Poetry Competition Ends 8th October 2024 3:21pm
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Reworking Plath: a tribute
Poetry Contest Description
Choose a poem written by Sylvia Plath and rework the poem in your own words using the format of the poem.
Include the poem you are basing your work on in the authors notes. I will choose the winner after 2 weeks
As an example, this poem is based on Two lovers and a beachcomber by the real sea:
The static of the hull
Bold and primal, the rumination
Simmering amidst a peerless mask;
scarlet dissections are hoarded up; in the style of mire
poaching an absent tone.
Sensations that wind the tirade of fermentation
strangles my pride’s crimson sheath
acquainting its sting like a wasp
to evanescence
Into the static of the hull.
We are fraught with what once was; with whom we are
rewriting all evaluations
between the hiccup of wild and tether:
Sheer veils mixed with sheer notions
The inclined wanderer dallies along the residuals
of Neanderthal schism
Browsing textured sectors with an iron fist
pounding through the crust of captive wails.
No soft landings on the pulpit of measured will
among us, our thoughts but musings of jilt and jade
leeching wisdom from the crest of its peak;
Fragments of madness is what we are.
blood will run dry; in the silted bed
hushing the ascent of reset;
A pearled lamb thrives in the absent womb
We are what we are
This change seemed suitable, though sullenness attended as its friend
As an example, this poem is based on Two lovers and a beachcomber by the real sea:
The static of the hull
Bold and primal, the rumination
Simmering amidst a peerless mask;
scarlet dissections are hoarded up; in the style of mire
poaching an absent tone.
Sensations that wind the tirade of fermentation
strangles my pride’s crimson sheath
acquainting its sting like a wasp
to evanescence
Into the static of the hull.
We are fraught with what once was; with whom we are
rewriting all evaluations
between the hiccup of wild and tether:
Sheer veils mixed with sheer notions
The inclined wanderer dallies along the residuals
of Neanderthal schism
Browsing textured sectors with an iron fist
pounding through the crust of captive wails.
No soft landings on the pulpit of measured will
among us, our thoughts but musings of jilt and jade
leeching wisdom from the crest of its peak;
Fragments of madness is what we are.
blood will run dry; in the silted bed
hushing the ascent of reset;
A pearled lamb thrives in the absent womb
We are what we are
This change seemed suitable, though sullenness attended as its friend
Just another Mad Song
When in my sleep, there's nothing there alive,
the silence is beautiful and profound
when I again awake your world survives,
My sleep's a space where your world gets contrived
I don't know how, my sleeps, dreams aren't allowed,
when in my sleep, there's nothing there alive,
My sleeps are long and quite quick to arrive,
then your world is buried deep underground
when I awake again your world survives
When I'm awake your world vibrantly thrives
lightnings flash thunders a tremendous sound
when, in my sleep there's nothing there alive,
I think I made your world up so I'd be revived
(that's just another thought in which I'm drowned)
when I awake, again, your world survives.
I'm getting tired now, losing my drive
I shall sleep soon, but God knows where I'm bound,
When in my sleep there's nothing left alive
If I awake again, your world survives...
the silence is beautiful and profound
when I again awake your world survives,
My sleep's a space where your world gets contrived
I don't know how, my sleeps, dreams aren't allowed,
when in my sleep, there's nothing there alive,
My sleeps are long and quite quick to arrive,
then your world is buried deep underground
when I awake again your world survives
When I'm awake your world vibrantly thrives
lightnings flash thunders a tremendous sound
when, in my sleep there's nothing there alive,
I think I made your world up so I'd be revived
(that's just another thought in which I'm drowned)
when I awake, again, your world survives.
I'm getting tired now, losing my drive
I shall sleep soon, but God knows where I'm bound,
When in my sleep there's nothing left alive
If I awake again, your world survives...
