Last week's prompt involved a game of "reverse scrabble," in which players found as many words as they could from the main word, "operation," and then used these words in a poem. Now one might read that and say, what benefit could that possibly have to the rhyme and reason of poetry? Well...
If you thought it impossible to write a poem about politics in 2019 that didn't make your stomach hurt, think again. I give you, Millicent Caliban's “Operation 1776,”
“Hamilton”—an opera with rap oration,
the art of Miranda, the trope of a nation:
to tear them away, to part from taxation.
Wanting the option to reap their reward,
the poor prone to riot, to feather and tar,
the gentry pen notes to air their pain.
In Boston, a port, the harbor is near.
Men say “nope” to the King and go for the tea.
“Do not tie us to Empire! We yearn to breathe free!”
Stephanie Cohen’s “The Operation” succeeds beautifully with its emotional complexities, its fascinating adjectives, and its impressive wordplay:
To ease me into a prone riot,
the anesthesiologist, near my ear, sang Lou Reed’s,
“Perfect Day” with a ration-
al tone dripped in toper tropes.“You’re gonna reap just what you sew”
Roped to a table, I buoyed to a torpor
to treat my torn aorta. Its pores gulping
tons of musical notes; I became noise.I wanted to repo the rate of nope and tar the vice
of human voice at the opera. Reduced to
the body’s notion, my ape-ness tore me open-
“I’m glad I spent it with you.”
Michael C. Rush used the prompt to create a musical mosaic in “Operation Intro.” The alliterative energy, which owes much of its existence to the nature of the prompt, is striking:
Playing air poet,
rioting into a pain rap
on an ornate iron piano
near an open air patio—
rip one, tip it, top it,
tap no poor pen to atone—
a pro, a rat, prone to opiate,
options no rite, apes no portion
ripe in art, pines into an apt ratio
in a not-rote era.
Christa Whitsett Overbeck’s “Hedonic Operation” sings a similar song but with a very different tune:
Portion, like slices of ripe pear,
the ratio of pleasures—Rate the opiate:
a nice pinot
or porn noir—Opine on art or opera—
Tear the fruit
to the pulp, I ate—
not unlike words
to the poet
And finally, a full-throated huzzah to Anthony Clifton, who crafted a sestina that cunningly echoes David's own “Operation Memory.” Here Anthony uses the same six end-words, one of which is a number and a variable.
"Operation Triple Bypass"
for David the Shepherd
I. Practice Practice Practice
Pain is always—always—an option. When
Will we mercifully earn time again for bed?
A piano lullaby (too much to ask?)—A hundred
Cherubs riot, humming the middle
Portion of Carmina Burana, dream of jobs
At Carnegie Hall, velvet rope, sold out shows, loadedWith diehard connoisseurs, open carry, loaded
With hope, ornate ideas, and pure joy; When
We are out to lunch, on a field trip, on to new jobs,
A zillion reasons to stay fixed with rope to the bed,
Whether young or not-so anymore, into the middle
Of middle age, or whatever one wants to call fifty.II. Homecoming
I remember Otto was open at 8th St. & 5th
“Ave Maria” playing, ordered Pinot Noir, loaded
Patron bumped into me in the middle
Of the joint, happy drunk, a real trip. I remember when
You handed me your book, signed by poet, I rubbed
The cover, a tap for luck, as we talked about odd jobs.I dug your rap about retiring from your current job
(I believe you did that rat race since 1996)
After a great lunch I ran off envisioning bed—
A siesta before a feast with friends (“parti” in Norwegian), loaded
With protein, bursting with flavor, plenty of Patrón. When
I got home, via train, I sighed, smiled, patted my middle.III. New Ark
It ain’t easy to find oneself in the middle
Of this trap, or whatever you call New Jersey. Jobs
Come, go, they’re given, torn away. When
I scraped up enough cash to buy one
Ton (okay, ounce) of knockout weed, then loaded
A pair of bowls Goldilocks would’ve deemed just right, numbedMyself, repainted my already-vivid daydreams that rubbed
Me into rapt attention, fiddled with, diddled my middle
Chakra, left me far from fulfilled, like a ripe gun unloaded
Into one’s favorite enemy (the one who stole your job?),
A rat of no consequence, maybe even just one of one’s
Least favorite friends, in the rain I wandered, wondered: WhenI get wherever I’m going, after bed, post-dirt nap—when
I get to Heaven, Hell, one or the other, or land en pointe in the middle
Of Purgatory—will the poor soul’s job be to simply implode?
For more poems, players, and words straight from the horse's mouth, visit the American Scholar's page and read the full post!
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