Poetry competition CLOSED 28th November 2018 3:07am
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ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
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The Man-Moth

Ahavati
Ahavati
Tyrant of Words
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Poetry Contest

Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for “mammoth.”

Co-Host - Johnny Blaze

Part IV in an ongoing series introducing serious writers of DUP to the most well-known poets, both classical and modern.


Elizabeth Bishop (February 8, 1911 – October 6, 1979) was an American poet and short-story writer. She was Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 1949 to 1950, and is considered one of the finest poets of the 20th century.

Her awards include:

Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, 1956
Poems: North & South: A Cold Spring

United States Poet Laureate, 1949

Neustadt International Prize for Literature, 1976 · First Woman and American to ever be awarded

National Book Award for Poetry, 1970 · The Complete Poems

Guidelines

Write a new poem honoring Bishop from one of the following poetry titles.  Bonus points if you actually read the poem and include a reference other than the title within it.  

1.   The Man-Moth
2.   North & South
3.   A Miracle for Breakfast
4.   From the Country to the City
5.   The Mountain
6.   A Cold Spring
7.   At the Fishhouses
8.   One Art
9.   Crusoe in England
10. Arrival at Santos
11. The Armadillo
12. Filling Station

1.  One entry per DUP persona.

2. No erotica; this is open to all ages and can't be viewed with an ECW.

3. No exact word limit; however, attempt to keep it no more than 250 - 300.

4. Any form is acceptable.

5. Hashtag #ElizabethBishop.

Comp will be judged by a panel including myself.  You have one month; best of luck to all entrants.  

snugglebuck
snugglebuck
Dangerous Mind
United States
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As a fan of hers, you can count me in.

Ahavati
Ahavati
Tyrant of Words
United States
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Joined 11th Apr 2015
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snugglebuck said:As a fan of hers, you can count me in.

She was a pistol.  

Ahavati
Ahavati
Tyrant of Words
United States
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Joined 11th Apr 2015
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At The Fish Houses  ( After Elizabeth Bishop )

Necessity in death and dying;    
its cold nature a hardened breast  
 of rocks nursing the evolution    
of time and time gone by    
   
Come the coastline in season    
  burning its way through glassy sand    
shattered shards of granules    
  sinking beneath its watery breath    
   
You remembered your mother    
  that Nova Scotian ice-rattle of lungs;    
their spindly pinnacles dissolving    
  under arthritic air brittle with bone    
   
You sit, serenading a seal    
  its interest lacking in salvation of self;    
the bellowing hymn reverberating    
  the chorus of your throated larynx    
   
Where there was wood came moss    
  steal came rust, planktons suckling    
brine from the underbelly of boats    
and silver, silver everywhere you looked:    
   
the sea tolling as melted molten;    
  fish houses glistening intestinal remains;    
ramps ribbed with codden scales    
  all the color lining clouds;    
   
deep shadows suspended overhead    
  absorbing dark secrets into their womb    
spilling when too bloated to carry further  
as human burdens dredging truth    
   
Perhaps unwanted knowledge    
  stillbirthed before its time    
to burgeoning lives unwilling to learn    
or accept alteration as a peripheral term    
   
But you observed from the start    
  beauty in a changling death    
glory in the art of aging    
that some knowledge, somewhere    
   
  would finally explain if you sang. . .  
or looked just a little bit harder    
~    
 
 
Inspiration  
 
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52192/at-the-fishhouses
 
#ElizabethBishop
Written by Ahavati
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JohnnyBlaze
JohnnyBlaze
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[ Classic Corner ] Night of the Moth Woman

       
Sodium arc lamps      
whose amps hummed her      
internal frequency led the way      
through tunnels carved out      
by men oblivious to their      
one track minds      
     
She often camps      
in the artificial illumination      
finding comfort in concrete flowerbed      
choosing sleep during daylight hour instead      
eager to capture in her own words      
     
the Man-Moth      
     
who rides backwards trains of thought      
never talks and becomes obsessed      
in die cuts of night whenever      
moon essence cracks sidewalks      
     
Unnatural, this      
light      
she herself was attracted to      
in similar fashion---      
     
its Truth spoken in filaments      
appealing to her acceptance      
of this temporary temporalness      
revealing every slight change      
from predictable to strange      
   
peeling away cloth of darkness      
in framed moments      
unshuttered      
     
concealing tear dropped poetry      
the Man-Moth      
uttered  
 
 
Written by JohnnyBlaze
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Non-entry entry  

