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wordsofonebeat

Books All Made of Words of Just One Sound

Feb. 9th, 2013 | 06:16 pm
posted by: pedanther in wordsofonebeat

From one of those sites where peeps keep in touch with their peeps, by one whose name I may not say here, Books All Made of Words of Just One Sound. (To start with: The Boy Who Does Spells and the Room of Things We Must Not Speak Of.) Check it out.

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wordsofonebeat

"Far back in the past, more years than you could think or count, God made the world."

Apr. 13th, 2012 | 11:25 am
posted by: lnhammer in wordsofonebeat

Though it may at first look like it, this (starts here) is not, in fact, the Good Book in words of one beat. It cheats. When the scribes can't find a good way to deal with a big word, they break it up with a dash or two. Right there from the start, with (avert your eyes) heav-en and wa-ters. Slice 'em up how you will, those are still bad words.

But it is a good try.

I'm charmed by the pic of the First Pa and Ma cast out of the Good Land wrapped in pelts of fur. Nice touch of yuck there: first they named the beasts, then skinned their new friends.

---L.
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Free works of one beat (sort of)

Oct. 20th, 2011 | 02:40 pm
posted by: lnhammer in wordsofonebeat

That is, sort of one beat -- not sort of free, for they are free. The folks who help the Gut's Berg Work do, in truth, a great Work -- they've put up all sorts of fine tales for all to read, and they add more all the time. And in with the rest, there are some tales in good words (more or less). It's right there in the names:

Swiss Clan Rob's Son in Words of One Beat
Rob's Son on His Own Isle in Words of One Beat
Chris on His Way to Christ in Words of One Beat

These all by one dame who wrote some ten score years since. I am in awe. Though not, I must say, quite the good kind of awe. But still, these have more good in them than

The Book of One Beats

which is fake sweet tales for a young child -- the sort that make me want to be gagged with a spoon. To get the taste of that out of your mouth, try these

Lives of the Head Men Told in Words of One Beat

I doubt if those from lands not my own will want to read this -- and to be sure, the guy who wrote it cheats like a cheap cheat with his long words with breaks. But still, at least his tales don't cloy like the fourth.

I'm sure there's more of these, down in the heap that is the Work's list of works, but I've yet to find them. If you meet one, please do post here and let the rest of us know.

---L.

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Work bored dumb

Mar. 11th, 2007 | 06:13 pm
posted by: i_am_stillwater in wordsofonebeat

One two three.

I count, but the bored dumb does not leave.

Why oh why do they let men work on days of sun,
when no one else does, and no one in their right mind would.
It's not to be done for coin or fun
But because coin and fun come when one does what he should.

At least, I'd like to think so.

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One bright fall day

Nov. 10th, 2006 | 01:34 pm
posted by: lacunarity in wordsofonebeat

One bright fall day, quite late at night,
which was in midst of June
The sun lay thick upon the wight
The snow shone near the moon.

The buds did sing a gay, sweet tune
The birds were full of bloom
I climbed the stairs to reach the top
to clean the most low room.

I saw ten times ten miles from me
A house just out of sight
It stood cut off with two more homes
And it was black-washed white.

The true words of the poemCollapse )

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some one

Oct. 25th, 2006 | 09:03 am
posted by: kip_w in wordsofonebeat

.
SOME one came and knocked
At my wee, small door;
Some one came and knocked,
I'm sure – sure – sure;
I harked, and I peeped out,
I looked to left and right,
But nought could I see stir
In the still dark night;
Just a big black old watch bug,
Tap- tap- tapped in the wall,
Just from out the deep wood
The screech owl's call,
Just the creak of night bugs
While the dew drops fall,
So I know not who came and knocked
At all, at all, at all.

Walt de la Mare


[from an old kids' book I love -- this strikes me as kin to "Those Who Heard"]
.

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to steal a child

Jul. 20th, 2006 | 02:08 pm
mood: s a d
posted by: kip_w in wordsofonebeat

.
Where dips the rock-filled high land
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leaf green isle, and
By its shore long-legged birds wake
The slow-eyed sleek wet rats;
There we've hid our great elf vats,
Full of red fruit;
Our lips drip the juice of our sweet loot.
Come with us, O earth-born child!
To the lakes and to the wild
Hand in hand, with fays now go
For the world's more full of tears than you should have to know.


Where the wave of moon's rays shine out
To gloss dim grey sands with light,
Far past the marsh we line out
And we dance all through the night,
We weave the steps of old,
Hands we touch and looks we hold
Till the moon shall take its flight;
To and fro we leap,
Chase the foam that floats on air
While your world groans with its care
Turns and calls out in its sleep.
Come with us, O earth-born child!
To the lakes and to the wild
Hand in hand, with fays now go
For the world's more full of tears than you should have to know.


Where the pure stream roams and runs down
From the hills that top Glen-Car,
In rush-ringed pools, when sun's down,
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek the sleep of a trout
And hiss soft words in their ears,
Give them fear in their dreams;
And lean so soft out
From ferns that drop their tears
Out o'er the young streams.
Come with us, O earth-born child!
To the lakes and to the wild
Hand in hand, with fays now go
For the world's more full of tears than you should have to know.


