Tag Archives: NAPOWRIMO

April 22 – Day Twenty Two: night visitors

Disturbing visitors last night inspired this. NB this still isn’t on word press despite being back in town is because I got back to discover my electricity has been disconnected. The glamorous life of the poet.

The Outsiders

I’m the proverbial snug bug in a rug
Bedcurled, thriller-reading when the attack begins
Intimate thunder that sounds far off
Yet feels close, frantic rain beating, never falling

As the numbers build, so too the sound
The fury, dive bombers splatting glass
On the neighbouring mesh screen, maniacal harpists
Frenetic playing to appease the wild god of light

Again & again they bash themselves
Over & over they wingertip strum
Till they fall to the ground, broken

There turn violent circles, overwound
tops hypercharged on red bull
Tyre smoking donuts by kamikaze hot rods

Already dying, despite only abandoning
Brownpaper sleeping bags hours ago

If the desire to embrace fire is so intense
Why not fly, Icarus like, at the sun

By the time dawn arrives, silver light filtered

By low clouds, dozens of wing-wrapped coffins

Sleep on

Concrete

*****

moth

Image moi. 

April 20 – Day Twenty: scottish inspiration

The following text is what I posted on fb that day.  Just realised I haven’t posted Day 20 – NaPoWriMo here. Came onto fb over an hour ago & got sucked into a quagmire of Easter posts, funny cat vids, ghost cars & a Guardian article “Top 10 Easter scenes in literature” which lead to several other Guardian articles I read until POEM OF THE WEEK Monday 7 October 2013.

The picture accompanying this online poem led me to write my own poem on a similar theme to Butlin (but less eloquently) & abandon the poem I had been thinking about/working on for much of the day.

Princes Street
(Holding its cup out to “Nicolson Square” by Ron Butlin)

Frozen on the silvermirrored ground
& in diamond focused digital clarity
Behind us the steeples stepladdering souls
to heaven are fuzzy & drizzlefaded
Hands buried in jacket pockets
Or, better, gloved
Under the brolley, from beneath the hood, or beret
We all look without looking, from the corner of our hearts

We know she’s there, but if we pretend she’s not
We can continue our golden walk to work, unencumbered

She, huddling in her shrugged shrunken hug
has one red glove on her lap
Perhaps to better emphasise bare finger tips
holding the paper cup
Her eyeshadow sockets stare off
somewhere at knee height but at no-one’s knees
However, the detail I’m most drawn to is,
that, the edge of her dirtybrown blanket is wet

*****

The city and the city … a woman begs on Princes Street in Edinburgh.

Image: Princes St.  Source Page: The Guardian, Poem of the Week: Ron Butlin.

April 19 – Day Nineteen: the theme continues

Still at country retreat. Same Word Press issue.

This came in a white hot rush & has barely been touched.  It’s almost Day 18: part 2. Or draft two. Or whatever. It’s a better poem than yesterday’s, that’s for sure. Was posted on fb 11 hours before midnight!!! I was impressed.

On at least one level the inspiration for today’s poem should be obvious.

Tomb

Buried. In darkness. Alone.
Wake surrounded. By the scent of aloes.
& bitter perfumes. All is dark, cold. Every
atom aches. Every muscle. Wine soaked.
Sinew & bone. I am sore. To my core.

The air smells. Mushrooms. Liquorice,
Damp smouldering wood. Eat the aloe.
Make myself sick. Eject the poison.
Wounded. In dark places I dwell. Alone
In a cave. Just me. & my angels.

*****

2014-04-24 09.53.56-8

April 18 – Day Eighteen: Easter ghosts

I saved a bunch of articles I was planning to use/explore in poetic form during NaPoWriMo. Yet almost every day, something more “personal” gets in the way.  Good Friday (the day this was written, was one of them.)  This poem was written in the car on the drive between Adelaide & my parents’ farm.

