Well, I may have bitten off more than I could chew today, seeing as how I'm wrapping this one up after midnight. The prompt for today was to create a poem in the shape of another poem using the same amount of lines, stanzas, etc. and starting each line with the same letter as the original. I remember having memorized "The Charge of the Light Brigade" by Alfred Lord Tennyson as a child and having enjoyed it. I also remembered it being shorter...oops! Well, I went with it anyways, and decided to do it about the Jan. 6 insurrection at the Capitol. Which meant I had to read a bunch of articles, speech transcripts, and the entire Wikipedia page so as to get a feel for the event and make sure my facts were right. A note on the number: Appx. 400 people have been arrested thus far with appx. 600 suspects, and estimates of around 800 involved. I decided to go with six hundred as it is the middle number of the three, and happens to be the number in Tennyson's piece. I'm exhausted. So I give you:
I Hell bent to, hell bent to Hell bent to "fight for Trump," All in the National Mall Raged the six hundred. "Forward, the 'patriots'! Charge for Mike Pence!" he said. Into the National Mall Raged the six hundred. II "Forward, the Proud Boys!" Was there truth in the noise? Not that fact checkers found, Someone was lying. They did not want to lose, They blamed it on fake news, They sought brute force to use. Into the National Mall Raged the six hundred. III Cameras to right of them, Cameras to left of them, Cameras in front of them Viewing and spying Stormed up the Capitol Broke through police patrol Into the Senate room In the Statuary Hall Raged the six hundred. IV Flashed many lead pipes bare, Floated toxins in the air Stringing up a gallows there, Charging law enforcement , while All the world wondered. President Trump, he spoke, Right through the doors they broke, Congress and Senate Ran from the guns and smoke Shocked and outnumbered. They left the place, but not Not the six hundred. V Cameras to right of them Cameras to left of them Cameras hehind them Villainy proving Stormed through the Capitol While art and tech they stole They were out of control Came from the White House lawn Back from that grassy knoll All that listened to him Loyal six hundred. VI When will the horror fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Hateful, the scene the made Hateful the prayers they prayed , Notorious six hundred.
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Happy Easter! Alleluia! Today's poem is not Easter themed, except perhaps in that it deals with mystery and a man who is not dead. Our prompt was to write about a liminal space found at @SpaceLiminalBot's twitter page (is it called a page?) Anyway, I've always sensed that fog (especially at night) was a portal to another dimension/universe/time. I probably watched Split Infinity one too many times as a kid.
Today were were told to make a "Personal Universal Deck" (instructions found here) and draw one or two cards from our newly made deck to serve as inspiration for today's poem. I drew "leather" and "seagull." However, I wasn't feeling the combination, so I just went with leather.
Not to be vanilla, but one of my favorite poems is "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost (from whence we draw today's inspiration). Without further ado:
In childhood I was wont to stray From the designated trail To find a wilder place to play And make my own independent way, No fun if there's no chance to fail. As I grew, the paths did too. Who knew there were so many? A future haze obscured my view Whispered "to thine own self be true," But I was not drawn to any. "So," I thought, "Let Luck decide" (Or God or Chance or Fate). From the choosing I chose to hide. Whatever result I would abide, No more to ruminate. Now I'm stuck with what I've got Not the future of my dreams. I could have been an astronaut, But I am happy with my lot, Once more off trail it seems. And so it begins (officially)! Today's prompt is to "make the world strange, and see it as a stranger might." We are told to take inspiration from this video.
In my travels I came across a seemingly sentient species possessing the preliminary precursors to prose. Babbling babes, all making the sounds of language without the sentiments, cognizant of consonance, dissonance, and tone with rudimentary rhythmic recognition, sometimes repeating the same series of nonsensical sound for centuries passed down through rough written record to the apparent delight of crowds. Organisms organizing orchestras only to fall short. Perhaps they can be taught, these toddlers tinkering with tunes? Perhaps they can transcend. Communication connecting cosmic creation, Voices given a message, Hearts given a beat. |
AuthorHi, my name is Ember. Yes, like the glowing bits at the bottom of the fire. Archives
May 2024
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