2022.20 Cluster

CW: lots of medical stuff, including dismissive behaviour, and lots of bad social attitudes to neurodivergence. At ten minutes reading time, this is, without doubt, my longest ever NaPo poem. To be fair, I’ve been thinking about this piece off and on for a few years. Well, the 2nd stanza anyway – the rest came as a bit of a shock… Is it finished? Who knows…

Syndrome

Otherwise known as: a recognisable pattern of signs, symptoms, and/ or behaviours.
Otherwise known as: a set of characteristics identifying a certain type, usually adverse.
Otherwise known as: it’s probably just your age
Otherwise known as: that’s… unusual… are you sure?
Otherwise known as: when you hear hoofbeats behind you, don’t expect to see a zebra
Otherwise known as: we’ll try you on these various different medications
Otherwise known as: gosh, that’s a lot!
Otherwise known as: you’re very… sensitive, aren’t you?
Otherwise known as: a clusterfuck

Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome

Otherwise known as: EDS
Otherwise known as: Hypermobility Syndrome (various subtypes)
Otherwise known as: HMS
Otherwise known as: a complex, congenital connective tissue disorder
Otherwise known as: multiple comorbidities of joints, skin, heart, eyes, lungs, nervous system, digestive system, reproductive system, circulatory system, (auto)immune system.
Otherwise known as: prone to chronic or persistent injury (particularly joint dislocation or subluxation), lesions, joint and muscle pain, discomfort, infection, bruising, fatigue, anxiety, brain fog, fainting, dizzy spells, clumsiness, low blood pressure, receding gums, high pain tolerance, high anaesthetic tolerance, crepitus (clicking joints), gastro-oesophageal reflux (heartburn and worse), abdominal pain, bowel disorders, sleep disorders, asthma, allergies, difficulty with fine motor control, terrible handwriting, craving for salt.
Otherwise known as: wow, how did you do that?
Otherwise known as: haha, were you doing – abseiling? Sleeping?!
Otherwise known as: more commonly present in AFAB people
Otherwise known as: chronically or persistently underdiagnosed and misdiagnosed.
Otherwise known as: I went to a seminar on that once and I’m sure you don’t have it.
Otherwise known as: can only be confirmed by genetic assay
Otherwise known as: we don’t bother with genetic assay for conditions for which there’s no cure
Otherwise known as: don’t worry – you’ll stiffen up as you get older
Otherwise known as: you need to do more exercise to compensate
Otherwise known as: you are injured because you did too much/ the wrong kind of exercise
Otherwise known as: people who sit weirdly
Otherwise known as: oh, you’re so lucky to look younger than your age!
Otherwise known as: a clusterfuck

Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome

Otherwise known as: PCOS
Otherwise known as: a complex, congenital endocrinological disorder
Otherwise known as: prone to chronic or persistent irregular menstrual periods, heavy periods, painful periods, hirsutism, acne, fertility issues, patches of darker, velvety skin, insulin resistance (higher risk of diabetes), neuroendocrine disruption, hyperandrogenism, fatigue, thinning hair, hypertension, endometrial hyperplasia, depression, anxiety, cardiovascular disease, sleep apnea, miscarriage, gender non-conformance
Otherwise known as: the most common endocrine disorder in AFAB people of reproductive age (11% in the general population, but up to 26% in certain demographics)
Otherwise known as: cause unknown
Otherwise known as: bearded ladies
Otherwise known as: you can’t have that, you’re not fat enough
Otherwise known as: if you lose weight, you won’t have as many problems
Otherwise known as: great difficulty shedding fat, especially abdominal fat
Otherwise known as: when was your last period? why are you laughing?
Otherwise known as: people stop having acne in their early 20s. why are you laughing?
Otherwise known as: menstrual periods usually last for three to five days. why are you crying?
Otherwise known as: the repeated mangled anxiety of seemingly missed periods
Otherwise known as: an intersex condition
Otherwise known as: a clusterfuck

Other syndromes and disorders may or may not apply
Other syndromes and disorders may or may not be diagnosed
Other syndromes and disorders may or may not be masked by each other
Management techniques for other syndromes and disorders may or may not be helpful, just in case.

Hyperosmia, hyperacusis, photophobia, hyper… whatever the tactile one is
Dislike of eye contact, social fatigue, shyness, brashness, infodumping
Synaesthesia, vivid inner world, dislike of disruption to routine
Disconnect with social convention and assigned gender
You’re just fussy, you’re just weird, no-one thinks like you
Stop fidgeting. Stop pulling faces. Talk louder. Talk quieter.
Are you autistic? My cousin’s like you and he’s autistic, you must be autistic
You can’t be autistic, you’ve got a sense of humour and friends and a job and you’re not that good at maths
Autism is just an excuse to be antisocial
Autism is underdiagnosed in AFAB people
Waiting lists for adult diagnosis of autism can be several years long
We’re not going to refer you for autism diagnosis yet.

