Are there subjects inappropriate to poetry -- too ordinary, too lackluster, too dull? My gut instinct is: no.

The poet Karl Shapiro raised this question in one of his classes, whereupon his students challenged him to write a decent poem about manhole covers. They were sure he'd never be able to do it. But look at the result:

MANHOLE COVERS

The beauty of manhole covers--what of that?
Like medals struck by a great savage khan,
Like Mayan calendar stones, unliftable, indecipherable,
Not like the old electrum, chased and scored,
Mottoed and sculptured to a turn,
But notched and whelked and pocked and smashed
With the great company names
(Gentle Bethlehem, smiling United States).
This rustproof artifact of my street,
Long after roads are melted away will lie
Sidewise in the grave of the iron-old world,
Bitten at the edges,
Strong with its cryptic American,
Its dated beauty.

-------------

Your challenge: write a good poem, a ponderable poem, about an unlikely topic of your choice. Or make it silly, what the hay?

You may also throw out a challenge to other members. Offer a topic you think is poetically impossible.

Some impossible topics for ya:

Toenails
Plastic Flowers
Used chewing gum
The computer mouse
Barfing
Drywall
Mouse droppings
Salad

(Or anything else your mind immediately rejects as a "proper" topic!)

I'm always inspired by toenails:

Ageless Epiphanies

Harvesting hair from my ears patiently,
I glimpse the young man that used to be me.

Tweezing the hairs from my imposing nose,
I know where the hair from my head now grows.

Clipping my toenails, now turned yellow,
I see that I’m a ripening fellow.

Eyeing the chicks with my one good eye,
I read their signs: Geezers Need Not Apply.



------------------
Ralph

I'm still laughing Ralph--

Grudge

I slept upon a rock and hay
Out in the barn, beside the dog.
My paramour, once blithe and gay
Swung at me with a fire log.
So what I spent at Bernie’s bar
The nugget that we both had saved?

Morningwise, she let me in
To peel my clothes; to bathe and shave.
I scalp a curl and hold it up.
Beyond the pane, the sun aloft
Finds the rim of a china cup
Her half drunk tea—it still feels warm.
I sweeten it with the nail I’d shorn.

Chewing Gum, But What About Our Time

I counted on bordome as my star chart
and placed the flavorless chewing gum

smack dab on the back of Vincent's chair
in hopes that our class would fall apart

when Mrs. Mailind, out teacher, singled me out
as the villain-- guilty of wasting her time,

as all the pretty girls passed notes
that I would die to read ,even now,

in my fourth
twenty-seventh year
on marvelous earth.






[This message has been edited by 2JR (edited December 07, 2001).]

The Bat

Oh, Die Fladermaus!
An opera as amusing
as fluffundramouse

<u>Bert, Ralph and Huey</u>


God depends
upon

a white tele
phone

coated with techni
colour yawns

beside the damp
loo roll.

We've studied many dinosaurs,
Both male and female sexes;
And tracked their spoors to foreign shores,
Yet still the question vexes,
Why God would give to carnivores
Those yellow toes of Rex's.

Whose cows these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To boff his Bessie in the snow.

My little horse must think me queer
To see me stop and call her dear,
And watches while I furtive make
My path approaching from the rear.

So happy to relieve the ache,
The craving only bovines slake,
I drop into a crumpled heap
Mid easy wind and downy flake.

The woods were lovely, dark and deep.
But I've a rendezvous to keep,
And miles to go before the sheep,
And miles to go before the sheep.

Whoa! That's an instant classic, Hugh!

Glad you enjoyed it. Do you also like (inappropriate) nursery lims?


Like hickory dickory dock
Her fingers had run up my cock,
But on stroke number one
I fired off my gun,
And never got into her frock.

Like higglety pigglety then,
She consorted with gentlemen ten.
They all nulled her void
While I sat 'n toyed
With jackin' my beanstalk again.

But then I met Georgie the Porgie
Who invited me out to an orgy
Where boys came to play,
And all I can say
Is I wish I could sit, but I'm soregie.

