Spaghetti Western


The man with no name became the high plains
drifter shooting Italian bad guys day
after day for taking his soul away.
The good, the bad, and the ugly still stains
the screen at night and gives me stomach pains.
They paint the town red much to my dismay
and parade a midget, amid gunplay,
around on an ass; no, it never rains
(have you ever noticed?) Not one soul leaves
the set, they are recycled like the suns
and yet you never see the actors sheaves
of tongues in cheeks, and with one last breath
of tortured confusion, the whole town runs
(from Clint, linguini - spined cowards! ) from death.

I enjoyed Rob's poem and obviously missed "planes", but that word won't be allowed.

We've been given the go-ahead by Tessa to take certain liberties - but don't wander into "taking the p*** territory", OK? ;)

Jayne

If everybody here sends in a poem it will probably double Tessa's usual crop.

Stagecoach Mary
 

Stagecoach Mary

Unlike some storied cowboys of the plains,
Mary Fields’ Montana makes her day.
A liberated slave, south far away,
she’s rare in white Cascade, where smoker’s stains
on six-foot girls are rare. She also pains
a few by swearing and bearing guns. LeMay,
the liberal mayor, lets her drink and play
at cards in his saloon. Despite harsh rains,
she beats out men for stagecoach routes and leaves,
a first for women, making rounds through suns’
bite and devil winds, transporting sheaves
of mail and sundries. Through laughs and whiskey breath,
she smokes, spins yarns of wolves on nighttime runs
through snow—her knife and shotgun dealing death.

Excellent, Ralph! Out of curiosity, how did you find out the name of the mayor of Cascade? Or did you make up the name (LeMay)? Poetic license?

Roger - Your agoraphobic one is excellent, too. An interesting take and quite poetic.

You both, obviously, did your research.

It's interesting, Roger, that you have these allusions to death:

It pains
my sense to see the buds reborn in May
and know how brief the game it is they play.

and

death alone can cure my soul of death.

Because what Wiki says about it is

Pssst - Rogerbob...

"and know how brief the game it is they play."

I think it makes better sense if you replace the definite article with the indefinite - "how brief a game..."

What do you think?

Turkey Vulture

Riding the rising thermals of the plains,
majestic trash can of the skies, all day
I sniff out stiffs. At night I drift away
to dream of all the carrion that stains
the interstate, although I’m quite at pains
to say how fine it reeks. I wake. This May
morning looks great for courting. Longings play
and surge in me like sudden summer rains
and, as I take to flight, elation leaves
me with an urge to pass the furthest suns
and catch my girl. We flirt amid soft sheaves
of cloud. We flap and dive and, in a breath,
we couple. As the season warms and runs
toward fall, we’ll teach our brood to locate death.

Holy moly! This is quite a thread. Did I count right--did Martin Elster alone write 14 of these poems? And I know others have written quite a few!

I wish I could do this. I'm having so much fun reading them. Apropos of what's been said on various threads, I think being funny--and being serious and funny in the same poem--and doing it well is the hardest thing to do.

I suppose I could try a purely "serious" one.... whatever that means!

Charlotte

Wow, Charlotte, you actually counted my cracks at this? I, myself, lost track. OK, I just counted thirteen. (By the way, I've revised every one of them so far, but now feel that a few have jelled reasonably well.)

If you do one, Charlotte, I'd love to see what you come up with, whether it be serious or comic (or both at the same time). I'm glad you found this thread fun to read. So did I.

My question would now be: how many of these could one rightly enter? Were I to submit my baker's dozen (though I probably won't), wouldn't that be a bit too much for poor Tessa? According to Jayne's advice, I should send each in a separate email. But wouldn't it now be better to send them all in one?

Jayne? John? Any suggestions?

On Keats

I would like to think of your life as plains,
unremarkable as the livelong day-
some unreachable thing so far away,
but that would be a lie, no? And it stains
me black inside, like you. I died in May
but God has brought me back - He likes to play
with me, a toy, like cloudbursts when it rains.
Our friends watch us toil, marked, as green as leaves.
We laugh and frown, compared to burnt out suns-
our backs are taut with heat from shocking sheaves
in golden fields as peasants, out of breath,
the last one taken when the reaper runs
his course, how life consumes us so, in death.

