03-04-2014, 10:53 AM
Hello fellow poetry lovers. Here is the completed version of our first game of poetry telephone at the pigpen. For details on what that means, go here:
http://www.pigpenpoetry.com/showthread.php?tid=13329
I would like to thanks all of the participants for their time, their effort and most of all for their bravado and sense of adventure. I think the game went very well and I hope everyone gets a chance to comment on at least a couple of the poems. I have some favorites myself and I think at least a few deserve a chance to be workshopped into polished poems that will be read again and again. A special thanks goes out to our friends over at alt.arts.poetry.comments for participating in this first ever cross-forum version of the classic game that really made its mark over there. Without further chatter, here is the line:
Poetry Telephone
Starter Poem:
Proof that once she was a mermaid
She denies it with a laugh -
shakes her head and disagrees -
but dips a taste of sourwood honey
and doesn't fear the bees.
Her warm green eyes swim
with memories of the seas
and when a siren calls -
some ambulance from hidden streets
of dreary londontown - she doesn't harbor
the secret fear that it comes for her
just shakes her head in sympathy for me.
She loves the taste of animals that hoof
the earth and graze the fields so openly -
who else won't pretend to love
the taste of fish or salad greens?
But I won't sow the earth with seeds of salt
or hide my eyes and ears to free my dreams.
No, bind me to the mast and let me hear her song
as others cry with emptiness -
the king's men starving at a feast.
First Rewrite
Truth of a Chambermaid
She relies upon her good humor-
tames her hair to some degree
whips up a bun with carved comb,
doesn't wear her skirt above her knee.
Her warm brown eyes dim
with memories of the siege.
Somnambulant through vacant halls,
she startles as her cellphone rings,
still wary of calls to leave her hometown
she harbors fears they'll come for her.
She shakes herself, resists the urge to flee.
She moves to clear debris of guests, aloof
in berths they laze, at long buffets they graze.
She can't pretend she doesn't miss
the taste of scraps and local greens
seasoned with her mother's spice and tears.
Her babe sleeps safe and free to dream:
not bound to ragged past he'll sing a newfound song,
her lullaby imprinted on his breast-
a queen, head high, who faced the beast.
-Ellajam
Second Rewrite
Bastard
His shallow breathing steadies her--
shut eyes and wordless dreams;
she lies all night imagining
his future as a king.
She wraps up tight and holds him close,
sings what mother once sung
before the masks and blasts released
mom’s breath from collapsed lungs.
Each morn she hands him over
to a foreign loveless breast ,
trudges to the chateau’s chambers
invisible to guests.
A life lived in repetition
with one hope to sustain--
her son’s father a royal,
with no heirs yet to his name.
She scrubs and mutely smiles,
but when far from hidden spies
brown eyes leak salty water
fearing promises were lies.
Will they take her back to where
her mind buried in the past--
a dark hall of hopeless mortals
starving in their iron casts?
She lifts her chin up slowly
as she rises from the ground--
a king deserves a mother
who’s still regal when cast down.
-Jusctcloudy
Third Rewrite
Lullaby
I watch your every breath -
protective mothering.
I’d fight for you with death
your future as a king.
Protective mothering
with lullabies from home.
Your future as a king,
my past as bride of Rome.
With lullabies from home
I leave you every day.
My past, as bride of Rome,
ignored, I toil and slave.
I leave you every day,
alone I earn our keep.
Ignored, I toil and slave.
What’s sown is what we reap.
Alone, I earn our keep,
in silence swift tears run.
What’s sown is what you reap,
you’re still his only son.
In silence swift tears run,
my family is lost.
You’re still his only son -
I wonder at the cost.
My family is lost,
I’d fight for you with death.
I wonder at the cost.
I watch your every breath.
-Justmercedes
Fourth Rewrite
Songs for Eros
She drew a single breath then closed her eyes.
She hummed the lullaby throughout the night.
Her husband didn't stir, nor would he rise
until the morning. She would then surmise
his passing. Wonder if he dreamed her frights.
She drew a single breath then closed her eyes.
She sang erotic verses to surprise
him into sight, stood nude by fire light.
Her husband didn't stir, nor would he rise.
She hummed the lullaby and fantasized
him broad awake, eyes wide. To view the sight
she drew a single breath then closed her eyes.
