by Joe Tessitore and James A. Tweedie
We are issuing a challenge to all poets to create poems that incorporate word homophones. Call it what you like, but we are calling it a Homophonic Poetry Challenge. Every poem should contain at least one perfect or near-perfect homophone. Puns, while not required, are encouraged. Although our own attempts have been humorous, serious homophonic poems are also a possibility. In any case, here are some examples to get you started. Note that the requirement for meter is not strict. Note that this is a challenge, not a contest. No winners. No losers. Just fun.
From Joe:
On Seymour’s Weight Gain
There’s more to see of Seymour,
So I see Seymour more.
The First Time I Saw Paris
When I got
an eyeful of Eiffel, I ful-
Filled a life-time dream.
Untitled
How much did that broad
on Broadway weigh?
From James:
Icy Eyes
A frosty Highlands sky
Caught Scots by surprise.
When asked, one man said, “Aye,
“I see icy eyes.”
Oui, Oui!
This little piggy went to Paris, and this little piggy went to Rome
I asked them if lattés in Bern
Affected them on their return.
And this little piggy went, “Oui, oui! We wee-ed all the way home!”
We are confident (and hoping) that you can do better. Place your poems in the comments section below.
Hello James (a tweedie (bet you haven’t had that homophone thrown at you since high school or lower!)) re “As for where are we leading you? All we did was hook a leash into your nose and put the other end of the leash into your hand.” Well said.
My response:
Being lead through the nose, as everyone knows,
Is as though you are led through a hole in the head
With a lead that can lead you
To what may precede you –
A lure to pre-seed you
And tie you and tye you and knot you to not-you,
Not whole any more, running circles round lead.
D,
Heh! I never thought of nose piercing as having a hole in the head! Funny.
Now we all need to match Dan with another “serious” homophonic attempt. Any takers?
By the way, mourning doves are a widespread and common form of dove (with the homophone linked to the title of Dan’s poem). As a “robin” I should think you have flown around in the same circles with them on occasion . . . .
James,
A “serious” attempt:
Pastoral Remedy
Since you left, I have been gazing
With a dreary, empty stare
At the fields where we were wont to spend our days,
Where the hungry flock is grazing,
Gaily free from earthly care,
Basking in the sinking sun’s last slanting rays.
In a daze, I rise up, quiet,
And on silent sole I steal
Down the stair, and swiftly hasten to the field.
As I go, I wonder why it
Is so hard for me to feel —
Now my soul is steel; it seems it will not yield.
Surely, though, my heart is bleeding,
Aching, longing for release,
So I flop down in the evening’s dying glow.
Soon the sheep’s soft, rhythmic bleating
Lulls my troubled soul to peace,
And my tears begin their gentle, healing flow.
Very touching and descriptive. As your soul’s weeping I can clearly see the sweeping vista of the pasture and the soon-to-be sleeping bleating sheep!
As usual, you have written a fine poem shaped by an interesting and effect metric. I hope you feel good about this poem, because it made me feel good, too! I only hope that others are still following the thread and will have the pleasure of reading it as well. Thanks.
Hi James, different country here, don’t have mourning doves. And the American and British robins are very different.
Thanks for pointing out that mourning doves are widespread on your continent. We can withdraw that part of my comment on Dan’s poem.
Very true. Your British Robins (such as Hood, Leach, and, of course, D) are quite distinct from ours (Williams, for example). Also, I am glad to hear that British doves are happier than ours. 😉
A Semi-Serious Poem
Opposites Attract
My address is down-west Manhattan
You live in Toledo.
You wear a dress of faded satin,
I wear a tuxedo.
Your sense of fashion’s bad-assed wrong,
I’m into fashion week.
My sense of what’s in style is strong
Your eye for “chic” is weak.
I travel with my own chauffeur
I’m into Tori Amos.
My Metro-style is trim faux fur
My stylist is famous.
You can’t afford a Jag-u-ar
You drive a Ford 150
You think “First Rate’s” a drag, you are
Convinced George Strait is nifty.
Like Michael Jackson I prefer
To wear one kidskin glove.
And I (‘cause you’re not hip) refer
To ours as “ragtag love.”
Thank you, James, for your kind feedback. Now, with this semi-serious poem I’d yours, I’d say the whole homophonic gamut has been covered, from punny to serious to in-between.
I particularly like your more challenging rhymes (Manhattan with satin and so forth), and you sure have a knack for “manufacturing” homophones (prefer/hip refer, glove/ragtag love, etc). Thoroughly enjoyed your poem.
Two more with potential:
Beer/bier (Draw near, my dear. Bring a beer to my bier …),
and amuse/a Muse
A Royal Getaway
Act I
She hid a yawn behind a fan
With dazzling jewels on it
Each time a suitor came in sight,
And one by one they earned her spite,
Until one hopeful got it right —
He won her with his sonnet.
But things weren’t quite as they’d appear:
His peasanthood, once hidden,
Was soon found out. The old king roared,
“He’s not a PEER!” So her adored
Was ushered out at point of sword.
Their union was forbidden.
Act II
To ward him off, each gate they barred
Lest he should slip inside,
But nought could make him hesitate:
The bard pressed on with measured gait
Toward the palace and his fate —
To claim his lovely bride.
“Who says a princess can’t elope?”
Her servants heard her say.
To represent her royal head,
She crowned a cantaloupe instead
And left it in her vacant bed
So she could sneak away.
Act III
A frayed knot on her window bar…
Some footmarks on the ground…
The king asked, “Have we foiled their plot?”
A servant shook his head, distraught,
“Oh no, Sire, no; I’m afraid not!”