Difficulty starting tasks unless perfect; difficulty finishing tasks unless urgent
Difficult maintaining focus; ability to maintain focus for hours without break
Difficulty functioning without sufficient blood sugar; difficulty feeding self
Difficulty functioning without sufficient sleep; difficulty going to bed
Difficulty turning up on time; difficulty leaving situations
You’re just scatty, you’re just lazy, only children behave like this
Talk less, talk slower, don’t gesticulate so much
Are you on something? Have you got any?
Jack of all trades, master of none.
How were you able to learn how to do that so quickly?!
Why did it take you so long to ask for a diagnosis of ADHD, with those symptoms?
Waiting lists for adult diagnosis of ADHD are over a year long.
Waiting lists for adult diagnosis of ADHD are full.
We accidentally deleted your application for referral to adult diagnosis of ADHD
The irony is completely lost on us.

Executive Function

Otherwise known as: a set of necessary cognitive processes
Otherwise known as: necessary processes for the successful selection and monitoring of behaviour
Otherwise known as: processes that facilitate the attainment of chosen goals
Otherwise known as: attentional control, cognitive inhibition, inhibitory control, working memory, cognitive flexibility, planning, reasoning, problem-solving
Otherwise known as: normal adult behaviour
Otherwise known as: adulting
Otherwise known as: abruptly fucking impossible at the worst fucking time

Executive Dysfunction

Otherwise known as: a disruption or disorder of executive function
Otherwise known as: the hammer to smash the glass to retrieve the hammer is behind the glass marked “smash with hammer”
Otherwise known as: a clusterfuck

Depression leads to fatigue
Fatigue leads to depression
Depression leads to brain fog
Brain fog leads to poor executive function
The outcomes of poor executive function lead to depression

Anxiety leads to fatigue
Fatigue leads to anxiety
Anxiety leads to brain fog
Brain fog leads to poor executive function
The outcomes of poor executive function lead to anxiety

Sleep disorders lead to fatigue
Fatigue leads to sleep disorders
Sleep disorders lead to brain fog
Brain fog leads to poor executive function
The outcomes of poor executive function lead to sleep disorders

Pain leads to fatigue
Fatigue leads to pain
Pain leads to brain fog
Brain fog leads to poor executive function
The outcomes of poor executive function lead to pain

Take pain meds, which can cause depression, or brain fog, or sleep disorders
Take exercise, which can cause pain or fatigue
Take sleep medication, which can cause depression, or brain fog, or sleep disorders
Take herbal medication, which can cause confusion
Take on more work, which can cause fatigue or anxiety
Take time off work, which can cause guilt, or depression, or sleep disorders
Take assistance from professionals, which can cause anxiety, or depression, or pain
Take assistance from loved ones, which can cause guilt, or anxiety, or depression
Take abuse, which can cause depression, or anxiety, or pain, or confusion
Take neglect, which can cause depression, or anxiety, or pain, or confusion

Take arms against a sea of troubles, and, by opposing, end them?
There’s no known antidote for the unknown, and there’s the rub.

Have you tried rubbing on this unction?
Per istam sanctan unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus
It’s a miracle, you should try it.
Snake oil straight from the sacred pyramid
(the value of your investment may go down as well as up)
Sup from the chalice of incontrovertible wishful thinking
(it’s heresy to say hearsay)

Have you tried planning?
You should try planning
If you plan too much you’ll never get anything done
Have you tried journalling?
I love journalling.
You should handwrite your journal

Have you tried mindfulness?
You should watch this video on mindfulness
You should listen to this podcast on mindfulness
No-one uses written instructions anymore
With the amount of time you’ve spent searching for written instructions, you could have watched the video or listened to the podcast.
Okay, maybe without the adverts
What have you got against adverts?

I don’t think you’re trying hard enough to get better
I can’t possibly accommodate your management techniques
Pay attention to me
Why are you staring at me?
Why are you so weird?
Why are you so tired?
Why are you so angry all the time?
Why are you so angry?
Why are you?
Why?

That is the question.
And am I nobler in the mind for having suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune?
Or just royally fucked?

2022.19 Carnival

CN: social camouflage, metaphorical depiction of #neurodivergent behaviour.

The thing about cleverness
is that it’s easy to fool yourself
that this deft reconditioning
of your social vessel,
this precious crowd-proofing,
is the truth.

The thing about successful camouflage
is that it can hide you from the fellows
you never knew existed,
all of you mist-wreathed,
cheating the predators
of their next meal.

