Day 30 - Quote

The last day is upon us.

It is Day 30 and thank you to everyone who has read the pieces I've made this month. The main site quote for today was to write a Cento but, as someone, who is not a form fan I'm going to take the spirit of it for something else.

Today I want you to find a quote- be it from a song, a poem, a book, a film - and use that as an epitaph for the piece you write. For mine, I'm choosing a line from the Billy Joel song "Summer, Highland Falls"

Song of Isolation

"And I believe there is a time for meditation

in cathedrals of our own."

And here we begin our rituals;

of dressing;

of taking tea.

slow sleepwalk to hymn 

of computer fans - 

birdsong on high march wind.

Peace in mundanity; 

thin sheen of the familiar 

to mask a clawing despair.

Day 29 - Location

One day more... 

For Day 29, I decided to keep thing simple and use a randomly generated lovation for my poem. It came up with the bus so here we go:

Bus Ride

And on that lonely bus ride

in orange and purple sky

bleeding out our secrecy - 

hands clasped beneath a coat

and arms pressed into a seam,

watching buildings mesh

together in sunset haze - 

take this momentary bliss 

for granted until you depart 

to be greeted with a thousand 

accusing glares; sequence of

daggers pressed, exquisitely,

into your spine.

Day 28 - Free Write

Heads not in a good space today. Not vibing with any prompts so just gonna write and see what happens.

Waltz

We dance in circles -

imagined ballrooms where once 

I was crimson chiffon;

a swirl of dark petals.

Watch as he leads - 

flower on the breeze.

Watch me dipped low

as though to be christened;

to be drowned and

born a new.

Day 27 - Word Selection

3 days to go now...

Welcome to Day 27 of Napowrimo and another prompt from the wonderful Carrie Etter. This time, I'm going to be attempting the kind of challenge I love which is using a selection of words. So I'm going to be using prompt 10 from her list and, as a little extra challenge, complete it in as few words as possible while still evoking the images I want to convey (something I know first-hand that Carrie would approve of). So here is the prompt in question:

"10. For a poem that arises out of images, choose five of the following words to use in a poem; you may find it useful to free-write first about the context in which you find them in or the situation of the speaker in this environment: jackdaw, birch, brick, dandelion, nest, pond, frog, stone."

And now for the poem:

Scene From A Train Window

And here - ashen spindle blur of  birch,

              gorse yellow flash 

                                                above 

                    grey stone wall breaking onto - ponds edge.

                            Above - black arcing streak of jackdaw 

diving 

            into

                      straw-gold nest. 

                            Silver wisp - dandelion seed, 

                                                    swept away in our wake.

Day 26 - A Death

 We are so close to the end of this and I am constantly surprised that I have managed to make it all the way through the month. Today's prompt is simple; write about a death. It could be how it effects you, the dying itself or even a scene at a funeral. As we are in the dying days of the challenge, it seems entirely appropriate to have a poem focussed on death. With that said, here we go.

Fall

The sun plays hide and seek while an old woman sits on her balcony and lights her last cigarette. Ashtray overflowing, some embers still emitting curlicues of smoke. Inside the apartment, the plants are dying. Sat in the corner, rotting beside the grandfather clock that stopped ticking time away a few years ago. She doesn’t bother planning ahead - won’t even buy green bananas - she just sits and smokes, stares at the sky and waits.

The small patches of sky turn purple as the sun sulks off, fed up with its game. The nights are getting colder. Drawing in earlier. She stays sat outside. The burned-out cigarette hangs limply between cyanotic fingers. Her body slumps in the old deckchair she bought for her second husband. Across the road, the first leaves drop from an old oak tree.

Day 25 - Self Reflection

So as Napowrimo heads slowly towards its end, I found myself wondering about a prompt for today (or tomorrow if you are reading this from the future/two plus timezones ahead of me) and I was looking through old notebooks when it hit me.

This about reflecting on who you were as much as how you used to write. Find an old piece of writing you did and write in response or reaction to it. The piece I'm using is called "Better Now" which I wrote nearly a decade ago.

I won't be posting it as it is angry, poorly written and shouldn't ever see the light of day again. However, now comes response:

Better Now, Reprised

We bear these scars 

like all ills - a grounding weight;

chalk lines across the roads

of this body;

pyrite gleam beneath the 

skin of this earth.

