Poetry Gauntlet
 

It seems that one of the most immature, goofy, spastic members of OWF has been forced into reciting the most mature, serious, and collected group of words ever: Poetry.

My whole high school has to participate in a supposedly 'nation-wide' competition called Poetry Out Loud, where the students have to memorize and recite poetry that is appointed on their website, www.poetryoutloud.org.

So, anyways, I have to dress up all fanc tommorow and recite my piece, which is Dream Song 14 by John Berryman. It seems to be a good one, but you should Google it yourself and tell me what you think.

And I have to admit I've been blinded with wonderful visions of myself winning the high school competition, then the county, then the regionals, then the state, and finally the national competitions.

Too bad none of the girls would be impressed even if I did win...:fuzemb:

EDIT:

To save you all Google'ing my poem, here it is (from memory, I swear)

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn.
Moreover, my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights and gripes
as bad as achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquill hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself and its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.

*snaps fingers like a drugged-out poet*

It has interesting style but is otherwise vague and lacks a good structure. Like there's no real point or meaning that seems to correspond with you or your personality. They sound more like song lyrics to me.

That cuts out the best part about poetry: writing it.

Or the second part of poetry: sounding good.

Anyways, that's an okay read, but I would prefer something that made a bit more sense, or was a little mroe enthusiastic. This guy just sounds... well, bored.

Sorry to dredge this back up, but update:

I won for my class, and I'm doing the school-wide competition tommorow. We have to have a second poem.

Here it is:

Why I Am Not a Painter

By Frank O’Hara


I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,


for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.


But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES

Wish me luck! If I get famous off this, I'll say you guys were a huge inspiration.

Even hobo.