— The pair was never found.
Anna,
“jewels on it”/”sonnet” and “a frayed knot”/”afraid not” are my two favorites.
You most certainly have the know-how to tell a darn good story, too!
So, in conclusion, could it be that our challenge has reached a grand finale with a serious poem written with the poet’s tongue planted firmly in cheek?
If so, then perhaps it is time to summarize the hole end ever:
One day Joe and Jim started a merry search
For something the SCP folks could research
For homophone poems we yearned across miles
And those who wrote poetry earned a few smiles
What once we began with the dew of the morning
Now ends with a final adieu and with mourning.
Yet each poet boasts, since the whole wide-earth heard
That on “Popular Posts” we are now listed third.
After my first taste, I had to come back for seconds
But you gave me minutes, and hours, and days,
months, weeks, and years
My clocks turned to calendars
My spoonfuls to plates
, my my’s to {h}our’s and back again to days
weeks
months
and years
time passed with you
by then away
Our years turned back to months, weeks , days
Our {h}ours turned back into my’s
My plates to spoonfuls, I couldn’t take a bite
My calendar fell, my clock stopped.
Could you please come back for seconds?
Homophonic poetry
I read the title and saw red,
Homophobic poetry?
It could only be mean
It could not be right
What could it mean?
So I continued to read
As I was curious to see what others did write
But was further confused
By, “A bare bear that needed underwear”
Not to mention “a hairless hare,”
Upon my word, what rabbit hole is this,
I have well and truly fallen in, I wandered
as my befuddled brain wondered,
Flummoxed I adjusted my spectacles
And I looked again
Oh homophonic poetry, not homophobic
I nearly made a spectacle of myself
Well who knew
But for me it is really nothing new
Good grief I got the brief wrong
Glad I am alone in my living room,
Oh well, I had a whale of a time
But English is my second language!
Perhaps I should have left this in my living room. Sorry I could not resist.
This exercise is so much fun.
Even if fools(like me) are always destined for a fall…
I am glad I have found this site
thanks to my poor eyesight
I now have such great poems to read
and hopefully one day might improve
and have something worthy for all of you.
Mia,
Welcome to the SCP. I’m glad you didn’t leave everything in your living room! Hope to see more of you in the future.
The Cobbler’s Sign
DROP OFF YOUR SHOES OR BOOTS TO BE RESOLED!*
*If left past thirty days, they’ll be resold.
One little teacher…
One little teacher went to mark it;
One teacher took it back to class
Found on her desk a place to park it;
Wrote in the margin a red ‘PASS-
You must be in the market for a fluted champagne glass!’
Pears That Are Appealing
A pair of pears peered into space,
As someone tried to pare their face.
As their face became a peal,
The pair of pears gained their appeal.
An Australian perspective:
If little Johnny Howard be our greatest cricket fan—
the Merv Hughes would-be would be, mind, more armchair critic than
seasoned player— I would share with him my wish for 2020:
Bring it on—The Tests, One-dayers , BBL and Twenty20!
(John Howard, one-time longtime Australian PM, declares himself a true “cricket tragic,” and on one occasion in a practice demonstration of his unique bowling technique famously failed to find the pitch.)
O Deer, thou lissom spirit of the wood
I see you now a-leaping in a free way!
Oh dear. If I was you I never would
Have leaped into the middle of the freeway.
William, Very cute. I particularly like the phrase, “a-leaping in a free way!” It may or may not be inspired but at the very least it is very clever!
Thanks James. I now think I should’ve put ‘thee’ instead of ‘you’ in the second line and ‘if I were you’ not ‘if I was’ in the third, but that’s the price for rushing in, I guess.
William, Second thoughts are marvelous things. But consider poor Evan. Half the time I submit a poem to be posted here I immediately send a second email ask him to replace it with a revised version!
As I was writing my reply to your poem the phrase “may or may not” suggested an idea. Here is what just came of it—six homophones and one homograph in six four-beat lines. I’m glad you have been sucked into the fun.
A politician may or may
Not call themselves a “pol.”
But in the primaries each May
Our mayor will check their latest poll
Each hour. A head count helps them see
If they’re ahead or lost at sea!
Oops. Typo. Should be “five homophones . . .”
Another case of second thoughts! Lol.
Yes fair enough about second thoughts. I also had a second thought about my second thought – after ‘but that’s the price for rushing in, I guess’ I should’ve said ‘as with that poor deer.’
may or / May our / Mayor – I’m impressed!!
…but isn’t line 2 three beats? what about ‘Not choose to call themselves a ‘pol’ ?
Good catch, William. I wrote it on the fly and clearly (inadvertently) shifted the meter in the process. I like your correction-suggestion. “May your” New Year be a spectacular one!
PS: After a quick search it appears as if this is your first contribution to the SCP site. I hope it will not be your last!
There will be more from me I’m sure. Seems a bit like a spiritual home for me but also a bit like that bit in one of the Madagascar films where the zebra character from a New York zoo suddenly finds himself in Africa in a herd of other zebras exactly like him and it feels a bit weird!
Here’s mine..
I stared at the stair with the one that won the wonder of wandering award.
She didn’t like what she saw and that made her sore like a saw had been at her eyes. I’s and me’s and usses stopped looking.
There were lots of nos when her nose shrugged like that and god knows what happens when that happens.
Time and thyme are a good antidote
For what seems to be fraying seams in the after note
She’s afraid and a frayed seam doesn’t tear well or fare well or make the tare well.
I see an icy face full of wear and tear, from showing her wares and shares.
Woe is me and woah to she.
ha!