Saturday 30 April 2016

The Flame


by the fire
At the outer edge,
smoke.
At the centre,
void.
Even in a bright room
it pulls you
in.
This is a darkness
into which
I want to disappear.
I know this darkness;
I came from it
not so long ago.

Friday 29 April 2016

That Question in Your Throat


I am thinking about the future
you invented
at the bottom of your coffee cup.
I am thinking about the dreams
given to you
by the mountain slavs.
I am thinking about the language
you created
to speak your secrets.
I am thinking about the dark stone
on the ocean floor
burrowing towards the light.
Don’t die with that question in your throat.
* * *
Today I used the same technique as I did for The Goose Girl. It was taught to me by Barbara Marsh on Writing Poetry: Experiments in Choice and Chance. The technique: choose a poem that you do not know well, preferably one that you have never read before. After each line of the poem, write your own in response. Then lift out your own lines and use them as the basis for a new poem.
The poem I used as my starting point was Why Are Your Poems so Dark? by Linda Pastan.

Wednesday 27 April 2016

The Light Under the Door


They are in light.
I am in darkness.
I see the thin strip
of light
under the door.
It is not enough.
I am new
to this world.
I do not know
there is a tomorrow.
I only know
they have cast me away.
I cry for them to come
but they don’t come.
I rock towards them
in my little boat.
They find me
almost at the door.
They tie my cot
to the radiator.
I rock so hard,
I pull it
from the wall.
I am the will to live.
I am a plant
reaching through dark soil
towards the sun.
I will burst through
the hard shell of myself.
I will even burst
through concrete.
Include me.
Include me.
Include me
in the circle of light.


Tuesday 26 April 2016

Dream Macaroni

eating macaroni
It seems as though the recipe is simple.
When you enter it you’ll be surprised;
the macaroni is a part of you
trying to communicate with water.
You were not really listening at cookery school;
to make a smooth sauce
you have to keep stirring time.
You have to dream like a pro. 
It’s important to have a crunchy top,
light shining through breadcrumbs,
revealing the things that bubble away
beneath the cold salad of your mind.
Bathe in the atmosphere,
in the incredible cooking
of your own depths —
you can’t go wrong.
* * *
The prompt for today's poem came from The Poetry School:
Take an A4 piece of lined paper and fold it down the middle. Write a topic heading at the top of one side of the paper and then write a contrasting topic heading at the top of the other. For each of your headings, free-write as much as you can around the topic. Now unfold your piece of paper and read across from left to right. Can you make any sense? Now write a poem in which you connect two things which might, at first glance, seem very different or not connected at all.
— Helen Mort, from Poetry and the Brain.

My two topics were dreamwork and macaroni cheese.

Monday 25 April 2016

The Goose Girl


She is returning home,
face proud with blood,
eyes no longer the same.
The geese are my brothers, she says.
This was once my own goose foot,
too tender to walk on sharp stone.
After digging in the soil,
it is light as it rests in her palm.
She will carry it with her, always.
The moon, dark with sorrow,
has the answers to all her questions.
There are too many now to tell.
* * *
Today's poem uses another technique that I learned from Barbara Marsh in Writing Poetry: Experiments in Choice and Chance. The technique: choose a poem that you do not know well, preferable one that you have never read before. After each line of the poem, write your own line in response. Then lift out your own lines and use them as the basis for a new poem.
For my starting point, I chose Loneliness by Meg Kearney. I tried not to read the poem before working with it. (Although I enjoyed it tremendously afterwards!) The resulting piece evokes the world of Grimm fairytales. Working from someone else's poem rather than my own ideas allowed the poem to retain an atmosphere of mystery, even to myself.

Sunday 24 April 2016

Funeral Food


I like to go round to someone’s house
when there’s a funeral going on
and feed myself and my family
with tablespoons of honey
and peeled cooked chestnuts.
It is both comforting and sustaining
to taste the golden centred discs
infused with cinnamon sticks,
molasses, star anise, and bay.
There’s something hopeful and cheering
about the golden yolk
of the egg of mourning
and the solemnity
made sweet with prunes.
Here is the cycle of life —
the end and the beginning in one.
* * *
This poem is a variation on the found poem, taught to me by poet, songwriter and teacher, Barbara Marsh. The words and phrases come from a Nigella Lawson recipe. They have been selected and rearranged to form the poem with minimal changes made by me. This was a great piece of writing to work with, because the text was so rich with sensory images.