She snuggled close and cried her lullabies.
She mourned him gone and begged that they unite.
Her husband didn't stir, nor would he rise.
She did her sexy dance, erotic cries.
She hummed the lullaby throughout the night.
She drew a single breath then closed her eyes.
her husband didn't stir, nor would he rise.
-Trueenigma
Fifth Rewrite
Salome and Jochanaan
--------------------
Herodes: Was ist es, das du haben möchtest, Salome?
Salome: Den Kopf des Jochanaan.
-- Richard Strauss
Salome singeth Jochanaan
erotic verses all night long:
Jochanaan maketh no reply.
Salome danceth Jochanaan
her previous dance of seven veils:
he marketh neither veils nor her.
Jochanaan preacheth in his head
that Christ is come and all redeemed:
Salome heareth not his speech.
Salome biteth freezing lips
that neither kiss nor smile nor bleed:
Jochanaan maketh no reply.
Salome danceth Jochanaan
again her dance, with fifty veils:
he marketh neither veils nor her.
When Christ returneth to redeem,
we simple folk shall heed his call:
Salome heareth not his speech;
Jochanaan maketh no reply.
-Peter J. Ross
Sixth rewrite:
Salami to no a veil
The Opera of Headless John
--------------------------------------------
Herod fat-pig asks his slut sausage Salami
Salami, :What will you do with your pet John?”
--dick stress
Salami sings off key to John
verses of Abba all night long
John throws up, but is unmoved.
Salami dance the dance of the seven meats
John ignores her disgusting dance especially
when she pulls a hogi from between her thighs
John eats not!
John preaches in his head,
that Christ has come though John as not
he is unsure about Salami!
Salami acts as though John’s mouth is a large pickle,
Nibbling, sucking (especially sucking, and other
oral gymnastics) to no avail as the pickle stays frozen.
Salami in desperation dances her dance of fifty meats,
cold cuts flying everywhere, shooting anchovies
from her nether regions, yet John holds fast to the “armour” of God.
When Christ returns to redeem his order of pastrami on rye,
We simpletons will drink mead with all,
Salami heareth not his call as this is not Salami on rye,
John makes no reply as Herod has chopped off his head.
Erthona (Dale Tisdale)
Seventh Rewrite:
El coleccionista
My friend John says he wants me
to be his wingwoman; he says he's lost
his head to Sálome and needs my help;
John's lost his head to Sálome, whose voice
is cinnamon rich and warm; he's lost his heart
to Sálome, the Amazon who serves the drinks
at Tony's bar, the Hélicon, where grey-draped
caryatids raise potted palms aloft while
dapper little Tony dips and flits between
lace-covered darkwood tables. Tony flicks
a practised chamois cloth at dust, pausing
to converse with regulars or recommend
his favourite from a fragrant range of teas
and gins. Along the bar, on gleaming trays,
a thousand almond leaves are honey glazed;
they cloy with stickiness. John wants me
to talk to Tony, to distract and keep him
sweet, to muse on silverware and curiosities,
admire the bric-a-brac, the tumbling monkey
in the china cabinet and the desiccated
Persian cat with blue stone eyes. John's
lost his head to Sálome, he thinks my chattering
can deflect Tony's proprietorial look that gathers
Salomé with oddities, dead pets and flightless
concrete angels. John's lost his head to Sálome
who pours the drinks at Tony's bar. Her voice
is warm as cinnamon, her eyes dark as molasses.
We order G&Ts. I talk to Tony, but I watch
as Sálome lifts the gin bottle. Her hands
are square and competent, just like a man's.
Gwyneth Box
Eigth Rewrite:
The Collectors Balls
John wants me on his six;
his hormones are ape shit and he needs
female back up. He lost his head
to shalom the Jewish Amazon who tends
bar for Antoine at the Tuba and Trumpet.
A Kosha all you can drink shit hole for ex pilots
and wingmen who no longer fly.
dimpled brass table tops rest like saucers
on the heads and arms of naked dwarves.
Antoine likes to flick the tight titted waitresses
with his pink handkerchief as he minces
between tables on Fred Astair feet imploring,
begging his public, drink, drink, drink!
Johnny asks me to jiggle my boobs
and shake the derrière at Tony as a distraction;
to talk about dancing, rain and Gene Kelly.
