tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8735499716586768250.post2462962649220029486..comments2024-03-26T04:24:28.114-07:00Comments on I Was Born Doing Reference Work In Sin: Project Verse Competitors!Dustin Brookshirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13921094348461306365noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8735499716586768250.post-56369459254559697332009-06-03T00:47:54.515-07:002009-06-03T00:47:54.515-07:00So exciting, Dustin! Props to you for all this art...So exciting, Dustin! Props to you for all this art-in-organizing!<br />Peace, man.Lisa Nanette Allenderhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15263158091013515471noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8735499716586768250.post-70631587708712012772009-06-02T17:35:18.458-07:002009-06-02T17:35:18.458-07:00I enjoyed your poem, Martin! I'm looking forward t...I enjoyed your poem, Martin! I'm looking forward to the contest! Best to everyone. --KristenKristen McHenryhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8735499716586768250.post-38054868489760437372009-06-01T09:27:21.380-07:002009-06-01T09:27:21.380-07:00What fun.
First salvo below. Best of luck, compet...What fun.<br /><br />First salvo below. Best of luck, competitors!<br /><br />Martin Ott<br /><br /><br /><br /> LAST POET STANDING<br /><br />What’s more real than a battle royale <br />among poets to determine who can<br />reverse the mysterious and profound?<br /><br />The cast began on cordial terms<br />when the renga snaked through them,<br />raining tail-feathers of eaglets.<br /><br />The departures were epic at least.<br />The protest poet could not be<br />contained by a Petrarchan sonnet.<br /><br />The limerick bit the new formalist<br />where the sun shone, but rarely,<br />whose ex-wife proclaimed, “Yeah<br /><br />Verily.” The guest judges eulogized<br />each contestant and the recipe poem<br />boiled the freshness from the beat,<br /><br />whose voice drove them all to libations<br />after the video cameras stopped rolling.<br />The five fingers of an elegiac quatrain<br /><br />punched the snot out of a mystic poet,<br />who swore her stanzas came from dreams,<br />and she could not understand the French.<br /><br />The judges sent her packing with an epitaph:<br />“Here sat the dreaming eye, when it blinked<br />was ever so blind, departure too kind.”<br /><br />The canto catastrophe was self-explanatory.<br />And there were surprises: the university <br />professor with haikus about his balls;<br /><br />the ezine editor won the madrigal <br />with a comic rap about the castaway<br />objects forming the nest of a dodo bird.<br /><br />In the end, the audience won, of course,<br />or so proclaimed the advertisement<br />in a sophomoric iambic pentameter.<br /><br />The last poet standing accepted the prize<br />kneeling on a chair just to be contrary.<br />Is it so absurd to believe that America<br /><br />would not gathering round the square<br />to drink in the pleasure of its poets<br />failing, falling, feeling, full of fierce?Ottpopshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11112990894036103215noreply@blogger.com