feel free to skip ^^
For workshop, we had to pick a published poem and write a response to it. I picked Choriambics 1 by Rupert Brooke, posted below in its entirety.
III. Experiments
1. Choriambics-I
AH! not now, when desire burns, and the wind calls, and the suns of spring
Light-foot dance in the woods, whisper of life, woo me to wayfaring;
Ah! not now should you come, now when the road beckons, and good friends call,
Where are songs to be sung, fights to be fought, yea! and the best of all,
Love, on myriad lips fairer than yours, kisses you could not give!…
Dearest, why should I mourn, whimper, and whine,
I that have yet to live?
Sorrow will I forget, tears for the best, love on the lips of you,
Now, when dawn in the blood wakes, and the sun laughs up the eastern blue;
I’ll forget and be glad!
Only at length, dear, when the great day ends,
When love dies with the last light, and the last song has been sung, and friends
All are perished, and gloom strides on the heaven: then, as alone I lie,
’Mid Death’s gathering winds, frightened and dumb, sick for the past, may I
Feel you suddenly there, cool at my brow; then may
I hear the peace
Of your voice at the last, whispering love, calling, ere all can cease
In the silence of death; then may I see dimly, and know, a space,
Bending over me, last light in the dark, once, as of old, your face.
My response:
She got a mouth, yuh know
Iidiat.
You feel I waitin' on you backside while I young an' sexy so?
Like hell.
You feel I goin' want you ole ramgoat rass knockin' bout my house
like bell 'pon goat neck
when you din' here to help wid de bills, nor de chores, nor de pickney?
One door does shut, anudder does open; mare want jockey to keep she healt'y an fit,
an' a regular set a ridin' does extend yuh life. Guh long! Plenty men check me,
an' one a dem got to have some sense.
Wha you expect me do while you out tomcatting?
Sit an' prop sorrow in my empty kitchen?
Fyah de work!
I gone an' catch a swim down de beach, I gone an' catch de breeze while it sweet,
I goin' eat wha taste good and leff de rest.
Dere ain' no prize for the woman who sacrifice' de most
on account a no man. You bring yuh wrinkled self back here in thirty forty fifty years-
when I got a big pile a shoes roun' my doorstep-
I ain' goin' know you. I won't have room.
Also, Nexian popped up today and started writing Talvo poetry. I squeed, and then transcribed (and it's EVEN FUNNIER because he isn't very good. Beehee ♥).
Nexian, warwizard, writes Talvo a poem
Oh, Talvo. Four years I visited your grave, you and all the others. I spoke to unresponsive stones. I drank, I swore at you for dying. There were times the rain tasted salty. I know you saw, but I'd pay anything you asked.
When you found a way to tell me you'd stayed I thought something in my head broke
and I'd never feel pain.
Ghost-kisses feel like eyelashes,
like the sun on the water. A fingertip could have knocked me down.
The work flows now like it hasn't since I lost you, your hands soothe all the places in my head the magic burnt. But it isn't like I thought; you don't glow.
I see you with my skin.
...don't kiss me near the canyon.
We'll bring the whole damned cliff-face down.