Where's liddle diddle?
I gave them a riddle
as I bent over and mooned,
the little nurse laughed to see my bum,
then the bitch hit my cock with a spoon!

Will

How does the strand
on my knee stand

still

and yet evade
the razor's blade?

[This message has been edited by Lae (edited January 05, 2002).]

Nose Picking

Here lie the bones of Willy Carr,
who picked his nose but went too far,
his brains fell out
now there's no doubt
they're safer pickled in a jar.


Ear Picking

One of the things that attracts,
is searching my ears for wax,
when I ladle it out
and use it for grout
and papering over the cracks.

Toe Picking

I love when I'm picking my toes,
I keep them laid out in rows,
along the top shelf shelf
I choose them myself,
and make sure that they go with my clothes.

Jim

i would say there are subjects, not too small (for you
can ennoble anything by taking it seriously & applying
imagination & style--) but too large for poetry. i know,
many of the great poems we venerate from back when, deal
with these things. but when people had attitudes in
common, there was an awful lot that could be taken for
granted. nowadays, i do believe, when one tries to
write about much of the violent absurdity that
our corporations take for "news", a poem can find no
toehold. it is terrible, but meaningless. and how many
times can you say that & keep it fresh?

now, if you yourself are living in a village, say,
that gets bombed, then it becomes a matter of personal
experience & the lyric, as we all know--is timeless.


[This message has been edited by graywyvern (edited January 31, 2002).]

heres a not so often writen about topic... SNOT!

crazy hair follicals and cillia covered in clean mucous
flowing silently into and out of my cavity
I am made prisoner to this devilish fiend
Deciding with out warning to constrict my breath

The canal flows with clean brilliant air
giving life to the most pure portions of being
respiration, inhalition, the heavenly bliss of
Freedom, Nondrowsy sudafed, and a good nights sleep

I have fought the demon many atime
covering the wounds with 2 ply paper.
seeping the evil into its rough surface
momentarily stunning the enemy

But this cold, this winter night.
Will not stop here. For tomarrow when I wake.
I will be forced to confront this evil villian
My fears are fullfilled when waking I choke
on my own snot

Plastic Flowers


Plastic flowers,
outlasting all others
make florists madder.
and because
they last longer than people
these immortelles
make cemeteries sadder.

I'll play!

Sliver shining warmth that glows
My face on your surface shows

Burning with the hot desire
Butter my bread, light my fire

Sometimes in despair or woe
In the bathtub you may go

Shocking truth revealed to most
Better to use you for making toast

Snot, toasters, yes no subject too small. Here's one from me.


Hairy Mole


On your chin
is where I stay,
put there by
your DNA.

Unsightly dot!
I’d rather hide
in a private place
on your backside,

inside your thigh,
behind your knee.
Instead I’m set
for all to see.

From my pore
one bristly hair
grows long and black.
See it there?

Straight as grass,
this hair I sprout,
long as an eyebrow’s.
Pluck it out.

Wax it off,
shave or hack.
The root is deep.
The hair grows back.

And I have darkened
in the sun
in the fifty years
since you’ve been one.

I’ll be with you
even when
you’re in your coffin.
Even then.

Until that time
if you can’t prize me,
look away
but don’t despise me.

Its dr suess meets... moles. I like it. Now here is one to take the cake.


Pnuemonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconeosis
Pnuemonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconeosis
It is a king of kings
Thawrting all villians
Antidisestablismentarianism
HA I laugh at your puny size
Or perhaps the formitable opponet
Supercalifragalisticexpealidocious
still shy still shy
And then the long word on the back of shampoos
that no one
Can pronounce
Still falls short. Defeated.
By the 19 syllable monster.

Okay here goes!

The C.I.A.

Used chewing gum: Deaf-bugs of
The Children In Action!
Just when you least expect it
a glob of pastel pink Carefree
attaches stealthy, to one corduroyed knee
as you bend proposing earnestly.
Just along for the ride; a dead battery.

Or

Why when the weather warms
do my feet find used gum in swarms?
If there's a patch left un-footprinted
to be sure my pump with squarely crimp it!

