Last year (19 and 21 November) I read a few poems on Cath Kenneally’s Writers’ Radio program (digital radio, online and 101.5FM).
I’ve just noticed that the podcast is now available to download from the website.
Here’s a direct link to the podcast.
I start around the 20-minute mark.
I am surprised, pleased and very grateful: my poem ‘I will not mourn you’ is Friendly Street Poets poem of the month for April.
You can read it here.
Mayday Mayday, it’s Rescue Tuesday!
I rescued this week’s piece from My Life in Advertising by Claude C Hopkins (p 205) and The sea by John Banville (p 143).
Freeze frame
Summer afternoon pocketing thunderous idleness in the dark.
Erotic encounter
covert kiss
black-and-white screen
flickering
fading
ghosts of desire sitting in pitch-dark intensity
for hours,
manic fumbling,
twitched satisfaction
deprive primal intensity;
confinement
reputation,
balls for breakfast
conscious phantoms lurch
from joy to grey
approve to disreputable
filled fingers to wanton waste,
picture-house main feature to forgotten poverty.
It’s day number 30, the last day of writing a poem every day for April, National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).
It was quite a challenge but I’m pleased I hung in there and didn’t miss even one day. Thank you for reading and for your comments and support; it was great to get your feedback.
I’ll continue to post a ‘rescued’ poem every Tuesday, and I’ll also be posting excerpts from poems I’m working on. And any other random poetry-related news that I may have, of course.
        end of
bitter
book
East
day
dead
Howard
file
journey
Land
life
split
Living
sticky
tether
Mile
time
week
Top
wit
world
West
this
Photo by Zahira. Creative Commons, via Flickr.
Day 29, and we’re nearly at the end of this one-month sentence of writing a poem every day.
I was inspired to write today’s poem by the prompt and photograph (reproduced above) over at the Tweetspeak Poetry blog.
Roses
three, fresh-picked
extended to you,
hands clenched
bloodied
beneath scarlet undershade
uncertainty
scabbing
settling with familiar fragrance;
contempt streaks us,
you and I;
needing another name
for you
for me
for us.
We’re up to day 28 of 30 days of writing a poem every day.
I used the prompt from the Writers’ Digest Poetic Asides blog, which was to start a poem with the phrase ‘The trouble is…’ and fill in the blank. I chose ‘…choosing’.
I could have played with ‘choosing trouble’ but I embarked on a train of thought and arrived somewhere rather sad, unlike Robert Frost and how his choice to follow the road less travelled ‘…made all the difference’ in his poem ‘The Road not Taken’.
The trouble is choosing
because if you must choose
and you are not sure
you consider the options
and make a judgement;
when you choose
(even if you are sure)
you will not have chosen
one (or several) alternatives,
and even if you
are content with your choice
a time may come
when you will wonder
and maybe
regret.
Okay, so today is day 27 of 30 days of writing a poem every day. Whew.
Today’s piece came about because I was thinking about the colour purple – so many people’s favourite colour – and wondering how purple came to be associated with royalty.
Usually only a sentence is devoted to this great yarn.
The story of purple
My trusty hound and I to beach did go
one feast day, time away from household tasks,
wrestling plenty on the whitened sands,
such a jester dog, he loves to lope
always hunting food, the starving brute
throwback to his ancient pedigree.
At our Levantine coast the ocean yields
plethora of trophies for my beast
wolf-like, ever scavenging the shore.
I whistled to him, capering he came
panting, drooling, happy to oblige
and nearly did I buckle with the stink;
he nudged his massive head against my robe
his shellfish binge had fleetingly appeased
his never-ending hunger, as he gazed
at me, a purplish haze spread out across
my tunic, virgin-white no more, but why?
close examination of his jaws
revealed brown hairs discoloured, purple-gashed,
purple teeth protruding from his mouth,
I touched his jaw: my digit, purple-stained.
From whence did come that colour? brilliant hue
never had I seen its like before
during all the expeditions I had made.
