Author Topic: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language  (Read 73642 times)

Offline SweetRosalyn

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #60 on: April 11, 2007, 03:02:06 PM »
SweetRosalyn: Wales,UK

My cat's called Kayla
and she only cost eight pounds.
I bought her in the queue at Matalan.
I'd been buying clothes,
tiny little boy clothes
for a friend, and when I looked at
teething rings and 3-6 month bathing suits
I felt small and big at the same time.

I was 6 years old
my little sister sucking everything
and spilling baby food on bibs.
Her nappies smelled (I still remember
how to fold them from a terry cloth, I think,
the memory's just hiding)
I had toys
a bear that growled
bugs bunny who hopped around the house
(we hopped out of the front door once
before we got too scared and hopped right back)
a dolls tea set in a polystyrene case
so precious that even I never broke it.

I know I have a man to hug me now
when I am sad or down
I know I have a job
and pay council tax and vote
I know.

I ought to whisper this next part,
because I am too big for small
but still too small for big:
I want to buy boy clothes in 0-3
and nappies and bibs and fluffy
stuffed cats called Kayla.
I don't want to buy them for friends
or cousins or nieces and nephews.
I want to be big
but I can't. 

It's harder to grow than it is to shrink.
So tonight I'll curl up with my cat
(whatever my boyfriend might think.)
Please enter Poetry Challenge #142 by midnight GMT Tuesday 13th September
Theme: stark. Must be 20 lines or less and use at least two senses (taste, touch, smell, etc.) Thanks :3

Offline Melita

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #61 on: April 12, 2007, 06:16:15 AM »
MWC:Melita:UK

My feet have shrunk.
When did that happen?
Somewhere between 16 and 18,
my average size 5's reduced to
tiny splayed size 3's, so that
I can wear vintage now.
Did my feet overshoot?
And when I reached 5 foot 3 and stopped,
they had to recede, to balance me out.
Shouldn't they have known I'd never be
more than 5 foot 5?
Daughters are never taller than their fathers,
just as sons are never shorter
than their mothers, it's the way it works.
Simple drip-stream genetics,
I tell them, when they say I'm too small.
I can't make me bigger, when
my grandmother barely scraped 5 foot
and weighed seven stone.
Seven's my lucky number, which is good
because I'm stuck with it,
because I can't make me bigger.


Offline Allie

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #62 on: April 12, 2007, 06:30:03 PM »
MWC:Allie:Irl

There are apparently people
All over the world who feel
That the number seven holds
Special significance for them.
I wonder why that is:
What is it about two humble lines
That they have such charisma?
The number isnít even correctly written
Nowadays, as originally the upright
Had a bar across it, and there was
Another line at the base,
All important so that the number of
Angles amounted to the seven,
That gave it its name.
There is something very roundabout
About all this, as if numbers
Count themselves, without our input,
Having no need of us.
Would the number seven still exist
If there were no one to count it?
Or is there a mathematical heaven
Where numbers will live eternally
Even when there is nothing left
In the universe to be counted?
And will all numbers then be absorbed
Into the one big nought?
Questions like this are numberless,
And may have an answer somewhere,
But it's certainly not one that's
Inside in my head.


« Last Edit: April 12, 2007, 06:39:29 PM by Allie »

Offline Gyppo

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #63 on: April 12, 2007, 07:51:14 PM »
MWC  Gyppo UK

Inside my head strange things happen.
Fragments of folk lore
meet with the modern world,
each twisting the other into
something unfamiliar.

Inside my head strange things happen.
Two plus two can become five,
or three, or something truly bizarre
'thriddly- umpty-six' or the magical
three-point-one-four-two.

Inside my head strange things happen.
Dreams become reality
and reality fades into dreams.
Tales are born and jostle for position,
some to escape and others to stay hidden.

Inside my head strange things happen.
Things which would terrify a non-writer.
But I have a safety valve, the gift of words
which keeps me sane when,
inside my head, strange things happen.
My website is currently having a holiday, but will return like the $6,000,000 man.  Bigger, stronger, etc.

In the meantime, why not take pity on a starving author and visit my book sales page at http://stores.lulu.com/gyppo1

Offline fordy

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #64 on: April 12, 2007, 09:11:54 PM »
Inside my head?
Perhaps.
In there it seems much larger,
too large, to be in there.
I dreamed that I was lost.
Deep in a forest of ideas,
surrounded by thoughts
that mocked my inability
to grasp their purpose.
Can infinity be contained
in such a small space;
Inside my head?
In there is out there,
doorway to eternity.
I must go in to get out,
become nothing
to become everything.
In embracing the little me
I embrace the cosmos.
Inside my head.
If I always do what I always did, I'll always get what I always got.

