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10 September
Nothing to do with the Festival, but anyway : 'Big Custard'
(A very unrepresentative sample from The Spoonbill Generator's 'Hall of Fame')
Big Custard
Warm in nutritious mulch, we germinate, [E Greejius]
And of ourselves we feed; some lesser fry [Roland]
Lie dormant still, by spring's alarm untouched, [P]
From summer’s bounty barred. Why, when the years [E Greejius]
Give notice of denial, may we not [Roland]
Like locksmiths turn our newest tumblers loose [P]
Upon the lawn, and, from a brimming jug [Roland]
Drown somnolence in alcoholic cheer [P]
And deep contentment? No; for when we strive [Roland]
To summon up the moon's most hoary face [P]
In stiff remembrance, clouded with remorse [Roland]
The merest hint of which would spell the end [The Agent Apsley]
Of time's imposture, all our withered shadows [P]
Die a-borning, pent beyond the veil. [Roland]
How best conjure, by faith, such fruitful yield [E Greejius]
When all around the land lies burnt and sere [TG]
with stagnant salt-pans, dearth's memorial. [E Greejius]
We strive, but striving know that we shall fail [TG]
In such endeavours as, when disavowed, [Roland]
Will tempt the feet of those who walk the waves [P]
In saviour's guise. Yet awe, in sighs of sleep [Roland]
Will cause our eyes to widen, noses flare [TG]
Like stallions in the dawn. Hope glimmers still [KT]
Though in another's eyes; and in defeat [Roland]
Our troubled curses make the sun turn pale [P]
Though not so pale, perhaps, as heretofore [Roland]
For, strengthened now by victims' blood, it turns [P]
In orbit caustic, shadowing a tryst [Roland]
A spiteful meeting at the coven's wrath [P]
Which heralds tragedy for this sad realm [TG]
Yet even so, the lily spares no scent [Roland]
Nor stints her sensual promise of cool joys. [E Greejius]
Not she, immune to treason nor to time [Roland]
And yet, still slave to him who comes to all [TG]
Forcing rash demands upon the soil [Grayman]
He warms, with finger gold and burnished thumb. [Roland]
When, through the decaying years, our barren [E Greejius]
Limbs upbraid the heavens' dial, and when [Roland]
Our weary hearts beat slower but beat sounder, [E Greejius]
Our shining, worn escapements lose their edge [Roland]
Keeping no glowing archive for our solace. [E Greejius]
This it remains, and the remainder thus [(trad)]
Itself engenders its own residues [E Greejius]
In sallow time's bewildered almanack [Roland]
Harbouring long-lapsed trysts to no good end; [E Greejius]
And when the key is turned, when all is known [Roland]
Of fecund or of sterile, quick or dead, [E Greejius]
When swings the final door, the fatal hinge [Roland]
Whhose groans betray the ravages of rust [TG]
Too long untended, and too far behind [Roland]
The reckonings of Tophet ... Ay! What then? [E Greejius]
Roof shall abase to floor, and floor to ground [Roland]
Before the pristine actuary-magus; [E Greejius]
His propehcy but piles of ruins [The Agnet Apsley]
Despite the ivy, ineffectual buttress; [E Greejius]
Tower shall slope to turf, pile fall to pond [Roland]
Leaf cling to leaf, concealing all the paths [TG]
Earth harbours; milk shall curdle in the byre [Roland]
Wine in the butt degrade to vinegar. [E Greejius]
In desolate lament , each lovelorn bleat [Roland]
Falls fallow on the thin unheeded air. [E Greejius]
And I, whom all betrayers have abjured [Roland]
In strict adherence to their solemn curse, [The Agent Apsley]
And thee, forever wandering, possessed [Roland]
By burden's knowledge of the ghost of time [P]
Dissembled quite; how shall we, sister, fare [Roland]
Together at the edge of temperance [P]
And on the very brink of sanity? [Roland]
I tremble quite, envisaging our doom [TG]
Swept, nameless, down the brackish torrent - yet, [E Greejius]
Some stain, by us impasted on the silence [Roland]
As 'twere th'embodiment of rime, [The Agent Apsley]
Shall print us immemorial as stones [Roland]
And when, at last, Time's palsied sands have run [TG]
Their paltry course, and 'neath the final dust [Roland]
The tigers of indifference repose, [E Greejius]
The muscled threat is but disguised [Grayman]
Anew, and rises yet again, an atom's breadth [Roland]
Away from penitence, the like of which [The Agent Apsley]
Was never dreamt by cranium of yore [Roland]
Even in ghostly ecstasy. Indeed, [E Greejius]
But for the haste of man, the tears would flow [The Agent Apsley]
In all-consuming torrent, washing out [Roland]
Life's thinnest crust onto the shore [P]
12 comments:
This is very remarkable work indeed. Who is the author?