Thursday 21 April 2016

That Night With Her


When she
entered the chamber,
her feet
hardly touched the ground,
so light she was,
like a marigold petal,
carried
on cool currents of air.
And I,
who lay trapped in the dark,
could sense her presence,
felt the tremor
of sobs
as they shook
my mattressed coffin—
I, who should feel nothing.
There, in the dark,
I tasted the blood and salt
of her strange suffering —
this bride to be,
already covered in bruises.
There in my tomb,
I drank from her cup,
the wine of delirious emotion.
It stained me red;
it gave me back my soul.
* * *
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem in the voice of minor character from a fairy tale or myth. I love myths and fairytales and I found this prompt to be an inspiring one. I wrote two poems, each exploring food as character.
‘That Night With Her’ is written in the voice of the pea in 'The Princess and the Pea'. To Be Devoured is written in the voice of the cake in Little Red Riding Hood’s basket.

To Be Devoured


The cool white cloth
wrapped itself around me.
Mother made it with her own hands
just like she made me.

She wrapped the girl in red,
but the girl protested,
stamped her foot,
face like a corkscrew.

I laughed to myself,
Don’t look so pretty now, do you?

She wore the cape in the end,
stormed out of the house,
swung me roughly in my basket
as she tore down the path.

Stop! I shouted.
Are you trying to kill me?

She calmed a little,
sung us both a ditty
about love and buttercups and mandolins.
Her voice soothed my seasick soul.

(I almost liked her then.)

I lost myself in daydreams —
Granny would caress me
say how sweet I smelled,
all almonds and cinnamon.

The girl hated Granny’s kisses.
How her cheek glistened with saliva!
I saw her wipe her face
when Granny turned away to stoke the fire.

Oh, Granny!
Won't you consume me with your kisses?

A voice wrenched me from my reverie.
His eyes deep as the forest,
drool dripping
from the corners of his mouth.

It was me he wanted, not her.
All she cared about was skipping in the grass.

I let him know
I longed to be devoured,
longed to give myself
to the wild green of his eyes.

* * *
Today's NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem in the voice of minor character from a fairy tale or myth. I love myths and fairytales and I found this prompt to be an inspiring one. I wrote two poems, each exploring food as character.
'To Be Devoured' is written in the voice of the cake in Little Red Riding Hood's basket. That Night With Her is written in the voice of the pea in The Princess and the Pea.
I'm feeling a little hungry now. I think I need to go and eat a piece of cake!

Wednesday 20 April 2016

Angel




Today I felt inspired to continue with yesterday’s supernatural theme!
Source text: The Encyclopaedia of Fantasy by John Clute and John Grant. The version I used is the weighty hardback. However, this incredible resource is now available online. It is worth checking out!

Tuesday 19 April 2016

How To Be an Effective Ghost




Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:
Many years ago, “didactic” poetry was very common – in other words, poetry that explicitly sought to instruct the reader in some kind of skill or knowledge, whether moral, philosophical, or practical. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write the latter kind of “how to” poem – a didactic poem that focuses on a practical skill. Hopefully, you’ll be able to weave the concrete details of the action into a compelling verse. Also, your “practical” skill could be somewhat mythological, imaginary, or funny, like “How to Capture a Mermaid” or “How to Get Your Teenager to Take Out the Garbage When He Is Supposed To.” Happy writing!
I was tickled by the idea of how to be a supernatural being. Source text: The Encyclopaedia of Fantasy by John Clute and John Grant. The version I used is the weighty hardback. However, this incredible resource is now available online. It is worth checking out!