We dance too readily across 

papers - words echo out

from our heels.

The music we sang was not 

made to be heard;

which is to say; we staunched 

the wounds with ashes 

and blamed the world when 

the burning didn't stop.

Which is to say; a teenage anger 

is flash paper - brief and bright,

built to falter and flame out.

Day 24 - Rain

Day 24 and we are keeping it dead simple...ish. Today is one from the lucky dip of prompts and it came up with "Rain" so here we go:

Rain

The night aches out in front of us as clouds roll in, dropping low and ominous in the sky; a god furrowing their brow as we walk barefoot on the beach. We feel the first drops on the backs of our necks, turnign to each other to smile as the cascade begins. I brush hair out of your face, tuck the wet strands behind your ear. Your hands at my waist, holding me like a porcelain vase - delicate, caring. I place my palms against your jaw; a vessel of wine gifted. I guide your lips to mine to drink.

Day 23 - Charles Simic

 So as we are a week away from the end of Napowrimo and I've decided to go back in time a little bit and use a prompt from my old Prose Poetry class, run by the one and only Carrie Etter. It also happens to be one of my favourite exercises we do. 

A key figure when it comes to studying the art of the prose poem is Charles Simic and the exercise in question is to create our own "churches" in response to the poem Church of Insomnia. I've done a couple of these over the years but for this I felt like going a bit more biblical. So here we go:

Eden

The hedgerows are getting unruly, left untended for too long. Weeds have taken up residence in the plant beds and refuse to leave the other tenants in peace. Adam and Eve can be heard banging at the rotting door in between heated arguments and accusations. A pomegranate tree stands bare as feral creatures fight over who gets the lion’s share of forbidden fruit.

The snake hangs from the branches, offering a victorious grin.

Day 22 - Life Advice

 We are getting close to the end and I'm frankly surprised that I have made it this far. For this, the 22nd day of Napowrimo, the prompt comes from a site called Read Poetry (which I highly endorse as a message). I'm taking this one from their lists of prompts:

"7. Write a poem of life advice to your younger self."

So here goes nothing:

A Litany of Lessons For Boy, Aged 13

Dear Queer young boy,
I know the word makes your stomach flip and skin 
feel like an ant colony has made its home just 
beneath the surface but trust that I know you better 
than you know yourself right now;

All rage and resentment, never felt like love 
was going to come to find you - hiding, as if 
every shadow dancing along the wall and school 
hallway is a fist coming down like war, like
scripture. Feeling like you were born wrong; 

born broken and breaking under the pressure 
to mask yourself - to find camouflage and cover 
even though you can't help the way your eyes 
pause in gym locker rooms. The way you wish 
to know the taste of your best friend's lips.

So here's some things I know we'd wished we'd known
so much sooner to add to our arsenal:

Write about boys. Don't hold yourself back; let 
the pen bleed out onto every page how much you 
long just for a kiss.

Knuckle up. Spending too long being scared of
consequences stifled your strength. When someone 
brings their fist down like war, resist. Fight back.

Find out who your friends are sooner. Some can't 
handle the person you grow into. Cut the 
weeds out so you can bloom sooner.

Brace yourself for hate. Embracing yourself 
comes with a price - our flag means death 
and you'll need a shield.

Be kind when you can. Community can't 
last without an open door to those who need 
a shelter. They'll pay it forward.

Hold true to you. Don't waver for anyone.
Plant yourself like a tree when you're told to move 
and force them to change direction.

Art is your blood. We can be powerful 
with just pen and paper - we are indomitable 
and loud and a kaleidoscope of pride.

Even when it looks dark - when you feel like 
you're choking, there's light. Tomorrow will still 
dawn and you'll be there to see it, 

Be so fucking resilient that the world will 
set itself alight before you dare to call it quits. 
Tear the day apart with your teeth if you have to.

When love does come calling, don't hesitate.
Jump into it headfirst. You'll get hurt but each little 
love is a lesson and how we learn to love better.

Lastly... you'll be okay. We slip, stumble, fall and 
fail in so many bloody and beautiful ways... but 
we get there. And it's magnificent.

Day 21 - Wish You Were Here

Day 21 and here we go with a prompt from the list by Universe Next Door; specifically I'm using prompt number 7 from their list:

"Write a letter poem to someone as though you’re waiting for them to return." I'm making a little spin on this with a love poem to someone very special.

