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Poetry or prosaic?
I sent my sister to a workshop on poetry writing in my place today, since I am not yet over the flu. Apparently, they were asked to answer the following question: What does the moon taste like?
If I were there, here's how I would have answered:
What does the moon taste like?
Asked she; I blinked
Pondering this for some witty
Rejoinder; a deep observation
Or an intricate fancy
I could weave into meaningful
But ambiguous prose. None
Came to mind. That bright
Silver penny hung up in the sky
Filled my mind’s eye
Smiling a bald man’s silly gap-
Toothed grin at my childish
Night-terrors; sending them
Skulking back into shadows
Like thrashed bullies.
‘Tis a most unusual query!
What does the moon taste like?
I declare I don’t know.
I have my pick of cakes and teas;
And am not in the practice
Of causing grave offence
By nibbling on my friends.
What do you think?
If I were there, here's how I would have answered:
What does the moon taste like?
Asked she; I blinked
Pondering this for some witty
Rejoinder; a deep observation
Or an intricate fancy
I could weave into meaningful
But ambiguous prose. None
Came to mind. That bright
Silver penny hung up in the sky
Filled my mind’s eye
Smiling a bald man’s silly gap-
Toothed grin at my childish
Night-terrors; sending them
Skulking back into shadows
Like thrashed bullies.
‘Tis a most unusual query!
What does the moon taste like?
I declare I don’t know.
I have my pick of cakes and teas;
And am not in the practice
Of causing grave offence
By nibbling on my friends.
What do you think?
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