Offline chillies

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #65 on: April 12, 2007, 09:39:17 PM »
Inside my head I am what I always wanted to be,
what I always dared to be.
Inside my head, there is no procrastinating
and no questions starting with But...
Inside my head is the real me.

Lin

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #66 on: April 13, 2007, 06:14:59 AM »
Lin - The Netherlands


Sometimes the real me
Isn't me at all
I can change into
A kind of Jeykll and Hyde
A person with no name
So who am I?
I am me without a name
Half of this person is me
The other half is her
The one who makes decisions
Does the shopping
Kisses the husband goodbye
And walks the dog each day
The other person is me
Wishing I wasnt her.
I'm floating on a dream
Being somewhere else
Listening to music
Thinking exotic thoughts
Wearing bikinis and walking
On white beaches,
Hand in hand with a man
Who is so like the one
I know so well
I play safe.
Isnt life a game anyway?

« Last Edit: April 13, 2007, 11:26:55 AM by Lin »

Offline Bubbles

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #67 on: April 13, 2007, 06:41:12 AM »
MWC. Bubbles, Wales, UK.


I'm everyone I know, and they are me.
I'm no-one I want to be and they're not me.
Never could be.
For that I'm thankful.
Who'd want this dustbin frontal lobe
filled with Magpie hordes
of specious vapour?
And bits of things I plan to do later?
Not me, not me.
Now it's Aubades, which replaced the knitting
I found half finished,
in my attic.
Later I'll be Salsa dancing,
or chewing the cud with Tom,
who's eighty five and twinkly.
No wrinklie, he still drinks pints in the pub.
His shaky stories flooding my mind
of milk maids, canings from teachers, and the War,
long gone.
And how computers won't catch on.
All this crammed into my head, and more.
Will spurious facts make my brain fatter fodder
for the grass and worms?

« Last Edit: April 13, 2007, 01:32:57 PM by Bubbles »

Offline caliban1

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #68 on: April 13, 2007, 09:10:40 PM »
Sometimes I think am a place,
in Puerto Vallarta, loco gringo,
galloping along a trail, past the meeting place,
the Mexican friends laughing and cheering.
Later playing at Don Guerillmo
in the restaurant drinking Margueritas
while two crazy Frenchmen make music
with a green plastic pipe and a mandolin.
Waving from the balcony to Aplollonio,
riding down to the beach for tourists.
But that Christmas in Yelapa,
we were dismayed at drunken American friends
who swaggered into the village mass.
The tall dignified senor with a patched knee
quietly stood and left the church
and I asked the mad revelers to follow on out.
On the next day after Christmas, the priest
crossed the bay and we had mass.
Our friend Berta, who shared her home,
thanked us for coming to church that day.
Truth to say, it is easy enough
to go to church on Christmas day
with unglazed windows open to jungle.
Never in the North have I seen such glass.
Later the drunken people reveled on the beach
in black plastic bags shaking sparklers
so that I could love their jolity again.
After all I am the same wild boy
who jumped out of college dorm windows
laughing and waving to people on the ground.
In the prairies I always feel my Indian blood
wanting to go running after thundering buffalo
or creeping out through the long grass
just to see what bird is nesting there.
In the mountains I am a colder being,
climbing up mountain goat trails,
turning back to see where we have been.
In France I am my wife's husband
as we sit on church steps up above
the all too rich golden coast.
Later in the pleasant garden
talk goes on among the many dishes.
Here the family outlives the whims of change;
someday we must all go home.
She to her village in the hills,
I to my redbrick house on the Chisholm trail.
Always there is something in us
of the places we inhabit.


« Last Edit: April 17, 2007, 10:26:42 PM by caliban1 »
It is all a metaphor.

Offline Bubbles

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #69 on: April 14, 2007, 06:03:20 AM »
Bubbles. MWC. Wales, UK.