I sent my four in individual emails till my Italian email - "alice", would anyone but Coward believe that - was "at it again" and so screwed up that I re-sent them all in a single mail. I shall, of course, blame Italtelecom if I don't win, and win big - sorry grande!

Thanks, Ann. You're probably right, though I already sent it in and I'm not sure it's worth trying to correct it . . . but maybe.

Don't take my advice as being any kind of "rule", Martin, but if I were the judge and received an email with 13 sonnets in it I'd be wondering, as I read each one, "Is there another one? ... "Is there another one?", "How many more?" and so on. After reading them all it might be a case of "Dammit, which was that really good one - no 8 or no 9?" and scrolling back through them.

As I said, an email with one poem in it is easy to isolate, print out, put into a shortlist pile, etc. but then it's easy enough to cut and paste a good one along the way, from a long list, and put it into a separate file. All in all I don't think it really matters how you submit them; I'm only saying how I'd prefer it, as I'd be inclined to print out the really appealing ones and take sheaves of paper to bed with me and read them there :)

Jayne

Thanks, Jayne. What you said makes sense.

Charlotte - Sorry, you were right after all! It is, indeed, 14. In my count, I neglected to include the second one in Post #105, which I now think contains enough variation for me to regard it as a separate poem.

Fancy candies? I prefer the plains.
Just give me simple chocolate any day
And take those gaudy fruity bits away.
Who needs butterscotch? I hear it stains.
And truffles cause me weird digestive pains.
From June's beginning to the end of May
(All year, that's right) I call it child's play
To sit inside at home (outside it rains)
And gobble simple chocolate-coated leaves
And chocolate goodies shaped like sugared suns,
To unwrap chocolate bits from chocolate sheaves
Until there's chocolate scent on every breath
And I'm a mere machine that purrs and runs
On chocolate till I'm chocolated to death.

Roger - Your chocolate poem is a glorious dramatic crescendo from beginning to end.

I agree. Roger, your poem is hysterical!

Glad my math is accurate, Martin.

Roger, you've written eight!

Charlotte

Good heavens, Martin! 14? Haven't you got anything better to do with your time? No? Come to think of it, neither have I.

And the quickie ....has left the building...

Brian - What else is life for but to fiddle and toil, connecting all those rhyme-dots? Is not poetry a game of words? Such fun!

But, Brian, you've only written four! (I think.)

Someone, stop me from compulsive counting. Tell me to go away and write a bout-rimé or something...

Reading here is fun, though!

Charlotte

A World of Contrasts

Earth teems with florids, in-betweens, and plains:
the stillness of a town on Christmas Day;
a hike along a hilltop trail, away
from fumes, where birds flaunt feathers with such stains
of style, the finest painters are at pains
to render them. One-petaled blooms in May
(the calla) or complex (the dahlia) play
and tease their pollinators. Somber rains,
which coax the chorus frogs and quake the leaves
(oval, narrow, heart-shaped), when the sun’s
commanding beams appear through storm cloud sheaves,
make jazzy arcs to take away your breath.
Observe this world from space, though, as it runs
in loops, and say it looks less dull than death.

     
Well, OK, I tried... First time ever!

T. Foyle Chit-Chats About his Best-selling Book,
Traveling with King Lear: The Final Days

Remember the guy who roamed those windy plains,
the king who howled about his daughters day
and night? An awful bore. He’d run away,
said they were after him. He’d wail, “They’re stains,
stains, on the family name!” (See, I took pains
to write it down each night.) Of course you may.
My name is Foyle. And yes, I had to play
the fool. A horrid job. It never rains
but pours. I was clearing palace drains of leaves
when he heard my name, misheard—like saying suns
for sons. “A fool,” he cries. “See those sheaves
of wheat, all yours.” I’d barely caught my breath—
and I was hired! But he died—er—from the runs.
Thank God. The job could only end with his death.
     

Good one Charlotte! The rhymes come in quite naturally (well, perhaps sheaves sticks a bit, but what can we do?) I read an extra beat in L9 the first time through: did you intend an anapaest in 'I was clearing?' After the caesura it seems more natural to stress the 'I'.

I don't think youre allowed a title, but it somewhat gives the joke away anyway.