Dishes!

Or: a Superhero Faces Reality

I can change the world you know
I’ve got the cape to prove its so
I’ll defeat the sharp clawed awful beast
That steals small children on which to feast,
I’ll stomp the three-headed hypocrisy
That monster that keeps men from being free…
I’ll break the chains of Despair and Woe
I’ll free the Slaves wherever I go
These are a few of my fondest wishes…
What mom? What did you say?
Do the dishes!?




[This message has been edited by Melalope (edited March 11, 2002).]

<FONT >

The doctor said it wouldn't hurt,
or maybe just a little.
I should have known. When they insert
a finger up one's middle,
one needn't be all that alert
to feel the doctor fiddle,
no matter how he tries to skirt
what's tender and what's brittle.
How they can claim it doesn't hurt
remains the only riddle.

</pre></FONT s>

Ode to toenails

Which bodyparts were smeared
- on the cross -
with Christ's last blood

growing even after
death has conquered
the body they grow on?

The ship which jotnir sail
in viking raid
against Thor and Asagard

what did they build it from?
What must the living
cut from a dead man's body?

When I pretzel up to meditate,
looking for a hint
of divine revelation, all I find
is belly button lint.

When I sit and contemplate
my navel, as is faddish,
the only thing I find is salt
in which I dip my radish.

Though I may not find inner peace
as lotus-like I scrunch,
my sense of inner hunger dies
as I consume my lunch.

Defensive Aging

Little old lady,
shy and sweet --
May I assist you
across the street?

Sir, if you place
a hand on me --
You'll be dangling
from a tree.

My First Romantic Poem

A doctor with a rubber glove
bent him over, gave a shove;
the patient screamed, 'Oh, gods above,
Cupid's found me - I'm in love!'

I'm still having a crappy day. *double groan*


Oops - sorry Roger, didn't see you'd already claimed this topic.


[This message has been edited by Robert Swagman (edited April 05, 2002).]

Of course, you can write about yeoman with filthy thumbs--but who has, besides me?

To a Poor Old Yeoman

sucking a thumb in
the field a filthy one
of them in his mouth

It tastes foul to him
It tastes foul
to him. It tastes
foul to him

You can see it by
the way he gives himself
to the filthy nail
still dark with dirt

Uncomforted
a cursing of raw thumbs
seeming to fill the field
It tastes foul to him



------------------
Ralph

The books we put out for free
All disappear.
The sun shines on the empty sill;
I hope they're in a better place,
And not recycled.

Ozzy & Dubya sat on a White House sofa
Not talking about the International Tribunal.
Neither one has heard of microtonal
Music; both possess an expensive loofah.

plastic flowers

how sad you are with a fake beauty
reminding me of love
how sad you are with no need
reminding me of trust
how sad you are with no truth
reminding me of words
how sad you are with your trickery
reminding me of God
how sad you are with everything
put together by a man
you own all that could ever be
how sad it is a lie

<FONT >
To follow the speed limit rigorously
Is to make oneself a laughingstock:
SUVs will come right up to your back bumper
And flash their headlights
Like you were doing something wrong;
People will lean on their horns.
To follow the speed limit rigorously
Is to make oneself a laughingstock.
</FONT c>

<FONT >
Aleister's in a song; they play it in Dallas.
So popcult's scarfed at last Mr. Roly-Poly
Satanist: true, his name is mispronounced foully,
But when could he ever be taken holus-bolus?
</FONT c>

There's an excellent fingernail poem in the current Conspire (http://www.conspire.org). The tile is simply "Fingernail," the author is Melissa Ahart.

I've got a sonnet about coprolites, fossilized dinosaur droppings, in this month's (April, 2002) 3rd Muse Poetry Journal (http://www.3rdmuse.com/journal).

My offering below requires a bit of introductory explanation, never a good sign. A while ago, at a workshop board I no longer frequent, a participant wrote in a thread on good and bad crits, "My chief bugaboo is those who say 'I want to know more about' the farting of camels – whatever." It was clear from context that she was decrying off-the-point fixation on irrelevant side issues, not denouncing a passion for detail, not dismissing a devotion to the five senses and the things of this world. I was happy to misconstrue her for comic effect.

