Playing with words

I came across this when I was looking for book making of material last week and I loved it.
Sometimes we forget how much the writers that came before us played with words and conventions, how much they broke the ground that we now tread. This poem from the 17th century is a wonderful example. Rather than write all about it, I'm going to let this video do my job for me :)

I saw a peacock with a fiery tail.

You don't need to be able to read the book, the poem is read aloud.

book poems

On my date with Satan,
we were talking dirty to the gods
and negotiating with the dead
in the skin of a lion.
How beautiful the beloved
stern men
circling the drain,
the women on the edge
of moral disorder.
Attention please now:
the girl in the flammable skirt
takes a streetcar named desire,
happily
minding her own business.
Her party of one
is a question of gravity and light,
her one hundred years of solitude
dressing up for the carnival
as beautiful and pointless
as imaginary words.
(Heather Kamins)

Very cool - yes.
Book poems. Janet Reid came across one, then ran a competition on her blog.
Each line must be the title of the book, as few extra words as possible. I've got some of the entries here. I was very tempted to make my own, unfortunately most of my books are in boxes at the moment.

(Steve)

 Finding What I Knew

In search of MIRACLES,
I left THE KNOWN WORLD
To go WALKING ON WATER
Toward a LOST HORIZON.

RIDING BETWEEN THE WORLDS,
I was a WANDERER OF THE WASTELAND.

THE STRANGER took me,
I was SOLD INTO EGYPT
Until THE GOOD SHEPHERD
Sent me THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS
To THE THURBER CARNIVAL.

IT'S A MAGICAL WORLD, after all.(Gayle)


And a final one - short & sweet.

 round the bend, snow
on the road, slow is beautiful
almost there

(Victor)

Something poetic for the new year

Ahh, as the new year rolls in the big question on everyone's lips: what will this year hold. For an author the biggest part of that is how much time will I find to write, and once I've finished is anyone going to want it.

Poetry is one of those things that writers find very hard to get accepted by publishers - I can only be glad it's not something I've had any inclination to try my hand at since awful teenage scribblings. [hides her head in embarrassment] With that hint at my own poetic prowess in mind, I spotted something the other day that struck me as both published and poetic (although in this case I don't think the poetry was intentional).

I don't know why but it really reminds me of this quote from William Butler Yeats:

 But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.