Your solid shoulder exhumes my interred grief
An 'Exquisite Corpse' poetry collaboration
Nineteen people said yes to the Exquisite Corpse game yesterday. Invented by the Surrealists at least 100 years ago, the idea is that each player can’t see what the others are doing. The group can create a drawing or a poem or even a story. If you search online, you’ll see all sorts of wild drawings created this way.
Poets.org has a good summary with instructions.1
“The name ‘Exquisite Corpse’ comes from a line of poetry created using the technique: ‘The exquisite corpse will drink the young wine.’ . . . The only hard and fast rule of Exquisite Corpse is that each participant is unaware of what the others have written, thus producing a surprising—sometimes absurd—yet often beautiful poem.”
Each person DM’ed me their line in the pattern of Adjective, Noun, Verb, Adjective, Noun. A couple of you were especially prolific and submitted two lines, which I couldn’t possibly choose between. I originally assembled it in the order received, but admit to taking a few liberties once I had the whole thing put together. Let me know what you think! Thanks to all who played:
, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,Surprising? Absurd? Beautiful? See for yourself what you’ve created.
Your solid shoulder exhumes my interred grief
Hibiscus-tinged clouds drift across a periwinkle sky, while pungent horses stand musky in the valley. A clenched throat becomes a flowery meadow. Ethereal fairies promise hungover headache. Stormcloud tsunami swallows summer sky, erupting saffron light, striking cityscapes, no grace. Valerian thugs induce summer nightmares, a lonely girl strokes a furry cat. Their haunting murmurs linger on in the yawning dark. Memorized, eternal ghosts forgive silver moons. Those darling rapscallions splash in the cool river mud, mercurial mood swings blurring best-laid plans. Her sad face presses against the shared wall. Suggestive patterns beguile inquisitive stargazers, while ornate plates smash baroque tiles. A starlit wingtip slices the forgotten dream, surprising rain refreshes July streets, and crooked clouds glance dumb faces. The chaotic concubine assuages the ne'er-do-well Nobel laureate as her ancient brush hovers over white parchment. The moonlit grebe will flex his hopeful wings.
If you’re wondering who wrote which line, I published this Note revealing all. 😊
I always love to hear from readers, so feel free to leave a comment.
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I love the result - and Ben’s line for a title - and the line you chose for closure - and the stanza you made of my line - and and and. What a fun, simple collab. I hope you’ll wrangle more of these. :-)
Wonderful. An ode to Surrealism. Thank you so much for gathering our literary dali-ances and arranging them so exquisitely ✍️