Poetry Slam L-M

Almost Most Prolific!!!!!

Leslie Bradford


Dance Party 60:

Average White Band, Madonna,

And Prince. 

Who else counts?

Another Haiku:

We're here together 

to celebrate our sixtieth

and each other


And an untitled verse:

I was feeling pretty down about the Big 6-0

When Tuck said to me, “Don’t you know

How much you have to be thankful for?

Family, friends, a roof over your head –“

I almost said, “Yes, but…”, but instead

I thought, who could want anything more?


Perhaps it’s time or maybe gratitude

I just hope I lose the attitude

That more is better and that I should have

Things that people in other places

Don’t even fathom; from Tyler I see the faces

Of people without food, a bed, or a bath.


So take a deep breath and let it go-

We’re here to celebrate and put on a show!

Thanks to the classmates who worked so hard

To make this weekend fantastic and awesome.

No one will be left out or lonesome!

That’s the end of my ditty – you can see I’m no Bard!



Most (finally) Complete!!!*
*Poet Laureate messed up bigtime and cut off last 3 lines of this brilliance in JH, but it has been restored to its original Glory!!!

Leslie Finerty



As the years have passed and memories fade

Our hearts hold on to the friends we made

And the things we felt as we learned and grew

In the classrooms, the gym and Thayer Dining Hall too.


Many miles have been added to my body and soul.

The person I’ve become never fit the mold

Of anything I expected to eventually transpire

When all was possible.  I was strong and on fire.


Back then all my focus was on me and on mine:

What could I accomplish, what could I find.

But these days I’m glad to let God take control

And follow His lead; let the path just unfold.


His ways are beyond me.  His vision is pure.

I’ve learned to know that I can’t be sure

Of what family and friends should choose for their lives,

Or what will fulfill me or where I should strive.


There’s peace in not knowing what will come next,

In trusting and waiting for the good He has set,

Our weekend will come and go in a flash.

The visits and good times will all be a blast.


We’re left with our memories of times filled with fun,

Hoping for many more weekends to come.

My wish and prayer is that somehow I’ll show

All the love He exudes, all the gifts He bestows.


The Green Eyed Pease Award with special performance nod to our Fergiest Foxiest Classmate, Lucy T!!

Luci Townsend  


Gonna Be a Good Time! (Stolen from the Black Eyed Peas)

I gotta feeling...

Jackson Hole's gonna be a good time

Jackson Hole's gonna be a good time

Jackson Hole's gonna be a good, good time


Seventy Sevens!

Let's live it up

You got your money,

Let's spend it up

Go out and smash it

Like oh my God

This ain't New Hamphire!

Let's get, get off


I know that we'll have a ball

Blow out the candles and just lose it all

We've been stressed out, We wanna let go

Let's go way out spaced out

And losing all control

(Chi Chi Chi)


Beer in my cup,

Big Green!

Look at us dancing,

Let's make a scene

Dartmouth's in town!

We'll shut it down!


And then we'll do it again!


Let's do it,

Let's do it,

Let's do it,

Let's do it

And do it and do it,

Let's live it up

And do it and do it

And do it, do it, do it

Let's do it, let's do it,

Let's do it


'Cause I gotta feeling, woohoo,

Jackson Hole's gonna be a good time

Jackson Hole's gonna be a good time

Jackson Hole's gonna be a good, good time


Granite of New Hampshire

In our muscles and our brains!

Kemeny, Kemeny

Kemeny, Kemeny

Get, get, get, get,

Get with us, you know what we say, say

Party every day, p-p-p-party every day


I gotta feeling, woohoo,

Jackson Hole's gonna be a good time

Jackson Hole's gonna be a good time

Jackson Hole's gonna be a good, good time



Pithiest…and Also Almost Most Prolific!!!!

Marcia Little


5 Little Haikus:

'Tis chance to be pith

Of youthful life at Dartmouth:

Sprouting among kith.


Of the hills, shan't tire,

Holy ground of New Hampshire:

Granite that lights fire.


Moosilauke run

Beautiful view in the sun,

Tiring yet proud fun.


Books, exams and profs

To whom the topper one doffs,

And the wind still wafts.


Into tough life hurled 

Yet hiking with thoughts unfurled,

Eying rocky world.



Most Artistique!!!

Mike Mosher


The Missus of thirty years and I went to the Detroit Institute of Arts' "Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo" show yesterday.  Saw Diego's great mural cycle, grand working drawings, plus paintings by his co-ed Frida.


Eighty-some years ago José Clemente Orozco peered angrily out of little round glasses, over an eagle beak and brush-stache:  What you lookin' at, college punk?


Orozco!  Orozco!  Now I sing out your name.  You brought Revolutionary Art to Dartmouth, and therefore sex.  Murals, purposeful historical pageant, Diego-and-Frida sex.  What's not to like?


In preparation for tasteful drinking, we all now spit [all spit], spew at the name of Nelson Rockefeller, alumni criminal who—unlike Detroit's Edsel Ford—cravenly painted over Diego's New York triumph.  


Oh, Rocky, in Baker's drafty basement, did a harried Orozco sneer at you, ignore some puerile question and go on painting, such that you'd resolve, rich little prick, to great crime against civilization?  Fuck you, fuckin' fuckefeller, silver-spoon brat; poop on his memory, scrape his name off buildings and bequests.  


Instead we toast and sing and celebrate Diego's drinking buddy Orozco!


Orozco!  I sing as cheerfully as Vernon Chadwick '75, leading a Foley House poetry night: "Hanover dogs! Trees need redeeming!" as hounds, Dobermans and Labradors swirled around him, barking.  


My own poem read that night, submitted for History 1 credit, about Martin Luther's young, monkish masturbation-qua-spiritual crisis; now why would a Dartmouth undergrad write about that?


While the ladies of the civilized coeducational alt-frathouse, and some up for the weekend from Smith, plink plunked experimentally, gentle as John Cage, on the prepared piano.


Thought of them, and all the cool and terrific Dartmouth girls in my Art classes I should've dated,

And the one who carefully sampled each Visual Studies major, a night assigned each in case one of us later got famous.


By Junior and Senior year energy could be divided equitably between art and sex, a balance brought to life both hygienic and aesthetic.  Foley girls opened their doors for me after champagne breakfasts.  Smart girl in our class with the visiting South American novelist gifted me with much, body and books.


The demure and orderly college custom of the booty call, the ten-thirty call, she appeared at the door after we've each completed the evening's study, passion as fiery as Orozco's orange and ax-wielding Christ-yellow.  Multiple passions like printmaking, another press run, then another, another, for we've got hours before dawn.


Orozco!  How could anyone in the Reserve Room study anything but your mural?


Orozco! My favorite professor.  Gave me what I needed to hightail it to San Francisco and paint, sunny socialist commitment and adventurous heart.


Like Diego's—OK, and Frida's—many romances, community murals as hit and run, sometimes painted out by dawn's light a few years later.  The work of my own lusty, exuberant twenties all gone by the time I reached the Yellow Christ age of thirty-three.


Orozco!  How I wish I'd had a resolute Ernest Martin Hopkins or John Sloan Dickey protecting my own murals from obliteration.  A chubby classmate considered my woes a metaphor for not making partner in the first law firm that employed him, yet never wrote that intended children's book for his daughters.


Everybody fill their glasses again, tequila shot or double single-malt, another bottle of craft beer, for we must drink another toast to the maestro's Mexican Progressive Temple of Civilization in the belly of the beast called Baker Library.


Orozco! Orozco! Wah Hoo Wah!

Or-Wah Oz-Hoo Co-Wah!