walking slowly

Inspired by today's NaPoWriMo prompt to write a visual poem. I found myself continuing to play around with the space around the words. I'm not sure how visual the result is. It suddenly strikes me that all poetry is visual!

dream of the daisies

crowding together

climbing together

piling on top 

on top of each other

to get to the sun

to get to the sun

yellow hearts

soft and furry

singing singing

we want to come close to you!

huddling together

white petals flapping

hearts sturdy and strong

climbing climbing

always striving

covering the grass

dreaming of the day 

of reaching the sky

making a chain

leading right to the sun

oldest friend

oldest friend

we want to come close to you!

huddling climbing

dreaming reaching

hearts sturdy and strong

until one day 

eating eating 

the big yellow sponge cake

the sun has been baking

all these years

up up up

inside the blue.

This poem came out of today's wonderful, spring-inspired workshop with Nichola Charalambou of Creative Writes. The writing was prompted by a photo of daisies on a sunny day...

The money will run out

The phone will ring its last ring –

the sound of the angry man 

come to claim what is now his.

Trinkets will slip from my ears,

teeth fall rotten from my mouth.

My body will sag and hunch.

One by one, the lights 

in my house will go out –

fireflies eaten by a black bird.

In the meantime, I pay the bills

and fix the broken things

and throw the unfixable.

I change the tyres and the oil 

and drive through the town

like I still have somewhere to go.

But a figure moves towards me

who knows what lies in the land

where coins have no meaning.

She comes to greet me from far away.

She will speak of a feast beyond 

appetite, a beauty beyond forms.

On the day the last coin drops 

from my hand, we will meet.

We will meet in the centre of the road.

We will meet in the abandoned market.

We will meet in the alley

where dumpsters rule like fat kings.

The NaPoWriMo prompt for today is to write a poem about money: Wallace Stevens famously wrote that “money is a kind of poetry.” So today, I challenge you to write about money! It could be about not having enough, having too much (a nice kind of problem to have), the smell, or feel, or sensory aspects of money. It could also just be a poem about how we decide what has value or worth.

Up High

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on         c     l     o     u     d     s

                                                        

               and   f   i   e   l   d   s

            

andmylifesofar

Today's poem is inspired by Kim Addonizio: As you move across the page, the white space comes into play. Any musician will tell you that silence is an important part of the music. Similarly, white space is part of the poem. 

– Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within

Their Slippers Leaped The Town

After Emily Dickinson

I said: I'm going to stand here

and count 

until you get up and dance.

One two three – 

and they were gone.

Their slippers leaped the town.

I took my pencil out

and scribbled a few notes

on the whole experience

as I often do when I'm lonely.

I wrote: who appointed you

dance captain? and decided

to stop being such a prig,

took off my heels,

sunk each of my ten toes

into the soft blue rug

where they squirmed 

like delighted worms and said:

you'll never get us back 

into those shoes again, sister.

Today's NaPoWriMo prompt: Find an Emily Dickinson poem – preferably one you’ve never previously read – and take out all the dashes and line breaks. Make it just one big block of prose. Now, rebreak the lines. Add words where you want. Take out some words. Make your own poem out of it!  

The poem I chose to work with is Dickinson's 'Snow flakes'. The process resembled a game of Chinese Whispers, with each revision morphing the previous one. Except, in this case, I think quite a bit of the original remains intact. And, of course, I couldn't resist leaving in one dash, as a salute to Emily Dickinson. Here is the original poem:

Snow flakes

I counted till they danced so 

Their slippers leaped the town – 

And then I took a pencil 

To note the rebels down – 

And then they grew so jolly 

I did resign the prig – 

And ten of my once stately toes 

Are marshalled for a jig!

Travels with a circus

After Katie Hickman

I can hardly bear to watch

the illusory men

of the old world.

They preside over the dead,

and, beneath the shimmering ocean,

the sun itself.

I should return to Mexico,

examine my hands –

these strange little gestures

are not my own.

A prompt from Mslexia: Pick up the closest book to you, turn to page 37. Make a poem either inspired by that page or made out of words from that page.

The book I picked up is 'Travels with a Circus' by Katie Hickman.

Note: The 2014 edition is titled, 'Travels with a Mexican Circus' (2014)

I don't know how it is

I am inspired by yesterday's foray into the Arabian Nights. The source text for this blackout poem is 'The Twelve Dancing Princesses' from the brothers Grimm. The text is already rich with story. I love how the process of erasure brings out new stories, secret stories, that are hidden beneath the surface.

