Author: Jennifer Liston

Day 11: I don’t know why, but I really like the number 11. I see it everywhere; I like its symmetry, its simplicity, its binaryness (I can invent words if I like).

So here’s a si11y poem in honour of the number 11.

And yes, there are 11 syllables in its title and each of its 11 lines.

I’d love to hear from you in the comments box.

A simple celebration of eleven

Eleven a.m. is time enough to wake
on Saturdays, cosy in bed, luxury:
no work, in perfect time for elevenses,
coffee, croissants, and other delicacies
ease me into the light, the day, the weekend;
you can keep your cricket first eleven team,
your eleven swans a-swimming at Christmas.
So what if ten plus one equals eleven
or if November is the eleventh month?
Big yahoo, eleven is a prime number.
Eleven a.m. wake-up call: now that’s bliss.

It’s day 10 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

I was somewhat ambitious today. I wanted to write an acrostic poem (one where the first letter of every line spells out a word or phrase). Then I was thinking about Oscar’s Law (the campaign to abolish puppy factories) and how greedy some dog breeders are.

Suddenly the poem became an ode for Oscar, with a rhyming scheme of ABABCDCDE.

Of course if I had more time I would rework it thoroughly, but this is a poem-a-day exercise so you get to see my poem in all its early-draft glory.

Oscar’s Law advocates: feel free to use this in your campaigns if it suits (with attribution, is all I ask).

Let me know what you think in the comments box. I’d love to hear from you.

Oscar’s ode

Oh puppy factory bitches please know how
Sorry I am for what you’re going through
Churning out those puppies; (take a bow
All you greedy breeders, would that you
Rot in filthy cages, like your prey;)
Sad and outraged I am, how I wish
Lovely ones like you weren’t locked away
Awaiting certain death, a bitter dish:
(We humans have a lot to answer for.)

Older than we know, our lives entwined
Since ancient times dogs lived and worked with man
Co-existing, hunting, wits combined
And probably helped prehistoric clan
Ride out extinction threats; today’s dog stands
Socially perceptive, by our side
Loyal and true, obeying our commands
And we should be true masters, dignified
Without the need to exploit our best friend.

Today my inner geek came out to play.

I decided to experiment with numerical structures and write a poem based on the mathematical Fibonacci series after I’d read about other writers doing this in the excellent book The Writing Experiment by Hazel Smith.

Each number in the Fibonacci series is the sum of the previous two, so it goes like this: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55… and so on.

I decided to apply the Fibonacci series to the number of syllables in each line. The first and second lines have one syllable, the third line has two, the fourth line has three and so on up to the seventh line, which has 13 syllables. Then I decreased it, so the eighth line has eight, the ninth line has five, etc.

And how numerically pleasing that the middle line of a 13-line piece has 13 syllables! You have to love the beautiful symmetry of maths (sometimes)!

It’s day eight of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

I never know where a poem is going to go. Today’s one was kick-started by the lovely idea of cloud reading from this post at Seedlings in Stone.

Feel free to comment – don’t be shy!

Cloud watching

They both lie hand in hand on shelled ground,
trying to distinguish
dragons feeding on ice-cream cones
a dog and a bird, flying together,
white cotton wheels rolling across their childhood blue.
no blue here.
gazing up through hazy dust
through dim building shapes
through street lights, long extinguished,
through a heavy film of history
at a sky racing towards them;
sounds of planes
grow louder again
whine of alarms
begins again
as their light folds to dark
and clouds implode
into a single point.

Here’s today’s poem.

Enjoy!

Reminder

As you welcome me home each evening
always in a happy mood,
as you stretch, full belly, yawning
after gulping down your food,
as you listen, or ignore me,
as you lick my salty skin,
as I slip a collar round your neck:
remember who’s top dog.

Today I’ve experimented with writing/constructing a concrete poem for National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

In a concrete poem, the way the words are arranged is as important as the message of the poem itself.

Today’s raw National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) poem is modelled on Robert Frost’s ‘Stopping by woods on a snowy evening’, which ends with the enigmatic lines ‘…And miles to go before I sleep / And miles to go before I sleep.’

I’ve used the same rhyming scheme and the same number of verses.

Let me know what you think in the comments box.

Stopping in a Garden on a Thursday evening

This Garden, oh Gethsemane,
My Father knows I want to flee
But faith this paltry life transcends:
My duty to help mankind see.

I spent the evening with my friends
Broke bread, shared wine, now evening ends
My Father’s wish I can’t delay
On me his winning plan depends.

But Judas, you will me betray.
And Peter, by the breaking day
You’ll shake your head three times, deny,
Then cock will crow, to your dismay.

And even yet, I wonder why…
My friends, I bid you warm goodbye
Not long to go before I die
Not long to go before I die.

My day four National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) poem is a haiku inspired by an ABC article about locusts.

Haiku

Tired locusts on red earth,
hold breath to rest,
prepare to swarm.

Today’s ‘naked’ National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) poem was inspired by this lovely quote from a certain M C Richards: Poetry often enters through the window of irrelevance.

I hope you like it. Let me know what you think in the comments box.

Allowing the ordinary

I woke up at 5.30 this morning,
made myself a black coffee
in my favourite blue-and-yellow mug;
threw open the window
smelled the new-mown grass
regarded yesterday’s towels on the clothes line
noticed the faint outlines
of our three bicycles leaning against the fence
and the jumble of dog toys on the lawn;
I inhaled the fresh air
heard the doves call to each other
as elegant eucalyptus branches moved gently;
I saw a Tuesday morning blink its sleep-filled eyes,
watched an April sky pull back its curtains,
open its windows.

And later
as I considered ideas for today’s poem
my first thought was
that this morning
had been one like every other,
irrelevant
mundane
nothing special.