A Letter addressed Thomasville, North Carolina

Dear owner of this heart,

I hope this finds you well. 

I long to know the shape of your face cupped in my calloused palms. 

Each second ticks down to summer is 

a lifespan of its own. 

I wish to hold something more than the 

ghost of you in the witch hours of 

the cool Bristol nights.

A phone call ends too quickly - sleep 

interrupting your smile.

I need to hear your whisper in my ear, 

my name like a hymn before an 

altar and here I am reaching out; 

sinew straining as I'm reaching out to you 

as if I can shrink the atlantic down 

to a strait and bridge the gap between us 

with this body... if only to have you here 

for one night and capture your lips in a kiss.

I know, somewhere you're sitting with oversized mug in hand - scent of

fresh coffee sewing itself into your shirt. 

I wish I could thread my arms through 

yours and pull you flush to me - to feel 

our heartbeats in time; two drums with

one rhythm.

Echoing the words of a song we both 

wrote the words to, in the language 

we craft in long silences and loving 

glances - a hymn to the love we 

waiting desperately to share.

Day 20 - Coal Mine

Two thirds of the way through the challenge. Today, I took a prompt out of my back catalogue from previous years. This one is to take an image and write what about it. I ended up with an image of a Coal Mine and miners working. And here comes the piece:

Coal Miner's Song

for the chain gang and gears 

for the broken rubble road 

for the engine's harsh rattle and 

for its silence 

for the soot-stained skin 

for the sinew shivering 

for the murk water drip from craglike fascia 

for the weight of these walls 

for the long stare 

for the iron screech of trolley wheel 

for the black gold and

for the promise of daylight.

Day 19 - Command

 Good afternoon. Today has been a day of relaxation and calm so I've actually been able to think clearly about the prompt for once. Today's prompt comes from the Napowrimo main site where we are asked to write a poem based on some sort of command. From the simple to the absurd, it can be any form of command we please. So I chose something simple:

Stay

here, wrapped in each other;
legs a bramble of limb and blanket 
while the faint sun peaks 
between gap in curtains to see us 
entwined in one another.

Hands running through hair, 
lips grazing skin.
Lost in this moment of us 
become one - our metamorphosis.
Us, here and unmoving

drunk on each other's scent - 
which is to say; we are the fire and 
the smoke of a romance. I hear you 
breathe out my name. I sing an 
aria of yours in response.

Day 18 - Nightmare

Good evening. I'm a little late to the party for today's poem but fortunately my partner reminded me before it was too late. Today's prompt comes from the site Imagine Forest and their rather lovely Random Prompt Generator which kicked out this one for me:

"Write about a bad dream you had recently"

Now I have plenty of these  including one that is a recurring bad dream so I thought I would use that one. Here goes nothing:

Bad Dream

And here - on precipice 
overlooking churn of ocean; 
Poseidon's calling 

while a storm blossoms above;
slate grey petals and white-blue 
jagged stamen erupting out - 

down toward you. A lighthouse stands
at the cliff's edge some way 
in the distance, dormant

and dark. You move to take a coast 
path to light it but something stops you;
as if the wind takes form of a man 

just to push you towards a God's 
demanding arms. So you fall, flailing 
away from the rocky fascia of

the world and down to him, 
down to the reaching foam-tipped 
fingers waiting to close around 

your throat-

start awake. Panting. Bathed in sweat.
Finally come up to breathe.

Day 17 - Aftermath

 Day 17 and this is going to be an interesting exercise as I am 36 hours awake. Today's prompt comes from the site Jericho Writers which has its own lists of 100 prompts. The one I've chosen to use is this:

"Write about an aftermath; of an argument, a panic attack, crying, a break up, a dizzy spell, the best news of your life etc."

So without further ado, here we go:

Aftermath

All these imagined insults fade 
into smoke - curlicues from 
cigarette spiralling into open air;

sat on window sill - eyes sore,
breathing uneven, mind become 
a churning ocean.

You hear his last "I love you" 
as keenly as the police sirens 
echoing across the streets... 

choke a laugh back as you think 
how pretty that lie sounded; dead 
roses being planted in your throat.

But you believed him, you did and 
now you are here - exhausted from 
the deluge of tears and wishing 

you could wake up seven years ago 
and reconsider the choices you 
made so eagerly.

