paper flowers made of old notebook pages. They reeked of kerosene ready to light. And then two poems who touch the very center of the heart. From Shell McClendon (@shellandjeff) - I especially love the last line: I wrote a poem of you today pulled it from my soul about the very last day when I knew I had to go I remember recalling that look in your eyes It broke me and bled my heart dry I walked away as if on shards of glass Cutting-edge emotions embedded forever in me of our past From Alan (@alanlovespoetry) The sadness with an edge of hope: Hymn In every instrument a genius song in each pen a perfect poem I stopped trying to make sense of rivers though I know they run dry I notice we no longer build arches but find new ways to knock down children & old factories why I need our embrace- in each, an atom healed. A very good poet whom I follow on Twitter who goes by the handle @alanlovespoetry posted the below recently:
Resume Once I am dead will it matter if it was a stabbing or a stroke at 53 does it matter that only mom saw me graduate that at 18 I made so many nice people cry no math in it it adds up exactly to nothing no alphabet not even enough for one good poem. Before I plunge any further let me say first off that I love this poem. Second I have no idea if my Twitter "followee" is writing any grain of truth either in the events or in his philosophy (Alan, if you want to weigh in, please be my guest, if not we'll leave the mystery!). However, as a point of comparison it is excellent! My grandmother worried about this as long as I knew her - the adding up after her death. She tried to do everything she could so that the math added to something greater than zero. I think it does, but not in the way she presented her hopes. The sum is what is left and that is the memories the "survivors" carry with them. It may end up being transient, a generation, two, maybe three, but it does, in my mind, add up to something greater than nothing. And it does matter, each of those pieces, because each affected others to a greater or lesser extent which caused a ripple through time that would not have been there, Alan, Grandma, unless you were there. This week I remember a classic in American poetry. Walt Whitman is a name that is almost always in the list of greatest American poets. In fact, in 2006, The Atlantic listed him as "the most influential American poet, without question."
Leaves of Grass was first published in 1855. It was found by many to be obscene, with its direct references to the body, emotions and explicit sexual imagery. It was greatly influenced by Ralph Waldo Emerson and the Transcendentalist movement and is truly quintessentially American, as the Atlantic says. Whitman spent the entire rest of his life adding to and revising the one book. It grew from only 95 pages and 12 poems to over 400 poems through, nominally 9 editions (there is some dispute over whether three of the printings were sufficiently changed from their predecessors to be counted as a new edition). As such scholars can trace Whitman's phases of development and thought by tracing the changes in the editions. Whitman was a nurse during the Civil War and was strongly affected by what he found in the hospitals and battlefields of that great struggle. He was also a staunch Lincoln man and he wrote a stirring elegy to the fallen President, "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd". The title itself was a pun, leaves being the pages of a book and grass was a term used by publishers of the time for works of little value. Fortunately for all of us, there are many leaves and they are definitely of great value. Poetry Duel 14 featured returning guest poet Cheyenne Bramwell and her poem "Never Turn Around" on the left up against Sylvia Plath and her poem "Mad Girl's Love Song" on the right.
The result...the most votes for a Duel yet AND...by a margin of one vote, Cheyenne wins! Both poems were very well received both getting an average rating of better than 4.5, being the fourth and fifth highest rated poems in all of the Duels! Cheyenne Bramwell is an adrenaline junky, poet, and author who runs a daily poetry blog, and is in the process of a handful of fiction projects, including one that's been going for over a decade! She's new to sharing her work with the world, so if you'd like to let her know what you think of this poem, tweet her at @PoemsbyCheyenne! You can find her poetry blog at poemafterpoem.weebly.com, or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/poemsbyCheyenne. You can also support her on at patreon.com/poetrybyCheyenne and get a personalized poem! Never Turn Around When the darkness has eyes that glow and claws that catch, and feet that slide unseen through the night, When their howls and moans raise the hair on your arms and neck- that is when you run. Have swift steps towards the light, and don't let them smell the fear that is gnawing at your insides, or hear the scream of mindless terror that is tearing at your throat. They are deadly enough without any encouragement. But if they know of your doubts and your nightmares, then you will never be safe. Once they have tasted that small part of you, they will use it. It will fuel them and turn every single monster, to a never-ending hoard. No matter where you go, they will find you. Everywhere you look, you will find their eyes and deep-throated whispers. Once you've met their eyes, they will never leave you. So whatever you do- even if their footsteps are charging towards you- even if their fetid breath is searing the back of your neck- if you can almost feel the grasp of their rotten hands on your skin- don't turn around. And never look into their eyes. ++++++++++ Mad Girl's Love Song I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.) God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan’s men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I fancied you’d return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.) Duel 13 was yet another tie and again, a complete tie. Both poems got the same number of votes and both had a 3.50 rating.