John's lost his wallet to Shalom who sets up drinks
along Tony's bar. Her lips glisten like ripe water melon,
her breath sweet as marshmallow sundae;
she works the drunks. I show Tony my knees, but watch
as Shalom bends over a case of cheap merlot
the bulge hanging to the left, not as concealed as she thinks.
billy
Ninth rewrite:
Rises and falls
Salty Sean's got up to his last trick;
Post a beer-bolstered whiskey-hindered
pick up attempt, he panicked and fled
out the back door, free-wheeling round Fisherman's bend.
Forget last week's slap down this one trumped it;
He spied a thin-lipped big-boned strumpet with eyelids violet
straw-brittle hair patchily dyed
and brassy dimpled cheeks plopped atop gloopy
forearms crossed on an oil stained table top;
but even from this manatee the shoreline excesses
weather-beaten into his features would gather only winces.
Spilling between tables on unaware feet roaring
"One for this lady. A drink! A drink! A drink!"
and wine-blind to the scattering of stools
his deck practiced sway gave way to the earth's attraction.
Spread eagled in pain staring up at the telly
anchored to the timber by the cackling and clinks
of the whole bar and her teeth glistening like ripe lemons
chattering in a bitter refrain.
He escaped by crawling crabbily to the toilet hatch,
out the back door, free-wheeled Fisherman's bend and with no intent to slow
hung a sharp left, rattled the wharf's slatted chinks
and flowed into the ice cold, oil-slicked, laughter less drink.
tomoffing
Tenth Rewrite:
Fast Fred's final flub is as follows:
After a booze and blow binge and a botched booty call,
he turned and trod with terrible trepidation
down the deck door, determined to drive to Clamdigger’s Cove.
Close the curtains on all collective comeuppance- Saturday’s surpassed all..
Some superbly stacked split-tail made him stiff;
her olive ocular orbs ogled him oddly
as her amazingly arced ass made him antsy to ask
if the wanton woman wanted a wad to wiggle his wood.
But his mega-moistened mouth managed a measly, “May, I, may I..”
before he violently vomited very vast volumes of vittles
on the harpy’s harlequin halter top as she hollered in horror, “Help!”
"..buy you a bottle of bourbon?" he babbled,
grappling with gravity while graphically grabbing George and Gracie.
She kneed his nads, and his noggin nosed her nethers. “I never!” she screamed,
and suddenly stormed, seething, from Sammy’s South Street Saloon.
Fred, frantic and fried, floundered in futility on the foul floor.
Larry, Lester, and the lousy lot laughed long and loudly,
joking and jawing and jabbing and jibing. Fred jockeyed
to a perpendicular position and plodded pathetically past his putrid puddle,
crying, “I’ll crash my crappy Chevy Cobalt into Clamdigger’s Cove, chumps!”
He recklessly rambled into Ralph Ruggles, who reeled, then righted
as Fred fled in his car of red, and is assumed dead.
fogglethorpe (Hugh)
Rewrite eleven :
Fast food Freddie’s final feast
Bilious from binging, nose blotchy from booze,
he rolled to the mirror with everything to lose,
more down his neck, swallowed hamburgers and coke
curtains for clothes around this humongous bloke.
The stretch mark folds of skin had a whiff,
that Olive his wife would obligingly lift,
an amazing arse that he would ask to be wiped
that the poor woman washed and jiggle each night.
This mega mouthed monster swallowed many meals,
before the vomiting of vittles’ lost its appeal,
he would scoop the sick from his Harley tattoo
and drink it down with a bottle of bubbly or two.
Grey graveness and the gravity of gasping for air,
never needing to kneel or get out of the chair,
stuck seated and swollen like a barrage balloon,
Freddie was sure that death would come soon.
Always ready for a fowl or fried feast,
he pestered and parried the question of grease,
joking about Jabba the Hutt, his jaw needed to be wired shut,
prone to pissing himself when he parped, positions that plodded the beat of his heart,
crying each night this chunky cheeked chappy knew losing lumps could make him happy.
Miraculously little Ralphy was raised and one night he rested to Freddie’s right
but Freddie’s folds flopped onto his head, unable to breathe they found Ralphy dead.
Keith
*bold typeface of titles was an editorial decision added by myself to make them stand out.