Day 16 - Word Checklist

Good morning/afternoon/evening. It is day 16 of Napowrimo and I hope your day is going well. Today's prompt comes from the website Writing Forward and their list of 100 prompts. Specifically I' using prompt number 8 which is what I like to call a word checklist:

"8. Use the following words in a poem: fire, spice, burn, chill, tangled"

I've always liked prompts like this. They really promote the thought of where and how you use words in your writing. Without further ado, here's the poem:

Campfire

Late autumn chill beneath 
hooded canopy of bare-branched tree.

We lie together; legs a mass
of tangled roots. Listening to snap 

crack of branch and coals
as they burn - fire dancing in the 

shadows. Embers flourish up
towards sky - yearning to become stars.

I lean in to the crook of you neck - 
inhale; molasses, cinnamon spice and coffee.

Press of lips against skin,
just to taste your sweetness before sleep.

Day 15 - Radio

 Officially halfway through the challenge!

Today is also Easter in the UK so it is relatively busy and, for once considering the recent spate of weird weather we have had, is actually warm and sunny. So I have found myself back in one of my favourite cafes and figured I would go browsing for prompts and happened across this wonderful list of 101 poetry prompts from the site Think Written: 

"13. Radio: Tune in to a radio station you don't normally listen to, and write a poem inspired by the first song or message you hear."

So, its not quite radio since I am using Spotify but here's what we got:

What Is That Melody?

Delicate touch of piano key -  lost among silence before
joined to its kin.

A voice, alto unhinged as chords swell behind 
"Like Atlas I'm burdened"

and here the waltz becomes - enchantment, fissure 
of the self; mirrors inside mind's eye

all fractured and falling away from each other and 
somewhere, danse macabre; 

a swell of that song once more as you question 
where it rings from - 

as if haunting, as if it echoes through the cavern 
of your throat and ringing through your skull...

the fade back to single keys, with a warning:
"Hold it together... or you'll be consumed."

Day 14 - Scenes

Two weeks in! And the main site came up with a doozy today. To write a poem that is the opening scene to a movie about your life. So here goes nothing:

Prologue

EXT.

Evening. Rain like an orchestra crescendo. Wind - aria of unsaid names.

Pan from left. 

Zoom to window. Move to INT.

See them in profile. Blue glow of laptop screen bathing skin.

Unkempt bed - tapestry of clothes and books opened to varied pages.

Closer zoom;

Hands running through hair.

Rotate - over shoulder. See blank page.

Blink of cursor; indicating intent.

Slowly hands move to familiar positions. Clack of key as soft blues begins to play.

Two words appear. Cut to screen.

"It begins..."

Tilt towards ceiling. Music volume increases.

Title card. 

Cut to black.

Day 13 - Garage Sale

We cut it finer and finer every day. Day 13 beings a prompt from Chris Jarmick's list of Napowrimo prompts. Specifically, prompt number 4: "List ten items you would buy at a garage sale, or an auction or your local thrift store. Be specific. Now write a poem that includes all of these items"

Auction Of Forgotten Things

Lot 27. A collection of your great-grandfathers writings from the trenches, yellowed and fragile. Leather cover still smells faintly of cordite and sulfur.

Lot 48. Remnants of a thousand, thousand shattered plates. Bulk item. Handle with care.

Lot 61. Brass carriage clock of good provenance. Ideal for use as a paperweight.

Lot 92. Parker pen with ink marked case. Blue bleeding across the silvered suede. Blue glinting agaisnt the gold clasp.

Lot 113. Rusting mountain bike. Red paint chipped by time. Tires flat. Underside of seat; a fine cosmos of arachnids.

Lot 145. The engagement ring you removed. Missing the gem - keep the Peridot for yourself.

Lot 166. Small wooden box of fine colouring felt-tip pens. Comes as set with five sheets of A3 paper and a child's imagination.

Lot 183. Chiffon skirt in maroon, still tagged. Still waiting to be uncertainly worn.

Lot 200. Commemorative plate for the silver jubilee of Queen Elizabeth the Second - one corner chipped.

Lot 221. Metal cast toy train. Bloodstains across back corner still. Press the button on its flank to here a child's scream, lost in the cacophony.