On the left was famous "beat" poem Allen Ginsberg and his "The Terms in Which I Think of Reality". Ginsberg rose to fame in the 1950s as the pre-eminent "beat" poet and was an icon through the turbulent '60s and '70s. On the left was Justin Bienvenue's "Brutal Mentality" from his self-published Like a Box of Chocolate. Justin's poetry definitely takes a different tack than a lot of the other "unknown" poets featured here but I like it and it has a certain dark optimism. The Terms in Which I Think of Reality Reality is a question of realizing how real the world is already. Time is Eternity, ultimate and immovable; everyone's an angel. It's Heaven's mystery of changing perfection : absolute Eternity changes! Cars are always going down the street, lamps go off and on. It's a great flat plain; we can see everything on top of a table. Clams open on the table, lambs are eaten by worms on the plain. The motion of change is beautiful, as well as form called in and out of being. Next : to distinguish process in its particularity with an eye to the initiation of gratifying new changes desired in the real world. Here we're overwhelmed with such unpleasant detail we dream again of Heaven. For the world is a mountain of shit : if it's going to be moved at all, it's got to be taken by handfuls. Man lives like the unhappy whore on River Street who in her Eternity gets only a couple of bucks and a lot of snide remarks in return for seeking physical love the best way she knows how, never really heard of a glad job or joyous marriage or a difference in the heart : or thinks it isn't for her, which is her worst misery. +++++++++++++++ Brutal Mentality To be considerate of others Is for the way of the wise There’s more fighters than lovers Leaving us with blackened eyes They give without taking Ask without permission Their actions they are faking Yet there’s no lining of suspicion If only the brain burned Upon thinking too much Maybe then they’d be concerned Of others feelings and such But they don’t and it’s a joke Only thinking of themselves The mind is but a broken yolk Your like dust on a shelf Collected and forgotten Looked upon from time to time It’s as if your aura is rotten It’s as if you’ve committed a crime But they are in the wrong Needing a check back into reality Perhaps their intentions all along Pushing us with brutal mentality There’s a party going on And everyone’s having a good time And if you haven’t done so already Lick the walls they taste like strawberries But the room is really concrete white There’s actually rats crawling out of holes Only one person is in the room Licking the walls will lead to lead poisoning The twelfth duel continues the series of close results. Both poems got the same number of votes but, in a change, the "established" poet's poem was rated higher. On the right was Maya Angelou's poem "My Younger Days" which gained an average rating of 4.5. On the left, finishing second, was my own poem "Overtaken" which was written for a 30 poems in 30 days competition.
My Younger Days When I was in my younger days, I weighed a few pounds less, I needn't hold my tummy in to wear a belted dress. But now that I am older, I've set my body free; There's the comfort of elastic Where once my waist would be. Inventor of those high-heeled shoes My feet have not forgiven; I have to wear a nine now, But used to wear a seven. And how about those pantyhose- They're sized by weight, you see, So how come when I put them on The crotch is at my knee? I need to wear these glasses As the print's been getting smaller; And it wasn't very long ago I know that I was taller. Though my hair has turned to gray and my skin no longer fits, On the inside, I'm the same old me, It's the outside's changed a bit. Overtaken Work! Deadlines! The mad rush to get the errands done Without much thought The eyes lose focus, the head spins All you want is the merry-go-round To stop. A single brown and white bird Sits on the branch outside the window A few brave buds dotting its length. The bird, a sparrow, bursts into song And a blast of sunlight Speckles its beak and wings. You listen And the argument in the cubicle Next door fades; the insistent Reminder on the computer is a little Less insistent and you notice The daffodils blooming by the walk For the first time Overtaken by spring. TIE! Both poems got exactly the same votes and both had exactly the same rating, tied for second-highest rating in all of the duels (I guess the voters liked the poems this week!)
The "established" poem was the one on the right, "Tableau at Twilight" by Ogden Nash, that I have, in my library, in a collection called Poem Stew, published as a book for middle grades and available at Biblio (out of print) for as little as $3.97. The poem on the left was my own "Competition" from my collection Transitions. Tableau at Twilight I sit in the dusk. I am all alone. Enter a child and an ice-cream cone. A parent is easily beguiled By the sight of this coniferous child. The friendly embers warmer gleam, The cone begins to drip ice cream. Cones are composed of many a vitamin. My lap is not the place to bitamin. Although my raiment is not chinchilla, I flinch to see it become vanilla. Coniferous child, when vanilla melts I'd rather it melted somewhere else. Exit child with remains of cone, I sit in the dusk. I am all alone, Muttering spells like an angry Druid, Alone, in the dusk, with the cleaning fluid. Competition I like to see the eyes of my opponent I like them to know I’m there I like it when I watch the hope Of victory fade from their eyes I like to see the triumph played out And the agony of defeat I like to watch the satisfaction Of a victory well-won No vindictiveness, no taunting No “trash-talking”, no “head games” Play hard, play to win But remember, it’s only a game For the fun is in playing well And the fun is in the challenge The fun is in a worthy opponent And in learning a new stratagem Smile and laugh and do your best Come back and play again Life’s too short to hassle on it But I want to see you play. |
AuthorMe as a critic (be careful! the harshness will be well concealed!) Archives
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