Poem 30: again and again

It's the last one! And it's late.

The Napowrimo prompt is to "write a poem about something that happens again and again."

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Telling My Life Stories

Each time,
the stories fade a bit,
their characters,
sorted into heroes and villains,
falling into
the same bad habits.

My listeners, numb,
nod in the wrong places,
eyes searching
the hallways and classrooms
for a way out.

But I keep talking,
and waving my hands
as if directing
oncoming traffic.

Poem 29: freewrite +

Here's the napowrimo challenge for the day:  "take one of your favorite poems and find a very specific, concrete noun in it. For example, if your favorite poem is this verse of Emily Dickinson’s, you might choose the word “stones” or “spectre.” After you’ve chosen your word, put the original poem away and spend five minutes free-writing associations – other nouns, adjectives, etc. Then use your original word and the results of your free-writing as the building blocks for a new poem."

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These kinds of assignments are always tough. What's my favorite poem?  I have many. I think I'll take this one, though, from W H Auden, which was my favorite when I was 22 (for a while): "Musee des Beaux Artes."  I'm going to concentrate on "white legs."

*

White Legs

When everyone worshipped
the tan

I had skin white as paper,
thin as

the altitude of our city,
and the boys I wanted

to like me
laughed,

said
I looked like a ghost,

glow in the dark.
Wearing that skin,

I knew
I was somehow

invisible
or extra visible

walking down
Mexico City streets,

lying in a bathing suit
on our balcony

under the eyes
of construction workers

pouring concrete
on the half finished house

on the street above me.
I gleamed

like a star,
slathered

with baby oil.
The sun

dug into me,
seared me

a deep, radiating
red.

At school,
crackling

with shame,
Roy's death

(the nova
melanoma)

like a seed
in my teenage brain,

I bore
the hot weight

as I would
any other curse.

"Hey," Scott said,
and my heart

leapt,
"you look really

ugly like that."
And his words

melted
into my cooked skin

like another
white fire.

Poem 28: Skeltonic verse

The prompts are becoming more ... prompty.

Harrumph, she says, thinking she might boot the prompt to the curb this time.

But she doesn't, because she's just the Type A person who follows all rules, no matter how dodgy.

*

Here's the prompt, in all of its unglory:

... write a poem using Skeltonic verse. Don’t worry, there are no skeletons involved. Rather, Skeltonic verse gets its name from John Skelton, a fifteenth-century English poet who pioneered the use of short stanzas with irregular meter, but two strong stresses per line (otherwise know as “dipodic” or “two-footed” verse). The lines rhyme, but there’s not a rhyme scheme per se. The poet simply rhymes against one word until he or she gets bored and moves on to another. 

Here is a good explainer of the form, from which I have borrowed this excellent example:

Dipodic What? 

Dipodic Verse
will be Terse.
Stress used just twice
to keep it nice,
short or long
a lilting song
or sounding gong
that won’t go wrong
if you adhere
to the rule here,
Now is that clear
My dear?

*

What's clear to me is that the form results in the kind of poetry that makes me a bit gaggy.

*

Dipodic Lament

Like bad weather
interrupting pleasure

or bloody feathers
on the window ledge,

a cat below the hedge,
these two beats

are not the sweet
flow of fleet

sounds, the neat
poetic meat

of an eloquent poet's
melodic show. It's

a crash bang
stomp twang

crunchy baggage,
trashy language

like a wind-blown
yolk-yellow comb

speaking flat words,
or desiccated turds

up in Spring herds,
stinking shards

exposed now in the yard
after a long, hard

melting of old
contaminated snow.

Poem 27: taste

Today's prompt asks us to write a poem that deals with the sense of taste.

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Sorrow

     "Sorrow found me when I was young/ Sorrow waited, sorrow won."
                                                          -- The National

It tastes like aspirin,
powdery and metallic,
burning the back
of your throat,

or a bottle of cheap red wine
that's sat for years,
gathering Jeepney dust,
on a hot shelf in a shabby market
7959 miles from home.

