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Author is Moved to Poetry by… Facebook?

The May 16 issue of The New Yorker featured a sonnet to Facebook by writer Sherman Alexie. It manages to be both hilarious and heartbreaking at the same time, like most of our favorite writing. What do you think? Did his ode to Facebook hit the mark?

CONTEST! UPDATE! NEW DEADLINE!

Write us your best Twitter-inspired poetry (in 140 characters or more!) and post it in the comments by WEDNESDAY, JUNE 15 (11:59 pm) and you could win a copy of Karma by Cathy Ostlere. We will pick an winner and announce Thursday night. Good luck and get writing!

Also, don’t forget about our other contest to win a free copy of Nightshade! ENDS JUNE 11! Check out the post for more info.

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5 thoughts on “Author is Moved to Poetry by… Facebook?

  1. Time is short
    Life is short
    Twitter post is always short
    I’m biologically short (5’2″) but
    Playing hard
    Aiming brave
    And living fierce must always be long!

  2. BLUEBIRD

    On my windowsill is perched a bluebird-
    It’s demeanor soft and discreet.
    Listening closely to my whispered secrets,
    Grinning at the knowledge of my actions, whereabouts, and thoughts.

    The bluebird it softly spies on me,
    creeping around the edges of my consciousness.
    A bright blue speck among a hazy background,
    recording my perspective of reality, my reality,
    in 140 words or less.

    Off my windowsill the bluebird flees,
    flying off into the spectrum
    of evanescence.
    Of the world at hand.

    My bluebird whispers my whispered secrets,
    mirroring my thoughts and being.
    His stolen bounty, the mingle of words, is told to all-
    twittered from one bluebird to another.

    And so my world is told,
    in 140 words or less-
    stolen by a bluebird perched atop my windowsill.
    Left for the world who cares enough to consider,
    cares enough to contemplate-
    whatever they’ve just heard.

  3. Okay here goes nothing. Twitter is like my alarm clock. I slowly come to my senses while reading the nights tweets.

    The repetive sound of the alarm clock is a lot like the beat of a heart.
    Except it’s not a soothing. It’s the sound most dread.
    The sound that pulls you away from the simple and fictional world of dreams.
    The reason why you get up and out of the protection of your warm bed sheets.
    The simplest reason of vulnerability, even if it’s from the cool breese of the morning.
    Mariam Wahidi

  4. A Karma poem from page 39

    Dear Maya,
    Life is an illusion.
    And as it turns out, so is death.
    What is real?
    What remains when we all fade away?
    Two things: Love. Forgiveness.
    Don’t forget.

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