Fran Di Benedetto

A farewell cento I have retraced my tongue, tried to taste moments before– Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow The song of thanks and praise Of all things seeds, I have lost judgement The things which I have seen I now can see no more. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a cento. This is a poem that is made up of lines taken from other poems.  Wow! I made it through till the end! I can't believe myself :D This cento is made up of lines from Cannoli , The Raven, Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood   and   Into the Spider-verse deleted character: Charles Baudelaire Parker, The Loathsome Spiderman .

A curse Sleeping Beauty was once a baby And so was I, Though not a beauty, I also received the gifts of mine One fairy blessed me with A particular, versatile voice Another with a loving younger brother That was yet to be born A third gifted me some talents here and there, And also cared for certain qualities, But the latter, the non-invited, Layed a curse upon my shoulders And thus I quote: "May she live With the silence I set on her lips, A seal from the soul That enclosures the shame Trapped in her mind like A dragon around the tower, A mask on her head And to her heart, a veil." In certain versions of the classic fairytale  Sleeping Beauty , various fairies or witches are invited to a princess’s christening, and bring her gifts. One fairy/witch, however, is not invited, and in revenge for the insult, lays a curse on the princess. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in which you muse on the gifts you received at birth — whether they are actual presents, like a...

Howard Duplex Yesterday I watched a documental on Howard Ashman's music and life. As I supposed, I ended up really inspired -- I was inspired to grab my notebook and shape up This musical I was working on, which was initially inspired By my mother, who, seeing my sister and I inspired, Singing musicals, she asked us to write (Or maybe challenged us to write) a Christian musical and since then I've been trying but I struggle with what to write about What to write about? What's the audience I aim at? If I wrote for my mother, I would censure myself And by censuring myself, it would be a hypocritical musical And that goes completely against my values and beliefs. Therefore, I questioned my ways and my beliefs just because Yesterday I watched a documental on Howard Ashman's music and life This is the poem I didn't publish yesterday because I couldn't make the collage I wanted for this one -- but here it is! Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a “duplex.” A “du...

The shape of an object is poetry (It's supposed to be a door...🤣🤣) Today’s (optional) prompt is to write a concrete poem. Like acrostic poems, concrete poems are a favorite for grade-school writing assignments, so this may not be your first time at the concrete-poem rodeo. In brief, a concrete poem is one in which the lines are shaped in a way that mimics the topic of the poem. 

An epic quest To write a poem is a demanding task, It's like painting a masterpiece -- A work of heart, an extensive journey. Here you set sail to the vast seas, A reckless ship, with not even a map, And you hope to find something  That you can turn into art Or that helps with your craft But, though eagerly you search In vain you may, Or, sometimes, the mindset is not correct And just a change in the winds Is all you need.  There, under the radiant Sun,  The particles reflecting the light And above the shining waters, The land of art is within reach Of the artists that with their hearts search for it.  Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that contains at least one of a different kind of simile – an epic simile. Also known as Homeric similes, these are basically extended similes that develop over multiple lines. 

Aisling Last night in my vision Blessed have been I Who gladly received the visit, There down the traffic lights, Where students wait to cross the streets, And mindlessly fly their eyes, Of Miss Gabriela,  Patroness of schools Having not heard of anyone Who's called our saint patroness, And being my mind so unaware of Its current surroundings, I did not easily give in To her kind voice and tender words Being this patroness the miss she's been She could easily notice my concern for the sanity Which I, finally, may have lost And thus she switched her attitude To that which is fit For a student who's about to leave The school system. This she told me: "Young lady," solemny she pronounced, "I well know you will soon part ways off me And so I am here To wish you the most formal of farewells. You shall not remain under my protection Yet you will be in good hands -- Under the patronage of Professor Phillander." Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem t...

Poetry challenges I like these challenges as a Formula One driver likes an Intensive training day in Abu Dhabi, Middle East. I like writing poetry just as much As my PE professor likes my class. Poor Mariam -- We're Economy students. OK, JK, Poetry is not to me What Mandarine is to a native Spanish speaker. Poetry and writing challenges Are more like the coffee cup That my friend threw away but I still take to school.  Today, I’d like to challenge you to channel your inner gumshoe, and write a poem in which you describe something with a hard-boiled simile. 