Written by Rew
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"Abyssal Treading"
This is the land where flames crawl slow
Where shadows breed, and demons sow
The air is thick, a weight, a pain
No light escapes this black domain
Each scream is trapped within the smoke
A fractured voice, a silent choke
The ground is ash, the sky is blind
The soul is lost, the heart confined
No stars to guide, no moon to see
Just endless dark, eternally
The heat, a breath that burns the core
And yet the cold consumes you more
You walk, though nowhere leads ahead
The living path, a realm of dead
In endless loop, you spin, you fall
For here, there is no end at all
Reworked from The Moon and the Yew Tree
This is the land where flames crawl slow
Where shadows breed, and demons sow
The air is thick, a weight, a pain
No light escapes this black domain
Each scream is trapped within the smoke
A fractured voice, a silent choke
The ground is ash, the sky is blind
The soul is lost, the heart confined
No stars to guide, no moon to see
Just endless dark, eternally
The heat, a breath that burns the core
And yet the cold consumes you more
You walk, though nowhere leads ahead
The living path, a realm of dead
In endless loop, you spin, you fall
For here, there is no end at all
Reworked from The Moon and the Yew Tree
Out of Ash
I do so tire
of the revival
no taste for the elixir
Unaware of what it is
that underwhelms
knowing not what is right
Numb, uninspired
without feature
remove the mask you place
Take leave of me
my flesh to hide
off to the cellar
Bearing no peace
I call for you not
to breathe me to life
No honour do you gift me
attempting to control
actions for me alone
All this is me
in the mirror
not for you to imagine
Not for amusement
or your God complex
nor a doll to fix
no painting am I
that needs perfecting
put your oils aside
Archaic solutions
be gone with my hell
do not begrudge
I pay my price
in sombre misery
upon each return
Judge not my scars
preferred over living
and over I shall go
Unbind my hope
not failures
but resurrections
I do not exist
in an earthly manner
leave me to God
Inspired by Lady Lazarus - Sylvia Plath
of the revival
no taste for the elixir
Unaware of what it is
that underwhelms
knowing not what is right
Numb, uninspired
without feature
remove the mask you place
Take leave of me
my flesh to hide
off to the cellar
Bearing no peace
I call for you not
to breathe me to life
No honour do you gift me
attempting to control
actions for me alone
All this is me
in the mirror
not for you to imagine
Not for amusement
or your God complex
nor a doll to fix
no painting am I
that needs perfecting
put your oils aside
Archaic solutions
be gone with my hell
do not begrudge
I pay my price
in sombre misery
upon each return
Judge not my scars
preferred over living
and over I shall go
Unbind my hope
not failures
but resurrections
I do not exist
in an earthly manner
leave me to God
Inspired by Lady Lazarus - Sylvia Plath
Written by mel44
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Blood jet is poetry: after Plath
And here you come, with a cup of tea
Wreathed in Steam.
The blood jet is poetry,
There is no stopping it.
~ Plath
Your poems: I feel like I enter a forest
of toothpick trees, a rigid summer
where shadows fossilize
the lungs of poetry asthmatic—
wheezing air does not absorb;
but, there is a silence here—
I do not feel alone.
I seek artifacts, pooled
in the sweating hollow of your verse
I read and read and read
while their prison'd orange contrasts
the etiquette of embroidered lace—
tablecloths, crumpets and tea
white-gloved pinkies
attempting to mediate
nervous chatter of saucers and cups
over the infidelity of an oath—
over the drought of belief
and drying roots of a rose bush
'There is no stopping it' —
blatantly excused ignorance
I mind my manners out of respect:
right foot over left, intentions
shaded by a wide-brimmed hat;
steaming skin contained
in an apricot scarf—
polished silver service
tablecloth stiff with starch
The blood jet of poetry
a sanitary napkin in my lap—
my phallic posture smiling
hard, and politely erect.
~
Wreathed in Steam.
The blood jet is poetry,
There is no stopping it.
~ Plath
Your poems: I feel like I enter a forest
of toothpick trees, a rigid summer
where shadows fossilize
the lungs of poetry asthmatic—
wheezing air does not absorb;
but, there is a silence here—
I do not feel alone.
I seek artifacts, pooled
in the sweating hollow of your verse
I read and read and read
while their prison'd orange contrasts
the etiquette of embroidered lace—
tablecloths, crumpets and tea
white-gloved pinkies
attempting to mediate
nervous chatter of saucers and cups
over the infidelity of an oath—
over the drought of belief
and drying roots of a rose bush
'There is no stopping it' —
blatantly excused ignorance
I mind my manners out of respect:
right foot over left, intentions
shaded by a wide-brimmed hat;
steaming skin contained
in an apricot scarf—
polished silver service
tablecloth stiff with starch
The blood jet of poetry
a sanitary napkin in my lap—
my phallic posture smiling
hard, and politely erect.
~
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
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