Category: NaPoWriMo 2012

National poetry writing month

  • Give us this day our daily poem: Poem a day for 1 April 2013 (untitled)

    I’ve committed to writing and publishing one poem every day for the month of April. Mike Hopkins and I did it last year and we both agreed that while it was a challenge, it was certainly worth it.

    You can read more about National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) here.

    The most difficult part of this challenge for me is publishing drafts of poems or incomplete versions of ideas. My internal editor has a hard time allowing these to be seen before I’ve had a chance to polish them a little.

    I’ve been interested for a couple of years now in applying constraints to writing and the effects of doing so. I have found that when I establish rules – for example choosing a particular form, number of lines, rhyming schemes and even certain ways of generating a poem – other aspects of my creativity have been liberated somehow. The resulting poems are often quite different to others that emerge more ‘organically’. I will explore more of this during this poem-a-day project.

    For example, I’ve wanted to write a poem based on the mathematical Fibonacci sequence. Then I discovered that many others were already doing this and that there’s a great online jounal called the Fib Review which publishes ‘Fib’ poems.

    In the Fibonacci Sequence, every number is the sum of the two preceding it. So, starting at 1, the sequence is 1+1=2; then in turn 1+2=3; then 2+3=5; then 3+5=8 and so on.

    The number of syllables in each line in today’s poem follows the Fibonacci sequence. I went as far as 8, then decreased. There’s also a point-of-view change/turnaround half-way through. And there’s no title.

    So here we go: the first of 30 poems in 30 days.

    Be-
    tween
    night’s and
    light’s deep folds
    lurk our darkest fears,
    tasting our sweat, testing our shell.
    Shell-blocked, we tease; whetting, we’re poised
    foretasting moments
    when we’ll creep
    through; hear
    you
    scream.

  • Poem a Day for 30 April 2012: end of

    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.

    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspend of

    bitter
    book
    East
    day
    dead
    Howard
    file
    journey
    Land
    life
    split
    Living
    sticky
    tether
    Mile
    time
    week
    Top
    wit
    world
    West
    this

  • Poem a Day for 29 April 2012: Roses


    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.

  • Poem a Day for 28 April 2012: The trouble is choosing

    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.

  • Poem a Day for 27 April 2012: The story of purple

    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.

    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp~ &nbsp&nbsp~ &nbsp&nbsp~

    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.

    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp~ &nbsp&nbsp~ &nbsp&nbsp~

    From the mouth of Heracles comes this:
    a purple dish, a hound, his master’s wit.

  • Poem a Day for 26 April 2012: Washing the hog

    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.

    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspSo hupty warr me throsey dill
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspso hapty war me slees
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspit’s clip the ban an sunky swill
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspan 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.

    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspSo hupty warr me throsey dill
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspso hapty war me slees
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspit’s clip the ban an sunky swill
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspan 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.

    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspSo hupty warr me throsey dill
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspso hapty war me slees
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspit’s clip the ban an sunky swill
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspan fawl the glarmy tees.

    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspSo hupty warr me throsey dill
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspso hapty war me slees
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspit’s clip the ban an sunky swill
    &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspan fawl the glarmy tees.

  • Poem a Day for 25 April 2012: Cartography

    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.

  • Poem a Day for 24 April 2012: A wake

    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 &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspi &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspl &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspe &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspn &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspc &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspe

    therefore

    I take it on faith.

  • Poem a Day for 23 April 2012: For the love of buttons

    It’s number 23 in this poem-a-day project.

    Yesterday I went to the launch of Thread me a button, a poetry collection by my lovely friend Jude Aquilina and Joan Fenney.

    That inspired today’s poem, which could do with being stashed in a tin along with a musty collection of buttons for a while, but here it is, all shiny.

    For the love of buttons

    I went to the launch of a book about buttons,
    poems in a red-covered book about buttons.
    There’s more to these simple fasteners
    than had ever met my fingers.
    I heard poems and stories
    about buttons for political campaigns,
    about fanciful buttons garnishing Mesdemoiselles,
    about locket buttons concealing tiny compasses,
    about box buttons smuggling drugs,
    about buttons engraved with cryptic messages,
    about buttons made from animal parts,
    about garlands of charm buttons on silk string,
    about buttons for baby booties, wedding dresses, funeral wear;
    delicate yet capable
    buttons snipped from histories
    and wearing a feminine diversity,
    unlike the engineer-designed zipper.

  • Poem a Day for 22 April 2012: Exit

    Today is day 22.

    This afternoon our poetry group discussed the ‘American sentence’, a poetic form advocated by beat poet Allen Ginsberg. Japan gave us the Haiku, which comprises three lines with a total of 17 syllables. The American sentence has 17 syllables but is not broken into lines.

    When I got home I was very sad to hear that Stephen Lawrence, a fine poet and lovely man, had passed away suddenly.

    I met him for the first time last September and spent a delightful, funny Friday afternoon having drinks with him and Martina Newhook at the University of Adelaide. I would love to have known him better.

    RIP Stephen, and sincere condolences to his family.

    Exit

    Thoughtful poet, gentle man, leaves the room too soon; a draught shivers through.