And now with our band he goes
The dark eyes wide:
He'll hear no more when it lows,
The calf's call on the warm hill's side
Or the black pot on the hob
That sings peace to his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the black oat chest.
For he comes, the earth-born child,
To the lakes and to the wild
Hand in hand with us he'll go
From a world more full of tears than he will have to know.


by Bill Yeats
.

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There are (or were) some more strange than us!

Jul. 18th, 2006 | 09:43 am
posted by: pedanther in wordsofonebeat

See:

MAD
APE
DEN at http://www.madapeden.com/

Where they wrote in words no more than three things in length. (By "thing" I mean those things of which there are five in the word "thing".)

It seems to have been left to the ones who push ads, but it is still worth a look.

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"I was born at York on the first of March..."

May. 11th, 2006 | 07:46 pm
posted by: kip_w in wordsofonebeat

.
This might as well have been made just for us: great books set all in words of one beat. When? By whom? Go and see -- odds are your jaw will drop like mine did when I saw it. But then, why think we were the first to think of it? This comes from Boing Boing, a source of cool stuff. You can get the link from them.
.

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The Face on the Bar Room Floor

Apr. 29th, 2006 | 08:18 pm
location: home
mood: hoom
tunes: hum
posted by: kip_w in wordsofonebeat

It was a warm eve late in June; a fair sized crowd was there,
Which well nigh filled Joe's bar, out on the far edge of the square;
And as songs and well worn tales poured through the lit frame of the door
A poor man with no home crept in and stood there on the floor.

"Where did it come from?" one wit said. " The wind has blown it in."
"What does it want?" his mate chimed in. "Some red eye, rum or gin?"
"Here, boy, go sic 'em, if your gut don't get sick from the work --
I'd not dare touch him with a fork, his stench is like a Turk."

These words of wit the poor wretch stood and bore with no ill grace;
In fact, he smiled as tho' he thought at last he'd struck the place.
"Come, boys, I know there's warm hearts to be found in this fine crowd --
To be in such a group of men would make a monk feel proud.

"Give me a drink -- that's what I want -- I'm out of funds, you know,
When I had cash to treat the gang these hands of mine weren't slow.
What? You laugh as if you thought these pants ne'er saw a sou;
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks, that's braced me real good; God bless you one and all;
Next time I pass your door way I won't fail to make a call.
Give you a song? No, I can't do that; my days for song are past;
My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and I know my lungs won't last.

"I'll tell you all a tale to make you last, I swear it's true.
Say! Give me just one more glass full, and I'll tell you what I'll do --
That I was once a man of means not one of you would think;
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me just one more drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life in this old frame --
Such small drinks to a bum like me are far too weak and tame;
Pour right up -- there, that's the scheme -- and from your best stock, too.
Well, here's luck, boys, and thanks, Joe, here's the best from me to you.

"You've all been more than kind to me; I'd like to tell you how
I came to be the sort of sot who begs booze from you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with strong arms, frame, and health,
And but for one wrong step ought to have made a world of wealth.

"I worked in paint -- I don't mean that I daubed on bricks and wood,
But I made art, and for my age, the word was I was good.
I worked hard for my muse, and I was all set fair to rise,
For bit by bit I saw the star of fame rise 'fore my eyes.

"I made one great work you may have seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame.'
It brought me scores of scores of pounds and taught the world my name,
And then I met my one great love -- you'll all laugh at this part --
With eyes that turned my brain to stone and sunk right in my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? Is it not ripe that this foul sot you see
Could love a lass and think that she might give love back to me?
But 'twas so, and for a month or two, her smiles to me were giv'n,
And when her lips in love touched mine, it took me straight to Heav'n.

"Boys, have you set eyes on a girl for whom your soul you'd give,
A form the Greeks would carve in stone, too fair by far to live
With eyes that would put the sun to shame, and a wealth of nut-brown hair?
If so, 'twas she, for in the world, there's none been half so fair.

"I'd set to work to paint a face, one fine day, late in May,
Of a friend of mine with fair hair who lived just down my way
And my love said she liked it, and would so much like to prize
The chance to get to know the man with such a pair of eyes.

"It took no time to know him, and scarce that month had flown
Than my friend stole my love from me, and left me on my own;
And ere a year of grief had passed since all my joy had fled,
The gem I loved had ceased to shine and my true love was dead.

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I thought I'd see you smile.
I thought you'd see the joke in it, and you would laugh the while.
What's wrong with you, my friend? There's a tear drop in your eye.
Come, laugh like me. 'Tis babes and dames and simps that ought to cry.

"Say, boys, if you give me just one more full glass I'll be glad,
And I'll draw right here for you the same face that drove me mad.
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the ball game score --
You shall see the face of my love, drawn right on your bar room floor."

One more drink, and with chalk in hand, the foul tramp set his hand
To sketch a face to buy the souls of all men in the land.
Then, as he placed one more lock on that sweet and well-formed head,
With a fear-filled shriek, he leaped and fell down on his last work -- dead.

Hugh A D'ar, see?

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