I have been trying to get myself moving in terms of writing poems again. It’s funny how thinking in terms of prose can really dull the faculty you use to write poems.
I’ve been reading In the Palm of Your Hand, by Steve Kowit in an attempt to spark some thoughts and poetic impulses. It’s a good book with tons of ideas that I haven’t even touched yet.
I thought I’d try to involve you in a little participatory nonsense–merely for the sake of fun and the spirit of competition I hope it will ignite.
There are rules–guidelines, if you’d rather–to this bloodless exercise. Here they are:
- Poem must be at least seven lines long. Otherwise, its form is up to you.
- You must use at least seven of the ‘nouns, verbs, etc.’ listed below. One per line is a suggestion only, not a requirement.
- Use two of the prepositional phrases provided.
- Points are scored for: writing at least seven lines (7 pts.); using at least seven of the ‘nouns, verbs, etc.’ (7 pts., 3 additional for use of the word “quash”); using at least two of the prepositional phrases (2 pts.). Finally, one point each for any extra of the words or phrases provided. This gives a potential total of 20 points.
- Snappy titles are not required and do not earn points. However, they do garner respect and admiration from the crowd.
Enjoy the power of creation.
Nouns, verbs, etc.
blemish, wheel, accordion, pill, tame,
vanilla, fling, Bill, hand, four,
post, cinnamon, squat, Althea, quash (triple word score)
Prepositional phrases
on the shore, near the city, above your head, next to,
from this, under my, inside this, around his/her
The Rational Psychic 
Inside this blemish, wheels spill, fling.
Around his chest, sweater starts to pill, cling.
Near the city, the vanilla king, Bill.
Above your head he fans the flame, tame
around his four hand accordion game
pushed tight and squat, pulled huge and shrill
still next to you on the shore, in every post.
Under my spoon: cinnamon cereal — never toast.
Milk may quash my hopes, but soaking, never kill.
By: katy on Wednesday, April 9, 2008
at 12:42 am
Oooooh. Katy sets the bar mighty high.
By: rationalpsychic on Wednesday, April 9, 2008
at 12:55 am
[…] read more 3 […]
By: Hey Boys And Girls! It’s Time To Write A Poem! | milesgill on Wednesday, April 9, 2008
at 1:52 am
Bill peppered his vanilla with cinnamon,
a bemused Althea watched next to a wheel,
around his hand the cord to an accordion
dangled, inviting music into his meal.
She remembered their fling on the shore,
tame and innocent, they were just four.
Now they lived near the city.
By: Dan (Fitness) on Wednesday, April 9, 2008
at 11:24 am
[…] poem writing exercise Posted on April 9, 2008 by Dan (Fitness) Saw this over at Rational Psychic, its a very pleasant diversion. (My own entry is posted over there in the […]
By: Fun poem writing exercise « Fitness for the Occasion on Wednesday, April 9, 2008
at 11:27 am
My fling with Bill was tame in comparison
to the invention of the wheel
Yet so is everything for what mere blemish
can quash the cinnamon
bliss, the post vanilla smell from these hands?
These hands have played accordion on the fours shores of Althea
near the starry city above your head
By: kallioppe on Wednesday, April 9, 2008
at 1:48 pm
Accordion Serenade
Bill woke up with a blemish
Into his mouth he did fling a pill
A vanilla white spot stained his hand
He slung an accordion
Around his shoulder
Composed a tune to his Althea
Played his song on a curb near the city
By: Asad on Thursday, April 10, 2008
at 3:28 pm
Night smells of vanilla and cinnamon. Around her,
accordion-pull of the waves, echoes of Arnold
as they fling across the pier’s four posts. Near the squat city,
wave-quashed sound. Hand over hand
she pulls the sand-drenched wheel, plowing furrows
on the shore. She’s taken the pills,
left the empty bottle under my tame pillow, next to a note:
dear Bill: nothing above your head…
From this, she’s promised a new life.
Inside this blemished moon:
what Althea saves, she may yet destroy.
By: Evil Bender on Thursday, April 10, 2008
at 5:09 pm
When the Weather Won’t Cooperate
Near the city, snow is a vanilla blemish on our day.
Above your head, I fling a pill of white from my hand,
Which lands next to a cinnamon wooden post,
Sitting squat on the shore of ice.
From this gesture, inside this moment, I pray you will
Know that under my bravado, the wheel of my tame heart
Is spinning around her axis like a gypsy called Althea
Dancing to a wild accordion.
Bill, I cannot quash the pounding.
I aim four times more, and slip my mitten in your hand,
And pray for more snow.
By: eleanorstrousers on Monday, April 14, 2008
at 12:21 pm
[…] are worth your effort!” So, I am especially grateful to The Rational Psychic for posting this fun poetry exercise on his blog. There are rules and points to be had. I think I got the maximum of 20 with this gem. […]
By: A poem game for lost artists « ELEANOR’S TROUSERS on Tuesday, April 15, 2008
at 4:38 am