30: Last day

Been a strange month for poems. When the children were off school I couldn't work on my masters dissertation but I could write a poem so I got the first 12 done. Then they went back to school and I had to concentrate on my studies. I have managed to write poems over the last few days, well, not polished poems, just ideas and thoughts about things.

Jo Bell's prompt for today is to write a love poem. Put everything into it, she said, make it the best you have ever written! It's not the best, but it's an image saturated in love, my love for the object of the poem I suppose, that has played in my mind and I wanted to try and turn it into words.

Framed by the wooden

Gnarled doorframe

Side view, head bowed

Naked from the waist up

Chest and arm tensed

Holding the heavy axe

Gaze heavy and low

Black hair falling over

Brow, dark eyes, straight

Nose, plump lips cannot

Disguise the melancholy

The woodcutter shifts

The axe and shoulders

His sadness until she

Takes him in her arms

And whispers something

29:

Prompt from Carrie Etter today:

Write an ode to your favourite vegetable. For inspiration, here's Pablo Neruda's "Ode to the Artichoke."


I haven't managed a poem, just a series of thoughts really, about vegetables!


chopping vegetables to make soup is my therapy
as is watching chickens interact with one another
or walking the dog through different weathers
but if I cannnot get outside to talk to hens
or raise my spirts enough to pace the fields,
making soup is there to chase the shadow away
using up what ever vegetables or pulses
i can find feels frugal and pure.
I like them all, mishapen or lumpen
they can all be chopped and boiled
into broth to feed the family
I cannot pick a favourite: I like them all

28:

Today there were eight of them,

sat in the best seats,

sipping the same cappuccino

for hours, until the froth

had flumped.

And all with an infant

crooked in an arm,

flopped on a shoulder.

He sips an espresso so scorching

it scalds his tongue but still

he cannot stop mumbling swear

words under his breath.

Why do they flock here?

The chitter-chatter of mothers

sounds like a pod of dolphins

clicking and splashing, the babies

mewing and squawking until

one by one they disappear

into folds of clothes

attached to nipples;

warm milk on demand

                  and they never pay.

27:

The family in the house
at the end of the lane
left suddenly, leaving
their possessions
and owing rent.

Last night I  looked
into their shed for flowerpots
and saw wedding cards,
broken family pictures
and a grey vibrator.

They had only been
there six months,
seemed happy..their kid
played with ours.

Then the man was on
my doorstep one day, tears
running down his skin:
I didn't let him in.

I sensed if I comforted
him he might never leave
and I hardly knew his ways

as he told me how
she had been having
an affair for five years
and their child was four.

Poem for Sunil Tripathi

Last week I heard the name Sunil Tripathi. It was being flamed all over twitter and the internet as the name of the Boston bomber. He was a 22yr old missing person and his family were desperately searching for him. I took one look at the picture of him and could see it wasn't him. He looked very different to the suspect in the white hat but people were so eager to attach a name, any name, so they could tweet it and feel useful? clever? I don't know.

 I was already feeling furious that only certain types of people (those with brown skin tones) were being circled by over eager amateur detectives. Massive assumptions were being made and one 17yr old had already been put on the front page of a newspaper with implied accusation. I was indignant and appalled that this was happening in the race to find the culprits. As one commentator stated, it became a racist 'where's Wally.'

Once the mistake was realised about Sunil, that he was innocent of any crime, some of the people who had so willingly spread the lie apologised to his family. Meanwhile, his family were still searching for him.They had set up a facebook page, asking people to write a message of love and support to Sunil.

I felt very moved by this situation and added a hand picture, my little boy's hand. I hoped Sunil would come home, hoped he was on a journey and would come back safe.

When I found out yesterday that a body had been recovered from the Providence river I was devastated. It was such a tragic situation for his family and I wished I could reach out and comfort them. Sunil was the youngest son. He had two siblings. Eldest was a daughter, then the two sons. The same as my children. My sons are also dark skinned, with dark brown eyes; I always empathise with any painful situation but this was especially poignant.

