Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.

Argue on behalf of some piece of media's inclusion into its respective canon, e.g. that Morbius be considered one of the greatest superhero films of the 21st century.

MORE SIMPLY, write an ekphrasis.

I Don’t Mind Canon as Long as the Right People Get Shot


What happens when director takes
a novel seriously?
With all the dead-end sub-plots
barb-wired through
a main plot twisted like
a snake-pit full of just one snake?
Then cast the leads
to hard-boiled perfection
even if by accident
(can you believe
first choice for the lead was
bloody Richard Burton)
rounded out by an actor
who was as tough in real life
as the Moose?

Canon? Farewell My Lovely
with Mitchum and Rampling
is the Paris Gun
for noir, Marlowe,
and Raymond Chandler–
Bogey’s Big Sleep
even Maltese Falcon
to the contrary
notwithstanding.

Some complain about
the voice-over.  Hey!
Marlowe was written
in voice-over!

Girl With Balloon

The painting by Bansky was a sensation
when it shredded itself through the bottom
of its frame at Sotheby’s. The look
on the woman’s face who just paid over
a million for it was delicious; exactly
what Bansky was looking for.

Now, the look on that woman’s face
is a huge smile, after selling
the shredded painting, now called
Love is in the Bin, for over 25 million.
I’m willing to bet that Bansky must
find that quite delicious, as well.


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love_is_in_the_Bin

Diane Arbus Song

Always do with only me and find the glorious furious man called the Mystic Barber. Frequently you may win 'em all today, Baby, pretty little dimples may obey orders and when you inhales I'm up in heaven with my shadow like Jack goes to Mars.

And I says there's a lady in your fond embrace, a noiseless soup spoon and a knock for nobody's there. Just one could take your heart jumpin', at ev'ry baby that appears at night, pulling their slippers on. They're all twelve o'clock when I live without her. I love her, goodness knows, I wrote our troubles on a human hair.

One could take your cutest picture and my shadow strolling down your forehead with antennae on it. Here's the way it goes, Baby, 500,000 wishbones and holy water where that Negro man dressed as a shadow goes.

Not a single rose walks down Broadway carrying a face when you were a song about her. Write the Gettysburg Address on the curb, feeling blue for the people who built their house out of sweethearts out in California, pass my shadow to a wooden box whose measure she has lost like alley cats in fancy dress.

I'm your fond embrace of mummies in the basement, lonely me, who searches ceaselessly. I'm up in heaven when I didn't need a shove, a cheerful man with half a hangman's noose of fuchsia silk trailing down to skeletons and broken crockery and woodpecker holes.

As well as the avenue, me and my Baby not so long ago climbed the stair. Maybe you never heard of me and my shadow, maybe just a copper band around this honest, I ain't fibbin', you'd be an avenue too, somethin' started Baby face, like a divining rod wildly recommending a robot 7 feet tall, raving 'bout my Baby now 'cause I just fell into her dimples.

Don't want to just win ev'ry ribbon with curly hair, coz I'm in the suburbs with a lion. There is a man who is falling and I'm lonely standing here with one guess. Someone who collects our troubles has written boo all over them so it turned out the Martians will destroy him.

No lamps begin to glow when the sun sets. Heart is jumpin', you're sure he is dead and climb the stair and we never knock for nobody's there 'cause I'm telepathic. And you must have been the wind-up just like I eat and sleep underwater. Me and your shadow strolling the avenue over and over. Where there used to be a pretty Baby, there is now just a face, but you've got the cutest place, and it's three by eight.

(04-24-2024, 05:37 AM)TranquillityBase Wrote:  my shadow strolling down your forehead

Someone who collects our troubles has written boo all over them

you're sure he is dead and climb the stair and we never knock for nobody's there

Well Tim, out of all of those words, these phrases stuck to me for whatever reason

(04-24-2024, 05:37 AM)TranquillityBase Wrote:  Diane Arbus Song

Always do with only me and find the glorious furious man called the Mystic Barber. Frequently you may win 'em all today, Baby, pretty little dimples may obey orders and when you inhales I'm up in heaven with my shadow like Jack goes to Mars.

And I says there's a lady in your fond embrace, a noiseless soup spoon and a knock for nobody's there. Just one could take your heart jumpin', at ev'ry baby that appears at night, pulling their slippers on. They're all twelve o'clock when I live without her. I love her, goodness knows, I wrote our troubles on a human hair.

One could take your cutest picture and my shadow strolling down your forehead with antennae on it. Here's the way it goes, Baby, 500,000 wishbones and holy water where that Negro man dressed as a shadow goes.

Not a single rose walks down Broadway carrying a face when you were a song about her. Write the Gettysburg Address on the curb, feeling blue for the people who built their house out of sweethearts out in California, pass my shadow to a wooden box whose measure she has lost like alley cats in fancy dress.

I'm your fond embrace of mummies in the basement, lonely me, who searches ceaselessly. I'm up in heaven when I didn't need a shove, a cheerful man with half a hangman's noose of fuchsia silk trailing down to skeletons and broken crockery and woodpecker holes.

As well as the avenue, me and my Baby not so long ago climbed the stair. Maybe you never heard of me and my shadow, maybe just a copper band around this honest, I ain't fibbin', you'd be an avenue too, somethin' started Baby face, like a divining rod wildly recommending a robot 7 feet tall, raving 'bout my Baby now 'cause I just fell into her dimples.

Don't want to just win ev'ry ribbon with curly hair, coz I'm in the suburbs with a lion. There is a man who is falling and I'm lonely standing here with one guess. Someone who collects our troubles has written boo all over them so it turned out the Martians will destroy him.

No lamps begin to glow when the sun sets. Heart is jumpin', you're sure he is dead and climb the stair and we never knock for nobody's there 'cause I'm telepathic. And you must have been the wind-up just like I eat and sleep underwater. Me and your shadow strolling the avenue over and over. Where there used to be a pretty Baby, there is now just a face, but you've got the cutest place, and it's three by eight.

Beautiful stuff !

Canonicity in the East
can be confusing to the West
but, put simply, anything that profits
profits. Tradition produces Scripture,
not the other way around,
so there's never been the need
for any sort of reformation,
there's never been concern
about Esdras, Tobit, Judith,
about Wisdom, Sirach, Baruch,
about Susanna or the Maccabees,
even about such rarities
as Enoch or the Jubilees.
There's no reason for a schism
in a Patriarch's acceptance
of one volume or another:
there is always something deeper
well behind why churches shatter.

Bill Callahan

Some crooner with a voice coated in smog
crackles baritone roots tender
in natural shade.

Acoustics pattern baby’s breath pink
beside a sycamore trunk.