Old friend Plain ol' images Lay at The buttom of Memories. Allegedly An old Pal Is their source. Haven't seen him in a while. I can't say We're friends But He Still calls. Today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in the style of Kay Ryan, whose poems tend to be short and snappy – with a lot of rhyme and soundplay. They also have a deceptive simplicity about them, like proverbs or aphorisms.

Inexplicable reason Five years and no word I uttered on the topic But my ears, this time, won't handle the shooting A word -- a bullet -- followed by another And the inexplicable reason why I won't tolerate their voices. A passive-agressive argument unfolds Behind my back. My friends and the rest. I don't want to antagonize a bunch Of classmates for friends of mine.  Though there is no inexplicable a reason why None of us tolerate that group at class. I wonder why the English teacher Is so insipid -- a hookless, out-of-tune jingle. Many mediocre teachers I've found I wonder what is the inexplicable reason why There is mediocre people walking around The streets of this demanding life. I do not agree with that lifestyle Or life philosophy. I am not the best But I make decisions in life Because I believe things And I bet there's an inexplicable reason Why we all believe. In honor of today’s being the 22nd day of Na/GloPoWriMo 2022, I’d like to challenge you to write a ...

I remember I remember us each time I pass by you The pictures in my mind, I have not erased yet All are not that old But reminiscient of a past that cannot unfold Itself once again in a upcoming present. I have finally understood. I remember us each time I pass by the band members, The former have moved on, the new have joined in I have moved on But the pictures in my mind and the feelings I've had Had not erased yet All are not that old But reminiscient of a past that cannot unfold Itself once again in an upcoming present For I have finally understood. I remember me each time I hear the teacher's voice He once explained the craft behind the artwork Of a sculpture we saw -- The Kiss It is not that old, I think I am not that old But I remember different pasts that cannot unfold Themselves once again in an upcoming present. When is the future where I can finally say About all my pasts "I've finally understood"? Today’s (optional) prompt is one I got from the poet Be...

  Cheese I don't like it when your sister Wrinkles her nose and Looks at me like that I don't like it when you all Compare my smell to those Of your used shoes. Why, oh, why! I am a victim of your refined noses Even though for you I've been pausteurized And still then, picky humans, you want me. What a toxic relationship. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. 

Easy come, easy go Don't scroll down! Catch a glympse Of the words here Imprinted forever on the web, So easy to find, so easy to forget -- You save them for later but when is later? The next time you turn the light on But by then you'll be blinded by new flashes. Today’s challenge is to write a poem that starts with a command.  Photo by Youssef Sarhan on Unsplash

Nothings I sit behind my classmate She and the rest talk. I barely listen in the orgy of noise This classroom has turned into. I think about what I can write about And find nothing interesting -- Oh, maybe a poem about My surroundings and the mess around. Laurita makes her way through my friends And, once she's to the teachers desk, She announces we don't have PE classes For this week. What's next? Ah, yes -- she brings cards And I have nothing else To tell here, between the lines Of empty words and mediocre art.

  Dogs Michael was a big dog           Black and hairy was he -- We always laughed because he was really big,           Like a horse for us, 8-year-olds. It once kissed my sister            I don't remember how it happened, Just her scandalous yell and my cousin's laughs. I don't remember Michael's appearance apart from that           which I have just described. I remember his name was Michael,          That he had a prominent fur of colour black, That my uncle gave him an English name          Though Argentinian we are all, And that I was really sad when he passed out. 

A poem by my tiredness Half a month already written Down in words I may not read again.  Now, as if midday had passed, I feel the urge to take a nap.  Only half a month ahead, I remind myself.  Do I really want Routine? Am I swallowing a belief  That this is what I want to be -- Written words no one may ever read? 

AFIP Teníamos que inventar un negocio Y seríamos monotributistas Pero la burocracia Argentina Tiene sus capas y aristas Esteban nos inscribió, de manera ficticia, En la página de la AFIP. Dejé que él se encargue de los trámites, De los impuestos y del CUIT  Esos temas no me gustan, Pero, ¿acaso es negación? Por mamá iba a estudiar administración... Nuestra era esa trucha pasión Pero a ninguna matemática nos gusta Today's prompt : write a poem about something you have absolutely no interest in. 

