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I have to confess that I actually had intended to skip PPL this month. Busy, buried and all that jazz. I hope you’ll forgive, Robin.

But I just couldn’t. PPL is just too much fun.

And this month’s theme was too hard to pass up.

No set form. Theme is Back to School.

I knew from the second I saw the prompt that my poem had to be about music. Most of my memories of high-school are set to music.

Namely, early and mid-90s Alternative. A genre that’s still my favorite. Really, give me STP, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Rage any day. That’s good stuff.

Little did I realize that my poem would consist of fourteen original words, with the balance of the poem provided by shamelessly ripping off the lyrics from seven notable Alternative songs from 92-96.

Ah well, it’s not my best entry, but it will do. For fun, click the links to find the artist and album.

Smells Like Teen Spirit

On Sunday, say a prayer for me, I’m buried by the sound.
On Monday, it’s time I got back, I don’t even know how I got off the track.
On Tuesday, Sunspots have faded, and now I’m doing time.
On Wednesday, where ya going to tomorrow? Where ya going with that mask I found?
On Thursday, while it’s on my mind there’s a girl that fits the crime for a future love dream that I’m still to find.
On Friday, three important rules for breaking up. Don’t put off breaking up when you know you want to. Prolonging the situation only makes it worse.
On Saturday, I stood upon these legs and held my head up high emerged beneath the sun to start a new life.

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She actually did it this time.

Robin made up a new poetic form, for real.

This isn’t an obscure form that I’ve decided to blame Robin for inventing, as I have done in the past.

This one is a Pensieve Original Creation, or POC.

The form: A Pensieve.

And it’s really, really cool. It’s essentially a sense-memory poem, where you use each of the five senses (one per line) to evoke memory and connection from the reader.

Here’s Robin’s description:

“What is a Pensieve? A titled, five-line poem; each line correlates to one of the five senses–sight, sound, scent, taste, touch–and describes the subject (title). The goal is for the reader to take on the poem as his own, being able to “experience” your subject through your words, by seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting and feeling what you described.”

I really love this idea, and am even honored to take some of the blame from Robin.

If this thing has steam, and from the comments it looks like it does, I’d consider creating a Wikipedia entry for the Pensieve.

In the meantime, here is my humble contribution to this burgeoning form.

Rather than write my first Pensieve about something concrete, like complex sugar compounds, I decided to write about something much more abstract.

The Thought of the Thing (Or, To the Idea)

A speck, you shimmer and morph as a blur before my eyes.
You speak of heroes and villains, angels and demons, men and monsters.
Your fragrance envelops me and invades with visions unfolding.
My tongue is coated with savory milk and honey, and a story begins to form.
Fearing your retreat, my pen reaches out and takes hold.

Let me know what you think. Then go check out all the others.

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Robin keeps on making up poetic styles, and I keep on writing poems for them. That’s right, it’s time again for Pensieve’s Poetic License, a monthly poetry carnival for the criminally insane.

Oh wait, that’s not this one. PPL is for the mostly sane¹.

This month’s theme is Diamante, yet another poetic form which does not exist in the copy of “Perrine’s Sound and Sense: An Introduction to Poetry” that I always keep close at hand for such poetic emergencies as this. And yes, I am purposefully trying to sound pretentious. I do have a copy of Sound and Sense, but it’s a college holdover I keep on my bookshelf to make me appear thoughtful and intelligent.

And besides, poetry without a touch of pretension is like a baby with a clean diaper. No one wants that…

Okay, Diamante. Not to be confused with a once-popular independent record label in California², Diamante is a seven-line poem about two opposite subjects. It also looks like a diamond when centered. Here’s a content-breakdown from Robin:

subject

two adjectives describing the subject

three words ending in “ing” telling about the subject

four words, first two describe subject, last two describe its opposite

three words ending in “ing” telling about the opposite

two adjectives describing the opposite

opposite

I must say that Robin picks ‘em well. It was both challenging and fun to write this poem. I love the presence of opposites in the style and the subtle shift from subject to opposite in the middle of line four. I think a key to reading a Diamante poem is an awareness and recognition of this shift from the second word to the third word in the fourth line. For example, in the poem I wrote, those words are “preparation” and “action.”

What’s more, the balance of opposites and their dependence on one another for significance (i.e. “Good” has little meaning without “Evil”) is a pretty fascinating topic to explore. I could never do it justice, but that’s about what I had in mind when I wrote my poem.

Now I really am getting pretentious. Poetry time, for once a serious entry:

mountain

hopeful, majestic

redeeming, uplifting, connecting

inspiration, preparation, action, restoration

falling, failing, repeating

atavistic, genuine

valley

Leave me a comment and let me know what you think. Then go to Robin’s page and check out all the other poems.

