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.