It tastes like the bent metal
of a spoon,
jammed at the back
of a crusty drawer
in the kitchen of the brick house
where you grew up.

It tastes like 4 AM
after a maze chase nightmare,
like cat hair on your pillow,
cat hair stuck
to your wet lips,
or like a dog body
you glimpse from the side of an eye,
buzzing with flies
beside the two-lane road
in spring,
or snow melt pooling
under the dead cedar
in your yard,
a drake and a mallard
paddling in its mud.

Actually, it tastes
like chlorine
from the neighborhood pool
where you sat alone
reading sexed up novels,
imagining you weren't so white
you'd turned invisible,

or like unproductive labor pains
and chronic lower back spasms.

Maybe it tastes like a cardboard kiss
from someone you know
too well,
or urban dirt
and big city concrete,

maybe even pigeon shit,
trash wind,
bus exhaust,
and salty gutters
filled with McDonalds wrappers,
cigarette butts, a child's
tiny shoe.

No. It tastes like
April rain --

bone cold,
tinged with lead and
copper and blood,
it sinks
into your skin,
and it explodes,
cracking you
into a thousand million
stinking pieces.

Poem 26: archaeology

From Napowrimo.net:  "Have you ever heard someone wonder what future archaeologists, whether human or from alien civilization, will make of us? Today, I’d like to challenge you to answer that question in poetic form, exploring a particular object or place from the point of view of some far-off, future scientist. The object or site of study could be anything from a “World’s Best Grandpa” coffee mug to a Pizza Hut, from a Pokemon poster to a cellphone."

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Dark Mirror of Desire

Many living spaces

crafted themselves 

around this 

black rectangle,

or "television," 

a viewing "screen" 

often hung -- 

as an artwork?

 -- over a defunct 

(or staged)

"fireplace."

One commentator

in the 20th century

called it 

"the electronic hearth."  

We can observe,

from ancient ruins,

how inhabitants

ringed the object

with crude furniture

(cf. "LaZboy," 

"sofa" or "couch,"

and "bean bag chair"),

as if to mimic 

ancient arenas 

devoted to 

human sacrifice

(cf. "hangings" 

in "The Middle East,"

and "football"

in the midsection

of Old Northamerica.) 

The early relational unit, 

(cf. "the nuclear family,"

"roommates")

sat around it during 

long evenings

when brainwaves,

drawn low from 

menial "workplace" calculations

(cf. repetitive mental aerobics)

recharged, 

usually by switching to 

"energy-save" mode.

Anthropologists tell us

they are close

to replicating 

3rd millennium technology

which will allow them

to "watch" 

(cf. unfiltered eyesight) 

an archive of "DVD" records

(cf. "digital video disc")

of visual and auditory information

discovered recently

in settlements dating back

to 2010, 

after excavating hundreds of feet

into the Old Northamerican desert

over what was once known 

as "Wisconsin."

Though these records are

extremely degraded,

professors at The University

of Extra Holy Healing

in New Old Northmeximerica

expect to report 

within the year 

on the contents of 

these venerable documents,

which Dr. Hooligan, Director

for the Centre of Holistic

Mind Expansion at UEHH,

has tentatively identified

as a form of 21st century propaganda 

entitled "The Apprentice."

If recovered, UEHH professors say,

these records may shed light

on the events leading to

The Great Collapse

of the beginning

of the last millennium,

and may offer insight

into the resulting 

Centuries of Darkness, 

which until now have been

inaccessible to

modern understanding.

Poem 25: small spaces

Napowrimo Prompt: "write a poem that explores a small, defined space – it could be your childhood bedroom, or the box where you keep old photos. It could be the inside of a coin purse or the recesses of an umbrella stand. Any space will do – so long as it is small, definite, and meaningful to you."