1. I kid Robin… that’s for pointing out all my typos
2. The word sounded really familiar to me and I realized why when I saw this. Diamante owned Tooth and Nail, MXPX’s label in the early days and, for some odd “brains are funny” kind of reason, I remember the logo from their CDs

But fear not, because I’m going to post them all right here for your enjoyment. After you’ve read them, drop a comment here recognizing the poetic stylings of my family.

First, my beautiful and amazing wife Sarah posted not one but two poems, which she claimed were conceived while we were running yesterday evening. Here they are:

Brandon Daniel
My love for you requires no manual
Can’t believe the years since we met have been nine
Being married to you makes me so happy you’re mine!

And:

Brandon, my love
We fit each other like a glove
Can’t believe the number of years since our wedding are five
Being with you makes me glad to be alive!

My wife rocks! Seriously, she’s the best. And if you think she sounds happy, you should see the smile on my face.

My mom rocks too. Here is her contribution, in response to my Mother’s day poem for her:

Brandon son
You truly are a wonderful one.

You a wreck? Oh come on now really,
A toupee on you would look really silly!

Nice, right? This family has talent oozing out of every pore. Speaking of which, my musician  sister apparently couldn’t stop laughing when she submitted this one:

Brandon, my brother
I sometimes cannot believe that we share the same mother.
You have always said that I was left by a gypsy,
Perhaps it was the one I met today, from Poughkeepsie!

Gypsy and Poughkeepsie, that’s good stuff! And rooted in fact, which is a story for another day¹.

And it doesn’t end there. My cousin Jenifer got into the mix with a poem about her mom and new daughter.

Sharyl Hoge
She should be on the cover of Vogue.
This weekend she will see Annabelle.
A keeper for sure, not to sell.

So there you have it, the family gets in on the poetry carnival. My dad might even be posting a Clerihew². If he does, I’ll post it here!

1. But yes, I have insisted since she was four that she was left on the doorstep by gypsies
2. or Robin, depending on whether you believe that this form is real or not

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To quote Public Enemy: “Once again, back is the incredible.”

That’s right, it’s time once again for Pensieve’s Poetic License, the monthly poetry carnival designed to stretch one’s creaky poetic muscles.

This month, not only is the form one I’ve never done before, but I’ve never even heard of it.

Clerihew, named in honor of Edmund Clerihew Bentley, who is said to have written the the first poem of this form. They should have called it the Bentley, but I guess Clerihew sounds more “la tee da.”

Anyway, I have a sneaking suspicion that Robin just made up this form last week and wrote the Wikipedia entry herself, but I’ll play along anyway.

The form is simple: four lines; AABB; first line is the subject of the poem (usually a name); should be funny. All clear?

Oh, and the theme for this month is celebrations, as in Cinco de Mayo, Mother’s Day, Memorial Day, etc. There’s also Hamburger month, Mental Health month, Asparagus month¹, and many, many others.

I wrote four poems this month, and while I’ll admit that Robin’s made-up poetry form was hard at first–I kept wanting to finish these as limericks–once I got the hang of it, it was a bit addictive.

So here we go. My first poem is in honor of Mother’s day:

Teri Heck²
Always thought her son such a wreck.
Each night she would drop to her knees and pray,
“Please Lord, may my son never need a toupee.”

Happy mother’s day mom! I hope you like your present…

The next two are in honor of Mental Health month. Sarah is a Psychologist, so how could I not write a few of these? Here’s the first:

Sigmund Freud
And those crazy theories he always employed.
“It’s your mother,” “You’re repressed,” he constantly plugs,
I guess that’s just standard when your doc’s hooked on drugs.

The second is for all you Lost fans³ out there:

Hugo Reyes, they call him “Hurley.”
Lately, he’s been acting kinda surly.
He’s convinced that even the dead ain’t dead,
But what if this whole show is all in his head?

Finally, I thought I’d write one for National Hamburger month:

That Burger King
Shows up in an instant, new items to bring.
In the commercials, people laugh and cheer and shout,
But they’re crazy. That dude really creeps me out.

And on that note, I bid you good day. Comment here, and then go read some other awesome made-up-style poems.

1. so who wrote the smelly pee poem?
2. That’s my mom
3. us included

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This month’s style is the limerick, which has an unintentionally funny section in the Wikipedia entry about how the only good limericks are the dirty ones:

“…from a folkloric point of view, the form is essentially transgressive; violation of taboo is part of its function.”

The formality of phrasing there made me laugh. I can just imagine a bunch of stuffy academics sitting in a professors lounge, reading dirty limericks, smoking their pipes and nodding thoughtfully like they’re being read Keats or Shelly.