The Opening Scene for the Movie of My Life She waits in a corner for the red lights Renault, Fiat, Ford, Volswagen... the usual cars At the Argentinian streets. Backpacks with small plastic wheels March to the beat they make Against the paving stones.  There she goes, walking past three schools Till before a tall building she stands, And reaches the door, and takes the elevator, And opens her apartment door. Then the music starts--  Nothing new below the Sun Still many things to look at -- She leaves her keys and takes A notepad out of a pocket at her chest -- But there is no time, the clock goes on Still many things left to do She looks at the nearest clock. Stress wrinkles her achned forehead I don't even know if 'achned' is a word😂

La esencia del arte Perfume de tierra Con distintos matices. A Janine le gusta, A Magalí no.  Janine es experta en comer cosas como Tierra, o cosas vegetarianas. Sabe del olor a tierra. Y mientras intento escribir un poema,  Discuten sobre el perfume que Magalí no quiere usar. No quiero escuchar. No puedo evitar. De tantas palabras soltadas al viento, Ninguna logro atrapar Entre redes de creatividad, Cadenas que perdieron su fuerza. ¿Pero acaso cadenas deben ser las obras, Lo creado con recursos ajenos, Y que se pasaerán entre las mentes Que captaran su señal y retomarán el discurso En un debate infinito como el del olor a tierra? Esencia de un perfume ambiguo, Núcleo del arte líquido que deja sus gotas.

A poem for Magalí May I seduce you,' you asked 'You may try.' 'Well, you can seduce me with...' Just minutes ago you refused My breakfast. You couldn't buy yours. 'A turrón,' I said. 'Only then you'll acept my love.' This one is a conversation between my friend and me. I didn't use today's prompt.

Where I live The building where I live Is huge. Not the tallest of around, But it's tall, of brick walls and glass. When referring to it, I told my classmate that I had my apartment around here, Puzzled, she stared at me.  "Not my aparment," I said. "My family's!" We laughed. I was a little distracted Looking through a window to a building similar to mine -- The colour of bricks against a clean sky, The colour I can never get right when mixing paintings But I still use it because no one will see my paintings And call me a great artist, because I don't try to be. I look up to it from below when I get home The heavy pack below my back But I'm so close to taking it all out. So tall, so safe -- just like I like my men. I like some jokes once in a while, but I'm Not good at that. When I get home, Walk through the plants and enter the mirrored hall, On the elevator, then push its door, My key to the locke, I unlock whatever that's there In my famil...

A poem for Cael Not a fan of words, images I sought In the places I walk through most When serendipity and Cupid aligned their threads And harmonized the both of us, Synchronized our heartbeat rates "An angel descended from heaven" My instinct told me when I saw your face, And though many men I had sought, And beauty I constantly seek, Your image struck time and broke it like glass As your eyes locked mine The colour palette for my next project Displayed itself in my heart And deep down I knew it would be chef d'ouvre Cael, o Cael, my angel from heavens The more we walked together on the tightrope, The more strokes your painted over my fully-clothed body. I lay vulnerable to your warmth and a fully naked image I become -- No added beauty, no embellishment For all the art I first saw in you We buried together along the dry leaves of last automn

El noneto de un sábado No sé porqué el que sea sábado Significa que no hay nada Que hacer. Creemos que Podemos creer que Un par es igual A nosotros En lo que Cree. No.  Image: Jon Tyson on Unsplash. 

O María María, María, María My alternative self. A saint's name María, María, María The holy, chosen one to carry God's son Everyone's expecting on your future So you do this, don't do that You're a saint, for God's sake María, I know, deep in your heart, Molded by the hand of God, Still of human flesh you are made, And so I won't praise your name. I did not ask for this task Or did I? I just wanted to serve God To carry His presence and put my hands to work For the Kindom that's come,  But my flesh... My flesh... María, María, María I cry out to God for you María, María, oh María Craft my heart, oh God, and mold my flesh I'm actually really proud of it. By the way, I loved the two poems pointed out from today's featured journal.