Tongue the web between my toes.
http://www.pigpenpoetry.com/showthread.php?tid=13329
I would like to thanks all of the participants for their time, their effort and most of all for their bravado and sense of adventure. I think the game went very well and I hope everyone gets a chance to comment on at least a couple of the poems. I have some favorites myself and I think at least a few deserve a chance to be workshopped into polished poems that will be read again and again. A special thanks goes out to our friends over at alt.arts.poetry.comments for participating in this first ever cross-forum version of the classic game that really made its mark over there. Without further chatter, here is the line:
Poetry Telephone
Starter Poem:
Proof that once she was a mermaid
She denies it with a laugh -
shakes her head and disagrees -
but dips a taste of sourwood honey
and doesn't fear the bees.
Her warm green eyes swim
with memories of the seas
and when a siren calls -
some ambulance from hidden streets
of dreary londontown - she doesn't harbor
the secret fear that it comes for her
just shakes her head in sympathy for me.
She loves the taste of animals that hoof
the earth and graze the fields so openly -
who else won't pretend to love
the taste of fish or salad greens?
But I won't sow the earth with seeds of salt
or hide my eyes and ears to free my dreams.
No, bind me to the mast and let me hear her song
as others cry with emptiness -
the king's men starving at a feast.
First Rewrite
Truth of a Chambermaid
She relies upon her good humor-
tames her hair to some degree
whips up a bun with carved comb,
doesn't wear her skirt above her knee.
Her warm brown eyes dim
with memories of the siege.
Somnambulant through vacant halls,
she startles as her cellphone rings,
still wary of calls to leave her hometown
she harbors fears they'll come for her.
She shakes herself, resists the urge to flee.
She moves to clear debris of guests, aloof
in berths they laze, at long buffets they graze.
She can't pretend she doesn't miss
the taste of scraps and local greens
seasoned with her mother's spice and tears.
Her babe sleeps safe and free to dream:
not bound to ragged past he'll sing a newfound song,
her lullaby imprinted on his breast-
a queen, head high, who faced the beast.
-Ellajam
Second Rewrite
Bastard
His shallow breathing steadies her--
shut eyes and wordless dreams;
she lies all night imagining
his future as a king.
She wraps up tight and holds him close,
sings what mother once sung
before the masks and blasts released
mom’s breath from collapsed lungs.
Each morn she hands him over
to a foreign loveless breast ,
trudges to the chateau’s chambers
invisible to guests.
A life lived in repetition
with one hope to sustain--
her son’s father a royal,
with no heirs yet to his name.
She scrubs and mutely smiles,
but when far from hidden spies
brown eyes leak salty water
fearing promises were lies.
Will they take her back to where
her mind buried in the past--
a dark hall of hopeless mortals
starving in their iron casts?
She lifts her chin up slowly
as she rises from the ground--
a king deserves a mother
who’s still regal when cast down.
-Jusctcloudy
Third Rewrite
Lullaby
I watch your every breath -
protective mothering.
I’d fight for you with death
your future as a king.
Protective mothering
with lullabies from home.
Your future as a king,
my past as bride of Rome.
With lullabies from home
I leave you every day.
My past, as bride of Rome,
ignored, I toil and slave.
I leave you every day,
alone I earn our keep.
Ignored, I toil and slave.
What’s sown is what we reap.
Alone, I earn our keep,
in silence swift tears run.
What’s sown is what you reap,
you’re still his only son.
In silence swift tears run,
my family is lost.
You’re still his only son -
I wonder at the cost.
My family is lost,
I’d fight for you with death.
I wonder at the cost.
I watch your every breath.
-Justmercedes
Fourth Rewrite
Songs for Eros
She drew a single breath then closed her eyes.
She hummed the lullaby throughout the night.
Her husband didn't stir, nor would he rise
until the morning. She would then surmise
his passing. Wonder if he dreamed her frights.
She drew a single breath then closed her eyes.
She sang erotic verses to surprise
him into sight, stood nude by fire light.
Her husband didn't stir, nor would he rise.
She hummed the lullaby and fantasized
him broad awake, eyes wide. To view the sight
she drew a single breath then closed her eyes.
She snuggled close and cried her lullabies.
She mourned him gone and begged that they unite.
Her husband didn't stir, nor would he rise.
She did her sexy dance, erotic cries.