Transgressions of taboo aside, the limerick does have an acceptable form, with five lines and an AABBA rhyme scheme (Not to be confused with the “major worldwide Swedish Edison award and Eurovision winning pop/dance group active between 1972 and 1982“).

In addition to the style, Robin’s challenge for this month is to incorporate one of the following words into the poem: green, irish, leprechaun, shamrock, Easter, Spring, kite, windy.

I had planned to do a couple of these, but woke up this morning with a splitting headache and general malaise, so one (lame limerick) was all I could muster. Here it is, in honor of my headache:

Noise Pollution

Though my head is now split like shamrock,
Most likely from listening to glam rock,
I Can’t seem to say no
Might just catch a show,
It’d be cool to see Bowie in Bangkok.

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I’ve posted a few poems here, but am by no means a poet. In any case, I like the informal way Robin approaches these monthly challenges, so I decided to jump into February’s challenge, which is a fun one.

For February, in honor, of Valentine’s day, we were asked to write an english sonnet about something we love, but with a twist. Rather than a typical love poem, Robin suggested a quirky love poem about something we would call our “precious.”

So here’s my entry. I had fun writing it. I hope you have fun reading it.

Online one day, I ran across your ad,
right then, I knew I had to make you mine.
Having you, I thought. Would that make me seem bad?
“I care not,” I said. “This love shall keep its shine.”

Your curves and lines in pictures made me weak,
and what they wrote about you caused me pride.
Of you to friends, I feared I could not speak,
though some did also share this love inside.

I read each scrap about you I could find,
praying one day I‘d hold you in my arms.
I knew that I could never grasp your mind,
but carried off I was by countless charms.

It took far too long to have the one I lack,
I am now whole since I obtained my Mac.

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Mac, Valentine’s Day

1. or is that just me?

Today, I want to share a poem I first wrote about ten years ago. It’s been through several revisions, the latest two at Urbis over the last several weeks.

The style is that of a Shakespearean Sonnet, which consists of three four line stanzas (with an abab cdcd efef rhyme scheme) and a couplet (with a gg rhyme scheme) which serves to resolve a conflict introduced in the three stanzas. The pacing also follows iambic pentameter, which is fancy-pants talk for the fact that the poem follows a consistent rhythmic pattern across each line and stanza.

I would love to hear any feedback you might have, good or bad, and suggestions on how to improve this piece. At the very least, I hope you like it.

Sonnet

I wish that I could take your pain away,
And put it here upon this weary heart;
To raise my head and call to God today,
To take your pain makes you of me a part.

I wish to never see a look of grief,
Except to see that guise upon myself;
Your ails I’d give a great and whole relief,
By bringing them upon my very health.

I’d wish to toss with pain all of the night,
To know that in your bed you gently lie;
To see your grief a hopeful end in sight,
Extracts from me a heaven-praising sigh.

So you and yours shall feel no pain today,
For my love would love to take your pain away.

- B

Today, I want to share a poem I wrote in my journal one morning about two weeks ago. It’s been though a few revisions and still feels incomplete, but I feel like sharing it anyway. The story behind this poem is true, and I was inspired to write this poem after sharing that story with my parents over Christmas.

I will admit that I am posting this poem with some trepidation. The thought of publicly sharing the things I’ve written over the years feels much like being on display at the zoo (according to what I’ve heard from the monkeys). And though I relish speaking in front of crowds and being the center of attention, this feels more like one of those “going to school and realizing you are naked” kind of dreams we all have from time to time.

But nothing ventured… I would love to hear any feedback you might have, even suggestions on how to improve this piece. At the very least, I hope you like it.

Without the Bumpers

It’s his first time without them
and you can tell that he’s uncertain,
tentative, maybe even a little scared.

“My mom and sister like to leave them in,”
he says to me
as he stares at where the bumpers should be.
“I’ll probably throw gutter balls all day.”

I hear the resignation in his young voice
and read the thoughts painted on his face:
Better not get my hopes up,
you know what happens then.

“I’ll bet you won’t,” I say
hoping that optimism would pour out from my words
and that after getting his feet soaked in it,
he might begin to believe in himself.
“Let’s just see what happens.”

His shoulders lift slightly
and his eyes brighten,
but not completely.
“Okay.”
He wants to believe
“I trust you.”

So he walks slowly
and intently
to the lane ahead,
the orange ball clasped before him
like an offering to the ten white druids
standing still and in formation fifty feet away.

He pauses.
He takes a breath.
And he rolls.

The ball is straight.
The roll is true.
The white pins scatter.

He lingers for an almost imperceptible moment,
and then he turns.
He smiles at me
victorious,
the absence of bumpers long forgotten.

- B

Technorati Tags: Poetry, Writing