Poetry Challenge! |
![]() ![]() |
Blackbird |
![]() ![]() ![]() |
Huan Yi Member Ascendant
since 2004-10-12
Posts 6688Waukegan ![]() |
. http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/stevens-13ways.html Write other ways I’ll kick it off /pip/Forum103/HTML/003154.html John . |
||
© Copyright 2007 John Pawlik - All Rights Reserved | |||
Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
/pip/Forum103/HTML/003405.html well, they're black. ![]() |
||
oceanvu2 Senior Member
since 2007-02-24
Posts 1066Santa Monica, California, USA |
Thirteen Ways of Cooking up Blackbirds (or, One can never get even With Wallace Stevens.) I Between their crusts of lard and flour, Four and twenty, so still, The blackbirds lie. II Blackbirds in a pot-au-feu Lack fat to skim, Requiring but a stir. III Blackbirds, drawn and hung ‘til high, Served as savories, not for nose or eye. IV Pate de blackbirds and a man Are one. Pate de blackbirds and a woman Are too much. V When confronted with a choice Between blackbirds en croute Or blackbird skewers with pepper crust I ask the chef, Not trusting green opinion. VI A saucier clips twenty Beaks and forty feet for stock. Reduced, a one ounce coat of Blackbird essence for two blackbird breasts, As lobster shells are rent For oil in Dali’s joint across the street. VII Oh portly men of Gotham, Why do you dream of Porterhouse? Can you not see how toast-point blackbirds Grace the Spode Of your companions? VIII I know the noble notes of spice In nuanced combinations; But I know, too, That salt and pepper plain Do blackbirds justice. IX Disparaged by the many fiends for barbecue, Blackbirds only sate the fringes Of my of my family circle. X Blackbirds set in contrast on A pureed mire-poix, Even the fans of hamburg Cry my goodness! XI They drove up to Connecticut In rented van, and, taken by The green-glow sign before A rustic Stamford inn Seduced themselves with Thoughts of blackbirds Provencal. XII Blackbirds in flight escape The poacher’s net and simmering intentions. XIII Forgotten through the afternoon, They were baking And they over-baked, turned dry. Reluctantly, they bid These blackened birds, Bye, Bye. I find it hard to "play" with Wallace Stevens, because he is inimitable. I gave it a shot, though, because I love him. No one has come close to strumming his Blue Guitar. Best, Jim ![]() |
||
oceanvu2 Senior Member
since 2007-02-24
Posts 1066Santa Monica, California, USA |
What, was it my breath? Jim |
||
![]() ![]() |
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
![]() ![]() ![]() |
All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. |