 Because it was so unfair that he was falsely accused. Because his family and all those who posted hands of hope were wishing, or praying for a happy ending. I was angry at first, asking why? Why do these things happen, why is there so much pain? There is no answer. Only that life is hard and sometimes becomes too much for people. I have been close to that myself so I understand how someone could choose to end it.

As I thought about it I knew he had been on this earth for a reason. To bring his family joy, even if it was for only a brief time. Each of those 22 years he made a difference in the lives of those around him and they will always remember him. Even people like me, who never met him, will remember him from the words his family used to describe him and the love that burned in their eyes as they talked about him and the pictures of his smile.

His family posted these words:


'This last month has changed our lives forever, and we hope it will change yours too. Take care of one another. Be gentle, be compassionate. Be open to letting someone in when it is you who is faltering. Lend your hand. We need it. The world needs it'




I wrote this poem for Sunil, just a small thing but my way of trying to understand all the feelings I have had over the last week as the search for him occupied my mind. All my thoughts are with his family as they grieve for their brother, son, nephew, friend.





A leaf that unfurls for one summer
still had a purpose, for that season
it grew and joined the canopy.

Green and beautiful it made shade
for any resting below, kind respite 
from the harsh burn of the sun.

Autumn, Winter the tree is bare
but the memory of that leaf
is still there: that cannot be undone.

11:

They were so similar nine year old Amy

decided they were robots programmed

to stride along in their bathing suits

with pasted on electronic smiles

and she asked her mother if they

could turn the TV off, her mother

agreed as she wasn't really watching it,

like most of the time it was just background

flickering and Amy was right, Miss World

was very boring, the girls all looked mutinous

as if they secretly wanted to kill the man

who designed the swimwear round.

Amy said, I don't want to win Miss World

and her mother said, very sensible dear.

Prompt for day 11:

'Wikipedia’s Random Button is a great and magical thing. Click it and write about whatever subject comes up.'
I got it from this:
 a massive list of poetry prompts...

Ok, here were some of the fist random pages wiki gave me...

1900–01 Scottish Second Division

 Assa Singh v. Menteri Besar of Johore

Lehel (disambiguation)

Pregnane

so I kept clicking random, although I know that is cheating (the pregnane hormone one could easily inspire a poem about finding out I was pregnant but there has been a lot of personal stuff thus far and trying to move away from it...)


and the next one was Miss World 1996 and that is what I am going to think about and try and turn into a poem.

10:

3 reasons why poetry sucks sometimes*

1: how it can be used as an apology;
like a pretty love poem will wipe away
the scum from the night before,
selfish scabs picked off
with sentimental sloping writing.

2: how cruel and demanding it can be;
like an unsatisfied lover it demands
attention until the poem comes wetly
across the waiting lap.

3: how it attracts and divides;
mostly it creates fierce bonds
between poets but it can also spark
into fire as the words burn one
against another into smoke.

*but I love it anyway

Prompt for day 10

Write a poem that is an actual numbered list, and let the nature of the list come not from the title but the accumulation of details. Some possibilities include: seven regrets without named parties; five historical events I wish I'd been present for and one that I had; my experiences with everyday people in different cities I've visited.

9:

I really enjoyed writing the poem (that became poem 4) from a list of words supplied by Carrie Etter.

I am happy to report she has a whole new list of poetry prompts to inspire people. Here is the one I am using today. 'Use five of the following six words in a poem: dirt, hand(s), path, tree (or a kind of tree), sky, weight.' Here is the poem I made from them. It turned into a love poem of sorts. My kind of love poem anyway.




This is not a fairy-tale
yet he is a woodcutter
and his skin smells of trees.

Leaf under sky and axe
blade against bark;
she meets him on the path

and breathes him in.
Petrol, oil, sawdust and dirt;
wholesome eucalyptus.