Sindbad's Compass

Today's prompt is to write a poem about the stars. The source text for this blackout poem is 'The Seven Voyages of Sindbad the Sailor' from Andrew Lang's Arabian Nights.

I guess it's too late to get a dog

After Bernadette Mayer

I guess it's too late to get a dog.
I haven't been trained 
for the smoky warmth 
of an animal. 
I have never known how 
to inhale that damp, doggy smell,
how to keep my balance
at the friend's door 
when the dog pounces, 
sniffs me, scrambles with his paws 
like I'm the face of a cliff.
I don't know what to do
with all that love.

I guess it's too late to get a dog.
But I was born in The Year of the Dog.
There must be a little bit of dog in me.
I could roll in the grass, 
run round bushes and trees,
rumble with the sky, 
growl low, deep growls.
Then, maybe, I would understand dog 
and dog would understand me.
I'd slap my thighs,
call in a loud, dog-owner voice,
and he'd come running fast.
He'd charge me with his love.

I guess it's too late to get a dog.
But if I did get a dog,
I would gaze into those eyes –
those soggy, loving eyes –
that know me, look for me,
wait for me to come home.
I'd say, 'I've come home, boy,
I'm home.'
If I got a dog,
he would nose his big nose
under the warm duvet, 
sniff my feet, snuffle and huff. 
The silence would not be complete 
without his breath.

I guess it's too late to get a dog.

I haven't been trained

for all that love.   
But still I light the fire, 
we would sit beside –
him and me –
prepare to breathe 
that sweet wood scent,
that damp, doggy smell
and, with it, the rain and the earth.

From yesterday's NaPoWriMo prompt, this poem was inspired by Bernadette Mayer's 'Essay'. Mayer's poem begins, 'I guess it's too late to live on the farm...'

Mr. Chaos

What’s the trouble with Mr. Chaos?

He is a cold, doomed man 

in need of a miracle.

Most men everywhere feel betrayed 

by the witty and sexy Miss World,

and yet we’re still waiting 

for heroes of iron to save Paradise.

This small town is dazzled 

by the final days of violence.

As Dusk Falls

The Beauty Of This Island

An Artist In Space

My young friend, the creative and talented Louis, gave me a list of words to write into a poem. His words are in bold and this poem is for him...

An Artist In Space

Wrapped in my space suit,

I am a Panda Picasso,

trying to sketch planet earth with my pencil.

So far, I'm doing a pretty good job.

Things look different up here than they do on the map:

Indonesia is a small bird bathing in the sea.

Italy doesn't look like a boot when it's upside down;

it is more like an alligator opening its great jaw.

Scandinavia is a piece of cheese on a fork.

That's pretty funny, I think,

and when I laugh,

my breath rushes past my ears

like a red tiger's roar.

There is no room for a lunchbox up here.

Instead I suck on sugar cubes

like a horse after a race.

Sometimes the whole of space

looks at me and twinkles a question:

"What?"

- as if I have the answer,

as if I represent all the people who ever lived

and can reply for us all.

Apart from the sugar cubes, and my pencil,

the only things I carry with me are words.

Weightless, unaffected by gravity, and very satisfying,

I nibble on them whenever I'm hungry.

My favourite one today is "flabbergasted".

And so I sing it out into space -

"Flabbergasted!"

- an answer to the question,

with a million tiny answers inside it

like stars packed into the galaxy's pocket.

Lottie Loves Cake

My young friend, the magical and creative Lottie, gave me a list of words to write into a poem. Her words are the colours of the rainbow and this poem is for her...

LOTTIE LOVES CAKE

Lottie loves cake.

She loves it so much that she eats it all day long.

For breakfast she eats Moon Cake,

silver and round and full of the wonders of her dreams.

For lunch she eats Sky Cake,

big and wide as the clear blue sky,

with puffy clouds of icing on top

and a bird or two for decoration.

For dinner she eats Jungle Cake,

a very exciting cake,

covered with great leafy plants and bright pink flowers.

It is also a very noisy cake, 

with tigers growling and parrots squawking.

When her friend, Matilda, comes over for tea,

they play the viola and sing songs about cake

such as "every cloud has some silver icing"

and "there was an old woman who lived in a scone".

They eat Rose Cake together and paint their nails the colour of Roses.

Sometimes, they magic the cake into a real rose.

Then Felix, the dog, runs around in circles 

trying to catch the rose with his nose, it smells so good.

Barack, the cat, sits like an emperor, 

calm and majestic, and sips milk from a golden bowl.

Lottie asks her brother, Louis, if he would like a piece of Rose Cake

but he prefers to run around chasing Felix

and, anyway, Louis loves ice cream.

The Promotion