Sunday 17 April 2016

I Am Thirsty Now


A woman is lying on the ground.
She can’t get up.
I think she will pull me down
into the earth.
I run,
I run from the earth.
My mother is lying on the ground.
She is sleep.
She is darkness.
She is tears.
She sucks the world into her belly
and it never comes out.
I run,
I run from my mother.
The ancestors are sitting in the corner
drinking wine.
They sing me songs of grief and joy
in an ancient language
my skin understands.
I do not want to go towards the earth.
The earth is sprinkled with their blood.
I run,
I run from their song.
Their arms are heavy and slow.
I think they want to put me in a box
and bury me beside them.
I become fast and light.
I run. I run. I grow wings. I fly.
Her arms were heavy and slow.
But they were arms that held,
that pinned me to one place
long enough to be loved
and the earth was a hill
we rolled down and down
and laughed at the tumble of our senses
and the earth
was my grandmother’s garden
where I picked raspberries
for the raspberry pie.
I am tired now.
Look at me:
I can’t even keep a single plant alive.
I walk on rubber,
watch landscapes on TV.
How long it’s been since I went outside.
I am thirsty now.
I cry when I see the men
dancing in a circle.
These are my people.
I long for them,
for the line of meaning
of bread
of hands
stretching back through time.
I am lying on the ground.
I am thirsty now
for a drink of that wine.

Friday 15 April 2016

The Mirror of You is Waiting



This comics poem is a response to today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:
Because today marks the halfway point in our 30-day sprint, today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that incorporates the idea of doubles. You could incorporate doubling into the form, for example, by writing a poem in couplets. Or you could make doubles the theme of the poem, by writing, for example, about mirrors or twins, or simply things that come in pairs. Or you could double your doublings by incorporating things-that-come-in-twos into both your subject and form.

Thursday 14 April 2016

Wednesday 13 April 2016

Fortune Cookie



Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:
The number 13 is often considered unlucky, so today I’d like to challenge you to beat the bad luck away with a poem inspired by fortune cookies.
In honour of the fortune cookie theme, I broke out a bottle of Chinese Ink. This was my first time using this ink in a comic. And I loved it. I’ve got a thing for using areas of solid black in my comics. But with the Chinese ink, there is quite a different sense of depth to the shaded areas. I have a feeling I will be using it a whole lot more from now on!

Tuesday 12 April 2016

The Walk


Adventure, the unknown
Art, the life of the artist becomes the work of; perhaps this day can be my work of
Artist, I am a performance
Back, you are always just on the point of turning; do you need to turn?
Beautiful, isn't this?
Bench, sometimes you may need to sit on a
Ceremony, anything and everything can be a
Coins, spending steps like
Counting, stop all this endless
Down, do you need to sit?
Expressive, there is another way of moving that is wilder and more
Far, from the car park to the beach is too; the sea is too
Feet, today I am wearing my
Have, how many steps do you?
Human, this journey is beautiful because it is
It, I find myself deep in the middle of
Life, it takes me out of; it takes me deeper into
London, in Cornwall I dream of a simple walk through the streets of
Magic, the sand and the sea work a kind of
More, get out
Now, do you need to turn back?
Otherwise, taking me into realms I would not have gone
Performance art, this walk is a work of
Pocket, these few pennies in my
Precious, these few steps become; the walk becomes
Progress, on the one hand I’m making; on the other hand there seems to be no
Purse, look at the contents of my
Rain, while I was singing to the sea I didn’t notice the
Rocks, if you look carefully you might catch a glimpse of me basking on the sunlit
Sand, walking barefoot in the soft, soft
Sea, the artist goes to the; in London I dreamed of walking by the; singing old songs of the
St Ives, today we are going to
Standing, let me watch my own
Steps, I am buying life with my; other people are rich with their; how are your?
Sunlight, my feet bathe in pools of
Toes, sand between my
Walk, I could make a work of art called the; it’s so good to; It's so damn good to just
* * *
Today's NaPoWriMo prompt: Have you ever flipped to the index of a book and found it super interesting? Well, I have (yes, I live an exciting life!) For example, the other day I pulled from my shelf a copy of on old book that excerpts parts of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s journals. I took a look at the index, and found the following entry under “Man”:
fails to attain perfection, 46; can take advantage of any quality within him, 46; his plot of ground, 46; his use, 52, 56; not to be trusted with too much power, 55; should not be too conscientious, 58; occult relationship between animals and, 75; God in, 79, 86; not looked upon as an animal, 80; gains courage by going much alone, 81; the finished, 89; and woman, distinctive marks of, 109; reliance in the moral constitution of, 124; the infinitude of the private, 151; and men, 217; should compare advantageously with a river, 258.

That’s a poem, right there! 
Today, I challenge you to write your own index poem. You could start with found language from an actual index, or you could invent an index, somewhat in the style of this poem by Thomas Brendler. Happy writing!