That thing where you look askance
at the loud ones, those who’ve cast
their leaves off, breathing freely
(if they ever hid their feathers in the first place)
is not what you think it is.

(None of this is what you think it is.)

The first time you climb out of your
diving suit in full view of company,
shrug off its weight to say:
here I am, those submariners who’ve been
signalling silently can join you,
stretching metaphors around the
galley table, saying “I feel so light!”

No longer over-interpreted, you are
translated into colours that make sense,
tumbling into wonder that the
lack of filters brings.
Me too, me too, me too;
a ringing chorus of validation,
or just company in peculiarity.

“There was never any of this when I was young!”
you say, and it’s a celebration of
the discovery of new words, the right words,
diagrams drawn by those who trusted
in the illogic of being alone.
And you are not alone.
And that is terrifyingly wonderful.
And vice versa.

And you’ve always loved new words,
hoarding them like sweets,
like boy band posters that left you cold,
like old dictionaries,
like clothes that coded you as okay,
like places where you could be barefoot,
like bookmarks,
like knives,
like interesting bits of wood,
like pebbles for the pocket,
like receipts rolled into soft-edged pills,
like facts about 17^th Century vegetables,
like intricate finger shapes,
like rocking softly,
like people who didn’t scoff,
like breakups,
like pain.

And your intricately implemented assonance
has drifted away in the face of the
remembered happiness and
what it feels like to stay up late,
timeblind behind the scenes with the other
creatures of peculiar plumage,
talking and diverging, and gesturing,
and saying sorry, and not saying sorry,
and speaking in parentheses (and
nested parentheses, and footnotes),
gleeful in water that takes your weight,
salted with memories of the near-hits
of your soggy past,
and this sentence cannot last,
but it’s good enough for now.

Tomorrow is shoes and modulated vowels
and eye contact and sitting still
but also not apologising.
No more apologising.
Maybe wearing a scrap of bright feather
nestled against your neck
or in your hair, talisman against
the difficult days, the normality,
the sweetness of seeing another
pair of eyes lighting, the small nod,
the awkward laugh, the chance to
seek out sweetness in the aftermath.

Image from a blog post from Hult Business School, entitled
Thinking differently: Researching neurodiversity in the workplace

I promised you a more cheerful follow-up to the last one, didn’t I?! Pandemic has been a living nightmare in some ways, but in others has been amazing for finding tribe online...

2022.18 Orbit

CW: Feelings around social difficulties and manipulation. This went a bit emo, from a #WriteClub prompt of “what lies beneath”. I suspect there’ll be a more positive follow-up shortly, though, as I couldn’t fit a proper volta into this form!

What lies beneath the widest smile,
a gaze that meets yours, straight and true,
demeanour crafted to beguile?

Hard not to think it must be you
at fault because you won’t succumb
to eyes that meet yours, straight and true.

You worry when your face feels numb,
and punish your own circumstance,
at fault because you won’t succumb.

You lack the footwork for this dance,
tripping when the rhythms skip
and punish your own circumstance.

No wonder, sometimes, tables flip
when they drag you to the floor,
tripping when the rhythms skip.

You wonder what you came here for,
what lies beneath the widest smile
when they drag you to the floor,
demeanour crafted to beguile.

Image from ADDitude Magazine, an article titled Overstimulated by Life? 20 Ways to Give Your ADHD Senses a Break 

This is another of my yearly traditions: a terzanelle (the first form for which the Concrete and Repeating Poetry Forms Spreadsheet was created).

Masking is tiring, folks. Just because someone’s good at it, doesn’t mean that they’re not feeling the strain. Just saying...

2022.17 Piping

This one I lay squarely at the feet of @PoetryOD, with her prompt of the picture below of @Sk8Liborius:

The nave is now a hymn of curves,
the altar tagged with loving lines.
This space has claimed what it deserves,
the nave is now a hymn of curves.
The belfry rings with rolling swerves,
and through the air Survival chimes.
The nave is now a hymn of curves,
the altar tagged with loving lines.

Sk8Liborious is a passion project preserving the oldest Neo Gothic Cathedral west of the Mississippi and transforming it in a community arts hub

There was going to be a whole thing where pigeons were mentioned, but that may need to wait for another poem. 😄 (I was also going to call it Labour of Love or Libor of Love, and then I remembered that, for some reason, I’m sticking with single word titles this year, so...) This form is one of my yearly traditions: a triolet, which is – you guessed it – available in the Concrete and Repeating Poems Spreadsheet.

2022.16 Revenge

Content warning: circular thoughts, sleep deprivation, implied despair and self-neglect.

Does it ever stop? Is stopping an option?
I am propped up on cough drops and not enough sleep,
deep in the shifting miasmas of clinging nightmares,
bearing up because I keep being told I’m strong.
But this is a sickness nothing can lance;
chance would be a fine thing.

