Day 18 – poem about gloamings

golden_autumn_ii CROP

Today was a tiring day with a meeting in the morning, work on technical/production documents, phone calls & planning, pulling information teeth from my reluctant-to-divulge-information director, along with a printer cartridge which needed replacing at a crucial time, all meant my brain wasn’t really in a poeting frame when 8 o’clock rolled round & I realised I hadn’t written anything postable yet.

Feeling uninspired, I used an old trick — flicking through an art website I like, typing in keywords (like “firefly”, “serenity”, etcetera) until “autumn leaves” brought me to a website of a lovely French photographer who was obsessed with both the season & the “golden hour” which meant her page was full of golds, & glowing light, rich decaying reds, browns, & yellows.

So I assembled a page & a half’s worth of picture description (me describing what I see in the photo), photo titles (or parts of), & words/phrases lifted from the mostly French comments below the photos & run through google translate, which I arranged, tweaked, edited & tried to shape.

The result is this narrative through images. I know it probably needs a solid edit to help make it, make “sense” — & I’m not sure about the last line which originally I took out because it felt like it was from another pome, but I missed what was lost & so put it back — anyhoo, NaPoWriMo is about writing a pome a day, not about masterpieces. (At least that’s my excuse, & I’m sticking.)


your hands : overlap : your face : letting go : the place remains : imaginary : you handstand : in puddles : hair caught on blossoms

the leaves of my manuscript : waterfall over the balcony : stare at blank pages : sunbeams on my skin : my house : then the sky : pity the sun : that must go down : every night

we look at the stars : & talk til 2am : different themes : on the same thought : the same person : yearning for sunshine : in different clothes

wildness in your eyes : crackles through : everything seems to be twirling : ambiguous : diminished

i lay in the field : among flowers : asleep : my book : across my face

this is the link : to us : i am me : & you are nobody

you could : hide beside me : & i could : hide inside : maybe we just like fixation : this is the madness : melancholic nostalgia : beautiful : but full of sad memories

please don’t : wake me up : i need time to dream : everything deep : so i’ll remember forever : the days we spent : together

child of the autumn : child of the leaves : child that can never be

Day 18 – Genesises & Apocalypses

New Game today. This one is called Last Line (Gone). Gotta admit, I’m a bit happy about it too. Games which involve titles or other writers’ words are really hard to construct. Far easier to have something less literal as your trigger.

So for this Game, the name kind of says it all. Take the last line of a book, use it as the first line of your poem, then once the poem/pome is complete, remove the first line. Too easy. & a lot more liberating. Different style to many posted this month: written very stream-of-consciously & with minimal editing. I also tried to let the book’s title influence the mood of the poem somehow.

Today’s last line is taken from a crime novel I’m reading ATM, The Bookman’s Wake by John Dunning (second in a very fun short series about Denver cop turned bookseller, Cliff Janeway). & so …


knowing everyone’s about — to be crushed — the weight of stars — tumble down — slash the sky — fall upon the ocean — boil it dry — steam drown the air — fall upon the desert — raise dust — fill lungs — the cough of life

adam was made of earth — eve of his rib — why didn’t god — just make her — of more earth —  surely rib-theft — was unnecessary — & if he only stole one — why aren’t our ribcages — lopsided — many things make no sense — if you question — deeply — some things — just make none

the first — of many apocalypses — a rain of fire — the book of days — the days of the screen — when poets rule the earth — pleasant fantasy — or metaphors gone wild — plato banished poets — fearful of mimesis — imitation is evil — dangerous influence — what would he know —  we try not to laugh

if only he’d banned — reality TV — or rabid evangelists — from his republic — instead — we might take him — more seriously


LAST LINE: In the yard behind the store i look at the black sky & wonder what books tomorrow will bring. [stanza 1 started by phrase: ‘i look at the black sky’; stanza 2 by: ‘in the yard’; & stanza 3 by: ‘tomorrow will bring.’]