*

Closeted

Purses spill from the hooks,

mingle with tumbled shoes, boots,

bags of knitting needles and empty

cellphone boxes,

pants hang on tiered racks

shoved against the back wall

and shirts fall from hangars to

tangle with random skirts 

(flotsam from another room),

yoga jackets, blazers with

rolled sleeves, a ring bristling

with belts, more shoes

in a sagging canvas rack

shoved toes in, spilling shadows

against the four plastic drawers

filled with bunched shorts,

scarves, crocheted hats,

technological gizmos strayed

from misplaced or broken devices,

a rickety punkwood 

set of shelves

holding two more rows 

of expensive tumbled shoes,

the whole mess holding its

breath under the weight

of abandoned boxes and 

yellow magazines,

secrets 

mixed with remnants,

my life with previous lives,

unknown wearers

and future inhabitants,

the entire jostling history

pushing like epiphany

(or a strange graveyard

where the living lie down

along the dead)

against my naked body

with the weight of
all the days its taken

to get here, to stand

alone and unclothed

in front of its
open door.

Poem 24: ekphrasis and monks in the margins

Today's prompt: "Today, I challenge you to write a poem of ekphrasis — that is, a poem inspired by a work of art. But I’d also like to challenge you to base your poem on a very particular kind of art – the marginalia of medieval manuscripts. Here you’ll find some characteristic images of rabbits hunting wolves, people sitting on nests of eggs, dogs studiously reading books, and birds wearing snail shells. What can I say? It must have gotten quite boring copying out manuscripts all day, so the monks made their own fun. Hopefully, the detritus of their daydreams will inspire you as well!"


*




Yeah. I couldn't resist this image.


Riding the Dragon


In my cell
illuminated by candle,
I calligraphy Latin
[the Lord's lore],

sweating inside
burlap sleeves,
dreaming of dragons
who rise up

from itchy thickets,
green and sleek
and bearded,
flying forward

across vellum
[translucent animal skin],
and I am the dragon
inside the text.

On my back rides
the grim mother
of us all,
breasts sagging

wrinkled

and flat

[suckled for
millennia

by faceless
millions]

She is not Eve --
No, she is
Lillith,
first mother,

who wanted to be
on top
and so suffered ...

was dismembered

by our father,
flung out
of His book

into the ocean,
and transformed
into dumb,
dry land.

But here, in my
waking dream,
she flies
on my back

forever,
jaw set,
hands and womb

woven

into my strong back,
her voice
tethered to her
in a floating nut

that we will plant
on a shore
in another world
where His words

come from
a different mouth --
dragon breath,
mother's bitter milk --

and can never be

read.

Poem 23: elevensies

Our prompt for Day Twenty-Three comes to us from Gloria Gonsalves, who challenges us to write a double elevenie. What’s that? Well, an elevenie is an eleven-word poem of five lines, with each line performing a specific task in the poem. The first line is one word, a noun. The second line is two words that explain what the noun in the first line does, the third line explains where the noun is in three words, the fourth line provides further explanation in four words, and the fifth line concludes with one word that sums up the feeling or result of the first line’s noun being what it is and where it is. There are some good examples in the link above.

A double elevenie would have two stanzas of five lines each, and twenty-two words in all. It might be fun to try to write your double elevenie based on two nouns that are opposites, like sun and moon, or mountain and sea.

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This one is going to be hard.

*

My Hands Ache with It

Yarn

Knits together 

Fills the basket

With color and possibility

Expectation

Blankets

For babies

In drafty rooms

Houses chewed by debt

Love

Poem 22: Georgic in celebration of Earth Day

Prompt:

In honor of Earth Day, I’d like to challenge you to write a georgic. The original georgic poem was written by Virgil, and while it was ostensibly a practical and instructional guide regarding agricultural concerns, it also offers political commentary on the use of land in the wake of war. The georgic was revived by British poets in the eighteenth century, when the use of land was changing both due to the increased use of enlightenment farming techniques and due to political realignments such as the union of England, Scotland, and Wales. 