I’m tired, that’s the thing.
Just tired, and resisting the obvious option,
because anyone close enough would see at a glance
that this creature needs more sleep,
wreathed in the creeping realisation that strong
isn’t enough to stop the nightmares

Because they’re mighty, these nightmares,
and I’m tired, that’s the thing,
of living up to the myth of strong,
wrong-footing myself until the only option
is push until I’m dropping, beyond the need to sleep.
Any more of this, and I’ll need an ambulance.

But there’s something like a dirty little jubilance
as I slalom the persistent nightmares
by the simple expedient of dodging sleep,
deep in denial until I’m too tired – that’s the thing,
mocking any sensible option
after all: I need to prove myself strong

Rapidly repeat a word until it loses meaning: strong strong strong strong strong,
upright, mighty, solid, persistent, grim, ringed with vigilance;
hero or villain - those are the options,
because not enough sleep means the daytime bleeds nightmares
which I’m too tired to not flinch from, that’s the thing,
and still I stop here, not sleeping.

Repeatedly censor a concept until it loses meaning: sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep...
But the gravity well of softness is strong,
and I’m tired, that’s the thing;
twitching from the rigours of hypervigilance,
becoming one with the nightmares
harrowing down my option

And the thing is – I’d probably think clearer with more sleep,
give myself better options instead of mocking the concept of strong,
striking a balance between me and the nightmares; it may be too late.

This one’s taken a couple of days to write, and I’ve enjoyed adding more repetition than usual to an already repetitive form (sestina, as taught to us by our dear, departed friend, Caron Freeborn, available, like its kin, in the Concrete and Repeating Forms spreadsheet). I wouldn’t say it’s factual (for one thing, the cough drops line was purely for the sake of internal assonance), but it’s true enough.

2022.15 Disambiguation

I had a friend give me a word to write about/ from. I’ll tell you the word at the end.

Whatever you are, to me you are colour.
‘Fancy’ also springs to mind;
neat yet flamboyant,
carving out a quiet, bright,
comfortable niche in a dull world.

I imagine you bobbing along,
exchanges pithy, but ultimately
sure of your path, rolling sweetly,
collared in certainty, a tart
barb kept for special occasions.

I have never seen you in flight,
or, well, not for long;
a brief splash of brash hues,
and then settling, cupped
in the current of congeniality.

And it’s been a while – the world
has changed, and so have I, but you
are a dart of nostalgia – the scents of
summer, old books, the warmth of
my father’s hands, badges,
plans unpeeled in the shade of a hot day.

You are ambitions ringing tender
memories, Saturdays spent stinging,
singing softly, watching river banks
for telltale wiggles, picking wildflowers,
and waiting.

I could have done a collage of different images associated with this word, but settled on... creating abstract art? Got to love that NaPoWriMo experimentation vibe!

The word was mandarin. The disambiguation section of Wikipedia for Mandarin lists well in excess of twenty different associations with the word. So I guess I reambiguated it.

2022.14 Potted

Something of a confession, for those who’ve never visited to see the evidence first-hand.

When I get around to having them painted,
my nails tend to glisten red or black (or both)
and it’s a useful trope, a kind of anti-camouflage,
a timely warning, implication of mortification:
Here Lies Death.
You think I’m exaggerating? Listen…

It’s long been the case; the gentlest
of curses, but my windowsills are
perpetual hearses, bearing the bare,
brown corpses of the best of intentions,
forever bereft of the correct attention.

Too much water, not enough, these hot,
dry hands are too rough for all but the
hardiest of desert dwellers, and even then,
my aloe’s in a state of semi-permanent aestivation.
And don’t talk to me about the basil,
banished into mush in three straight days.

But while my presence promises dissolution
within shared walls, my garden’s in thrall to
vivacity, immune to my capacity for damage.
My leave-it-be policy summons up greenness
from even the meanest of cracks, patches of
ecstatic colour flourishing everywhere.

And this miniature wilderness shelters examples
of things I understand better: blessed with
independence and a lack of inimical chemicals,
the animal kingdom gambols among the
swaying fronds, fond of the opportunities
offered by the hedge’s shelter, the nodding grasses.

Give me your huddled masses of the
mammalian clades – I can nurse most hot-blooded
creatures into health from a shaky start;
soothing voice and steady, unflinching fingers
will take the domesticated and feral and welcome
both into a low stress mess of affection and good food.

(I’ve never tested this on reptiles or birds, so this
might not apply to every vertebrate.
And though it’s been 44 years since I
last killed a fish with kindness,
I just don’t trust this particular skill
doesn’t still linger in my possession.)