SMELLS LIKE THE VOICE OF INSPIRATION

Poet, forgive me that I plead for more
About those camels and the way they fart.
Though this crit is the type that you abhor,
I crave a down & dirty detailed art.
Give me that lifted tail, that whiff of bowel,
Bactrian perfume on the desert air;
Approximate each consonant or vowel
Sound voiced by dromedary derriere.
I am aware that something more immense is
The goal to which your poetry aspires,
But I assure you that the lowdown senses
Are portals opening on realms far higher.
I pray that each word you rhyme or enjamb’ll
Beckon my soul toward a farting camel.

My felications Mr O'Carroll, on a thoroughly enjoyable and well constructed piece, although there are some here who would decry its scatalogical artistry.

To show that I do not share such reservations, tomorrow, or when I feel that sufficient time has been allowed to digest your piece fully, I shall post my Swiftian "Ode To the Common Asshole; Anus Ubiquitous"

Jim



[This message has been edited by Jim Hayes (edited April 27, 2002).]

Well done, Chris! And I liked the published poems you gave a link for.

This poem is a true story *grin*
The building that I work in has an atrium in the middle (smoking area)with glass catwalks crossing the middle of each floor...and all of the inner offices are glassed in; kinda like one huge fishbowl.

A new and clueless girl in the building did in fact expose herself to me and about 15 other people looking up from the first floor, about 10 of which were men...a couple of them sent dollar bills up with one of the female witnesses who happened to work in the same office with her *hehehe*

Just the facts.

Three stories above
in view from first floor
a woman bent over
to dig in a drawer

Her skirt it was micro
much fabric it lacked
those butt-cheeks were grinning
a smile they did crack

When down from below
a man pointed up
the room roared with laughter
male crotches were cupped

The women all whispered
as men sang a song
in praise of her tonsils
and her frilly white thong


~M~

Encouraged by Christ O'Carroll's post, herewith is my contripution to the genre; But You Can't Write a Poem About That!

Anus Ubiquitous.

Anus Ubiquitous ; (The Common Asshole,)
Opinion’s symbiotic twin from pole to frozen pole;
nobility posesses one just like the common fellow—
some are black, some are brown; and some a little yellow.

The Englishman makes fun of his with humor scatological,
Americans, being sanitized, forget it's biological,
everybody knows that the German's is retentive,
the Frenchman uses his and is remarkably inventive.

The Irish are proficient users speaking through their Erse,
the Spanish, quixotically, try to use it in reverse,
The Russian has a lexicon on how he is fixated—
the same as Mongols, Slavs and Finns to whom he is related.

The Greeks when they are using theirs are known to leave a mess,
Italians will expose theirs when they’re trying to impress,
Australians and New Zealanders in the Antipodes
break out in rashes on their asses wiping it with weeds.

The Pope, when he can locate his, decrees infallibility.
Little babies use it when they're bouncing on a daddy’s knee,
it’s reported some men using theirs will read a magazine.
It’s said the Queen of England has a maid to wipe it clean.

People use it in the loo, the men’s room and the john
or whatever other euphemism that they're sitting on;
but no one cares how/where it’s used as long as they are fated
to own at least a little one and aren’t constipated.

Jim Hayes




[This message has been edited by Jim Hayes (edited April 27, 2002).]

Great, I finally get a shot at being somebody's muse, and it turns out I've inspired the posting of an asshole poem. This is lots of fun, Jim. I especially enjoy the Erse/arse joke. Because I can't resist a bit of fine-point carping, I'll note that Finns are related (linguistically, and thus probably ethnically somewhere back in the mists of prehistory) to Hungarians, but not to Russians or any other contiguous tribes. And I wonder if "proctological" would be a better rhyme for "scatological" in this context. (I used "biological" to rhyme with "paleontological" in the coprolites poem mentioned above, so I'm probably feeling a little proprietary. Pay me no mind.)