Sunday 10 April 2016

A trio of book spine poems

Blueprints

Talking to my body –
enormous smallness.
A book of luminous things.
Blind willow, sleeping woman,
black swan, white raven –
are you my mother?
Blueprints for building better girls:
everyone’s just so so special.
Blabber blabber blabber everything.

There

Picture this:
the narrow road to the interior
through the woods.
East of the sun and west of the moon,
everything is illuminated.
They do the same things different there.

The Shaman’s Coat

Meeting the shadow
remember remember
beware of God.
One hundred demons
kiss & tell
the angel of losses.
War and peace
mistakes in the background
the invisible partners.
The power of myth
tangles
beyond the words.
The shaman’s coat
travels with a circus
after dark.
* * *
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt “comes to us from Lillian Hallberg. She challenges us to write a “book spine” poem. This involves taking a look at your bookshelves, and writing down titles in order (or rearranging the titles) to create a poem. Some fun images of book spine poems can be found here. If you want to take things a step further, Lillian suggests gathering a list of titles from your shelves (every third or fifth book, perhaps, if you have a lot) and using the titles, as close to the originals as possible, to create a poem that is seeded throughout with your own lines, interjections, and thoughts. Happy writing!”
I enjoyed this prompt so much, I ended up writing three different book spine poems!

Friday 8 April 2016

Kwik Fit



I wasn’t expecting to be able to write a poem today as I was on my way to the forest. However, the journey had a mind of its own, as journeys often do.

Thursday 7 April 2016

The Burning Road


When I place my foot
upon the burning road
I feel the heat of fire.

I feel the cool of fire
when I hold my foot
above the icy road.

But this is my road
and this is my fire
and this is my foot.

My foot longs for the burning road of fire.


This is my second poem of the day and my second tritina, too. Here, I experimented with shorter line lengths and an even simpler structure. You can read my first tritina, ‘The Women’, along with a description of the tritina form, here.

The Women


Though the Borough of Camden has no forest,
when the moon goes dark I hear the call
and my heart feels sad for lack of women.

I unwind myself towards the women.
Like a thread, they pull me to the heart of the forest.
From the elder and hawthorn and birch trees they call.

I shake off the world as they send out their call
and clothe myself in the fire of the women
Together we dance in the deep of the forest.

From the forest they call, the women, the women.


Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to “write a tritina. The tritina is a shorter cousin to the sestina, involving three, three-line stanzas, and a final concluding line. Three “end words” are used to conclude the lines of each stanza, in a set pattern of ABC, CAB, BCA, and all three end words appear together in the final line.”
The repetition in this poetic form goes well with a movement towards something simpler, wilder, more primal. The first line locates us in the modern urban world. After that, the tritina takes us into a realm more like ballad and myth.
I wrote a second poem today, also a tritina, which you can read here. I wrote two poems because I don’t know if I will have the chance to write one tomorrow. Because I am going to the forest to join the women!

Wednesday 6 April 2016

Bananas


Are they berries?
Are they herbs?
Are they good for you?
Can they kill you?

Yellow is the colour of sun rays.
Yellow is the colour of my true love’s hair.
Yellow is the colour of my energy.
Yellow is the new black.

How many in a pound?
How many in a bunch?
How many a day?
How many can you eat?

We don’t have enough time.
We don’t have enough money.
We don’t have enough house.
We don’t have enough tumblr.

Can they can polish silverware?
Can they can deter aphids?
Can they can attract butterflies and birds?
Can they make you happy?

We all want to help one another.
We all want to change the world.
We all want to be somebody.
We all want to be rock stars.

Will they last longer in the fridge?
Will they make you fat?
Will they help you sleep?
Will they become extinct?

The answers are within you.
The answers are blowing in the wind.
The answers are out there.
The answers are as follows.


Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt: I challenge you to write a poem about food. This could be a poem about a particular food, or about your relationship to food in general. Or it could simply be a poem relating an incident that involves food, like David Ignatow’s “The Bagel”. Still not convinced? Perhaps these thirteen food poems will give you some inspiration. 
While I was making my banana smoothie this morning, a question popped into my mind: Can you eat too many bananas? My first thought was, ‘I’ll google it.’ My second thought was, ‘Today’s poem is going to be about bananas.’
As I was googling on the subject of bananas, I felt like I was in dialogue with the great brain of the world, knower of our desires, fears, and strange factoids. I found myself wanting to ask all sorts of questions, not just about bananas, but about life itself, what we want, what we are searching for.
Inspired by Google Poetics, I typed the first part of a question or statement and let Google complete it, usually offering several options. Apart from a little tweak here and there, this poem was written almost exclusive by google. The biggest editing choice I made was to remove the word ‘banana’ from the body of the poem.
Google is vast. Vast enough to contain the search for information about bananas and the search for the meaning of life, all at the same time.