All of this, is, of course, a long-winded way
to say: thanks for the implication of domestic bliss
but the lesson to take away is this:
never send me a gift of a houseplant –
no, not even mint – unless you’re hellbent
on killing it. In which case, give it here!

Image from "Create a Potted Micro-Meadow With Ian Hodgson" via Lobster & Swan

I just went to get a sandwich in the middle of an Allographic Write-In, looked out of my window, and a poem started happening, which was tricky, because I had no means to write it down. I’m amazing this much of it emerged intact. These are all true tales, incidentally.

2022.13 Collagen

#ContentWarning for implied abusive relationships, torture, nightmares. Look after yourselves.

I still bear your scars, in more ways than one.
I have to hope you were having fun when you made them;
what’s the point in hurting if you can’t laugh about it?
This detail still eludes me.

I have to hope you were having fun when you made them
watch your descent, step by aching step,
pain etched into innocent nerve-endings.

What’s the point in hurting if you can’t laugh about it,
tribulation promising a prop, a stopping of obscurity.
It lies.

This detail still eludes me,
fevered dreams reaching into my waking, saying:
punishment works both ways. You need to finish it. Enough.

Found this on Google Images. Apparently it comes from Adobe by kucherav.

Dark mood today after some serious conversations, need to let this one out; hope it helped. If you recognise yourself in any part of this, please seek support. Seriously.

Anyway, this is a trimeric, which I saw Leanne Moden use elsewhere, and decided to give it a go. It’s also now available as a form on the Concrete and Repeating Forms Spreadsheet.

2022.12 Excavation

Do you ever set out to write one thing and then it twists out from under you in a wild knight’s move and you’re suddenly somewhere completely different? Yeah, me too…

She takes a deep breath, leans forward, says: “It’s not as if–”
then stops. She has that frown, a glyph of sweet concern, “You see, we–”
stops again. It’s not that I don’t understand, we want
the same things, it’s impossible not to gather every effort to the
fight, but while we’re deliberating ethics, other are reaping the rewards
of being more ruthless, scattering tactics like caltrops; fragments of
rage at being bereft of significance, of vigilance missed, of being
suddenly unhitched from what they considered their destiny. No longer loved
just for their existence, they’re scrambling to make sense, jealous of what we
are gathering, finally: the birthright of humankind. “But do you have
the right?” she asks, “Really?” My turn to frown and she points to
one side, where something pants, ready, waiting to submit–
No: subject us to division, derision for peace each line of its manifesto.
And I go cold at the sight of its manic rage, the writhe and seethe
of it, and I am struck, utterly, way too late, by the mortifying
realisation that all of us are in this for a longer haul, an ordeal
we never needed to bleed through. But some folk lost their proof
of our humanity and we must hunker down for the sake of being
safe harbour for those who come after us, but for how long? That’s unknown.

Image taken from a Hard Times piece about Scrooge McDuck and bitcoin

I think I’ve been hanging out with too many Young Folk, who talk in demi-memes culled from Tumblr (and sometimes TikTok), so I’ve only known the quote I’ve used for this Golden Shovel form in fragments (often misquoted to boot). Luckily, Google found me what I needed from my partial phrase, and I spent an unconscionable amount of time testing it on a new tab of the Concrete and Repeating Forms Spreadsheet, which is expanding massively this year, for some reason!

Quite why I went from “I will write a Golden Shovel poem, and it will be a light and possibly mildly flippant take on love and affection.” to Somewhat Political from Line 4 to Practically Apocalyptic from Line 12 is beyond me! Such interesting times we’ve living in…

2022.11 F/Helix

More #concrete poetry! I’ve been wanting to try this for a while...

Image drawn by me, using CorelDraw. And a lot of patience!

You wind me up, tell me that, without you,
I’m just a pest, inconsequential,
homeless, slow, and sickly. I’d better
crawl if I want you back.

But I see further than you think,
know how to hold my head up.
And  have more support than you’ll
ever know. Oh, baby. This is my glow-up...!

2022.10 Free & Divine

I headlined at Here Comes Everyone Magazine’s Fire&Dust Online gig tonight, and did that thing where I write a piece referencing everyone else’s piece and random stuff around the gig. So, here’s what I wrote for them. Hope it makes sense!

Sparkling lines of vibrating texture guide us,
alchemising the negative into something magical,
renewing knowledge of youth and warmth,
mystery threading landscapes through our heart,
time travelling to wave-rides and the braw froth of
the sweet visions weaved by a wain’s imagination.

We are comorbid, mounting in spirals, woven into
subterranean caves, listening to the tink-tink-tink of
reasonable hammers. And even with the difficulty
of narrow bandwidths we can lever prophetic flight from
rocky starts, starlight rhythmic as tsunami.
Early morning prayers sing us home, familiar as
hugs, shameless as true love, tugging at our roots.