Ahavati
Ahavati
Tyrant of Words
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Filling Station ( After Elizabeth Bishop )

Oil-ladened landscape
  atop a filthy plot of concrete -    
its native inhabitants        
      connoisseurs of grease;    
their laborious toil rotates    
   lubricating worldly wheels    
of cadillac sevilles and corvettes          
          
You sought, found life beyond globular       
  molds of oil saturating cracks        
across a dirty reality check;        
  Texas crude bubbling up, black gold --        
    except for the blue collar coveralls        
stained with its blood            
         
   A crocheted doily, red begonia          
or, perhaps it was orange, autumnal        
  burnt sienna complementing
worn comic books fingerprinting  
  each grease monkey attending        
   this kindred career center          
         
Your camel cigarette ashen, astutely      
observing - ESSO-SO-SO-SO-ING          
  the burgeoning pearl        
within an otherwise worthless oyster
dredged from a contaminated sea          
  of commercialism:          
         
   LO-LO-LO-LOVE        
       and family          
~        
         
Inspiration:  
 
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52193/filling-station  
 
#ElizabethBishop
Written by Ahavati
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JohnnyBlaze
JohnnyBlaze
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[ Classic Corner ] Filling Station Ode

  
Doily
clean
on table littered    
with picturesque literatures  
rarely read for the prose---    
worn to point of page torn  
comic books, dirty mags  
and assorted pulpy rags  
featuring ladies in pose  
cheesecake to naughty  
encouraging one to take  
second looks  
   
Doily  
pristine  
far from surreptitious---  
a bit feminine for boys and men  
who tinker on their tipped toes  
toiling under automobile hood  
soiling hands with oily black syrup  
dripped upon their natures good  
---heads filled up with a lot of  
nonsense about buxom beauties  
with bountiful bosoms spilled out    
whom they profess to Love  
   
Dirty    
oily  
is the filling station  
where someone behind the curtain  
in the family business who cares    
for their [c]overall[ed] welfares  
makes certain in the daily duties  
that regardless of attire, cup size  
or waist and hip measurements  
ALL female motorists who require  
their gas being gas pumped
or inner tubes inflated
are treated with reverence  
they are deservingly owed


Written by JohnnyBlaze
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Non-entry entry ⛽📝

ImperfectedStone
ImperfectedStone
The Gardener
Dangerous Mind
United Kingdom
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Joined 10th Oct 2010
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Related submission no longer exists.

Ahavati
Ahavati
Tyrant of Words
United States
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Joined 11th Apr 2015
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A Cold Spring (After Elizabeth Bishop )

Alabaster bones reflect    
warmth of an obscure orb;    
their pallid membrane dormant    
  - lacklustre of any verdure      
     
Winter pursues first green    
  as gold,  but she escapes -    
  her youthful diligence scattering    
a surplus of burgeoning buds    
in her wake;    
     
tiny nubs, hardened as pearl-    
   moist, glistening in halflight      
of compressed dew      
     
I read once about Spring in Ohio;    
the belly of a tulip engorged with snow    
  a slow death of sharp frost    
masticating her laden ovary black      
     
But still they come, bursting forth;    
  an underworld of army rising up    
- stamens puncturing air, uninhibited    
by the thick, cold skin of fog      
     
Soon, hills will be kaleidoscopic;    
  prismed in our tumbling irises      
  - dark insects buttercupped      
  white Bradfords and Cherry pinks    
     
Crusading Dogwoods bearing a Cross;      
Templars in a holy rite by birth      
   exalting the equinox;      
Knighting mangey landscapes      
  - dampened dull from wind and ice -    
with fervent love and life;    
     
Earth becomes a breeding ground      
  -species bask in cyclic light-    
mankind pauses hatred and strife    
  if just for a second in time    
     
Their song clear: "Wake up!      
Wake up and dance!";
   
their message strong: "We survived!    
     
We survived again!"
   
