Her Face Forgotten (Poem)

But now we have a new prompt to deal with! Because I am a rather obvious person at heart, I challenge you to write a cinquain on this, the fifth day of NaPoWriMo. A cinquain is a poem that employs stanzas with five lines. Each line has a certain number of accented or stressed syllables, and a certain number of overall syllables per line. In the “American” cinquain, a form invented by a woman with the highly unfortunate name of Adelaide Crapsey, the number of stresses per line is 1-2-3-4-1, and the number of syllables is 2-4-6-8-2. So the first line would have two syllables, one stressed and one unstressed. The second line would have four syllables, two of which are stressed, and so on. This kind of accent/syllabic verse can be a bit frustrating at first, but it’s useful for learning to sharpen up your language!-from NaPoWriMo blog

Not sure if I've got this one down, but this is my attempt. 

Slowly
Your face leaves me
I forget your smile, too
It seems as if it's left my mind
Today.

A Series of Unlikely Explanations (Poem)

There’s a whole twitter account devoted to tweeting Iain-M-Banks-like names for spaceships. So your challenge for today is to write a poem with a title drawn from one of these spaceship names. Feel free to pick a genuine Banks, like the ones listed above, or to take one from the twitter. And if you think of your own Banks-like spaceship name title, feel free to use that! The poet Barbara Guest wrote an essay warning poets about starting from the title, but while I’ve found that a wonderful poem usually finds its right title, I’ve also found that the right title can easily lead to a wonderful poem!-from NaPoWriMo blog. 

A Series of Unlikely Explanations

It seems unlikely that we two should have met

And even more so that we would have got along.

But really it might not be as unlikely as all that

'Cause I like pretty girls (and eccentric ones it seems)

And you are some of that and all of those things.

So perhaps the series of events in my world and yours

That lead to us meeting are not so absurd.

Maybe the stars aligned in a certain way

Bringing us both here in this place today.

Or maybe the world is a series of random events.

Maybe there's no rhyme or reason to this poem or life.

Maybe we all just rot in the ground after death

And our meeting means nothing, too.

But I'd like to think that the former possibility is true.

But it doesn't really matter though; it just matters what we do.

So let's enjoy each other's company and forget all the stars.

You are my favorite unlikely explanation by far.

What Kind of Woman? (Poem)

And now, our prompt (remember — these are optional, so if they don’t inspire you or you have an idea of your own you want to work with, go ahead!). I’m playing to my own strengths here, but I challenge you to write a sea shanty (or shantey, or chanty, or chantey — there’s a good deal of disagreement regarding the spelling!). Anyway, these are poems in the forms of songs, strongly rhymed and rhythmic, that sailors might sing while hauling on ropes and performing other sea-going labors. Probably the two most famous sea shanties are What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor? and Blow the Man Down. And what should your poem be about? Well, I suppose it could be about anything, although some nautical phrases tossed into the chorus would be good for keeping the sea in your shanty. Haul away, boys, haul away!-from NaPoWriMo blog.

Hey, hey, what can I say?
What kind of woman can make me feel this way?
Working so hard today
(Work so hard every day)
Thinking about her is what gets me through most days.

Hey, hey, what do you say?
Do you have a woman to make you feel okay?
Working so hard today
(Work so hard every day)
I think you'll be better if you find someone today.

Hey, hey, what does she say?
Does she wait at home for me every single day?
Working so hard today
(Work so hard every day)
She thinks she might find a better man someday.

Hey, hey, what does he say?
Who is this other guy who makes her feel this way?
Working so hard today
(Work so hard every day)
She thinks he's better in a few subtle ways.

Hey, hey, what can I say?
What kind of woman can make me feel this way?
Working so hard today
(Work so hard everyday)
I think I'll find a better one who won't run away.

I Can Lie Tonight (Poem)

Today’s prompt is drawn from an idea that Kelsey Howard gave me — that of a poem that tells a lie. I think you could have a poem that’s all lies (that could be very funny — full of things like “the sun is the size of a nickel”) or a poem that steadily builds to telling one big whopper. I can imagine these being very poignant, or very much like goofy shaggy-dog stories. I suppose it all comes down to what you want to lie about! -from NaPoWriMo blog

I pine for you still and I don't wish you the best.
I see your happy life and it makes me sad.
Wondering what it could have been with you and me
Wandering into sadness again about how it all went wrong.

I'm not over you yet; I still want you to come back to me.
I'm not glad you're happy or that someone can make you so.
I never came to that wonderful moment that I stopped thinking about you.
I've not wished you well in quite some time.

Still, I can't say I think about you all of the time;
There are times when life provides chores, errands, and dragons to slay.
I think that you were completely wrong, though, and I have no I'm sorrys to say.
I have no regrets when it comes to all of that; I did the best I could and that is that.

I can't lie tonight and I say it all went right;
I regret having met you and I wish I never had.
You didn't make my life better or provide me with any fun.
My life isn't a little better just for having met you; I'd say it's a wash, and the pleasure only equaled (never surpassed) the pain...

I've wished that I could lie and my wish has now come true.
If the truth is to be known, I've left behind the blue.
I've managed to move on from you, and that is simply true.
But can you trust me after I've lied? I've stopped lying now, but can you believe?
The stanza before this one is the last to deceive.