We can duck awkwardness, dodging the bottles of
what-if, glancing over our shoulders, moving to
turns, wild and free, unfettered by strings.
Chanting trips into a bridge-tight hair-trigger,
summoning up dissolution, letters to internal
editors, and apologies are bottomless. We have a way,
negotiating meanings, slaloming through salvation
and the layers of elucidation.

We light time, primal as water, anger, sanctuary
peeking through the failure, hand to hand, candle
to candle, ascending amiably through consonants
that my family lost in too many moves, leaving behind
the texture of drumlins, exchanging them for valleys.
Tá brón orm. Mae ddrwg gen i. And you are our poem
and we are your poem, homecoming and hiraeth in
one package, arms wrapped around each other,
the redemption of pain and healing.

We map the details, plotting efficiency, signalling the
wilderness, hinting at mysteries, a beautiful shield against
selfishness. We are the best type of pretentious, overwhelmed,
yet intent on honouring the gorgeousness of divergence,
inventive in the face of indifference, hitching names to
faces, taking pieces of peace, breathing free of sickly-sweetness
clawing at new embarrassments, coursing through our veins.
Messy twenties a lesson for all of us, a course of penalties.
Or psychedelics, it’s difficult to say.

We point upwards to the ones before us, catching the web of
silk-strong love, raising beauty from the barren, astronomical,
hotter than fire, injudicious. Boiling rage floats masterfully,
navigating straight-edged friendships in the best ways, waves
of nostalgia buoying a connection that stretches across divides.
Cheek by jowl the intersections bless us, one world and another,
one word and another, a chain of absences, better than never
having met.

We have touched, minds and voices, seeking exit points, biting
wits switch-hitting themes, unhinging spectres, triggers content
in honesty. Abortive starts stutter into sympathetic syncope,
wide open and broken, boiling tears into hilarity, opening
the next phase, phrasing lovely lists into inferences of quality.
And we flower into flame, taking our place in loving dust,
waiting for the next breath to bring to the light.

From “Protecting the Plant from Catastrophic Combustible Dust Explosions” by Doan Pendleton

I don’t know if the piece will mean much to anyone who wasn’t there, but I really enjoyed creating it.

Thanks for the inspiration. ❤️

fayroberts · Free & Divine

2022.9 Tenebrae

A #Mothra, courtesy of Beth Hartley, via Poetry Non-Stop’s prompt for the day (inspired by an image from StormHour):

There
is a
beauty in contrasts:
opposites propping each other
up, providing a backdrop, swapping
light for dark, and vice versa,
all the while building to a crescendo,
dipping in and out, weaving a foundation for
loud that only works because the quiet came first.
And now that sudden hush as reality creaks, waiting, breath
held, for the cloudburst, the ecstasy of finally just letting go...

And oh, the relief, as all the loud and bright and
dark, soft and jagged, haggard and hopeful, tangle, the way
they’ve been waiting to, the way they were made
to take up space, even if just for
this one moment, this breathing, heaving respite
from holding still, from tamping down.
from that difficult frown of
hiding from the neighbours.
No matter now.
Just breathe.
There.

Image: Shower Over Jodrell Bank by Mark Boardman, via StormHour

I find Mothras difficult, it turns out, because my brain has mastered syllable counting at a pretty much unconscious level these days, but word-counting doesn’t fit my rhythmic nature! Or something. Anyway, it was nice to give this a go. Why not try it on yourself via the ever-present Concrete and Repeating Poetry Forms Spreadsheet?

(It was also very pleasing to discover the multiple meanings of tenebrae...)

2022.8 Fever

A #glosa, as prompted by the “official” #NaPoWriMo site last week. And I think it’s fair to say that #OurFlagMeansDeath has infected my brain more than somewhat…

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, 
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; 
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, 
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
            – Sea-Fever, by John Masefield

I don’t know where the dreams come from - the tumult rattling loud;
the walls and floors are shaking and I’m thronged by such a crowd.
One man claps my shoulder hard, his grin is fond and sly,
and then he makes his way aloft but I can’t ask him why.
The answer’s locked up tight, I think, or smothered in a shroud…
He’s told me, silently and strong, how much I make him proud.
I’ve always lived such a quiet life; so dutiful and dry;
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky.

Perhaps the answer bellows in the wind and in the roar
of breakers as they herald what the gulls are calling for;
I think it’s much too soon to hope the storm will pass us by.
I struggle to remember how in daytime I’m called shy.
At night my blade is confident with tallies by the score,
my skin’s alive with scrimshaw now and still I’m craving more.
Without the sun I spread my arms so wide that I could fly,
and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.