Charlotte, I haven't the time to write any more, I'm too busy reading Martin's!

Mary: thanks so much for your kind comments. I was a bit nervous posting here among all you masters of the form! I very, very rarely rhyme in my poetry. It was actually rather helpful to have the rhymes given to me on plate--for some reason! At the same time, one has to juggle too...

I agree L.9 is a little problematic--and yes, I intended an anapaest, but it does feel forced, and I will look at it later.

Also, does anyone find my last line awkward, with the extra syllable? I was trying to pack so much in, including the idea that the Fool might have killed off the King.

And yes, "sheaves" was the worst!

The title was just for fun--and in case anyone didn't know King Lear (very unlikely here, I know!).

Brian: Yes, I know, Martin has really put us to work, hasn't he?

Martin: they are SO good! Quality as well as quantity. How do you do it?!

Charlotte

Tall

His bed is nearly big as the Great Plains,
for he’s the tallest man on Earth. Each day
humanity looks up and stares away
in wonderment, but cannot see the stains
burned on his soul, his ever-present pains
with doors and clothing. Be that as it may,
he beams. Oh, basketball? He doesn’t play.
He’d rather read a novel when it rains.

Today he walks through woods and autumn leaves,
amid the dwarfing oaks, enjoys the sun’s
caress, forgets the jillion journal sheaves
that broach his height. He stops to catch his breath
and leans against a bole. His ticker runs —
tiny, steady — yet just short of death.

Charlotte - By the way, many thanks for the compliment! I like your T. Foyle take. Quite imaginative.

Besides those lines Mary mentioned, I think Line 13 sounds a bit crammed to my ear. But I have no good ideas on how to fix it without marring the subtlety of the line. I tend to pronounce "hired" with two syllables, so that makes the line have six beats. Or I could say it as one syllable, and then say "but he died" as an anapest. That seems to work.

I don't think either of those 3 lines are really that much of a problem metrically, though. Conforming exactly with the meter in a metronomic fashion is not what poetry is really about, is it?

Regarding titles, I know there are not needed, but I think a poem looks odd without one. Are you planning to send yours in with the title? I'm curious what folks have been doing in that regard.

Brian - I've been reading yours, too, and have been enjoying them.

Martin

Martin: Thank you so much for the crits. I don't have time to work on it now. But will come back later.

As for the title, I'd like to send it in that way--they can always chop it off--unless they positively don't want one, and will chuck it in the bin unread! I know Jayne said they do publish without titles.

Jayne?? Any answers to that one?

And Martin, I can't believe you've written yet another one!!

There are SO many good ones here, I'm just sending mine in for the hell of it!

Charlotte

Martin, I like "Tall" very much.

Possible suggestion for the last few words: "yet just short of death"

Hi Charlotte,

Nice to see you at D &A!
Titles definitely don't EVER get used in The Oldie comp.

Jayne

Thanks, Roger. I like your suggestion for that last phrase. I'll put it in.

I also made a tiny tweak in lines 5 & 6: "his pains / with doors and clothing" (instead of "the pains / of doors and clothing"). I think that sounds more idiomatic. Thanks again, Roger.

An Altered Boy (Old School)
 

An Altered Boy (Old School)

He carefully studies pretties, ignores the plains,
and searches for Maria every day;
pure thoughts of her can take his breath away.
From stolen sips, red altar wine now stains
his surplice, though today he’s taken pains
to look his best. It’s Virgin’s Day in May,
and spirits urge the altar boy to play.
He’s served this mass all week, despite the rains,
and vows, I‘ll make her smile before she leaves!
He holds a paten, gold like rising suns,
below each chin as Father feeds the sheaves
of high-school girls a host. With bated breath,
he strokes the paten; she winks: his mind now runs
to sins he’d sin with her until his death.

Cheers Martin, I'm glad this challenge has resulted in various astronomical, science-fictional and zoological entries, as well as others - great variety from one set of bouts-rimes - and not a few of them from you!
Mercury was long thought to have an identical orbital period and rotational period (i.e. contrasting light and dark sides), but in 1965 was realised instead to rotate in 59 days (2/3 its 88-day 'year'). So all parts of it receive pretty intense heating, at intervals, but in an odd pattern due to its quite eccentric orbit... except the poles, at which it seems there may even be ice in permanently-shaded areas (there are such, since its axial tilt is negligible). A curious combination of circumstances!
I'm glad my poem and its viewpoint pleased you. As you saw, I was envisaging ore-prospecting initially by unmanned probe, given Mercury's abundant solar energy and (possibly) thereby accessible mineral 'hard wealth' - arguably commercially-appealing, though otherwise forbidding as a destination for colonisation.