She hummed the lullaby throughout the night.
She drew a single breath then closed her eyes.
her husband didn't stir, nor would he rise.
-Trueenigma
Fifth Rewrite
Salome and Jochanaan
--------------------
Herodes: Was ist es, das du haben möchtest, Salome?
Salome: Den Kopf des Jochanaan.
-- Richard Strauss
Salome singeth Jochanaan
erotic verses all night long:
Jochanaan maketh no reply.
Salome danceth Jochanaan
her previous dance of seven veils:
he marketh neither veils nor her.
Jochanaan preacheth in his head
that Christ is come and all redeemed:
Salome heareth not his speech.
Salome biteth freezing lips
that neither kiss nor smile nor bleed:
Jochanaan maketh no reply.
Salome danceth Jochanaan
again her dance, with fifty veils:
he marketh neither veils nor her.
When Christ returneth to redeem,
we simple folk shall heed his call:
Salome heareth not his speech;
Jochanaan maketh no reply.
-Peter J. Ross
Sixth rewrite:
Salami to no a veil
The Opera of Headless John
--------------------------------------------
Herod fat-pig asks his slut sausage Salami
Salami, :What will you do with your pet John?”
--dick stress
Salami sings off key to John
verses of Abba all night long
John throws up, but is unmoved.
Salami dance the dance of the seven meats
John ignores her disgusting dance especially
when she pulls a hogi from between her thighs
John eats not!
John preaches in his head,
that Christ has come though John as not
he is unsure about Salami!
Salami acts as though John’s mouth is a large pickle,
Nibbling, sucking (especially sucking, and other
oral gymnastics) to no avail as the pickle stays frozen.
Salami in desperation dances her dance of fifty meats,
cold cuts flying everywhere, shooting anchovies
from her nether regions, yet John holds fast to the “armour” of God.
When Christ returns to redeem his order of pastrami on rye,
We simpletons will drink mead with all,
Salami heareth not his call as this is not Salami on rye,
John makes no reply as Herod has chopped off his head.
Erthona (Dale Tisdale)
Seventh Rewrite:
El coleccionista
My friend John says he wants me
to be his wingwoman; he says he's lost
his head to Sálome and needs my help;
John's lost his head to Sálome, whose voice
is cinnamon rich and warm; he's lost his heart
to Sálome, the Amazon who serves the drinks
at Tony's bar, the Hélicon, where grey-draped
caryatids raise potted palms aloft while
dapper little Tony dips and flits between
lace-covered darkwood tables. Tony flicks
a practised chamois cloth at dust, pausing
to converse with regulars or recommend
his favourite from a fragrant range of teas
and gins. Along the bar, on gleaming trays,
a thousand almond leaves are honey glazed;
they cloy with stickiness. John wants me
to talk to Tony, to distract and keep him
sweet, to muse on silverware and curiosities,
admire the bric-a-brac, the tumbling monkey
in the china cabinet and the desiccated
Persian cat with blue stone eyes. John's
lost his head to Sálome, he thinks my chattering
can deflect Tony's proprietorial look that gathers
Salomé with oddities, dead pets and flightless
concrete angels. John's lost his head to Sálome
who pours the drinks at Tony's bar. Her voice
is warm as cinnamon, her eyes dark as molasses.
We order G&Ts. I talk to Tony, but I watch
as Sálome lifts the gin bottle. Her hands
are square and competent, just like a man's.
Gwyneth Box
Eigth Rewrite:
The Collectors Balls
John wants me on his six;
his hormones are ape shit and he needs
female back up. He lost his head
to shalom the Jewish Amazon who tends
bar for Antoine at the Tuba and Trumpet.
A Kosha all you can drink shit hole for ex pilots
and wingmen who no longer fly.
dimpled brass table tops rest like saucers
on the heads and arms of naked dwarves.
Antoine likes to flick the tight titted waitresses
with his pink handkerchief as he minces
between tables on Fred Astair feet imploring,
begging his public, drink, drink, drink!
Johnny asks me to jiggle my boobs
and shake the derrière at Tony as a distraction;
to talk about dancing, rain and Gene Kelly.
