Let's Write About a Gunfighter

jst5150

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Greets all,

This thread officially starts a new AW poetry project: The Gunfighter Hollis Brown. You can call it the poetic sequel to the Blue Rock Project.

Like the Blue Rock project, the GHB collection seeks your poetic input. So let's contribute poems that share the stories of Hollis Brown, victims of his work, tales of his myth and so on, whatever you like. In the end, we want to paint a picture of his life from birth to death, and the ripple effect that he had on people's lives. (And from this point forward, I'm almost copying verbatim the William Haskins parameters from "Blue Rock" with small changes ...)

In fact, to quote Haskins: "edgar lee masters' brilliant work spoon river anthology. basically, it's a collection of poems about the people of spoon river, written from their graves. it was published in 1916, so i thought, near a century later, that it might be fun to do something similar, but updated."

So, let's write some poetry. :)

There is no rule that you have to write them post-mortem. The person can still be alive. Also, you don't have to write about "yourself"; you can be one townsperson and write about another.

The only rule is that you title the poem with either the subject's name or their "role" (in other words, it could be "Elmore Childs" or it could be "The Town Drunk")

There are no restrictions on form or style.

about Hollis: While I want you all to have as much freedom as possible, it's counterproductive not to have a consistent setting. So, to that end, the guy's name is Hollis Brown. He's a outlaw in the late 19th Century who steals money, kills people and robs trains. However, you can feel free to write about events before or after Hollis in the "now."

Hollis' life is neither romantic nor devoid of emotion. He whatever you will make him to be. Geography is irrelevant. So, if you want him to take a trip to New York City, that's fine. Slow boat to China? That's OK, too. All I ask is this: Gunfighter. Outlaw. Scoundrel. Human being.

So... have fun and play along if you like. if no one is interested, we can just let it fade into the archives. my feelings won't be hurt...

Finally, I'd like you to make whatever work you publish in this thread available under the Creative Commons license. If you are unfamiliar, here's a link.

I'll have my contribution later today. I'd like to see yours, too. Thanks, again, to Haskins for the inspiration.
 
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Machel

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I'd like to play but I don't know what to do. Can you break it down for me?

(yea....I'm new)
 

jst5150

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Just write a poem (form of your choice) about the above topic and post it here. That's it. :) Post as many or as few as you like. And have fun.
 

Machel

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Ok, this is pretty pedestrian but it was fun to write.

The Death of Hollis Brown

6 foot 4 is what he stood
from heel up to his crown
most evil man you'd ever meet
the outlaw Hollis Brown

The ladies made the children hide,
the men all shook with fear
the bustle in the small town stopped
when Mr. Brown came near

Every posse member claimed,
from the gallows he would swing
but just as the lawmen would draw close
old Hollis took to wing

Pistol flashing silver
in the Colorado sun
Hollis spun on dusty boot
to face a threatning gun

"You killed my Pa" a young boy said
shaking from head to toe
"before you pull that trigger boy,
there's something you should know"

"My name is Hollis and I am
a legend in this town"
before he uttered another word
the outlaw hit the ground

"Mister, I don't care
if'n you say yur Billy the Kid,
I told my Ma I'd make you pay
for whut you gone and did"

Now some may say the story of
his death is just a tale
that he still lives up in those hills
growing old and fraile

Others say a grizzly bear
or indians brought him down
but n'ere a man will ever forget
the outlaw Holllis Brown
 

skelly

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I'm in for this....let me mull it a bit. Sounds like a lot of fun! I'll have something by tomorrow morning.

Great project, J :)
 

JBI

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You want us to try to emulate the idiosyncratic style of Masters, or write in our own way?
 

jst5150

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You want us to try to emulate the idiosyncratic style of Masters, or write in our own way?
Whatever for you choose is acceptible. Mostly, I just want you to immerse yourself and enjoy the writing -- and contribute. ;)
 

Machel

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Did I do this right? I don't even know what an idiosyncratic style of Masters would be. :-(
 

louisgodwin

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Cool! I'm in.


Is there a time limit? A deadline?
 

CACTUSWENDY

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Machel....what ever way yours is done ....I think is cool. Nice job.
 

skelly

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Okay, here's mine...