When I re-read the poem for the first time since posting it on fb almost a week ago, the irony is, the poem itself has a huge hole. The one thing I always think about at Easter is not including, other than through indirect allusions.  Maybe it works, maybe it needs to be addressed in May, when NaPoWriMo is over & the editing process can begin on all these half begun, half completed poetical sketches.  I want to tweak it even now, but will save that for later & repost as first put onto fb.


What I think of when I think of Easter

Looking over the litany of Easters past
I recall very few moments of chocolates & egg hunts 
Haunted by decades of bright eyed moons

Floating down houseboat rivers, discovering cunnilingus
Climbing cliffs, faking falls, tomato sauce for blood
Church surfing with fish laughing at services
Glorious joyous days before he finally died
Driving overnight interstate thinking I was driving to true love
Some lost at the bottom of a bottle
Crashing cars in suburban streets
Several lazy long weekends at the farm
Amusing my nieces, annoying the rest
Walking with a black dog, before meeting my souldog

Tonight the moon’s a ruddy oblong egg
Low, ghosting the hills, as I drive north
What is life but a succession of wounds
Public crucifixions, little deaths, lying in darkness
Trapped beyond stone, & eventually rising to do it all again

What pains me are the holes
Years I can’t remember – when I’m the only constant
No other person or thing to act as yardstick
& the holes

Lovers lost, friends forgotten, children never held

*****

blood_moon_by_darkriderdlmc-d4rzhrg

Image: Dark Moon by darkriderdlmc @ deviantart.com

~interlude~

Apologies to those following this blog for the absence of new poems over the past 6 days. This was unexpected owing to three factors:

1, being away from my wonderful study over Easter
2, while being away, being unable to remember my WordPress password to be able to log in via iPad (the method by which I intended to fulfil my posting duties)
3, returning from Easter Long weekend away to discover my power had been disconnected, followed the next day by my phone (apparently large multinational companies don’t take too kindly to financially struggling poets not paying their bills!) Both are now reinstated & the catch up will begin.

The good news is, I kept writing over those days, posting each day directly as a Facebook status instead of linking this page to fb.  So it shouldn’t take too long to update everything.

Let the deluge begin! 

April 17 – Day Seventeen: dreams of you

Well yesterday’s experiment didn’t quite get the response I was hoping for.  Hahaha, oh well.  (There’s still time to go back & play if you want to.  Read Day 16 & comment at the end for a chance to win a special prize – it has to be on my blog, fb & twitter comments don’t count.)

Maybe that’s why writing today was tough. I was a bit down. Tried a few things. Messaged a friend in the states just as he’d woken from a bad dream (it was 3am in Maryland).  We talk a bit about bad dreams. I never have them (though I have woken myself up from laughing in my dreams & in my body at the same – glorious sensation – although I think it’s how the dali lama must feel). Tried to write about that, meh! Tried to write about my friend’s scary dream of being left alone, meh.

Then this came out. Of nowhere. Not sure I understand it. Pretty sure I like it.

Shades

Half-woken scraps of you swirl round
the half sunrisen gloom of my room
through tannin-thick wetpaper-thin skull

Like souls of men recently killed
on a battlefield, afraid to leave

We have not spoken in two weeks
keep eyes closed as long as I can
these torments all I have of you

A herd of cats claw my legs
tripping me, demanding to be fed

For while I only half-remember
the dreams, I’m reluctant
to relinquish what little I have

So I leave the black shroud cloth
covering my eyes & drift

It is a prism refracting weak light
each intersection of weft & weave
it’s own rainbow link to another world

Opaque, shiny as an insect’s eye
Then. I. Don’t. Care.

*****

 hidden_eyes_beauty_2_by_bayhor-d5k5p14 copy

April 16 – Day Sixteen: one of the games i want to play (finally had time)

For those playing at home, here is the first of the games I was hoping to get to for NaPoWriMo — both for me & for you. It’s been exhausting … but a blast!

First.  I’m not telling you what inspired these set of poems. That’s the first part of the game. I’d like folks to comment below when they think they have worked out what I’ve done. Heehee. The first person to correctly comment will receive a special prize — AS PART OF NaPoWriMo.  I’m excited anyways.  NB there are technically three parts to what I’ve done, but I’ll not be too picky. Bonus points, however, if all three are correctly answered.

