LPiA Nov12

[Tiger the Lion]

Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 12

Rules: Write a poem for LPiA on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for the month of November. 


Topic : Write a poem in a different form of English... Archaic, doggerel, dialect or complete gibberish. Everything is permitted.
Form : Any - But Limericks might be fun.
Line requirements: Five or more

Feel free to reply with comments or kudos as you wish. 

Questions?

[CRNDLSM]

Y'all'd've said the same thing
Chu ought'nt'do out yonder
Y'a'int feed'n 'm chicken wing
The old 'coons 'at wander
why y'always ask, 'djeet yet?'
Southern slang might'n't've
Made 'em get what they get
Vermin! You know y'all'd've

[TranquillityBase]

mor then ded

thers no poent init inimor
no poent in opning eis to shur
sky so blu so symplee not myn
inimor than roks or wyld dog sun

go all wun, go daun to river bank
see thuh drown men, seen bi all
floatng in grean waterd road
wher sypris pray daun to ruuts

if simpl simon sez so, ruuts groan
bak to bak an sauer the erth
dog grawls the fyr bak into ded bodied
far away whorisen, haf a wurld

befor in fayth with lost mynds
brokn speers, where rat senks teeth
inits owen ded, an ther sweet breth
spreds lyk rottn clawth wythout

[dukealien]

This Not-Aprille

What Aprilles wrought in times afore
Novembre presently commands
so meetly write we all before
expire each dates’ express demands.
Thus shortened days delight in ways
to garner praise amid malaise.

[busker]

Poets of olde

'for tho my rime be ragged'
sange skelton in his prime
whilst porking the neibor comelie
her loose lockes scattered handsomlie
cloths tattered, jagged
at the scene of the crime -
for 'twas a different time
whenne people shatte in the open
and the great kinge of Copen
hagen, showered but in Aprile
to slake off his grime.

[RiverNotch]

The original piece:

Noon maraming puyo---
eh, nagkaroon
ng kaunting pera
at napa-parlor.
Ngayon ang buhok
ay straight na straight,
na-rebond ng bakla:
ang bagsak ay kaliwa
at kanan. Ngayon, hating-hati
ang babae sa lalake,
ang Baluga sa Kano,
ang English sa Tagalog.

Through Google Translate:

There were many whirlwinds ---
eh, there was
a little money
and parlored.
Now the hair
is very straight,
rebounded by gay:
the defeated is left
and right. Now, split up
the woman to the man,
the Baluga of Kano,
English to Tagalog.

By a human translator:

His hair was kinky
but then he got
a little money.
Now his hair
falls in two places,
left and right---
man and woman,
black and white.

---

Puyo: cowlick.

Napa-parlor -- that's a habit most Filipinos of a certain socioeconomic class and higher have, that when they struggle (however briefly) to remember the right word in what we would call proper Filipino, they would just inflect the English. The awful thing is that this tendency has gradually eroded away much of the language's original vocabulary, so that those below this certain socioeconomic class only know the borrowed term.

While "bakla" is often translated as "gay", they also often live as women, though not typically to the point that they insist on the proper pronouns. And why should they? Filipino pronouns have no gender. Perhaps the more appropriate term is "queer", but bakla rarely refers to anyone assigned female at birth -- in other words, "queer" is too broad, and quite frankly too American.

Superlatives in Filipino are often just repetitions of the original term.

Note that there is a difference between la-LA-ki, which means "man", and LA-la-ki, which means "will grow".

Baluga is a derogatory term for one of the short, kinky-haired, dark-skinned indigenous people of Central Luzon -- they are otherwise known as the Aeta. Kano is a derogatory term for an American.

---

I said "original", but in fact nothing about Filipino is original. Filipino is merely a dialect of Tagalog, developed because when the Americans made us adopt a national language other than English or Spanish, the majority of the people in the government, and the plurality of the people in the country, spoke it. And the Tagalogs are as indigenous to this country as the Aeta.

---

((just a heads-up: the seven prose paragraphs I posted before this heads-up are a part of the entire piece))

[Mark A Becker]

Senses of Direction

Start out walkin right on Pine fer half a mile or so. You’ll see
at red, white, ‘n blue house fer the star spangle trim, ‘n at thirty
foot tall flag pole guarded by c'ramic angels, ‘n a lifesize, plastic
Jesus on a lawn. at Bible beatin balloon butt, Roxie Rollins’ll
probly be out ‘ere jawin at Jesus, in’er holey slippers, pink spandix shorts,’n
triple large raslin t-shirt. If ya slip by unnoticed, consider yerself blessed.

Jus act natchal like, whistle a little, ‘n bear lef on Poplar, keepin yer hands
out yer pockets, 'cause at sidewalk's uneven. At a loost up, clangin stop sign,
'cross fom Public Works, yer ears may get to twitchin fom the warblin
of a sweetest soundin songbird ya ever did hear. But 'at ain't no bird-
it's em honey tone pipes of 'at ever joyful Eva Jones. Next door, dat Perkins’
bitch oughta be shot fer barkin whenever Eva gits on to a tune real hot ‘n soulful.

Where we at? Oh yeah- at thend 'a Poplar ya can't help but ta smell sumpin
real fishy. 'At nasty stench means yer nearin sniffin distance o’ Murky Bottom Run
where 'at reekin redneck Earl flops 'is rotten fish ta fester on a bank, ‘n plops
eye wat'rin dumps right off a path. Eben if he ain’t ‘ere I’m sure dat smell'll be.
I can’t hardly believe dey made dat rat breath, sweat stain, skank 'o puke
a depadee. Anywho... watcha step on 'a path ‘n head on up ta the tracks.

Trundle longst the train tracks a bit steerin clear of them sticker bushas
‘n poison oak (itchin for like ever if ya brush agin it). Comin up’ll be
a burnt out lil shack where them kids useta go ta make out til dat Horton
girl got gangbanged and strangelt. Man, dat was...well never yoo mind.
Up a piece ere’s 'is gnarly oak what’s got ‘n old, frait rope swing on 'er.
Getcha a good feel righta ‘bove da big knot ‘n swing ‘er on out 'cross a crick.

On n‘other side ere’s this small clearin, ‘n a bit beyon ere’s a mouth
wat'rin red deelicious patch, so thick ‘n sweet wit ripe’uns ya can almos
tatse em on a breeze. But don’t be thinkin bout pluckin yoo no juicy one,
either fom a branch, nor off ‘a ground, cause that salty little somabitch
P.R. Johnson hides out in 'is pick up, jus waitin, ‘n fer sure he ain’t no type
ta hole back on givin ya a good tase 'a some buckshot. Blam! right’n ‘a snoot.

Now yer on ta the tricky part- foller the bobwire fence til ya spot ‘n openin
where P.R.'s truck crashed through it a bit back. By a big bend in the crick
ere’s dis flat, smooth outcroppin where them idenical Dickson twins
uselee go sunnin of a day like this'un. If CindyandSusy are thar ‘n wavin ya over,
don’ be shy. They gon gitcha forgittin if yer comin or goin when 'ey show off
'em tans, but hey, from 'ere on out- yer happy fer sure an in mighty good hans.

Ya want I oughta write dat down fer ya young feller?