Ivory

people said
"hollis, don do it,"
and i reckon it's a petty thing
to kill a man for his gun,
but i've always wanted
ivory pistol grips.
my pa had some
and well i remember them,
up-side my head,
or in the small of my back.

durango's a hard spot anyway,
and i offered to take the gun regular.
he said he'd give it to me alright,
and the whole room hit the floor.

spent powder leaves a thin gray haze
in the sunlight that slants
through the saloon door.

rode out of town
calm as a preacher.
no posse in durango,
no sheriff, far as i know.
the gun felt good on my hip,
heavy and mean,
like it wanted to be there.
prettiest ivory grips you ever seen.

i've always wanted
ivory pistol grips.

my pa had some.
 

ddgryphon

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I'm in, but are all the poems about Hollis or can it involve people he's met or knew him as a kid etc. etc.

Just want some clarity--I am interested in this and will participate.

We have till the end of the month--the end of your term?
 

jst5150

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I'm in, but are all the poems about Hollis or can it involve people he's met or knew him as a kid etc. etc.

Just want some clarity--I am interested in this and will participate.

We have till the end of the month--the end of your term?
First, the poem can be anything you like as a long as it touches Hollis in some way. You don't even have to mention him. Just so long as there's a tacit connection.

The project will go until June 15 or longer if we keep getting submissions.

Again, I encourage your submissions of any poetic form.

Thank you!
 

PattiTheWicked

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Melissa Aldridge

She was on her way to San Francisco
but got stopped somewhere along the way
in a no name town like the one
she left back in Kentucky
so she thought she was just passing through

But the days turned into weeks
and then the weeks turned into years
and she sits and looks out
at a dusty street
the boys look up and whisper "whore"
when she isn't looking
or even if she is

A part time job with part time cowhands
dealing poker doesn’t pay the rent
for a few dollars extra
she takes them upstairs
watches the ceiling for a few minutes
listening to the rhythmic thump
and always ends up sleeping alone

He was on his way to San Francisco
stopped in for whiskey and a game
she took him upstairs
where he warmed her bed
but this time was different
not like the others
because afterwards he just held her and said
I need someone to wake up to

She wondered about him
for weeks on end,
those ice-blue eyes and lazy smile
some time later she saw them
looking up once again
from the "Wanted: Hollis Brown" poster on the sheriff's door

When spring rolled round, she knew she was quick
born in a summer storm
she looks down at her son
with his bright blue eyes
and wonders if someday he might just kill
the boys who call her "whore"
 

jst5150

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'Hundred Tombstones

Th' say there's a hundred tombstones
lined here from fence to fence
each one a marble protrusion
but one never made no sense

Dust drifting a Kansas wind dance
An orange glow from a Wichita sun
Carved on one stone's my family name
and buried beneath is my son

Though he started this world a bastard
he came 'round good with some school
but went on to drinkin' and gamblin'
and became a roughridin' fool

I remember the day he went ridin'
And came home with pockets of cash
went to the saloon, found him a hooker
And it all went away with a flash

Then in to our town came that gunfighter
for some rotgut and a quick game of poker
sat down did my boy at the table
lookin' for aces and jokers

Three hands in, that fool boy faltered
Got caught with an ace up his sleeve
Gunfighter emptied one revolver
And the other before he did leave

Bloodied, we did go collect him
What was left did fit in that pine box
I shoveled six feet in a rainstorm
Through weeds and clay and rocks

And I counted each tombstone before 'im
Ninety nine and a deep sense of dread
A gunfighter's bounty lowered in deep
and that bastard made number one hundred

So, should you come ride through Topeka
And you see them stones lining the field
Do take yer hat off and remember
What sometimes a father might feel
 
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jst5150

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Bumping this to thank the current writers for their submissions and to ask you to submit your work to this thread when you're able. :)
 

Haggis

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Bumping this to thank the current writers for their submissions and to ask you to submit your work to this thread when you're able. :)

You'll be sorry. :D

Baby Girl Jepson

Ma's minding her own business
In the kitchen making bread,
When that feller started shooting.
One shot hit her in the head.

I guess he didn't mean to,
But he kilt her just the same
With a ricocheting bullet.
Hollis Brown's the feller's name.

He was shooting at some gambler
In the middle of the street
'Cause he'd called him out at poker.
Said he's nothing but a cheat.

The bullet went through him and Ma
Then plowed into the wall.
I think I was alive still
But I really can't recall.

See, Ma was eight months pregnant;
I was curled up in her womb.
So they buried us together
Side-by-side inside her tomb.

Now, Brown he didn't feel bad
When they told him what he'd done.
In fact he started bragging
That he'd bagged a three-for-one.

They say he's mean and evil;
That he kills folks just for fun;
That the devil lives inside him;
That he's deadly with a gun.

So if you run across him
You'd really best beware.
And don't you go and challenge him.
You haven't got a prayer.

