OctPoWriMo Day 24. Cauldron Bubble (In trochaic tetrameter, after the witches of Macbeth)

OctPoWriMo Day 24. Predicting a Return for Revenge

Each poem could be seen as a spell: words put together with the intent to have control over another human being: to make them think, to make them feel, to make them read the poem again.

Think of all the ways that your poem might put your reader under your spell:

• onomatopoeia
• rhyme
• rhythm
• repetition
• nonsense words
• alliteration
• assonance and consonance
• euphony and cacophony

Example Poem: “The Apparition” by John Donne from Poems Dead and Undead(Aal)

The Apparition

When by thy scorn, O murderess, I am dead
And that thou think’st thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feigned vestal, in worse arms shall see;
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tired before,
Will, if thou sstir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call’st for more,
And in false sleep will from thee shrink;
And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bathed in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie
A verier ghost than I.
What I will say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,
I had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,
Than by my threatenings rest still innocent.

~John Donne

Prompt: Write a poem to keep your reader spellbound. Match the sound of your words to your meaning as you predict what you will do if you come back for revenge.

Possible form: Rhyming couplets in trochaic tetrameter (each line has four feet of DUM dah—8 syllables with stresses on 1, 3, 5, and 7) after the witches of Macbeth. You may also try using occasional Catalexis —which is the omission of the final syllable at the end of the line—to mix things up.

~ 

Cauldron Bubble

(In trochaic tetrameter, after the witches of Macbeth)

DOUble, DOUble, TOIL and TROUble;

FIre BURN and CAULdron BUBble.

FAces FOLD and FAdes and WRINkles,

SPINning FATE with GOLden TWINkles.

WHISpering DEath in EARs a-GLOWing,

SEWing TRUst while EVil’s GROWing.

SInners FALL and SAints get BRAzen,

MAking VIce the BEAstly FAshion.

MAny WOrds for MAny WIcked,

LIes for LOVers, TRUth be TRIcked.

NOne can KNOW the THOUghts they HARbor,

UNtil THOUghts beCOME the ARdor.

FOOLS are MAde from PROpheCYing,

WIcked MEN are DOomed from LYing.

DOUBLE DOUBLE TOIL and TROUBLE,

CAULdron BUBble, CAULdron BUBble.

~ Oizys.

“Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

— from Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I (Shakespeare)

OctPoWriMo Day 23. The Body Remembers Differently (A Cento) // When Morning Hesitates (A Golden Shovel)

OctPoWriMo Day 23. From Pieces and Parts

There are many types of poems that “frankenstein” other texts. Blackout (or erasure) poetry and cut-up poems find poems by choosing words and phrases within prose. The Cento, combines lines from several other poems, making sure to reference each poem and poet at the end. The golden shovel takes a line of a poem and uses each word as the end word of each line in the new poem. Can you think of others?

Example Poem: “Pineola” by Sy Hoahwah from Poetry Foundation

Pineola

Severed finger of a convicted murderer uncurls like a waking pet.
Demonic compass points toward the most dangerous direction to get home.

Its long yellow fingernail can pick any lock.

On the fishhook, the finger resembles a long, fat mealworm.
Most times, it’s lodged in the throats of my enemies
or hiding among the tampons of cops’ wives.

It avoids gold rings, bad luck.

When wearing this rot relic on a chain,
sunlight smells like stale curtains in a worn-out hearse.
Rain never hits my clothes.

Rooms seem hotter.
Radios turn on by themselves, always to the same Lucinda Williams song.

Use any mirror as a doorway, I come out into the same sweaty
bedroom from a previous life. I forget who is wearing whom.

I pierce the fingertip to draw up a will.

I dip the finger in water. I point it toward the sun. I flick it to make it rain.

Hanging on the wall,
I sleep under this bird, booger-picker, dream catcher,
missing piece of an inverted crucifix, rotting pencil.

It sleeps over me like an accusative God.

Around midnight, I wake up, the finger is typing in the next room.
What is it composing at this time of night?

Letters to a parole board,
love letters to the rest of the hand,
midnight sermons,
ransom notes pertaining to me,
memoirs about life, hanging from my neck …

~ Sy Hoahwah

Prompt: Use one of the “frankenstein”-ing poetry forms to write a poem about a dismembered body part.

Possible form: Blackout poetry, cut-up poetry, cento, or golden shovel

~

Poem 1. The Body Remembers Differently

(A Cento written in homage to the many voices that haunt my own.)

This is my mother’s land, and it was her mother’s before. (Celeste Foo, "Burial")

Our memory, suddenly sharpened, / examines, gnaws on kind words unsaid, / promised walks never taken. (Maya Angelou, "When Great Trees Fall")

Tell all the truth but tell it slant— (Emily Dickinson, “Tell all the truth but tell it slant—.”)

When I am dead, my dearest, sing no sad songs for me; (Christina Rossetti, “When I am dead, my dearest.”)

My heart in hiding / Stirred for a bird,— (Gerard Manley Hopkins, “The Windhover”).

O, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt, (William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2)

Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect, (Thomas Gray, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”)

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air, (Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”)

How selfhood begins with a walking away, (C. Day-Lewis, “Walking Away”)

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, (William Shakespeare, Sonnet 30)

table mat stitched in blue. (Naomi Shihab Nye, “Blood”)

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, (T. S. Eliot, “The Waste Land”)
These fragments I have shored against my ruins. (Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself,” section 52)

~ Oizys.

Poem 2. When Morning Hesitates

(A Golden Shovel, after “Even if you are not ready for day it cannot always be night.” from the poem Speech To The Young : Speech To The Progree-Toward by Gwendolyn Elizabeth Brooks)

The hands tremble, but they still hold, even

as the air thickens with undone prayers, as if

each exhale were a confession. What you

bury beneath your ribs is not gone — you are

a cathedral of unfinished songs. Do not

mistake silence for peace; it only sounds ready

when it stops echoing. Wait for

the hour that forgets your name. The day

will come limping toward you; it

won’t ask permission. Grief cannot

stay folded forever. Shadows always

rise and scatter; there will still be

birds rehearsing light against the night.

~ Oizys.

[Notes: Thanks to Maria for introducing so many different forms of poetry. I was motivated to learn more about Golden Shovel so I read an article on Poetry Foundation and was instantly fascinated. I’ve always adored Gwendolyn Brooks, especially her poem “A Song in the Front Yard”, so finding a form born in her honor felt like uncovering a new language for reverence.

I learnt more about the relationship between the Golden Shovel and the Cento on how both breathe life into borrowed words, but in different ways. The Cento stitches fragments together until they hum in one voice, while the Golden Shovel hides the borrowed line inside a new poem, like a secret spine. Both feel like conversations with the poets who came before, both ways of saying: I remember you, and I’m still writing because of you.

Blackout poetry and cut-up poetry have always been my favourite to consume on Pinterest; someday, I’ll try them too.]