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This may be old hat, but I’m proposing a site for collaborative poetry where each contributor finishes the latest writer’s verses and adds unfinished verses of his/her own. The added stanza would have about four lines with the last word on each line missing. The poetry would not have to rhyme, and the
unfinished poetry need not be original though the result (+ 1 word/verse) should be. If two happen to annotate the same stanza, then the next contributor could choose to build on either one.
For example, if the latest contribution ended with:
Without ___
as a ___
swoops on an ___
Love shakes my ___
The next might be:
Without sound
as a hound
swoops on an innocent
Love shakes my tent
There was a young lady from ___
Who had a small problem with ___.
Whenever it ___,
She had to go ___,
And ever since then she’s been___.
Exquisite Corpse
http://www.cybersta...n-mike/history.html
Baked since at least the 1920s, by some artsy-fartsy French people . You can probably do it online someplace. [rmutt, Jul 24 2002, last modified Oct 21 2004]
Online Esquisite Corpse
http://bluestem.hor...edu/ecs/default.htm
Dang looks like someone beat me to implementing this [beretboy, Jul 28 2002, last modified Oct 21 2004]
Short name, e.g., Bob's Coffee
Destination URL.
E.g., http://www.coffee.com/
Description (displayed with the short name and URL.)
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FarmerJohn
in my hovel
I enjoy your bacon
When you were gone
a collaborative novel
we were makin'
The 'bakery
was crashin'
no fakery
no trashin'
Seems the story
written with a fervor
got so gory
it crashed the server |
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The doctors stare at their silent screens
Plastic tubes carry chemical dreams
The endless drone of the priest in the hall
The paintings of nothing on the wardroom wall
Your contemporaries dine alone in hell
Black flowers of grief in their lapels
They drop by each day to wish you well
And take your coins to the wishing well
You watch their tears that never fall
It's driving you up the fucking wall
The scars may heal
But your heart will burst
It doesn't get better
But it might get worse
At least there'll be time
To polish the hearse
The bells will chime
While the priests rehearse
It's time for your pills
From the ugly nurse
Time is dragging a ball and chain
Looking for you in the pouring rain
You can't remember anyone who cares
You'd go home now but there's no-one there.
Drinking from a plastic cup
They don't trust you with glass
You here because you've fucked it up
So you sit around on your arse
Tell the doctor you don't mind the rain
He'll believe it's a wish to die
You can't remember if it's joy or pain
But you can't be bothered to cry
It feels alright so it must be wrong
You've crossed somebody's Rubicon
You can hear the sound of trampled feet
The march of trampled hearts
Watch the rounds of physics compleat
More than the sum of their parts
Recall the words of Cicero
A man of sword and bronze
Wipe mud on the face of the man you've damned
Will they come to visit your bones?
Surrounded by technology
You have your degree in harlotry
So you take a course in courtesy
Study Mengele and dentistry
Why do you need to cosset me?
This is all just sophistry
Behind my smile my mind is me
You look but you're too blind to see
Why do you wear white cotton gowns?
Did you ever think to ask?
Is it so you don't think you're us?
This too shall come to pass
When darkness comes
And hope walks out
Then look at me
My friend
Did you think that you'd be spared
This ignominious end? |
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This idea has a certain Pam Ayres quality. |
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This inspires horrid visions of Match Game '74 and Nipsy Russell. |
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What, all this because I trashed a Sappho poem? |
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Oh, I wish I'd looked after me brain,
And spotted the perils an' pain,
All the thinkin' I thought,
And the sweet sticky rot,
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me brain. |
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Half-Baked: Mad Libs? Magnetic Poetry (often applied on the "fridge," altered or finished by next reader) Of course if you are expecting "high brow" poetry worthy on literary merit alone, then somewhat new if via the internet |
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Mushrooms
Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly
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Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.
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Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.
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Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,
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Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams
Earless and eyeless,
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Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. we
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Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking
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Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!
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We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,
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Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:
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We shall by morning
Inherit the earth
Our foot's in the door.
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all credit to Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963) |
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There may be a reason,
Were you to look deeper,
In the height of this season.
One went to the reaper. |
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The point I was making?
Your friends may no longer visit,
But they'll pay last respects,
To a corpse that's exquisite. |
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I like punch,
I like pie,
I really wish,
I could fly. |
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Just want someone to play online esquiste corpse with
me... see the link... |
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http://bluestem.hort.purdue.edu/ecs/default.htm |
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