*Haggis slithers back to the horror forum where he belongs*
 

Stew21

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I put a sticky on this so it stays at the top for a bit. I want it to get noticed! Great project, Jason!
 

Sarita

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I'm definitely working on something. It'll be a while, but it's forming in there right now. :) I've enjoyed all the poems thus far. Great project, Jas.
 

Jaycinth

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Same Psychosis...different day.
Ok. This isn't good but it was in my brain.

Ansel Ferkel: The Ballad of Happy Bend

The morning sun had not yet risen
Over the town he’d been hired to save.
Yet Ansel Ferkel shoveled more dirt,
onto another desolate grave.

They’d come begging to him at sunset,
promising him riches and a feast
they’d offered to him their hearts and their homes
If he’d come, slay the terrible beast.

Ansel did not want their fortunes
Ansel did not want their farms
Ansel did not want their daughters
even though those hearts were warm.

He walked back to the lonely town,
Ansel had no horse to ride,
he returned to the saloon before the sun rose high
and then he went inside.

There were no girls a dancing,
there was no poker game
there were no folks yet walking about
to give ‘Happy Bend’ it’s name.

So Ansel sat there waiting,
his hat was covering his eyes.
He rested, contemplating
what it meant to die.

The sun, it shown all day
and bathed the streets in heat
Yet no one who lived in ‘Happy Bend’
was seen walking down the street.

The trains came down the tracks
they came at noon and three
the trains they came, but they did not stop
Leaving ‘Happy Bend’ to be.

A locomotive stopped at sunset,
a stranger did arrive.
Hollis Brown, he called himself,
and tonight someone would die.

He felt town’s eyes on him
he walked streets cloaked in gloom
He noted telegraph and bank and post
and then went to the saloon.

I’m Hollis Brown, he said gloating
I think you’ve heard of my name!
Get me some whiskey here quickly
Or I’ll be worse than your bane!

He took a seat near to Ansel,
for convenience, or maybe a whim
it was clear his attention was focused
on a bar maid with porcelain skin.

She brought him a bottle of whiskey,
she brought him a bottle of gin.
She brought him smiles to his lusting advances
the barmaid with porcelain skin.

She led him the staircase,
he smiled from ear to ear,
Ruby lips and soft white skin,
what did Hollishave to fear?

He saw them fang’s a flashin’
as they headed to his throat,
the only thing that saved him that night
was a stolen cross around his throat.

He left the town then, running,
Only boots left to his name,
He was found miles away, the very next day,
without even a hat to hide his shame.

Brown told that story often
he told it until he died.
And it was worth your very life
to suggest that he had lied.

The trains don’t stop in Happy Bend,
they haven’t stopped in years,
they say the place is haunted,
Brown’s tale adds to the fears.

But if you ride your horse up
and look around with care,
you’ll see that Ansel Ferkel
is the last one buried there.

Yet you should look a bit farther,
You’ll discover something worse.
Ansel may have been the last one planted there,
but he also was the first.
 

jst5150

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A Father and Son

A Father and Son

Alone sat the rabbi
In synagogue shabbat
Surrounded in silence save
The scratching of boots on the floor

Turning to see
Chilled chattering cowboy
Who at least remembered
To leave his hat on inside

Rising to shut shul’s door
Muting a roaring rain,
Rabbi removed his prayer shawl
And covered the tall, weary traveler

Without a word, to the kitchen
Where the challah sat warm
But before the prayer
Off came that gun belt

Torn with his fingers, gnarled and weary
Visitor dug in like it might be his last
Rabbi brushed the infamous cowboy’s face
A small hand tender and warm wide smile

Still quiet between them
They said the night’s prayers;
Cowboy stood for Mourner’s Kaddish
fell off during Torah reading

Then came Alenu, and the gunbelt replaced
Rabbi wrapped his arms around Cowboy’s waist
No other words, back out in the rain
And the thunder of infrequent encounters

Alone sat the rabbi
In Sabbath’s dark mantle
Surrounded in sadness
Seeing his son go
 

dobiwon

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Here's his epitaph

R I P – Hollis Brown

Here lies the outlaw Hollis Brown
He died the way he lived
His boots were on, he owed no man
Nor wish'd to be forgive'd.

A jealous farmer gunned him down
A man with dirty spurs.
Though primed and cocked, Brown's shiny guns
Would not clear his holsters.

A moral should be taken here
You never ever know
If you will be the faster draw
Or if you'll be too slow.

Good riddance to the scoundrel Brown
Who now fills up this hole
Even though you don't deserve it
May God forgive your soul.