Second. The poem which has the most comments in support of it, will be used to generate the final image for today’s post.  (& sure this could backfire & no one comments, but meh, you gotta try these things out! But I hope people do vote, cos I have such a cool idea for the image …)

Happy guessing … 🙂

 

ur:title
part i

a.
summer of secrets
april witch, silver wattle
the blood of flowers
i’m a believer
i, my beautiful friend
i the divine, the virgin
shall we dance?

 

b.
the last summer (of you & me)
you or someone like you
a blind man can see how much
i love you the city of falling
angels, the bay of angels
the indigo sky, the moon
in the water, swim the moon, a web
of dreams slow love, a distant land
the landscape of love
the scared art
of stealing how
to become an angel

exodus, exodus
not the end of the world

 

c.
tin toys
silences long gone
wise children
burning bright
suspension

the gift of speed

leading the cheers
strange days
tender
a chance acquaintance
the facts speak for themselves

 

d.
black mulberries  jacaranda blue
the stolen child  where i was from
fires in the dark  the sealed letter
lambs of god  the perfect sinner
small acts of kindness  the madness
of love  burning bright  animal instincts
from here to paternity

 

e.
tales of burning love
the secrets of a fire king
the smoke jumper
the little book
the broken world
the lake of dreams
the girl who would speak for the dead
the rules of attraction
a good & happy child

 

f.
cold mountain  dragon
dancing  the clouds
beneath the sun
air kisses  standing
in the rainbow
a million little pieces
flying the coop

 

g.
a sweet obscurity  behind the silence
the pure weight of the heart
tasting salt  where you find it
the flaw of love  the summer i dared
i wish someone were waiting for me somewhere

 

h3.
barefoot the transit
of venus snow
mountain passage
and the mountains
echoed the falling

woman
stargazer stargazing
a thousand
splendid suns

the absence
of night dreams
of sleep dancing
on thorns

 

i.
lily,
white

 

j.
the broken book
the colony of unrequited
dreams requiem

 

k.
sweet miseries: the history of love
small crimes in an age of abundance
up in the air: in the company of angels

the moon under her feet: the storyteller
the vintner’s luck: this charming man
the other side of the story: measuring the world

trespassing

 

l.
the new dark age  the debt of pleasure
i know this much is true  the hour i first believed
a dream come true  if the moon smiled

imaginary friends
the seduction of silence
the given day  feast of all souls

girls night out  fresh girls  gifted  lost
under the volcano
the hope

 

m.
oh pure and radiant heart
the speech of angels
cage of stars  oxygen
evening  end of the night girl
this side of brightness
the last town on earth
the deep end of the ocean
twelve times blessed
lost nation
chronicler of the winds
the colour of water
afloat  south of the river
a dry spell  simply heaven
farewell princess
so long see you tomorrow
child against gravity
no ordinary love story
a god for the killing

promise not to tell
promise not to tell

 

*****

2014-04-16 19.40.08

April 15 – Day Fifteen: halfway there

Technology makes life pretty awesome for writers.  (When it works of course.)  I am a big fan of Dropbox. All my writing is saved in there & I can access it from anywhere there’s interwebs. Sadly, Dropbox is clunky when it comes to editing, so I use Plain Text, which syncs with Dropbox.  With this PlainText/Dropbox combo I can write a poem on the beach on my phone, edit it on the iPad at a friend’s on the way home & when I open it up on my desktop, the latest version is there, raring to go.  It’s brillo.

Autocorrect, however, while brilliant much of the time, doesn’t always know what I want to say.  Today’s poem was influenced on a whim, by the quirk of autocorrect. 

I was sitting on a bench with the pooch, people watching, sunset waiting, after a nice long walk on the beach.  I started to take some notes on a possible “people watching poem”.  I began with “The girl who squeaks like a bird”.  Except my fat fingers didn’t quite type that.  It didn’t cope with the next phrase either … & an idea was born.  I immediately created some rules.  Well two.