Tuesday 5 April 2016

The Gold Berries


I ate the gold berries 
though the frosted green doctors told me no,
though their eyes flashed 
their eyes flashed
their eyes flashed with green vernissage.
But I knew I’d never get me from the stump of the world
if I listened to their emerald evergreen words.
I’ve got a big rainbow to follow, said I.

I ate the gold berries, the taste sharp as plum lemon.
My limbs turned to banana legs. My eyes became lucid gems.
I floated down 
floated down
floated down the river, down the long milky way.
I drank the waters — crimson sweet they were.
I am living, said I. I’m alive.

I ate the gold berries and it was worth it, say I.
For I saw Egyptian walking onions 
all flat and sideways, pungent and hot as anything.
I danced 
I danced
I danced round the Kentucky wonder pole,
me, a collective farm woman!
I swung the extra long handle dipper gourd
and scooped me a handful of moon and stars.

And the greatest prize of all — Dingwall Scotty.
A country gentleman, a real long keeper,
handsome as a duplex Russian giant, prize of the trials.
Your eyes, he said, are blue of Hungaria, blue hokkaido, blue hubbard.
Your lips, are honey boat delicata.
Love struck 
Love struck
Love struck like a white globe hailstone.

We had a Nebraska wedding, supped on gold berry cake
iced with white wonder, topped with an ivory egg.
Our giant oxhearts beat big enough 
for the whole mammoth sandwich island
to rumble and shake 
rumble and shake
rumble and shake.



Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:April is a time for planting things (at least where I am, in Washington DC – you may still be waiting for spring, or well into some other season!) At any rate, I’ve recently been paging through seed catalogs, many of which feature “heirloom” seeds with fabulous names. Consider the “Old Ivory Egg” tomato, the “Ozark Razorback” or “Fast Lady” cow-pea, “Neal’s Paymaster” dent corn, or the “Tongues of Fire” bush bean. Today, I challenge you to spend some time looking at the names of heirloom plants, and write a poem that takes its inspiration from, or incorporates the name of, one or more of these garden rarities. To help you out, here are links to the Southern Exposure Seed Exchange and the Baker Creek Seed Company. Also, here’s a hint – tomatoes seem to be prime territory for elaborate names. And who knows, maybe you’ll even find something to plant in your garden! Happy writing!

Monday 4 April 2016

February in the Forest of Bones


I turn the heating up full whack
and take my vitamin D.
I wear jumpers knitted with wool 
and love. 
I think I’m safe, 
think I’ve made it through. 

But — 
You come. 

You put the sun in a cage.
You fill the sky with elevator music.
You strip skin from bone. 
You blow ice into eye-holes.
You use my lashes to dust your house.
You make a jacket from my fallen hair.
You chew my liver, slowly, slowly.
You play my heart 
’til every last, sad note is out.

When Spring comes, 
I’m sure I’m dead. 

But —
each bone reaches for the sun

and the sun reaches back, 
like a father, home from the long journey.
And the budding of magnolia is a miracle — 
that pink, that white — 
like glorious bowls filled with promise.

I turn towards the newness of the year,
towards this second chance.
I want to forget.

But —
I met you in the forest of bones, I did. 

There, on the floor beneath the world, 
you showed me the face 
beneath the photographic paper of my skin. 
There, beneath the cover of ice,
you showed me my own dark earth.


Today's NaPoWriMo prompt: In his poem “The Wasteland,” T.S. Eliot famously declared that “April is the cruelest month.” But is it? I’d have thought February. Today I challenge you to write a poem in which you explore what you think is the cruelest month, and why. Perhaps it’s September, because kids have to go back to school. Or January, because the holidays are over and now you’re up to your neck in snow. Or maybe it’s a month most people wouldn’t think of (like April), but which you think of because of something that’s happened in your life. Happy (or, if not happy, not-too-cruel) writing!