The simple warmth of your body starts
My own blood rushing off into small spaces
The simple warmth of your body starts
Today’s prompt was a matter of urgency, which is at odds with my current feelings of slothfulness…
The train bludgeons on,
Its rhythmical pounding a
Turning the pulse of
Mechanical swagger to
Chanting all the while
I’ll be home soon. I’ll be home
Soon. I’ll be home. Soon.
Getting this one off early today. Today’s prompt was all about the social media. As this is something I tend to avoid, (bar this and the one we do not speak of,) my poem is composed of a selection or snippets of my status updates from the past few months. Three are lyrics, most are musings and some are inexplicable, even to me…
(Doh, corrected title. What can I say, it’s Friday!)
Today, I’ve been busy fiddling with stanzas, syllables AND trying to making it all rhyme and look and sound a bit like a terzanelle! ugh. (ok, I gave up on the syllables and leaned heavily on my good good friend, Mr. Half-Rhyme.)
I knew I’d need help, so the title and first line are actually the last line from the delicious, (and slightly threatening) poem Every Day You Play by Pablo Neruda, who happened to be sitting quite strategically on my desk….sigh….
I want to do with you
What the spring does with the cherry trees.
By this I mean explosions & dramatic displays
I mean snowdrifts & the confetti stirred breeze;
By this I mean I want to only write essays
In love, in love & not out of context;
By this I mean explosions & dramatic displays.
To bypass the part where it all becomes contest;
Dividing up all our stars, mostly losing our light;
In love, in love & not out of context.
I want to do what the day does to night
& fall endlessly in and out of the grip of each other
Dividing up all our stars, mostly losing our light
To fall back to the place where we comfortably suffer
Two ends of a spectrum that never do meet
& endlessly fall in and out of each other.
By now the world is made mostly of concrete
& doing and not doing are just by degrees
The same thing, equally riddled with the disease;
I mean snowdrifts & the confetti stirred breeze.
Hooray, halfway there! Well, I am not sure how I feel about that actually, a little bit relieved and also a bit saddened. Anyhow, if the rest of the month continues like tonight’s efforts, I shall be shipping out early! A very uninspired poem from today’s prompt indeed…
We need to talk. The thing is, I’m leaving.
I’ve met another poem. One that really understands me,
who seems to know exactly what it is I want to say
and says it for me in the most beautiful and exquisite ways.
I think you know the one I mean,
that time in the bookshop. I couldn’t stop staring.
It was love at first sight.
And we haven’t exactly been getting on recently have we?
Most days, I even wonder why we bother. You’re just too hard
to live with. You’re precarious, temperamental, elusive, prone
to violent outbursts. Basically, you’re so underdeveloped
it’s like living with a teenage boy. You demand all my attention
and always let the tea go cold! Frankly the sex is appalling.
Oh, yes, you bang on enough about it theoretically,
always rolling around in your lines, aren’t you?
But where’s the performance? Where’s the meat and bones?
Don’t think I haven’t noticed there are more gaps
in your stanzas than substance.
I can’t cope with your insecurity and jealousy,
I crave stimulation from other poems!
I think it’ll be better like this; you can grow fat and sad
and maybe create something from the pain.
I’ll live on someone else’s half imagined world
where perhaps if I can spend my time
doing something other than worrying about where
your next comma is coming from, this would be a life less
Hey, don’t know where the time is flying this month…
Today’s conversational piece was a challenge, but although this needs ALOT of work, it’s turned out better than I expected, which is always a bonus…
Sweet Nothings, or, a Song and Dance Between a Flower and a Bee
Darling, you tickle Ah sweetness, my love
me so, your wandering hands your colour is my calling.
extract secrets from hidden pockets For you are all I see.
and shake alive my static body; Your softness beckons,
I’ll widen for your deepest tongue let me roam you, I quiver
come, discover the purest joy… on the very verge of touch
I am powerless. To fall down drunk,
Should you desert me now, I full of daytime stars and kisses
would wither into berserk in abandon, no heaven
dust. could be this sweet.
My poem Contains Spoilers has been chosen as poem of the week at the wonderful international literary mag The Missing Slate.
Today the prompt was to write a riddle poem. I’m a little bit in love with Sylvia Plath’s Metaphor poem, so I’ve written my own Sylvia inspired piece. I’ve stuck to her nine syllable line limit too, just for kicks (unless you’re the sort of weirdo who pronounces ‘stripped’ as two syllables instead of one in which case we could have a black and blue vs white and gold sort of argument looming …
I am the songbird, the free sample
a subtle prayer, the carnival wheel.
I am blood ecstatic in motion,
a fruit cake, the birthday candle smoke
winding up lost to some dark ceiling.
I’m the dedicated daisy chain,
a crooked bone stripped and vulnerable,
the lost letter, the crushed leaf, the curse.
I took everybody’s marshmallows.
I am biting your nails to the quick.
Exhaustion is working its magic . Or I’m overdoing the cocktails….Today’s prompt wasn’t quite the event in easiness I was hoping for…
One day it just wakes up, as though the alarm has been set all wrong
& panic struck, erupts, whistling and tempting back the wildlife
With its sparse-to-blooming change of wardrobe
And our grey eyed daughter & doe eyed dog
Rediscover their favourite space; devote
Themselves, rolling on its living carpet, to the passing of the day.
One day it just arrives & the sun, somehow newer, makes our bodies
Newer too; dusts off the loose skin of decay, shines a brilliance
Into our eyes & our mouths shoot off new buds,
& all we think about is ourselves on the trampoline under the full moonlight
When even the midnight air, stony as it was, couldn’t mother
An ointment to soothe our ferocious skin, or shake us up, out of the moment.
Today is like my worst nightmare. It’s not the syllables that get stressed when there is a strict form to conquer… so we’re going short, sweet and syllabic-ally correct and not caring for the trochee or dactyl counts in this almost sapphic poem because, really, what is the point?
Gently the woods takes us in with hinged arms O-
Pen to greet, hushing careful breath over the
Swarming bluebells upright in the blackened beds;
The day’s not lost, yet