'You can take the girl out of the valleys,
but never the valleys out of the girl.'
Flimsy from wear, this cliched phrase
still does the rounds.
Endlessly altered to 'Manchester,'
'The Sticks,' or 'London Town.'
Employed when labels are needed
by those who feel safer,
boxing people in.
Cliche weeds, fast spreading, unwanted,
their tortuous milky roots are facts,
not fiction.
The irritant grain within the lustrous pearl
swallowed by the maw of clam
still is but sand under candescent layers.
One jewelled chance, a million more
to lay beneath the feet of Amphitrite,
unknown, unhindered.
Flimsy cloaks of geography and chance
donned for the journey, shed at last
leaving the core of us polished or
cracked,
but still a grain of sand.

Leigh

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #70 on: April 14, 2007, 06:07:33 PM »
MWC: Leigh, USA

A rain of pearl from pollen winds
dusts the hot black shine upon the Ford
and competes with the gossamer
upon my tow-heads, bounding on new grass.

While you cast a whizzing line,
miles to the west,
your shaded eyes beseeching
a flashing prize from Poseidon.

I may rest here and contemplate,
or jump and join the 'crack-the-whip'
c'mon, Mom, come, we need one more
and breathe the delicate moment's fragile gift.
« Last Edit: April 14, 2007, 06:47:39 PM by Leigh »

Offline Allie

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #71 on: April 14, 2007, 06:25:30 PM »
MWC:Allie:Irl

Once there was a world that contained
Rare and treasured moments
When a grown-up would give
In a mute, smiling act of kindness,
A penny or a thrupenny bit,
Letting fall into a childís hand
The small change from a packet of
Woodbines, or the Irish Press,
As if it were nothing,
To be gazed at in awe by one
To whom it meant much:
As sometime recipient, how well
I remember such moments.

But now that Iím the one who can
Afford to bestow these gifts,
The world has moved on;
Such gestures are no longer always
Welcome, but can bring suspicion
And fear. How sad it is that I cannot
Repay the kindness of those
Who trod the way before me, by
Carrying on the good deeds that
Warmed many a young heart.
In this new order of things
Children are not the only victims:
I, too, have been wronged.

« Last Edit: April 15, 2007, 05:15:12 AM by Allie »

Offline Allie

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #72 on: April 16, 2007, 06:02:28 PM »
MWC:Allie:Irl

To post or not to post, that is the question.
Whether tis nobler for the poet to suffer
The troughs and hollows of the Longest Poem
Or to take words against a sea of silence
And by her posting end it? To write: to post;
No more and by a word to say we end
The deadly quiet of non-posters
That the thread is heir to, Ďtis a composition
Devoutly to be wished; to write; to post;
To post, perchance to spoil; ay, thereís the nub,
For in that post at length what thoughts may come
When we have rattled off this mortal poem,
Must give us cause; thereís the haste
That makes calamity of so long poem,
Amid the poet's last, despairing cry of
Please, please, let me not be the only one.
 

« Last Edit: April 16, 2007, 06:07:15 PM by Allie »

Offline Gyppo

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #73 on: April 16, 2007, 07:15:17 PM »
MWC:  Gyppo:  UK

The Longest Poem,
like the Longest Road
cannot be travelled in haste.

This electronic medium
measured in nano-seconds,
cannot accelerate my brain.

In three line verse
I search for speed,
but it's not there.

Soon I'll sleep
but first I end
this verse

With three
terse
lines.
My website is currently having a holiday, but will return like the $6,000,000 man.  Bigger, stronger, etc.

In the meantime, why not take pity on a starving author and visit my book sales page at http://stores.lulu.com/gyppo1

Offline Johnorman

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Re: Sticky: MWC Attempt to Write the Longest Poem in the English Language
« Reply #74 on: April 16, 2007, 07:27:38 PM »
The Only One

He heard it strike each trunk in turn,
losing clarity with each bounce until finally,
Let me not be the only one faded
to  Only one then Nowt like they said
in Liverpool, when he was a scouser long ago.
Now he was a scouser a long way from the Pool,
where the breed is seldom seen. In fact,
he wonders if perhaps he is the only one, fading
to become nowt in a forest where memories
bounce into nothingness and need be sent again,
reminding the sender he at least is still there,
whatever the reason originally intended;perhaps,
will be there forever, calling out to nowt, seeking
recognition from someone or thing that knows
him not, never will. He has love-life with each
surrounding tree, felt every curve, smooth
hollowed trunk, touched their trembling leaves.
Perhaps that is all was ever intended -the
only one from Liverpool at home somewhere else.
Not being normal is great.