Day 12 - Another LD

Really not vibing with the last couple of prompts so lucky dip time it is again and here we go:

Shower

Let me own this ghost-like dark 

with drum of water over skin. 

Confession booth for the nonreligious; 

watch sin wash away 

in streams 

down these flanks. 

To know oneself 

and emerge clean, 

burning to touch - as if God-like 

for this moment before 

breathing in humanity 

again.

Day 11 - Lucky Dip

Its late but its here. Day 11 comes from my little jar of one word prompts.  So here it is:

Age

Stood beneath oak trees among shadowed tracks - roots jutting from the ground; claws of nature reaching to grasp these wrists and hold firmly. The grimness of age - the dark, indefinite yawn of canopy.

Look out to the plains - see other boys play among the saplings. How carefree - light playing on skin; young stars floating through sun. There is sadness too.

One day, they will only see shadow and root - they will grow gnarled and twisted as the bark of their trees. One day, they will understand this:

To know there is no wisdom to be gained beneath the boughs - only confusion, only questions

Day 10 - Love Poem

Well today's prompt was fairly simple - write a love poem. Bit late on the trigger but here it is:

A Moment In The Reeds

Drop of water in

silence of lake -

sawdust and bullgrass,

touched by sheer wind

and kissed by

winter sun

in the same space of

hitched breath

before lips touch - drawn

together; twined strings

across worlds and

fastened here;

bohemian spirits,

freed in a kiss

Day 9 - Rebellion

 A wonderful weekend to all. It is Day 9 and we are on a roll here. It feels wonderful to be getting back into the flow of writing more prolifically. For today's prompt, we are going back to the well of Carrie Etter's prompt list once more and using number 35 on the list:

Read Danez Smith's "The 17 Year-Old and the Gay Bar"  then write about another illegal or rebellious teenage act, whether real or invented; immerse us fully in the present moment with sensory description.

Without further ado, here we go:

Webcam

Take this darkened room and premade bed for what they are - table for your sacrifice. Cotton peeling away from skin in front of blank screen sat precariously at the foot on a woollen throw. Gruff voice fills the dead air - "Be a good boy for daddy" - and you shudder; still unsure whether from shame or revulsion. But you obey because you said you would. Because you're fifteen and still far too shy to be yourself and he threatened to leave you exposed like wound so you ignore the tremor in your throat; the cold across your smooth chest; the creeping of his ravenous eyes and you bare your body for him. 

You bend caress moan his name into the stark brightness of the laptop screen and lose yourself in how it might feel to have his calloused hand around your throat as he makes a home for himself inside you. You lose yourself in his voice and how it might sound as he whispers your name in the dark before leaving. You lose - everything at once and then its over and you're alone again... again.

Day 8 - Prose Poem

A new week of poetry starts and today I will be using a prompt from the list curated by Carrie Etter in her blog post. Specifically, I will be using prompts 1 and 28:

1 - "Write a poem using any form of five of the following words: plume, orchestra, plunge, articulate, wrought, semblance (yes, I wrote a poem using these words!)"

28 - "Write a poem that evokes the life of a single street, perhaps the one you grew up on or the one you live on now; it might be worth trying this poem in the form of a prose poem."

Wells Road

Orchestra of exhaust car horn brake screech grind of gears to the tempo of traffic light; anthracite river current flow aching towards the horizon. Sunrise break over dulled tile roof reflected in broad side of articulated lorry into kitchen windows before plunging round corner at the dying of an amber light - scarlet shift. 

Plume of cigarette smoke from old boy across road stood stock still beside portico; semblance of chimney stack in the slow puff exhale as he watches traffic pass until embers burn out before turning back to quietus of empty rooms and empty tables.

Day 7 - Idioms

We made it through the first week! And today's prompt is coming from the main site where we are arguing against, or perhaps picking apart, proverbs and idioms. There's a lot of good ones ripe for dissecting but there's one I heard a lot over the last couple years that's going to be on trial here and I'm going to use a form that my University professor, Carrie Etter uses in one of her collections - the Catechism:

Its A Blessing In Disguise.

When a patient cries out, do we feed them poison?

Its a blessing in disguise.

The echo of his words - another sleepless night.

Its a blessing in disguise.

This room of music and laughter, now thick with silence.

Its a blessing in disguise.