P oema sin título sobre mi dedo herido Levanto mi mano y el sol la saluda Con sus rayos colados en formas Estiro los dedos y recuerdo Que el índice ahora depende de los demás Gordo y dolido, herido en guerra trivial, Ya no es soporte de las herramientas que he de utilizar Pero aprendí a manejarme. Tonta no soy, Pude bañarme, escribir, armar la cama, y no voy A buscar más allá de lo que es. A su tiempo sanará. Querré compartir la belleza, yo sé, La belleza que he de buscar Entre palabras torpes que no di a luz, Entre conceptos robados y con un dedo lastimado Querré compartir la belleza creada Y escritora me querré hacer llamar Pero al pensar que a ojos ociosos no interesará, Al pensar que hay mejores poetizas y siempre las habrá, Al pensar que hay lectores que podrán juzgar Mis creaciones con belleza que no he de crear, Tal vez recuerde que ese no es mi lugar Y me rendiré de nuevo, resignada A no mover el dedo, a velar mi boca Con una pluma en la lengua, A no lanzar una flecha para no d...

Vincent Van Gogh THE colors welcome her at the CHURCH. The woman walks AT the skies above her a dark cloud -- AUVERS, home, is the place to go 1890, the year of her return Based on this tweet

  Apollo lost his keys Had he not been in a stranger's place, Apollo would have not lost his keys But the god of arts and archery,  Had a headache and no way home No way home In the trousers, they are not In his jacket, they are not In his hands, they are not In his car -- oh no! No way home Stuck the nose to the window, He missed home, he missed freedom He missed power and going out But god Apollo had no way home No way home

Hoy sí seguí la prompt, pero en español :D Pasos para escribir un poema 1. Escribí una línea dadaísta mientras el profesor habla de Economía 2. Ocultá el teléfono entre tus brazos para que tu compañero de banco no pregunte qué hacés 3. Esperá al recreo y comprá una medialuna 4. Desbloqueá el teléfono y mirá la línea sin sentido que escribiste en el procesador de texto del teléfono 5. Mientras comés, hacé de cuenta que estás pensando en cómo seguir el poema del día 6. Borrá la única línea 7. Observá la hoja en blanco 8. Observá la hoja 9. Observá 10. 

Today I'm not working with the optional prompt because I came up with an idea in Spanish. Here's the result: Mi pequeña iglesia está En un pequeño barrio donde Mi madre y su pequeña familia no Vivieron, pues lo hicieron en una pequeña casita Mi pequeña iglesia está Donde hay asfalto agrietado o marcas de llantas Que se levantan con el viento; Hay perros de pelaje desaliñeado o demasiado largo Crece pasto entre baldosas descoloridas, Y oigo decir que los chicos que venían Hace pocos años a la escuelita Ya tienen dos hijos Huelo el humo del domingo al mediodía Veo familias sentadas Disfrutando lo que tienen, Gente como yo, con sueños y pasados Pero lo único que pienso es Que mamá tendrá que lavar mi saquito Y que pronto se secará Apesar de las nubes oscuras en el horizonte

Aprosexia Unable to concentrate I leave the computer and move the fake Flower my grandma left here, On the desk I sit next to My grandma, the one that remains alive, Is in no way your classic grandma type She's different, like any of us -- How are we all different, by the way? What makes a poem? Can I write one? Ah, I remember why I grew afraid And quickly left manuscripts, and things unsaid Like the fake flower my grandma has Maybe I'm an impostor and I really can't write. My teachers could have lied to me, Or simply hidden the truth. I don't have dyslexia so I have no problems with words That could be turned into something beautiful And I speak more than one language so I don't have The required vocabulary or the appopiate mindset I blink twice I breath in and out I turn my face from the words on the page, The words that are too used to have value at all The words of plastic petals and toxic glitter The words that don't make me a poet, a real one Inability to ...

Hello, everyone! This year, I've decided to take part in Glo/NaPoWriMo, so here are my notes and my poem for Day One .  Today's prompt is based on Robert Hass’s prose poem, “A Story About the Body.” You can read more on it on  Rhea Ramakrishnan’s blogpost linked in the NaPoWriMo site. I transcribe two extracts which I found really interesting: But “A Story About the Body” is not simply a story—it's also a poem. Because poetry, like all mediums, has historically been through many changes, I want to go back to its origin to try to understand what a poem is at its core. The word "poem" comes from the Greek poiein, "to make." So a poem is a crafted thing, as opposed to prose , which comes from the Latin prosa, proversus, "turned to face forward"—literally "straightforward." Thus, I think that while it's legitimate to read A Story About the Body literally, we need to reassess our understanding of it to give it a careful, thorough read...