He points out constellations that I never saw before,
and the deck’s drum is our hearts’ beat as we skirt this shore.
The crew’s a distant chorus as we point up higher, making
new tales of the sky’s sails in the breaths we’re taking.
We kneel before the altar of this swiftly changing lore,
and we clasp hands as the mast swings, and I swear I’m sure:
It’s the way he shows me happiness is all mine for the taking,
and the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking.

The stars pale, but I cling hard, and ignore the clouds,
for I know now where my strength lies, and I won’t be cowed:
It’s the nighttime that’s the right time, and the day that’s faking,
but he tells me I must live well, though his voice is shaking.
But my grip’s true, and I tell him: I’ll return – we’re vowed,
so, love, tell me one more story of the seas you’ve ploughed;
I will fade soon, with a slow sigh, to the curse of waking,
and a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

Picture via Google Images.
None of the links I followed bothered to credit the artist, so I can’t either, sadly.

Sea-Fever is one of my most favourite poems EVER, so when the glosa form asked for a quatrain of someone else’s, I leapt to it (without realising what a tricksy rhythm and rhyme pattern I’d bound myself to)! Before you ask: I’ve no real idea where the core narrative of the above piece of mine came from, or if it entirely works, but that’s at least half the point of NaPo, no? Although I could do with fewer complex notions and strict, long forms as I try to catch up!

(And yes, the form is now available on the Repeating and Concrete Forms spreadsheet.)

2022.7 Theft

Four behind on the month’s target, I thought I’d do something short and sweet. Instead of one clogyrnach, I ended up with six loosely themed elements of… something… which is definitely not sweet…

The boy stood on the burning deck,
all focus on one fiery speck;
dancing, twisting, wild,
conflagration’s child;
art summoned from the wreck.

I think that I shall never see
our master go down on one knee,
beg us to forgive
ways he made us live;
the fire would set him free.

I wandered, lonely as a cloud
away from that upsetting crowd,
laughing at the rules,
playing folk for fools.
I’m sure that’s not allowed.

And did those feet in ancient time
ensure that they were shod to climb
generations hence,
other spirits flensed,
their living made a crime?

“Come live with me and be my love!”
The song sung to their god above;
blessings trickled down,
cudgel and the clown;
their powers hand in glove.

Dark hills at evening in the west,
the barrows quietly attest:
Kings and Fools and all,
destined to the thrall
of our cold, final jest

Image from CrimeReads

What is this piece or set of pieces? I don’t entirely know yet. But I do know a lot more about iambic tetrameter now, so that’s nice! Hooray for April, month of first drafts…

2022.6 Stellar

My now-traditional use of the #abracadabra form, possibly because I’m a little behind again...

Maintenance of status quo was never

my design. I am hooked in and hoodwinked,

blinking in the light of promises

spewed by those forces beyond my

capabilities. And yet

nothing diminishes my

capacity for

seeking out the

remedy

which is

hope.

Image from CleanLink via Google Image Search

(And you can write your own abracadabra using the repeating/ concrete forms tool.)

2022.5 Unsung

Somewhat inspired by yesterday’s Poetry Non-Stop prompt by Linda Collins, this turned out quite concrete:

It’s my first time trying this kind of poem; I thought I’d start small this first time, and yes – enlisted the help of my trusty spreadsheet to keep me in check (so now you can too). Text below:

I appear to be

all whys and hows, not what

an act of translation should be:

dappled in the wisdom

of other tongues lapping,

the invisible ripples

you might feel;

I cannot tell

what

2022.4 Drake

This one’s all the fault of @poetrynonstop, specifically Ken Cumberlidge, who introduced us to this form (which is, of course, on the magical spreadsheet). On this day in 1581, Queen Elizabeth I knighted Francis Drake for sailing around the world. But this might not be about just him...

Be careful; common men fare badly circumnavigating principalities. Pursue a brighter star; climb higher than them.

They call you names,
the ones within your sphere.
No matter now.

Can you see them still?
The ones you left there?

Images put together by me and taken from Google Image searches on, respectively: “Drake meme”, “Francis Drake”, “drake dragon”, and “Drake equation”

2022.3 Charm

I seem to have written a paean to the Allographic philosophy of #NoSelfDiss in the wake of another They//Us workshop prompt.

From Discovering Skye, by Jonathan MacDonald, pg 69 (thanks, Crow!).

“It is said that the MacCrimmons possessed a silver chanter which was presented to them by a fairy woman… [after coming across young Patrick MacCrimmon piping alone in a slightly self-destructive huff by the riverside] ‘I will let you choose from three gifts – the power to sail a boat so you can sail the seven seas and become the wealthiest man in your clan; or strength in battle so that the ravens of the Dun can be satisfied with the blood of your enemies; or a gift for piping so that your music will lure the birds from the trees and give peace to wounded men and pain-worn women…’”

My whole life I’ve been a broken mimic,
dripping with the need to reflect,
echo everything in my domain.

