[Maryann Corbett]

Here's another entry. It can't hurt to comment, friends.


Elegy for Brayton


Who can I trade my faking with?
Who knows the label Frankie Lane was on?
I miss (this is nuts!) your yip-yipping squeal,
Your killer sex appeal:
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.

Your spazoid passes, your klutzy catch!
Your piercing gaze: You ladies, come-on!
You drove for us (drunk and screaming)
You—sober--beaming:
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.

Your Everly tenor sometimes cracked.
We tongue picked on Folsom Prison,
Pumping our chests with your rusted weights
To stay the grizzly gates.
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.

I’ve been down rivers and I’ve been down streams,
But, son, you were something, and you flow on,
ki-yi-yippy in that yodeling whine.
You walked a lonely, lonely line.
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.

[George Simmers]

Frankie Laine, surely, rather than Lane.
Strange poem.

[conny]

not to state the bleedin` obvious, but if no outside influence, workshop
family or editors are allowed then 99% of all books would be excluded.
If the author remains in charge of the selection of input then so what
where it comes from? Loads of good advice goes to the dogs on this site
which kind of proves the point..

DC

[Jayne Osborn]

Hi Dave,

Yes, that's the point exactly. John and I aren't regarding this thread as a sort of preview of entries - I'm not even reading the poems now, only addressing comments such as yours. Thanks, btw.

Maryann kindly offered to run it as a workshop site if people wanted to get their poems looked at by the other spherians before they submit them. There's big money at stake after all. (I've cursed my haste on several occasions when I've already emailed a poem for a Speccie comp, say, then posted the poem on the thread and had some excellent tips on improving it - too late to use them!)

This thread is here simply to advertise the comp, too. We sincerely hope that lots of you will enter; we know the standard of work will be high. (As John mentioned, we know we'll get mountains of total crap as well; you always do.)

So whether people use the thread for workshopping or not doesn't matter - as long as they remember to enter. It'll get bumped up occasionally to jog the er... what's it called again?... oh yes, the memory.

[Spindleshanks]

A question Maryann, or John, or Jayne; anyone:
How does one submitting by proxy pay the entry fee? We can hardly expect Maryann to cover the costs.

Peter

[Jayne Osborn]

Hi Peter,

The link in post #1 will take you straight to the competition site. You simply email your poem(s) and pay by Paypal.

We tried to get Maryann to stump up for everyone but she wouldn't play ball

[Spindleshanks]

Thanks Jayne. I misunderstood Maryann's role. All clear now.

Peter

[Maryann Corbett]

Here's another entry:

9/11 Revisited.
Written on the occasion of the award-winning Naudet documentary, 2002

I've just escaped the rage of dust that filled the City's heart.

I've watched the silver arrow thrust within and tear apart

the centre of a universe. I've seen the flames and smoke.

I've heard the city's cry and curse before the sudden choke

of silence as the disbelief held momentary sway;

I've shuddered as the tide of grief swept disbelief away.



I've cried with every witness as the second missile hit.

I've shared their helpless sickness as the towers began to spit

through gaping maws the living dead, and retched at every thud;

I've withered as the tears they shed unchecked became a flood.

I've climbed with heroes as each floor was gained by guts and drive;

I've heard the wounded giants roar, beheld their final dive.

I've known the wretched weight of guilt the stunned survivors bore;

I've felt my spirits sag and wilt with theirs—then rise before

the "save and rescue" creed. Beneath the rubble mountain lay

their buddies and their fellows. Grief must wait another day.



I've seen the evil that men do and witnessed trust's demise;

I've been and seen and felt it through the camera's faithful eyes;

and though the screen has darkened now on gallantry and shame,

I know my carefree life somehow will never be the same.

[Spindleshanks]

Originally Posted by Maryann Corbett

Chicken

As in the movies when the traffic swerves
and skids to miss the hero in its way,
he ran among the cars as if to play
a game of chicken with his mothers nerves;
She wept to see him standing there across
the other side, her perfect, smiling boy,
all rosy-cheeked with death defying joy,
an icon of her momentary loss.
It wasn`t quite a miracle: not quite,
but close. Not Lazarus, or snake and rod,
or water into wine. But who`s to say?
She held him up just like an acolyte
would make an offering and thanking God
fell down upon her knees as if to pray.

If the competition was restricted to sonnets, the judges may question the lack of a clear volta with this, but as that's not the case, that's no issue. It certainly passes muster as a poem. It's well-constructed, metrically sound though lacking in surprises, simply told, easily accessible, but there are a few small issues with punctuation and syntactical logic. Parsing the opening sentence, the simile has the traffic as the subject, wheras the boy becomes the subject in the parallel. Nitty, perhaps, but it gave me pause. The other logic issue lies with the close: "thanking God, fell down upon her knees as if to pray." If she is thanking God, she is praying, surely.
As to punctuation, I would suggest a period to conclude L4, hyphen for death defying, "thanking God" bookended with commas.
Favourite line: all rosy-cheeked with death defying joy."
Nice. All the best with it.

Peter

[Spindleshanks]

Originally Posted by Maryann Corbett

Here's another entry. It can't hurt to comment, friends.


Elegy for Brayton


Who can I trade my faking with?
Who knows the label Frankie Lane was on?
I miss (this is nuts!) your yip-yipping squeal,
Your killer sex appeal:
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.

Your spazoid passes, your klutzy catch!
Your piercing gaze: You ladies, come-on!
You drove for us (drunk and screaming)
You—sober--beaming:
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.

Your Everly tenor sometimes cracked.
We tongue picked on Folsom Prison,
Pumping our chests with your rusted weights
To stay the grizzly gates.
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.

I’ve been down rivers and I’ve been down streams,
But, son, you were something, and you flow on,
ki-yi-yippy in that yodeling whine.
You walked a lonely, lonely line.
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.

It doesn't hurt to comment, true, but it does hurt to read. It's adventurous, pushes the envelope, and if that's the objective, to my mind it succeeds too well. Sorry, I would like to be more positive and offer something constructive, but it loses me.

Peter