Today a monster mash of a poem and the past year in the life of my friend in images.
Prompt 8: “Peruse the work of one or more of these twitter bots, and use a line or two, or a phrase or even a word that stands out to you, as the seed for your own poem.”
The Twitter bots on offer were those with poetry by Sylvia Plath, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Ruefle, Anne Carson and Richard Siken. Oh, and the Vogon Poetry Bot with the third worst poetry in the entire universe.
The last three humans I’m unfamiliar with but I had a proper look at all the accounts and selected verses that I thought I might work with. And so I did: my poem is a cento, made up entirely with lines written by these five people and Vogons.
The lines are heavily mixed up and mashed but no word has been changed. The only thing I altered was a capital letter or two and some punctuation. I wish to thank them all.
And the general subject of my poem? Today we celebrate the 7th birthday of my companion, sidekick, familiar, rompi palle, best friend. Here we are last May:
To my best friend (cento)
The twentieth century: trouble is real.
Tender greens weather,
underground fence post office,
squirrel from ice age orange.
Youth is a dream where I go every night.
The birth of a boy is to be watched.
To them he is a mirror,
but to you he is a room.
Words, if you let them,
will do what they want to do
and what they have to do.
man forms himself in dialogue.
I talk to you
as if you’re really there.
“I am so stupidly happy!
And you bought me an ice cream,
and then we saw the UFO!”
His thoughts turn toward questions.
“Was I discovered or invented?
Feels like I’ve always been here.
Open your hand.”
I could say, “Yes I know that I have two hands.”
A difference between us?
He is human after all,
what you would like to become.
Love doesn’t grow on trees,
like the statue of a cat.
Often you would wake suddenly
upon our bedspread:
“You are here.
You are here.
You’re still right here,
with any human certainty.”
of two wet eyes and a screech.
For future years.
In the photo part I give you one photo of bestia for every month, something that I do every year.
But first a bit of soundtrack. She sings that she wants a doggie. I’m so happy that I have one yet. Like every dog owner I think mine is the best, and we are all right.
Here are my posts for his previous birthday, to watch him grow and have fun:
And here is last year, Fonzie-style, by months, starting with April. We are now exactly the same age, if you believe that 1 dog year=7 human years crap, namely 49. But only for one more month and a bit.