Your Georgic could be a simple set of instructions on how to grow or care for something, but it could also incorporate larger themes as to how land should be used (or not used), or for what purposes.

*
Arise

 As daffodils and crocus
     nose up
          from cold ground,

jeweled with
     fresh dew,
          examine

the shine and
      shudder
          of slick petals

in a waking wind,
      and add their
           invisible music,

rising
     with the worms
          to the surface

through holes
    in fertilized lawns,
         crumbling sidewalks,

to the relentless
     celebratory hum
           of the earth as it

turns
     again and again
          toward the sun.

Feel your heart's beat
      thrilling
           in that song,

the thrum of your body
      in harmony
           with all beings

everywhere,
     with the pull
          of gravity, with

joyful orbit, as you
     lean forward
          imperceptibly,

pulled up from
     thawing roots
          into expanding air,

and aaaaahhhhh
      -- the trees' sighs,
          their shivering joy
   
as they shake their
     feathered limbs
          over broken streets.

Poem 21: Overheard

Today's prompt: "write a poem that incorporates overheard speech. It could be something you’ve heard on the radio, or a phrase you remember from your childhood, even something you overheard a coworker say in the break room! Use the overheard speech as a springboard from which to launch your poem. Your poem could comment directly on the overheard phrase or simply use it as illustration or tone-setting material."

*

At a Tucson Fry's, 1995

Dave comes home
shaken.

"I was standing in line to buy
a Powerball ticket.
The woman in front of me
pushed a cart with
a two liter bottle of
off-brand vodka and
a carton of cigarettes.

A little boy ran up to her
holding a packet of pencils
and a spiral notebook.
Mom, he said, I need this
for school.

She stared down at him,
snapped
How many times I gotta tell you
we ain't got no money
for none of that
school shit?

I wanted to
give him the money
but I knew
looking at the set of her face
it wouldn't work.

She bought
10 tickets."

Poem 20: Games

Prompt : "write a poem that incorporates the vocabulary and imagery of a specific sport or game. Your poem could invoke chess or baseball, hopscotch or canasta, Monopoly or jai alai. The choice is yours!"

*

Candy Crush

For hours we inhabit 

the living-room --

she on the couch and I 

on the chaise --

tap tap tapping our iPads, 

pulling down

red and green 

and purple and yellow 

jelly beans 

and jaw breakers, 

pastilles and gum drops 

(or are those Chicklets?),

Mike & Ike shaped lozenges 

that stripe

and explode 

in patterns of threes and

fours, 

our neurons firing 

in the screens' square blazes

as if we stare 

into pale campfires,

together but

separate 

in some odd, manufactured 

forest,

far from human commerce 

or conversation. 

Mother and daughter

sharing 

the same electric space,

wordlessly

comparing scores, 

and once in a long while 

looking at each other's 

blank faces

as our five tries dry up

and the application 

loses its grip.

It's July.

Sun holds our neighborhood

in a humid hand,

squeezing,

but we're safe 

in this

refrigerated containment,

waiting to 

reload,

waiting to 

crush through

another hour 

or two,

side by side in

comfortable silence.

Poem 19: Creation Myth

Today's Napowrimo challenge: write a poem that recounts a creation myth. "It doesn’t have to be an existing creation myth, or even recount how all of creation came to be. It could be, for example, your own take on the creation of ball-point pens, or the discovery of knitting. Your myth can be as big or small as you would like, as serious or silly as you make it."

One should never use the word "silly" with me.  It's the equivalent of throwing the glove down.

But, ah.... I'm supposed to be writing a script/speech for an upcoming event next week, where I share my "life journey" with "interested" females. So maybe I can knit (yukyuk) these two things together?

Or maybe not. (See above, "silly" and "glove down.")

*

Origins of the F Bomb

God created everything from the void,

and God saw that everything was 

supremely and wondrously 

good.