He wagged his tail, then led me over to
a stash of rotting whelks behind some rocks,
he munched, the source of purple thus revealed.
I marvelled at these spiny shells, so pale,
how did such colour out of pallor burst?
So vibrant on my tunic, as I gazed
I wondered if that colour could be claimed.
I decided to investigate
this purple colour by cerulean sea.
      ~   ~   ~
Fast forward months and see what has occurred
the precious colour milked or crushed from whelks:
twelve thousand yield a miniscule amount.
This colour by name Tyrian purple known
is worth its weight in silver coins alone
a purple robe my gift to noble King
Phoenix; he was captivated so
that he decreed that he and future kings
would wear this colour, symbol of royal blood.
      ~   ~   ~
From the mouth of Heracles comes this:
a purple dish, a hound, his master’s wit.
I’m writing a poem every day in April for National Poetry Writing Month.
I have nothing to say about today’s. I’m off now to make myself a cup of tea.
Washing the hog
I schlob to gim the bingly scun
to glom a thringy-dee
you denry on the dingly klun
it’s vandik after shree.
        So hupty warr me throsey dill
        so hapty war me slees
        it’s clip the ban an sunky swill
        an fawl the glarmy tees.
But och the shoal you cangley wase
nor did a lanti low
for nichty ster you nuchty pase
nor wid me tawnie go.
        So hupty warr me throsey dill
        so hapty war me slees
        it’s clip the ban an sunky swill
        an fawl the glarmy tees.
Sumty now when tangley air
a drimpy weelin eye
you an me a glawnin tare
an n’er to drimpin wy.
        So hupty warr me throsey dill
        so hapty war me slees
        it’s clip the ban an sunky swill
        an fawl the glarmy tees.
        So hupty warr me throsey dill
        so hapty war me slees
        it’s clip the ban an sunky swill
        an fawl the glarmy tees.
Hello, day 25, time for another poem.
I love maps; love reading them, love admiring them. I have a strong spatial sense and I love orienting myself in a new city and country.
I believe that today’s poem has potential, but it’s in a very early state here. I might develop it after this frantic poem-a-day project has finished. It would definitely benefit from being stashed in the glove box for a while.
Cartography
(I)
There is something about a map:
the contours of a 3D world in 2D;
I hold a planet
folded
in my hand;
I store a country
crumpled
in my car;
I touch a glowing city on my screen.
(II)
Since first we carved world maps on clay in Babylon,
degrees of elevation, latitude and longitude
define borders
describe empires
portray nations;
man the mapmaker
charts oceans and terrain;
keen for a sense of place
we locate our own coordinates
in the topography.
(III)
Every day I navigate
Mercator projections
uncertain geographies of heart and mind.
It’s day number 24 in this poem-a-day project and I’m surprised again by where my head went with this one.
There was a prompt on the Writers’ Digest Poetic Asides blog to write about ‘morning’.
What popped into my head (who knows why) was ‘Morning has broken’, a Christian hymn that was first published in 1931 with lyrics written by English author Eleanor Farjeon. Of course it was a mega hit for Cat Stevens/Yusuf Islam in 1972.
Here are the first four lines of ‘Morning has broken’ – then see what happened with my poem.
Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.
As usual, today’s poem could do with recovering quietly before being finished off.
A wake
I mourn a broken morning
like the very first one
the one that without warning
just broke before I woke
so
I didn’t hear the blackbird speak
nor did I hear the first one
the blackbird with a yellow beak
whose words remained unheard
on that broken morning
that morning I am mourning
which meant
I couldn’t praise the singing
of the very first bird
on that fateful morning
whose melody eluded me
on that broken morning
that morning I am mourning
so
I couldn’t praise the morning
that broken, much-mourned morning
like the very first one
with a blackbird singing
whose words remain unheard
so in my ears is ringing
s     i     l     e     n     c     e
therefore
I take it on faith.