Sunday, April 13, 2014

Women Poets April Madness/Jack ("Finnegan") Hirschman Poem/

Hilarity From Powell Books in Portland, Or.


If it's April, it's...

Poetry Madness!
Last April at Powell's, we pitted 64 poets
against one another in a Tina Turner-style
cage match to determine The Best Poet of
All Time. As you'd expect, it wasn't pretty.
Poets from all eras and every corner of the
globe arrived armed with their meaty metaphors
and their monster rhymes, ready to whoop
some poet butt.  But the most dangerous
weapon of all? The dash. Our victor in the epic battle known as
 Poetry Madness was, of course,
Ms. Emily Dickinson.​Since a woman defeated all comers last year,
we decided to up the ante. In conjunction with #readwomen2014, this
year's Poetry Madness will feature only female poets. To keep it fair,
our reigning champion will sit this one out and act instead as
moderator of the event. So, without further ado, your host,
Ms. Emily Dickinson:

Poets play their hunger games—
It's right there in their genes—
But add a little estrogen—
And they'll get downright mean—
That's why I'm here, the best
poet, please call me Emily—
To remind you, though a contest—
Ladies, keep it clean—

The brackets

This year, the poets are organized into four divisions: Dragons, Sharks,
Wolverines, and Vipers. To vote in the first round of matchups, scroll
to the bottom of the page. Good luck, and may the best poet win! 
Note: For a printable bracket, click here. View last year's bracket here.
Questions? Comments? Send emails to poeticjustice@powells.com.




Comment or Read Comments Here  on any of the above or below. If you do not have a Google account, then log in by checking "Name/URL," (it's easy). Just the name (don't worry about the URL). Actual name is best, but use what you like. Or email me at edcoletti@sbcglobal.net, and I can post it. 


San Francisco Poet Laureate Emeritus and Poet-In Residence at the SF Public Library Jack Hirschman provides this wonderfully witty poem wherein he employs the style of Finnegan's Wake to right onederfly offalrongs.

THE WANPA SCENT ARCANE

1.

The wanpa scent’s
the smell of all stinksomeness,
the morder of all vowels
to make a bowel of turds
that defeckshate on
all who roccupy
against the stench
of the rot of the rat
at the root of the deathrattle
of Ruinoil Regoon,
the shitasson 
of that carwreckter assassin
Retchard Noxon the door
like Death, who ambitched
to power on the flaming
red body of Hell in Gahuggun
Dickless, the first
of meany witchhaunts,
ant taught that lamebrain
Gonzo how to knife
The People in the buck.



These are the
heads of the swine corpse
against our shoccupy.
They’re who give the cops
who beat you
their clubs.
They’re gunsells all,
from Gangwretch
to Snitchromnay
and in fact so is
Obummer, the sad drip
of the Capuddlist Potty, who,
while you and yours
were singing
“Y’all lang zine”
was signing the Endeeayay
and disappearing your lieberty.
You’re in fatshits America now,
you’re a hebe without Habeas,
a carnal without Corpus.
You can be harrasted
for the crumb of being
part of a tahririst plot.
And he’s depotted
foehundread-thousand
people so that the Statue
hasn’t stopped weeping

downcheeks and allover
Emma’s Lasarussian poem
since the start of the year.
Nothing could be worser
than a hearse of humane verses
all in mourning.





2.

So it’s amnasty to an Ind,
this kartun,
and where’s Moe Zez 
 to shofar it to?
It’s amneotic destuning,
the tear of your ear off,
the tumult of your scorn.
                       Ha!
Shem will strike you
lightning-fast,
you won’t even know what
hate you, you’ll be
fatelly down for the count,
but at the sound of ten
your hand’ll become a hundred
with a manifasttalking
destribuning again.
Uppenadam, moccupiers,
once dead ducks, now
feenixes on fire
transflaming ovarythang
tombey in the womb
of tomarrow
into a whole new bowl game
where the thrallest
to feel is when
throwing out the fierst bull
at the start of god,
for we’ve taken refuse at lost
and gone to the fear end
of Occupy
(Kiyippee Kiyay!),
we who’ve tam-tummed
and zim-zummed
and now are scribabbling
everywhere to spring
the checkmates of the world
from the jail
the whimper sentenced
to life without parole.

                         - Jack Hirschman

Comment or Read Comments Here  on any of the above or below. If you do not have a Google account, then log in by checking "Name/URL," (it's easy). Just the name (don't worry about the URL). Actual name is best, but use what you like. Or email me at edcoletti@sbcglobal.net, and I can post it.

1 comment:

Philip Hackett said...

Ed, sorry I missed the Beat event. Like Jack's poetry. Like your poetry. We learn from one another...