Or so God thought, 

reclining above God's goodness

in blinding celestial brilliance 

on a white throne

surrounded by the achingly beautiful 

angelic host

singing in thrilling harmony 

on fluffy organza clouds,

for about five minutes. 

And then God realized

with a Godlike shudder

that shook the heavens 

that God was bored

out of God's immense mind.

Perfection, goodness?

God bent God's magnificent head

upon God's excellently sculpted right hand

and pondered the problem

of infinitely uninterrupted peace

and material prosperity

until

epiphany!

There's no story, God thought.

No tension, no drama, 

no unrequited desire.

The devil is in the details,

God thought (not without

a sly Self-satisfied smirk,

having come up with that cliche

on the Godlike fly), and so

by God!

God would have to make a few

mistakes in God's creation,

yes, yes, yes,

starting with God's masterpieces

frolicking with 100% 

innocent abandon

in God's gated garden community,

Eden.

Thus, God rubbed God's massive

hands of creation together 

with Godly glee

and decreed:

Let's f**k this s**t up.

Poem 18: Neologisms

Today's assignment is to "write a poem that incorporates neologisms. What’s that? Well, it’s a made-up word! Your neologisms could be portmanteaus (basically, a word made from combining two existing words, like “motel” coming from “motor” and “hotel”) or they could be words invented entirely for their sound. Probably the most famous example of a poem incorporating neologisms is Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky, but neologisms don’t have to be funny or used in the service of humor. You can use them to try to get at something that you don’t have an exact word for, or to create a sense of sound and rhythm, or simply to make the poem feel strange and unworldly."

Well, okay, then.

*

BtVS Rules

When you go out on patrol,
always carry one more stake
than you think you'll need.

If there's a shadow, there's something ooky in it;
if you think you're being watched, you are;
if you suspect you've got a bad reputation, you do --
so use it to your advantage.

Fashion is paramount,
four or five besties are to die for,
there's always time for an evil pun,
even and especially in mortal combat,
and if you think your roommate's a demon
you're probably right.

Never fall in love with a vampire.
When you do, don't sleep with him --
he'll lose his soul and go all vamptastic,
hunting you for sport, shoot you
with evil quips from the safety of his new
demonpack, all yukkityyuk and teethy
like a clangor of hyenas.

Never use a vampire for dirty sex.
When you do, he'll instantly fall smitten
and follow you wherever you go
like a drooling hellhound
neutered by schlove,
the soppydrippy Hallmark cardy version
phosphorescent with goopy nauseation.

After three minutes of the requisite sparring,
go for the killing blow, straight
to the unbeating heart --
there's nothing like the satisfaction of that
growling poofsplosion
when the panting language of the dance
vanishes into pixels, moondust, and
pastistory.

Poem 17: Nocturne

Really?  Do I have to?

"Today, I challenge you to write a nocturne. In music, a nocturne is a composition meant to be played at night, usually for piano, and with a tender and melancholy sort of sound. Your nocturne should aim to translate this sensibility into poetic form!"

*

Nocturne No. 1 in B Flat

A soft breeze 

parts fluttering curtains,

strained 

through blue moonlight,

a gasp of air 

over the sill. 

She lies half-awake 

under the cool sheet,

naked

as if newly born.

Ghosts tremble

in leafy shadows,

on the far wall -- 

her young father,

a smiling grandmother, 

and her scowling 

husband,

bullet hole in his temple 

dark,

empty.

Downstairs,

a clock chimes 

three times,

disturbing 

the liquid stillness...  

for a second

she hangs in

the strange suspension

created by the sound's

silky wake,

not sure if she's

dead or alive,

held by a powerful

force or attraction

that feels like 

a fierce love.

 

Poem 16: Letters

Today's prompt (for which I have a better frame of mind) asks us to write something in the form of a letter or correspondence: "Your poem can be in the form of a letter to a person, place, or thing, or in the form of a back-and-forth correspondence."

Challenge accepted.

