Le cadavre exquis

So in the olden days in Paris, poets would gather and play this game: one would write a line then fold the paper and pass it. The next poet would, blindly, write the second, then pass to the third poet and so on. I would like to try a version of this with you. Would you like to try a version of this with me?

Absolutely! Does it have to rhyme or can we freestyle/slam? I so wish you could be here tonight. I’m hosting my weekly Open Art Night.

I would like to create parameters. This adds to the challenge and the fun, of course. I wish you luck tonight. It would have been good to see.

You can, vicariously, through social media. Name your parameters.

One moment. Let me think.

Hmmm. I say we keep it simple. Write your first line. No way to do it “blindly” online. No rules. And who all is playing this game? Only you and I?

Just you and I. There needs to be rules. No more than thirteen words per exchange. How’s that?

Thirteen? You are totally awesome. Got it. Thirteen is a special number to me. Connotations and fate. Our first art show was held on a thirteenth. It’s been good to us/me ever since.

Okay. Now we need to decide who will begin.

You suggested it. You start. Ladies first.

I can’t argue those two points. Okay. Please wait. One more rule. No more than one exchange per day.

Okay. When does the game end?

I don’t know.

Best answer ever.

I think I’m ready. So today it begins. You can’t respond until tomorrow. Even if you think of something right away. Okay?

Okay. You will keep track of the poem?

Yes.

That way at least one of us is blind.

Somewhat, yes.

Such a tease to make me wait until tomorrow.

It is necessary to let the yeast rise to make good bread, my dear.

Hey. I’m the Asian. I’m supposed to say things that sound like fortune cookies.

(…to be continued, though I don’t know when…)

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À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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