John's lost his wallet to Shalom who sets up drinks
along Tony's bar. Her lips glisten like ripe water melon,
her breath sweet as marshmallow sundae;
she works the drunks. I show Tony my knees, but watch
as Shalom bends over a case of cheap merlot
the bulge hanging to the left, not as concealed as she thinks.
billy
Ninth rewrite:
Rises and falls
Salty Sean's got up to his last trick;
Post a beer-bolstered whiskey-hindered
pick up attempt, he panicked and fled
out the back door, free-wheeling round Fisherman's bend.
Forget last week's slap down this one trumped it;
He spied a thin-lipped big-boned strumpet with eyelids violet
straw-brittle hair patchily dyed
and brassy dimpled cheeks plopped atop gloopy
forearms crossed on an oil stained table top;
but even from this manatee the shoreline excesses
weather-beaten into his features would gather only winces.
Spilling between tables on unaware feet roaring
"One for this lady. A drink! A drink! A drink!"
and wine-blind to the scattering of stools
his deck practiced sway gave way to the earth's attraction.
Spread eagled in pain staring up at the telly
anchored to the timber by the cackling and clinks
of the whole bar and her teeth glistening like ripe lemons
chattering in a bitter refrain.
He escaped by crawling crabbily to the toilet hatch,
out the back door, free-wheeled Fisherman's bend and with no intent to slow
hung a sharp left, rattled the wharf's slatted chinks
and flowed into the ice cold, oil-slicked, laughter less drink.
tomoffing
Tenth Rewrite:
Fast Fred's final flub is as follows:
After a booze and blow binge and a botched booty call,
he turned and trod with terrible trepidation
down the deck door, determined to drive to Clamdigger’s Cove.
Close the curtains on all collective comeuppance- Saturday’s surpassed all..
Some superbly stacked split-tail made him stiff;
her olive ocular orbs ogled him oddly
as her amazingly arced ass made him antsy to ask
if the wanton woman wanted a wad to wiggle his wood.
But his mega-moistened mouth managed a measly, “May, I, may I..”
before he violently vomited very vast volumes of vittles
on the harpy’s harlequin halter top as she hollered in horror, “Help!”
"..buy you a bottle of bourbon?" he babbled,
grappling with gravity while graphically grabbing George and Gracie.
She kneed his nads, and his noggin nosed her nethers. “I never!” she screamed,
and suddenly stormed, seething, from Sammy’s South Street Saloon.
Fred, frantic and fried, floundered in futility on the foul floor.
Larry, Lester, and the lousy lot laughed long and loudly,
joking and jawing and jabbing and jibing. Fred jockeyed
to a perpendicular position and plodded pathetically past his putrid puddle,
crying, “I’ll crash my crappy Chevy Cobalt into Clamdigger’s Cove, chumps!”
He recklessly rambled into Ralph Ruggles, who reeled, then righted
as Fred fled in his car of red, and is assumed dead.
fogglethorpe (Hugh)
Rewrite eleven :
Fast food Freddie’s final feast
Bilious from binging, nose blotchy from booze,
he rolled to the mirror with everything to lose,
more down his neck, swallowed hamburgers and coke
curtains for clothes around this humongous bloke.
The stretch mark folds of skin had a whiff,
that Olive his wife would obligingly lift,
an amazing arse that he would ask to be wiped
that the poor woman washed and jiggle each night.
This mega mouthed monster swallowed many meals,
before the vomiting of vittles’ lost its appeal,
he would scoop the sick from his Harley tattoo
and drink it down with a bottle of bubbly or two.
Grey graveness and the gravity of gasping for air,
never needing to kneel or get out of the chair,
stuck seated and swollen like a barrage balloon,
Freddie was sure that death would come soon.
Always ready for a fowl or fried feast,
he pestered and parried the question of grease,
joking about Jabba the Hutt, his jaw needed to be wired shut,
prone to pissing himself when he parped, positions that plodded the beat of his heart,
crying each night this chunky cheeked chappy knew losing lumps could make him happy.
Miraculously little Ralphy was raised and one night he rested to Freddie’s right
but Freddie’s folds flopped onto his head, unable to breathe they found Ralphy dead.
Keith
*bold typeface of titles was an editorial decision added by myself to make them stand out.
Tongue the web between my toes.
What an example of divergent evolution; transmutation is probably the better term. The poems in the collection are all unique. This is a fascinating array of work, but not as much like 'whisper down the lane' as anticipated, which is a good thing! 