~    
     
     
#ElizabethBishop    
 
Written by Ahavati
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JohnnyBlaze
JohnnyBlaze
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[ Classic Corner ] Stranded

 

After a childhood spent  
ailing  
wailing  
railing  
  
she got busy living life  
delighting  
writing    
sailing  
   
When being shipwrecked    
on a god forsaken rock    
one must make due with what  
the Universe gives you    
but never settle for less---  
there's always an endless supply    
of abandonment's emptiness     
issuing forth as if fountains    
from us in volcanic spillings  
of mountainous mole hillings    
titanic; ships passing by
ignoring your imploring, erupting
tantrums spewing forth basalt froth
and ashen cloud declarations  
   
No man or woman is an island    
   
However, strand yourself on
one of your own making


Written by JohnnyBlaze
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Non-entry entry

Josh
Josh
Joshua Bond
Tyrant of Words
Portugal
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The Sacred Art Of Losing Well (a villanelle)

Josh (Joshua Bond)
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snugglebuck
snugglebuck
Dangerous Mind
United States
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Lunar Lunacy

Manmade moons and starlight satellites
Will soon brighten our night
For convenience and aesthetic delight
Bathing our precious planet
With artificial incandescent light
 
Yet, because of this marvel
There will be no survival
For creatures nocturnal
Not the bat, or the owl
Nor the banded armadillo
 
These poor children of the night
Forced into synthetic daylight
Will suffer and perish
In confusion and fright
 
 
For humans have proven
Throughout our history
That we have no empathy
For creatures we believe
Are lesser than we

#ElizabethBishop
Written by snugglebuck
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Jade-Pandora
Jade-Pandora
jade tiger
Tyrant of Words
United States
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The Knack


( a Quatern )
A tribute to Elizabeth Bishop  
(1911-1979)
and her poem “One Art”  
  
 
I tell myself it doesn’t matter much,
When at the end of day my tally’s off.
A post-it note reminding me some such,
To go and buy the syrup for my cough.

So what if I forgot and lost the note,
I tell myself it doesn’t matter much.
I’ll make some tea & honey, let it float,
I keep it in my pantry or the hutch.

So while I’m thinking which I’ll fix a lunch,
Make finger sandwiches to have with tea.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter much,
I’d just as soon a bagel spread with Brie.

I have the knack, a skill, I’m just the girl,
For anytime I find myself in Dutch.
When I can’t find a hanky, string of pearl,
I tell myself it doesn’t matter much.  
 
   
   
   
In Dutch = in trouble  
   
#ElizabethBishop
Written by Jade-Pandora (jade tiger)
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Ahavati
Ahavati
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A Miracle for Breakfast ( Sestina, After Elizabeth Bishop )

The pot-belly stove was sultry with warmth
its iron-embered eyes dissipating
as we dressed in our old country kitchen
  bleakly confined on that cold winter morn;
our stomachs rumbled as gangs from dire lack
our fieriness made frigid by icy drafts
 
Sly wooden cracks coerced the drafts
  seducing the last of our warmth;
bare cupboards creaked with bitter lack
  their miserly contents dissipating;
hope worked despite that wintry morn
miracles in our old country kitchen

We scoured that desolate country kitchen
  for curtain or cloth to dissuade the drafts -
coffee and crumb to cook that stark morn
  to quell our hunger and dwindling warmth;
prayed miracles without dissipating
for a meal despite provisional lack

Forecast predicted provisional lack
  out windows of the old country kitchen
the wind increased without dissipating
  and threadbare cloth was overcome by drafts;
our cheeks were reddened by little warmth
on that hypothermic Saturday morn

Saturday evening mirrored its morn
  as a neighbor knocked to assuage our lack;
brought provisions and coffee for inner warmth
  filled cupboards of our old country kitchen;
our welcoming entry sanctioned drafts
to challenge heat before dissipating

The storm billowed without dissipating
  but we rose on a pristine Sunday morn
the kitchen was cozy sans any drafts
  with n'ere a sign of provisional lack;
we shared miracles in our old country kitchen:
brewed coffee, bread, and increasing warmth

Gelid temps were dissipating to warmth
icy drafts surrendered to meager lack
Sunday morn in our old country kitchen    
~  
   
#ElizabethBishop
Written by Ahavati
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JohnnyBlaze
JohnnyBlaze
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To keep yawl inspired.

Elizabeth Bishop 📝🎨📚

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