Category: Poem a Day

It’s day number 21. We’re on the downhill slope towards day number 30 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

This afternoon I attended a performance poetry workshop run by Mike Ladd, and of course that triggered today’s little offering.

As always, it could probably do with hiding in the ‘to be reviewed’ drawer for a few months.

Virtuoso

Between the capital letter of my morning
and the full stop of my evening
occurred my day,
crafted from a library of truths and yesterdays
shaped by tomorrow’s uncertainty
and finally
performed in surprise
like an intimate kiss with a stranger.

It’s day number 20 and I must be quite tired because today’s poem is rather odd.

I don’t know that I’d even call it a poem.

One of my fellow students, Josephine, posted a link to an article about a Ghost Nets exhibition.

I only glanced at the first few lines of it because the title had already taken me away in a completely different direction. I wrote this with tongue firmly planted in cheek.

As always, these productions are fresh from my head to pencil to screen but could do with being put into storage for a while to mature.

Ghost nets

are a serious issue for your average house phantom.
The last thing a busy ghost needs is to be bothered by the living.
Most ghosts are preoccupied with hauntings deadlines,
séance project management and implementation,
running the occasional poltergeist manifestation
and generally going about their supernatural business.
At the annual Ghost Net conference
troubled spectres present overhead transparencies
with graphs that illustrate how ghost net setting is on the increase
as the living tune in to the ghost population,
and propose methodologies for ghost net detection and safe disposal;
discussion panels and workshops are particularly popular.
A Ghost Net Tax was proposed:
this sparked a major protest
and led to Occupy Convents, Occupy Graveyards and Occupy Hotels
(they needed special permits for Occupy Churches).

Here’s my poem for day number 19 in my poem-a-day project for April.

I received Sydney Writers’ Centre e-newsletter today and after reading the ‘Weird Words’ section, this poem prickled its way onto the page.

House of hedgehog

I love it when a word
springs off the page
and startles me,
grabbing my neck
with first and last syllables,
tightening its hold
with middle syllables,
then releasing me,
standing back, cheeky,
to inspect me.
I love it when a word
wants to be welcomed
into the lemon-scented home of my vocabulary,
paraded in front of other residents,
admired, tasted, heard.
I love it when a word
wants to mark its own terrain in my lexicon.
The word that did this to me today?
Erinaceous.

Today is day #18 in my poem-a-day extravaganza for April.

Over at Writers Digest (thanks to Mike Hopkins for the link) Robert Lee Brewer is offering a prompt each day for ideas for poems.

One suggestion was to write a ‘mixed up’ poem. This could be interpreted any way you want.

Here’s where I went:

Trading places

If you were gazing at a blank page
while I was licking my bowl clean
what would you write?
If you doubted your own ability
while I dozed on my bed after a long walk
what would you do?
If you felt insecure
while I was gnawing a juicy marrow bone
how would you cope?
If you were wondering what was the point
while I was wagging my tail
what would you conclude?
If you asked yourself whether you could ever trust again,
while I waited for you to feed me,
what would you answer?

Here’s another poem as part of my poem-a-day effort for April.

I was inspired to write a Tanka by Mike Hopkins. A Tanka is a Japanese form of five lines structured with five, seven, five, seven and seven syllables respectively.

The subject matter was sparked by Robert’s gorgeous photo for today, which you can see over here.

Tanka

Bug trawling gecko
you stick to the ribbed window
like glue, unmoving;
pale pink skin, legs splayed, feasting
at your local fast food joint.

So we are on day #16: starting the second half of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

I wrote this poem outside my local post office; that’s the way it happens sometimes, they just arrive at the strangest moments and expect you to have a pen and paper ready to oblige. And I did.

Like all my daily poems it stands quivering, awaiting your judgement.

Poem for nothing

In the story
of the here and now
here is now
and now is here;
in now and again,
again,
is now
as is again;
in the here and there
is there,
and here
is there too;
in the story
of all or nothing
is all
and nothing
and all or nothing;
in the here and now
is all
is nothing
here
now,
just a story.

Day 15 and we’re half-way through National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

Today’s poem is a short Sunday musing.

As always, it has just been born so it is still raw, unedited and shivering.

Chicken

We peck and squabble
too close for comfort,
our sensibilities, caged;
fear imprisons us.
Give our thoughts free range:
cross that road.

This morning I was listening to a poetry podcast as I drove to a writing group meeting in the city. One of the presenters said something about imagining your house in a balloon (I can’t remember the exact context now).

As soon as I came home I scribbled this poem. It could probably be extended, but this is it in its raw first draft.

Trip

A sugar pink balloon cocooned my house.
We took off at sunrise,
Dog looked up in surprise
for a moment from his bone,
wagged a question with his tail
as the ground beneath his paws and my feet
rocked gently;
I drank my tea
watched from my perch
on the yellow love seat
by the large bay window
as we floated over a waking city
drifted towards burnished hills;
bewildered swallows and seagulls
and a puzzled pelican flew by;
the earth receding
disappearing
as higher and higher we soared
through silky clouds
into lilac heavens
coasting on unmarked currents
wafting through uncharted spaces.
I sipped my tea, grown colder in thinning air.
Other candy-colour-cocooned houses
bobbed into view,
we glided around each other
describing a complex dance
of polka-dots in space.
Then Dog licked my face, and I got up to let him out.

Day 13 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) and it’s time for another poem.

Friday the thirteenth

I do not believe today carries
the particular stench of bad luck.
Today, I wasn’t expecting disasters to happen.
I’m not concerned about walking under ladders
or about black cats crossing my path.
I haven’t lost sleep over that mirror I broke.
My good fortunes are not thanks to four-leaf clovers or horseshoes
although I never did find that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
If I believed in these beliefs I would be giving them the kiss of life.
So my food poisoning this morning was pure chance.

Look at that: we’re up to day 12 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

Please remember that these daily poems require plenty of editing – some more than others. I still grit my teeth when uploading them because of how rough and newborn they are.

Earlier today I skim-read a newsletter article about the importance of water coolers in the workplace for generating ideas. Today’s poem just took complete control and I let it off.

What do you think?

Water cooler culture

Our need for water
draws us together,
reminiscent of tribal gatherings
at the river bank
or lake’s edge.

We size up the new employee,
share weekend stories.
We discuss
the latest movies,
the best vintage clothes shops
the least expensive holidays
the tastiest recipes.
Fellowship develops.
We promise to do coffee, lunch, dinner,
we worry about health issues and the best hangover cure.
Ideas are shared.
We complain about bills,
the cost of child minding,
parking,
healthy food.

The water cooler
unfurls grapevine tendrils,
nourishes its gossipy stems;
we open up.

We grumble at how impossible it is to keep track of young ones nowadays
how difficult it is to find decent nursing homes for our elderly parents;
doesn’t your woman look like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth
and I bet he hasn’t seen the inside of a gym in years;
we hear about someone’s new baby: sleepless nights, ha ha.
We gasp at rumours of sackings,
snipe at promotions,
moan about yet another restructure
and confide that we’d leave home in a heartbeat
for George or Angelina or Hugh or Miranda.
Sometimes we notice knowing looks
and discover someone thought we were having an affair.