Collect
 

Some dig scattered bones from ancient plains,
While some seek sporting honours on a day
When their team plays - at home, or else away.
Scrutinising minute marks and stains,
Some gain forensic data for their pains:
They gather truth; bring folk to justice. May
Collecting be Man’s favoured mode of play?
Some count the rings of trees - which measured rains;
Pen haunting memory, which never leaves;
Hoard coins like silver moons and golden suns,
Or haul home herbage, gathering-in sheaves;
Some meditate, marshalling thoughts in breath.
Lifelong this, our collecting habit, runs…
Until our own in-gathering, by death.

Hi Graham,

Thanks for explaining your ideas and the theme of your Mercury poem. I knew about its day being 2/3 of its year. And I just did a bit of research and found this helpful Wikipedia article about the colonization of Mercury, which you might well have seen:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colonization_of_Mercury

As in your poem, the article mentions Mercury's valuable resources, such as (possibly) helium-3 — "an important source of clean nuclear fusion energy on Earth and a driver for the future economy of the Solar System," as well as "a crust rich in iron and magnesium silicates, with the highest concentrations of many valuable minerals of any surface in the Solar System, in highly concentrated ores."

After reading that poem again, I like it even more.

And your new, rather philosophical one ("Collect"), is excellent too. I like the chiasmus of "gathering-in" / "in-gathering." It's an interesting catalog of things people collect. The last two lines are inspired.

Question: Is the purpose of meditation to marshall thoughts or to clear one's mind of them?

A Tornado Chaser

I chase tornados all around the Plains
like a knight-errant looking every day
for fresh adventures. Just can’t stay away.
She’d say that a devoted spouse abstains
from risky trips. I’d tell her I take pains
not to crash my jeep, yet her dismay
hung like a storm cloud when I went to play
and photograph Earth’s mightiest winds and rains.

It’s true folks sometimes lift and whirl like leaves;
yet funnel-hunting’s fun. A thousand suns
are not as grand as watching barley sheaves
rise from a ranch and vanish in a breath.
I think now, as I race one, how she runs
with Ian — safe, monotonous — toward death.

Jayne: thanks for the info. And I'm happy to be here!

Martin: this one's really good. Quite moving--and chilling!

"Would" sounds slightly awkward to me in line 7, since you've just used the contraction, "she'd" in the preceding line.

I also wonder about "all" in the first line, as slight filler.

But honestly, I'm being really picky. And that ending is a killer--so to speak!

Charlotte

Martin, Thanks for your kind comments - and helping me realise Mercury's night side does get way cold (-183 degrees C, from +427 degrees C on day side). When I wrote the poem, I hadn't imagined that level of cold, from other considerations, but evidently the long 'night' and lack of blanketing atmosphere do allow a drastic cooling even of the day-heated surface.

On 'marshalling thought' in meditation - I had in mind the sense 'to place [one's thoughts] in proper rank or position' - whatever that should be (as opposed to thoughts running haphazardly and unrestrained, the thinker being led by them). I should explain I mean 'meditation' actively (a conscious focussing on something seen as worthy of sustained contemplation), rather than passively (an attempt to blank the mind of thought - if even possible, to what end? A bafflement to me.) But either way, I reckon regulated breathing to be often associated with regulated thinking - whether as cause or effect, or a bit of both, not mattering in my poem! Thanks for posing the question, prompting me to think a bit more about it.

Charlotte - Thanks for your close reading of that poem, and I'm pleased you like it (especially the "killer ending"). Your points are, as usual, well-taken, and I tweaked accordingly.

I just spent a huge amount of time looking at popular boy names in the tornado alley states, trying to pick the best-sounding one for the last line. So I changed "Ian" to "Liam," supposedly a popular cowboy-culture name in Oklahoma, which is in the top 3 states for tornados.