Moving Time (Poem)

I'm playing catch-up with NaPoWriMo. The first prompt is to take the first line of a poem and make your own poem. I am taking the line of a poem I read recently by Charles Bukowski "a smile to remember" from the collection The Pleasures of the Damned.

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
that seemed to be all they did
were they really happy doing that?
how many people circle a place, really?
just staying in the same city, the same town, the same country
stuck in a rut and not knowing how to get out?
I feel trapped at times
by life, by circumstance, by fear
not wanting to move for fear
afraid that things would be different
that things would change if I moved
feeling a comfort for life that's brought on by complacent mediocrity
if it's true that wherever you go there you are
then maybe I should leave for leaving's sake
And find an absence of fear that's been here all along

(Sort of) Live blog of a viewing of Barbarella

My observations as I am watching the 1968 film Barbarella.

Spoilers if you haven’t seen Barbarella, but it’s been out for 40 years.

I'm about seven minutes in and she's been naked for most of it. Not complaining, mind you, just think it's odd. Note: Jane Fonda was pretty hot back then. Also, her spaceship is lined with shag carpeting.

Her outfits are all adorably campy.

15 minutes in and someone’s already tying her up.

And now she’s skiing on a sled of some kind being led by an ice manta ray or something? This is fun so far.

And the walking dolls are scaring the crap out of me.

The ships are pretty cool. P.s. She just had sex with a guy as payment for fixing her ship. Huh.

And now a blind angel. And the blind angel is leading them through anti-hell? That’s what this Labyrinth seems to be: anything not evil banished here.

Saving her life gets the angel sex. And he can fly after the sex, too.

She just told the blind angel to watch out.

A lot of the sets are pretty neat.

“A good many dramatic situations begin with screaming.” I can’t make these up.

The Earth sex is…interesting. And pretty funny.

Also, her costume changes are built into the story. A scene I just watched had her ask Dildano (not making that up either) if he has an outfit she can change into. It seems the men are always the ones who provide her clothing after her first change.

Quotes here from IMDB:

Dildano: [radioing instructions to the rebel army] And our password will be... Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

Barbarella: You mean the secret password is Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch?

Dildano: Exactly.

Researching the film, I found out there was a remake in the works (to be directed by Robert Rodriguez) and starring Erica Durance (Lois Lane from Smallville). I’d watch the heck out of that. She’s actually pretty funny and appropriately hot, too, and Rodriguez knows how to make unapologetically gratuitous films.

The Excessive Machine is a good example of the gratuity I mention. The Concierge tries to torture her by overwhelming her with pleasure, but Barbarella breaks the machine with her overwhelming ability to endure pleasure. Huh.

“The nobility of pure evil…”

Chamber of dreams is pretty cool. And the bed the queen sleeps on is awesome. I totally want one.

The Black Knights are as about as intimidating as Stormtroopers, as in not at all.

Barabarella is reduced to watching the movie with us at this point.

Barbarella: “Pygar, why did you save her after all of the horrible things she’s done to you?”

Pygar: “An angel has no memory.”

And those are the last spoken words of the film. An odd little film, but very entertaining. I would watch it again, if just to figure out what the heck actually just happened. 

Seclusion: A Continually Elusive Desire

The noise bothers me still. These thin walls don't allow for much silence. The house seems made for eavesdropping. I need time and more time to read. I need to concentrate more. I would like to focus. I listen to music or Youtube videos to drown out the noises here. My father working from home, taking calls, doing his job from his basement. He gets offended, or lonely I guess, if you don't say something to him everyday. He says I'm withdrawing into myself and becoming distant. The closer truth is that I like being by myself more than around him at times. Withdrawing when conflict looms is not a weakness but a strength.

The coughs of these people, these smokers, still reach my ears. I'm not like them in that I don't smoke, or that I don't know my place. They have jobs and wives and ex-wives, things to do with their days to make ends meet. I'm just here for now, trying to figure out what I want to do. Sometimes it seems these people never have days off. My father is home a lot, but he complains that his job is so hard. I realize he may always be on call, but how hard can a job be that can be done from the garage of his own home?

He doesn't always stay here, but there are days he does. Days I'm off from school, I wish that no one were here. I just want a day to myself. I want a day to be able to think without all their voices and coughs and marital problems and grandkids. Should I have kids now? "Why aren't you married?," someone once asked me. I haven't met anyone willing to marry me who I would rather not just be alone than with them?

Talking still my father. He's solving problems from the basement. Good work if you can get it, I guess. Should I go to graduate school like I want or get a job like some people are telling me to do? The phone is charged. My remedial class phone is nice to stay in touch with people, though there are some I wish didn't have the number. I love texting. It seems so simple and is a nice way to stay in touch without having to talk on the phone. Talking is okay, but texting seems so simple.

Thank goodness, it sounds like a car is starting. Two are here still, but one less soon it seems.

...
Some have left now or are quiet. Another boarder remains: the cougher. He awakes and coughs. Cursing and mumbling to himself, he seems to hold conversations with people who aren't there. "Why doesn't he f-ing answer his phone?," he seems to say to no one in particular. Cursing and mumbling still, he trudges about the house, making more noise. I've manage to finish a bit of a book.