It’s amazing how difficult it is to stay away from clichés when writing poetry… or anything, really! As part of last week’s fabulous poetry workshop with the performance poetry guru that is Anthony Anaxagorou, we had to work on random concrete nouns and associate them with interesting adjectives. Harder than it sounds to produce a coherent poem out of it. Here is my pitiful result, which I am linking to dVerse Poets Pub and their Open Link Night. Join us there for very diverse explorations of poetry!
Indifferent sunshine taps on the bleary-eyed windows
a cat burglar in white
but fails to wake her.
She grips the eiderdown, she swallows the grumpy phlegm
lodged in her system.
And ten versatile coffees later
she waltzes with the wandering pencil
on the frisky paper.
From the pregnant bag of ideas
she selects yet another, caresses it with bloated thumb,
while a reborn supper
announces itself shyly on the dancing table.
The moral of the story is: always keep your old notebooks! Just the other day, I came across this little fragment of poetry in an old notebook. Always good to have some material to work on… and so appropriate on a day when my older son is home with a fever. And no, he is not the hypochondriac in this story!
You fear meningitis
with each stiffening joint.
You understand colitis
at its intricate extreme.
Tachycardia is no stranger
to your medicated bliss
and doctors are your allies
when they prescribe and echo
every fear and twinge.
Advice you dispense freely
alongside cups of tea
with lashings of lemon and honey
to soothe those constricted throats.
So prudent and cautious,
you inch your way forward
to the same finishing line…
Fresh strike of wasting, our striving, your ruckus,
We remain strangers in our little caves.
What am I but a tourist, you hard-working neighbour,
You fearful host, your drawbridge, your fortress, sanctum nigh.
What image do we leave to linger?
Gather, scatter all the more.
It’s the first Open Link Night of 2016 over at dVerse Poets Pub, and, although I thought I wouldn’t have time to write a poem, I found a draft of one in my drawer. Had to celebrate the New Year and the reopening of the pub somehow!
There is no competition:
no freshly mown grass,
not even bread resting oven-hot.
For two intoxicating weeks
all the streets in our neighbourhood
become saturated with the drama
of spring ripening into summer:
sultry yet virginal,
adolescent meanders in the park behind school,
stolen handheld moments,
All my journeys doubled for,
no matter how late I am,
I can never resist stopping
for a sniff.
The dVerse Poets Pub is open after its seasonal break, and Kelly is inviting us to write poems invoking the sense of smell and all the memories we associate with a particular scent.
We are admiring the beauty, mystery and hope of stars over at dVerse Poets’ Pub tonight.Who doesn’t love the stars and dream of reaching them? On the day that a British astronaut set off for the stars – or at least the space station – I opted for a haiku.
In frost they are clear:
Twinkle solemn, glimmer wise –
my star shower friends.
I’m linking this rather strange poem below (no idea where it came from or where it’s going, it’s just a first stab) to dVerse Poets Pub, where we are allowing ourselves to be inspired by Canadian poet David McFadden and write about our daily lives with a sense of wonder.
The light flickers and sickens
knives are now sharpened, forced back in the block
a sauce bubbles over in the pan
and bleeds to the floor
a ping of alarm
in the heat of the moment
and years of watermarks to adorn
wipe off the granite in spiraling sweep.
No turning back. The filth from the mouth
sputters out and deep.
Where the tinsel meets chestnut and cinnamon scents
they sit cocooned in ghostly warmth of Christmas past.
The fireplace crackling and stockings a-bulge
frenzied little voices
preparing carrots and mince pies to leave on the platter.
In the waver of unwatched candlelight
the train chugs round
with Christmas cheer
and then, just as the music turns high-pitched,
shaking the snow off her wings in a strop
oranges tumble from her sack patched with velveteen
walnuts clutter as she lays out each present
checks her list and counts again.
Of course Santa will get the credit.
In this our fairytale no one lives happily
but the gifts remain.