*

Dear Dog:

Stop barking at the window, please.
It makes my inner ear jump and pulse -- disconcerting.
And when we go out for our frequent walks,
I'd like it if you ceased the incessant pulling,
your habit of digging in your considerable claws
(I hear there are some dog owners who
clip those talons, but I'll admit that I'm intimidated
by the thought of snapping off one of your veins,
so you're safe for the duration)
into the muddy turf so that you can reach
the latest turd on your disgusting canine wish list.
And for the love of everything holy, quit
eating crap.

I'm well aware that we're both aging. I've got gray hair
in stripes next to my sagging face,
and you've got a whiting muzzle
that you still jam into a guest's crotch
with the embarrassing vigor of a puppy.
I guess we're both late bloomers, hanging on to
spastic emotional whims with the tenacity
of teenagers.  Please. I'm begging you.
Could we manage this journey with a bit more grace?
Would it be possible to hold ourselves back
from waggish glee and slutty affection
for every passing stranger?

And while we're on the subject, I'd like to request
that you work harder to keep your emotions
from passing like electric signs
over your widening frame --
everyone can tell you despise poodles in sweaters,
that thick-bodied Rotties jogging on the ends
of stabbing choke chains
scare the shit out of you,
and that Ford F150s thrumming by
with faded Bush bumper stickers
and well-stocked gun racks
excite your prejudice
into the stratosphere.
Learn to keep that to yourself, okay?

In return, I promise to love you through thick,
thin and midnight diarrhea,
to feed you expensive kibble
and pay for your delicate digestion
700 bucks at a pop.
I promise to walk you twice a day,
to pick up your poops in rain, shine,
and blizzard conditions,
and to get up at 3 am
when you cry in your kennel.
I promise to keep you going
until your heart or lungs or kidneys
decide to stop ticking.
And I promise (cross my heart
and hope to die)
never to replace you.

Sincerely and forever,
XXXOOO
L.

Poem 15: Poem about being in the middle of something

It's nearly 9:30, Dave's back from a trip, and I just realized that I'm supposed to write a poem. What have I been doing all day? Nothing. Not writing poems, anyway.

Today we're supposed to write a poem about being in the middle of a something.

*

Middle of the Action

So I'm sitting in the cellphone lot of the airport
waiting for Dave's plane to land so I can pick him up
when I realize that I haven't written a poem,

it's nearly nine and I'm in the middle of a game of
Candy Crush, and I haven't written a poem.
I try to dictate a poem into my phone and it

just keeps typing strange things. For instance,
it doesn't want to type the word "poem." And
the way things are going right now, I can't remember

what it was it wanted to type instead. Now it's time
to get all of the family news that I've missed. We're
all in the middle of some involved stories, the endings

of which could go either way. At this point, I'm hoping
we're not headed for a climax or crisis point, and instead
are just looking at the rising tension of a scene.

Most poems end in some sort of conclusion -- perhaps
an image or some epiphany that pulls everything together,
but this one is just going to

Poem 14: Clerihew (?)

Well, this is a new one on me, folks: "Because it’s Friday, let’s keep it light and silly today, with a clerihew. This is a four line poem biographical poem that satirizes a famous person."

Only four lines?  I'll take it.

*

The Love Song of T.  Stearns Eliot

Donning olive face paint to mimic our zombie love affair,
we waltzed frantic circles in Bloomsbury drawing rooms,
spinning that golden first year of marriage -- shame passing for passion,
decades dividing Viv and me from penitent celibacy and madness.

Poem 13: Ghazal

I've always liked/disliked this form. It's deceptively difficult -- at first it might seem like a snap to generate couplets randomly, but somehow the form needs to cohere ... and mine never do, really.

