The shadorma is a six-line, 26-syllable poem (or a stanza – you can write a poem that is made of multiple shadorma stanzas). The syllable count by line is 3/5/3/3/7/5.
As a ring of gold in a swine’s snout,
So is a lovely woman who lacks discretion.
Bang that thing:
All black keys,
Sharps and flats;
Pull that ring out of your snout
And POUND that thing.
Then, that ring:
take it, melt it down,
make a mold,
cast a god,
and bow before your idol
(a vicious poem).
The Fib is a six-line form. But now, the syllable count is based off the Fibonacci sequence of 1/1/2/3/5/8. You can link multiple Fibs together into a multi-stanza poem, or even start going backwards after your first six lines, with syllable counts of 8/5/3/2/1/1.
for this land
and now you live here
and complain like a hypocrite.
You rail against America
while you suck her tit:
your new mom,
Militant poetess, dark ingrate
From what black hole did you emigrate?
From what strange galaxy of spite
Did you slither forth to curse and bite?
What absent father spawned your soul
to spread such vicious vitriol
And bring bad vibes wherever you go
In your bitter black feminist minstrel show?
Dark matter could be white dwarfs, the remnants of cores of dead small-to medium-size stars. Or dark matter could be neutron stars or black holes, the remnants of large stars after they explode. The Fermi Gamma-Ray Space Telescope can detect high-energy gamma rays that may be emitted when dark matter particles collide.
PROMPT #6: Go to a book you love. Find a short line that strikes you.
Make that line the title of your poem. Write a poem inspired by the line.
Then, after you’ve finished, change the title completely.
find a poem, and then write a new poem that has the shape of the original, and in which every line starts with the first letter of the corresponding line in the original poem.
Official scribblers, when I was a poet,
Whinged, driveling into an MFA void—
Intolerable, as if God were a literary milquetoast
with no poetic spine,
capable of little. An MA advisor.
If weird line breaks mean anything at all—
totally done with that.
Tepid sort of academic brown-nosing,
tedious rehash of predictable Modernism
obfuscating in rarefied tones, in some chapbook
boringly academic, same as it always was,
except offering their inferior product to no one.
And then before long, an awful new
poem is born. Cringingly dull.
Other children, when I was a child,
would at times invoke the inner light—
I thought it meant God scorches
within us, and God, like a torch,
can go out. That was so long ago.
I’ve since ceased my believing in death—
there’s no such thing.
There’s only a kind of brownout,
the whole of the globe turning
off for a moment, then shuddering
back, the same as it was,
except one person short.
And then before long, an utter new
person is born. Somebody worse.
Easter is that liminal space
Outside Jerusalem on a hill
Expunging guilt for all our race:
Assent to it with heart and will.
write a poem inspired by one of these odd, in-transition spaces.
No matter what neglected or eerie space you choose,
I hope its oddness tugs at the place in your mind and heart where poems are made.