1. Think of the entire line in advance & type as quickly as I could without pausing or backspacing.
2. Accept whatever autocorrect suggested.

Some lines have more autocorrect influence than others, some lines are made gibberishy by the auto; some, somehow more profound; & some just thrilled me no end when they appeared.  No lines have been edited (this also means it’s more fun/less work than a regular poem – haha!)

Esplanade Cavalcade (autocorrected)

The girl who squeaks like absurd,
as her patents ignore her
& talk over her head

The brothers who clamber along Hyde rocks,
one of them finds a cram she’ll,
the it get doesn’t want to look

The ring tonight ting yin
gets bike riders

The yummy mummy jogging
with babying pusher
& a well behaved chic lab trotting alongside

The lesbian couple who u saw
being affectionate on the beach before,
now sadly walking diary,
barely together

The cute teen girl in a purple jumper
who smokes at us as she passes,
park duly more at Chester than I

The woman with the jock terrier
who’s bum bounced a nubs of its own
as she briskwalked away

The overlay earnest woman admiring
the moshav art on the rocks
who stops to tell me to look at one further up
called “the last snapper”

The lonely guy sitting on the bench
playing with this phone instead
of watching the sub set,
or the blood mob riding behind him

*****

 

I couldn’t decide which image to go with … so I’m going with both.

 the last snapper

 

posing on a rock

 

Both images by moi.
Top: “The Last Snapper” cooperative association of Israeli smallholders art.
Bottom: Posing on a Rock. (Such a good boy)

April 13 – Day Thirteen: SUNDAY SILLY (part ii) [Family Caricature]

Today’s effort is inspired by a family lunch.  

Disclaimer: It is intended as Caricature Poem only. No resemblance to any person living or deceased is intended (except Aunt Ricky).

family luncheon

sitting down for yet another never-ending family luncheon
i notice what a truly unsightly gaggle we are as a clan

nana’s lazy eye, which double crosses her every time she’s tipsy
dad’s weak chin, still there, despite trying to hide behind a beard

mum’s jagged line of perpetually decaying dental disaster zone
grandpa’s bushy black eyebrows waggling like warring caterpillars

uncle frank’s franciscan friar’s bald patch, a tonsure reflecting god’s light
papa’s broad potato splodge nose, an elephantine red pontiac hit by a brick

sis’s dumbo ears, which if caught in a tornado would transport her to oz
aunt ricky’s wine&pizza-fuelled paunch — no, not 7 months preggers!

gran’s, actually granny is the most attractive one at the table by a country
mile … so nothing to say (besides it’s her birthday so i needs be nice to her)

while i admit i’ve inherited each & every of these delightful genetic quirks
i would stlil have liked the opportunity to pass the whole glad grabbag along
to the next unfortunate generation of freaks, causing equal amounts of angst
embarrassment remorse & bitterness … & the contemplation of plastic surgery

*****

100 lighting cake

Image: Granny using her cake candles to light her cancer stick.

April 12 – Day Twelve: anniversary (a year, a week & a day since you moved in)

The original intention was to publish this a year & a week from the day our lives meshed. The tech glitches described in such eloquent detail in a previous ~interlude~ prevented that.  So now it is online, a year, a week & a day since that wonderful day.  You’ve changed my life in ways I didn’t believe possible.

Belated Anniversary Poem

It occurred to me yesterday, I forgot an anniversary
A big one, too. A year together. A full year. Our first.
I’m not the man who wept last Easter. I am un-entombed.

I met you on a Monday, you’d moved in by Friday.
We met on April Fools Day, which some think’s funny
but for me is no laughing matter. It suits us perfectly

& even though I’m reasonably confident you’re okay
I forgot — no doubt not realising the significance either
for me it’s important to sing to the stars I’m the best

I’ve been since you came, the world’s broken in two
even to the point of my own personal timekeeping
symbology — AD is After Dog; BC, Before Chester.

Lick you!

 

 

*****

2014-04-13 21.47.56

 

Image: ChesterLickyTongue, by moi