Here's the prompt:

Today’s is an oldie-but-a-goody: the ghazal. The form was originally developed in Arabic and Persian poetry, but has become increasingly used in English, after being popularized by poets including Agha Shahid Ali. A ghazal is formed of couplets, each of which is its own complete statement. Both lines of the first couplet end with the same phrase or end-word, and that end-word is also repeated at the end of each couplet. If you’re really feeling inspired, you can also attempt to incorporate internal rhymes and a reference to your own name in the final couplet.

Q: Am I "really feeling inspired"? Doubtful. It's Holy Thursday, and this is what's outside my window:

Yeah. Bleah.

*

Ghazal for April 13th

Outside my window, gray clouds and damp cold press down
on budding trees -- we are all pressed down now.

Call it "the greenhouse effect" -- dig up fossil fuels,
burn them, let CO2 hover over us and press heat down.

I woke this morning hemmed in by cats at head and feet,
hot bodies like anchors on me, pressing me down.

This is how you leave home: fasten your belt, adjust
the mirrors, turn the key, put it in drive, press down on the gas.

It's a time of transition. Even as Spring is only beginning,
students look to the summer, their futures pressing down.

May all beings be happy. May all beings be free. May all
beings be safe. May all beings be well. (All beings press me down.)

I used to draw Jesus cross-eyed, confused by his own nose,
and I pressed hard on the paper with the colored pencils.

Poem 12: alliteration and assonance

The prompt today calls us to "write a poem that explicitly incorporates alliteration (the use of repeated consonant sounds) and assonance (the use of repeated vowel sounds). This doesn’t mean necessarily limiting yourself to a few consonants or vowels, although it could. Even relatively restrained alliteration and assonance can help tighten a poem, with the sounds reinforcing the sense."

My schedule today is a bit crazy -- no clear blocks on my calendar. So I'm having to squeeze poetry in like mortar between the bricks.

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Busyness bothers me,

brick by brick filling the shallow space between here and there, now and then. I can't breathe because I seethe with expectations and responsibilities, coulds and shoulds and pleasewouldyous, while daffodils and jonquils drill up from suddenly loosened soil, bursting from bulbs, shuddering free in a sunny wind. Hunched into a winter jacket, fists in my pockets, I pass them by, traveling the same path day after day, repeating chores like mindless mantras.

Oh to be untethered, to drift down unfrozen roads along the river's gleam, while hawks and pelicans fly over me in elegant figure eights!

Poem 11: The Bop

Okay.  Today's prompt is pretty involved so I'm going to have to quote it:

... the Bop. The invention of poet Afaa Michael Weaver, the Bop is a kind of combination sonnet + song. Like a Shakespearan sonnet, it introduces, discusses, and then solves (or fails to solve) a problem. Like a song, it relies on refrains and repetition. In the basic Bop poem, a six-line stanza introduces the problem, and is followed by a one-line refrain. The next, eight-line stanza discusses and develops the problem, and is again followed by the one-line refrain. Then, another six-line stanza resolves or concludes the problem, and is again followed by the refrain. Here’s an example of a Bop poem written by Weaver, and here’s another by the poet Ravi Shankar.

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Bop With a Refrain Taken From W. B. Yeats and a Line from The National

The blues snuffle around my innocent head,
breaking into paltry meditations, dogging
my dragging heels as I circle the block,
digging paws in by the rotting trunks
where shadows spill from the maple's maw
and creep across sodden grass. Oh I am

 weary-hearted as that hollow moon.

"Sorrow found me when I was young,"
the song sings in my head, and it did --
rooted me out of my warm bed and bumped me
downstairs, into a sulfur sooty Pittsburgh street,
where I waited for a friend to appear
from the apartments across, for sun to shine,
for a smiling father to put his hand on my
head. He didn't, it didn't, and he was dead,

as weary-hearted as that hollow moon.

Perhaps depression is my best friend,
nosing behind me room to room.
No pill will ever keep it completely away.
You are happy, you are safe, you are peaceful, 
you are well: these words can't stop its pacing.
I lie down; it licks my face. Oh, lord,

I'm weary-hearted as that hollow moon.