Today he was felling
a  gum tree and the logs
are a gift to keep

her fire burning;
His fingers are rough
but his hands are tender.

Abridged 0-29

My little poem Bikkja is included in the latest edition of Abridged magazine. The theme was 'primal' and I grinned when I read that as I thought, yes! my poems fit! It arrived in the post this morning and it made a satisfying thunk as it landed on the carpet. Words and artwork to absorb and enjoy.

8:

a pine desk
hand made by you
to fix my clutter


love is sanded
into the curved edges
and smooth surface

7:

'In the child of the soul the trees wander.'
That's what he whispered to me.

He was the master of pretentious clap
trap: he thought it made him sound

intelligent and mystical but it only
made me want to pull his tongue

from his mouth and preserve it in a jar
with a label that said:  silence is better.

6:

Beyond this moment of Winter
the men seek the first sign of Spring.

They scrape in the frozen earth,
bury the corpses of the villagers

who could not out last the bitter
time when nothing grows except bones.

5:

4:

First line generator

Carrie Etter

I've been to Much Wenlock Poetry Festival over the weekend so I was unable to post my NAPOWRIMO poems. I used poetry prompts from Carrie Etter and a first line generator. The 'first line' one was harder as they were a bit 'poetry' for me, you know, a bit flowery! Anyway the poems will follow...

4:Write a poem using five of the following six words: errand; body; world; dusk; snow; light.

5:Write a poem that begins with seeing a person who resembles someone who's dead.

6:Beyond this moment of Winter the men seek 

7:In the child of the soul the trees wander


4:

The world of bats
is one of haste
and errand:
busy, busy hurrying.

Flittermice bodies thrum,
always trying
to become invisible.
The sun at dusk

is slumped in envy
as the velvet leather bags
appear and disappear
into the thick grey air.

Dragons

The first one is still the best one,
a small scaled green dragon
hatching from a speckled egg,
small enough to close in a fist.
The others, metal and pottery,
covered a shelf until they were
packed away into a box
beneath the bed. Affection
for them dwindled and they
nearly went to the charity shop.
Instead they were given to my kids
to litter up their shelves: except for two.
The little original, still on my dressing
table next to my perfume and picture
of my favourite cat; now dead.
The other, a hand-made sleeping
dragon I lost like the friendship
of the person who made it: cold
and cruel as dragon claws.

Poetry prompts

Carrie Etter has some great ideas on her blog...

Including the one I am working on today.

'1. Write a poem about something you collect or used to collect. Focus on the rich details that distinguish the items in the collection from one another.'

poem on day 2

Your prompt for NaPoWriMo Day 2 - "January freesia, hot coffee". What small, physical things delight you? Write about them. Stick to the physical. See where it goes...


Green Park

walking through Bath city streets in the morning,
still high so that honey-coloured stonework
is magical and towering

then milling around in a supermarket until
10am allowed us all to hand over £4
for a bottle of red wine each for breakfast

and we lay on the bank rolling joints
swigging from the bottles, in hot sunshine
watching Ollie proclaim

line after line of Shakespeare
from his beautiful, expressive mouth
and Gould was quietly humming something

such big happiness and I think of it
as the sun beats in this cottage window
and I make breakfast for my children

then hang the laundry and watch it flap
as I sip from a mug of tea my
 contentment rises like sap

NaPoWriMo begins today...

I did this a few years back and got some good poems out of it and I liked the routine of writing something every day and thinking about it for a long time first. Last time I just grasped around for inspiration but this year I saw that the helpful poet Jo Bell is going to provide a poetry prompt every day. This is going to help me to get started (my mind is a blank lately). Here is her first one and I will post the poem (first draft, rough thing) later today.

'So, my NaPoWriMo prompt number 1 is - write to yourself as a sixteen year old. What warnings, what advice do you give? If you have time - write back. 

[NB I know that some of these prompts will sound worthy or 'workshoppy'. But give them a shot, especially if they aren't the sort of thing you would normally do?]