Dig It, Man!
IT’S THAT TIME AGAIN! Actually, it’s a little early, but what the hell, I have my reasons and everyone could use the change of pace. SO! For those of you who do not know how we roll, here is what is going to happen! Pick your favorite poem and enter either the poem proper or a link to it in a reply on this page or over at the corresponding Livejournal entry. You can enter as many times as you like. If I pick your poem, you’ll get to see the Bunnies act it out in the comic! You have until Friday to enter, with winning entries showing up the next week – five winners for five days! The only limit is your imagination! . . . and, of course, these four little rules:
1) The chosen poem has to fit into a standard-sized Bunnies cartoon. I’m not going to limit the size of your entry, but the longer it is, the less likely I’ll choose it. Jabberwocky has been entered three times now, and it has lost three times. It WILL lose a fourth time! Fair warning.
2) If your poem is in a foreign language, please kindly post a translation or a rough abstract. I’m all for more Basho or Tranströmer in this thing, but I’ve got to draw these!
3) The poet does not have to be world-famous, but the poem CANNOT be YOURS. You’ve got your own webpage or blog for that sort of thing. If you do not . . . get one!
4) No song lyrics, please.
Thank you for your attention. Now, let the games begin!
This sounds like a job for Ogden Nash:
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-caution-to-everybody/
or one of his more appropriate animal-based poems
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-chipmunk/
(I hope I’m not duplicating previous entries but I’m rather new to this place and haven’t had the time to peruse the archives like I really want to)
Agatha Cristie’s poem Ten Little Indians would be awesome.
Ten little Indians went out to dine;
One choked his little self and then there were nine.
Nine little Indians sat up very late;
One overslept himself and then there were eight.
Eight little Indians traveling in Devon;
One said he’d stay there and then there were seven.
Seven little Indians chopping up sticks;
One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.
Six little Indians playing with a hive;
A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.
Five little Indians going in for law;
One got in Chancery and then there were four.
Four little Indians going out to sea;
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.
Three little Indians walking in the zoo;
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.
Two Little Indians sitting in the sun;
One got frizzled up and then there was one.
One little Indian left all alone;
He went out and hanged himself and then there were none.
Wind on the Hill
BY
Alan Alexander (A. A.) Milne
No one can tell me,
Nobody knows,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.
It’s flying from somewhere
As fast as it can,
I couldn’t keep up with it,
Not if I ran.
But if I stopped holding
The string of my kite,
It would blow with the wind
For a day and a night.
And then when I found it,
Wherever it blew,
I should know that the wind
Had been going there too.
So then I could tell them
Where the wind goes…
But where the wind comes from
Nobody knows.
JABBERWOCKY
Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought —
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’
He chortled in his joy.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Love Song
by Dorthy Parker
My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled —
Oh, a girl, she’d not forget him.
My own dear love, he is all my world, —
And I wish I’d never met him.
My love, he’s mad, and my love, he’s fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams, —
And I wish he were in Asia.
My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart, —
And I wish somebody’d shoot him
Listen
Shel Silverstein
Listen to the mustn’ts, child.
Listen to the don’ts.
Listen to the shouldn’ts,
the impossibles, the won’ts.
Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me…
Anything can happen, child.
Anything can be.
Batty – Shel Silverstein
The baby bat
screamed out in fright
“Turn on the dark!
I’m afriad of the light!”