"You can get new beds pretty cheap on Gumtree"

Its a blessing in disguise.

Knuckles chafed raw. Red paint on the canvas of the bedroom wall.

Its a blessing in disguise.

A sadness is drowning on dry land.

Its a blessing in disguise.

Gifts don't act the part named "the fist that beat you."

Day 6 - The Lie

Day 6 and this prompt was actually one I discussed a while ago with another writer, Emory Oakley. It has been one I have gone back to and tweaked my response to since I quite like the idea:

The Lie

He loved me.

In the fear and friction of teeth on skin - 

fingers grasp against chain,

against leather cuff cutting into

wrist as he moves against me. 

He loved me.

In cool twilight mist behind a storm;

sat exhausted, hand in hand on 

a double bed never meant for the

two of us to share. 

He loved me.

In the morning haze of fog and 

cigarette smoke - bird song an aria

of what we'd become in the 

witch hours past. 

He loved me.

He said the words like a hymn;

reverence in the reverb of his voice 

and I could feel it through my body 

as I held him tighter. 

He loved me...

Day 5 - Rain

Today's effort does not come from the official site but instead from Writers Write. Cycling through the prompts, I saw one that said simply "Write a rain poem". And thus, here it is:

Storm

Hear your voice in the rain - 

a song from a million millon lips 

echoing against stone;

against metal;

against skin.

Hymn of all our secrets, 

spilled out into the open air.

A climax - cymbal crash 

as the front drives in; 

whisper becomes howl, 

an aria of your voice between

the drumbeat falling beneath 

canopy of clouds,

lonely and wanting.

Day 4 - Prompts

So day 4 brings us an interesting one. Poems that are, in themselves, prompts. This prompt comes from the styling of Mathias Svalina, who posts such things to his instagram account. So here follows my take on it;

Prompts

1. Find a boy to fall for.

2. Learn how his hands feel against your skin.

3. Whisper your secrets into the vault of his mouth in a kiss.

4. Think of the moon.

5. Think how it reminds you of his smile.

6. Learn how your name sounds when he whispers it in the witching hours.

7. Take him into the wild.

8. Write poetry in pollen and amber across his back.

9. Learn the words with which he says he loves you.

10. Write your response in his palms.

Day 3 - Form

Things seem to be going well so far as day 3 is upon us and I don't feel quite as hopless as last year. Day 3 is all about form. The official prompt from the site was in regards to the Glosa - a form of poetry where you react, glossing or summarising an excerpt from another piece.

I instead have chosen something I have never really got along with but am going to attempt again - the villainous Villanelle. Villanelles are a poetic form, best described here. A classic example is "Do not go gentle into that good night" by Dylan Thomas. Without further ado, here's mine:

Villanelle

In that long deathly sleep, what dreams may come?

As we, weary travellers, drift silently into the night - 

who knows what awaits us when the day is done.

Far removed from the city’s rage, the pounding drum 

of thunder, car horn, street vendor and lamp light.

In that long deathly sleep, what dreams may come?

Filled with fancy, with daring, footloose and fun,

the longing to be held - the urge for some heroic plight.

Who knows what awaits us when the day is done

in that space of solitude, away from setting sun.

At the close of day as the last embers alight - 

in that long deathly sleep, what dreams may come?

The wonders of the mind, the stories to be spun 

from every epithet of our memories and sights.

Who knows what awaits us when the day is done

and the world falls away, our dreaming just begun 

as we give into our desires, our fantasies and frights.

In that long deathly sleep, what dreams may come?

Who knows what awaits us when the day is done.

Day 2 - Haggard Hawks

So on this second day of napowrimo, the prompt has involved a lot of Twitter scrolling. Specifically, through the catalogue of obscure and rather wonderful words produced by the user Haggard Hawks. And I finally found a word I liked:

Glisk

Cinereal sky loom above anthracite veins, 

dappled with pearl light. 

Feel bite of razor wind; all bent double, 

hunched inwards to shoulder the chill.

You, curling into the crook of my shoulder -

as if to merge into one being.

Frigid hands creeping beneath cotton shirt; cuss under my breath at intrusion.

Noon before light breaks the barricade 

of slate - gentle caress of heat 

beating down; honeysuckle bright blade 

in the slim gap between clasped fingers.

They kiss me - taste of molasses; 

sweet and seductive as spring sun.