Thanks for your comment!
It is a poem that I like, so I'm glad that it took your interest - it was created collaboratively, line by line, on the Internet by all those whose chosen name (mine should be clear) appears in square brackets after each line: so it is no one's poem out of those people, and everyone's!
The link to The Spoonbill Generator in the original posting will take you to the web-site from this was taken, and there is then a link to a so-called Hall of Fame (in which this poem features), and which is supposed to represent the best poems created.
Ap.
Truly? I am amazed. So many contributors. Is it not a case of many pseudonyms for one or two individuals? How else could the subject development be plotted, and tone maintained?
Thanks again for your comment!
With perhaps one exception, I either knew all the contributors to that particular poem personally (one of them was the person who set up The Spoonbill Generator, which I urge you to look at - I believe that I have given a link to the web-site in my posting), or I knew of them through one of those people.
If you look at the whole of TSG, there are many poems that - one way or another - did not work, but this was a good mix of writers, many of whom had (as I had) long experience of The Generator and / or had written in a collaborative vein before.
It also just happened that it succeeded in giving rise to a common enthusiasm with this poem. Other poems are in TSG's Hall of Fame, and are marked out in the main listings of poems by five stars.
From my perspective, a Spoonbill is a bird, and not something that could be "generated" artistically. And how does this remarkable blank verse outpouring relate to the "Spoonbill" title. I have not checked out the link you supply, for fear of virus's etc, but I have to say with respect I remain to be convinced.
Although, yes, it is undeniable that a spoonbill is a type of bird, the generator was not generating spoonbills, but poems (and prose). The Spoonbill Generator is / was just what it was called (I don't know why, and was never concerned).
Even if you did look at the web-site, that would no more convince you that the poem is not one person's work. I do not know what would, because, even if one or more of my friends posted a comment, what would persuade you that they were separate individuals?
All that I can do is repeat: it is no one person's work, and, except as acknowledged (line by line), isn't mine.
If they are in a Frat House conferring offline about what they will write, and if they are part of some high-end Creative Arts Program that equips them with the philosophy and the craft to write at this pitch collaboratively, then I have no problem accepting the genesis of the piece of writing in question. And are you in fact their agent? What kind of work do they get with this narrow but developed skill set. I am kind of intrigued.
Well, if that's what you prefer to believe, who am I to try to dissuade you? I shall just select another of these poems to post.
Yes, there was at least one time when I was visiting my friend Roland (a friendly house, but not a Frat House), and he, under his sign-in in, and I, under mine, added consecutive lines, but we're talking about a handful in years' worth of contributions.
Incidentally, in that case, the page-log (which underlies the presented poem) would have shown the same IP address - I don't know exactly what IP addresses do show (about where the contributor is), but, for the poem in question, there would be seven or so different ones...
hello gerry this is the web address info ,ring them for advice ,say gary d give you there number
No, that's no good - Paul M. had a secret meet with them at the cathedral, but it was a no show, and down the line came the order to back off and secure the position.
Jeff B. was furious, I can tell you!
you ok james sorry iv took so long i think this is the link
and details,ring them for advice ,say kimpsy recommened you
So, it's Kimpsy this time, is it? - or, as better known, Skimpy. Any friend of Skimpy's no friend of mine, after what happened to Alan Dean down at The Dorchester Arms, when Hardy had had too much for his own good and wanted to buy a round for 400 people. There are places there where the blood has never dried!
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