My fingers fumble, humbling beauty,
polluting the ways of nature,
grating on the nerves of the world.

I cannot capture what I want,
taunted with the ordinary,
taught that my net worth is just the cost of twine.

My mind is tangled in the dewed prisms of sunrise,
blithe with its slippery prettiness,
blessed with perfect curls of mist.

It keeps resisting me. Halting and faltering,
I have rendered the ecstasy of existence
into nothing but a handful of sand.

And she says: stop trying, these things come with time,
but I’m spurred by a burr of bitterness
to hiss: not good enough.

She sighs. And a part of me, frightened, chides myself for
openly despising the opinions of the Sidhe
(a really swift path to ruin, if they choose it).

But she just listens, offers gifts,
and I glimpse a future that is Not-This,
glistening, buoyed by a belief from beyond my ponderings.

Because in years to come her promise is fulfilled;
a thing to pass down the ages,
a way to sway the doubt from clouded minds.

You’ll find it’s not the silver that’s enchanted,
but the clasping fingers that fling caution to the wind,
bringing beauty to the ears and inner eyes.

And I’ve been blessed, all right,
brightened by a loving sleight of hand that
captured all my fears and said: make art of this.

See there’s no artifice in listening to every step,
each one begetting more, each landmark
only half the story.

Glory’s less important than the challenge of the
next peak, and the next,
of hefting new-found strength against the heights.

But mind you never seek to keep the art
held fast against whoever strives behind you.
Use your keys to keep the gates from closing.

No-one sensible would seek to say
the fae ain’t listening still, the hollow hills
all ringing with the echoes of your actions.

For it’s a fact that generosity begets more wealth,
and every day the music grows,
we only, every one of us, get richer still.

Image (“a romanticised Victorian era depiction of a MacCrimmon piper”) from the Wikipedia article about the clan

Weirdly, I’ve not yet been able to find any reference to this version of the myth anywhere online. The closest talk of a fairy woman or a mysterious stranger helping a weeping boy feeling himself not up to a big competition for the title of MacLeod official piper where he’d been subbed in at the last minute, so I’m not sure where MacDonald got this one from (let alone his startling use of symbolism whereon the fae maiden brings out the chanter from under her apron!). And the tenor of the tale changed a little when I discovered that the clan still hold competitions for the best piper to claim the silver chanter – but they must only play the old tunes, written by clan ancestors…

2022.2 Concerted

Today on the They//Us workshop, I was asked to provide five emoji and we were all asked to write something from them in 15 minutes. Here they are:

👀🔥

(hope these work!)

It’s not like you haven’t thought this before, your mind expanding to touch the other elements at play, but here, fearing dissolution, you succumb to the most basic ways of centring yourself, deft in your clumsiness. Clutching solidity, you look to the others and it’s difficult. Martin’s eyes are wider than you’ve ever seen them, and it’s nothing like unalloyed delight – he’s bright with all the colours of panic, static and absolute. You slew your gaze to Jenny, bouncing, hands almost frantic, but gleaming with glee, and you feel like a traitor, want to turn away to take your terror elsewhere, protect her from its stain. Chris burns, but you’re learning that that’s the ground state of their being, a bedrock of molten ire that can be surprisingly ecstatic at times, or even an elemental type of serenity. And maybe you’ll take their brightness, her joy, and his rigour into yourself, let yourself find the rhythm of prisms, the ligature of ignominious connections, abetting your own everything, and just sway, horrible and lovely, blank-faced, forgetting grace in the the name of truth.

Lights flash, gliding past.
You are entering the beat,
tucked into the pit.

2022.1 Diplomatic Impunity

My first attempt at a Rondo Redoublé, courtesy of Ann Atkins, who persuaded me to put the type on the forms template. Inspired by real events.

I am a stranger in this stranger land,
now stranded in a court of foreign kings,
finding my assumptions built on sand,
branded by what my occlusion brings.

My confusion oscillates and swings;
I am humbled where I once was grand.
And charm now clatters where it used to sing.
I am a stranger in this stranger land,

This encounter’s not what I had planned.
Speeches hobble, envying the wings
of favoured members of the louder band
not “stranded” in this court of other kings,

I’m used to being heeded, is the thing,
instead of frozen by these flames I’ve fanned.
I try to dodge the arrows and the stings,
finding my assumptions built on sand,

It seems that “arrogance” is my new brand;
I listen to the truth with which that sings,
and wish they’d go ahead and have me banned,
branded by what my occlusion brings.

They say that mud, once flung, will always cling
I’ll have to work to scrub it from my hands,
stop loading ammunition into slings
where fear has left me washed up on this strand.
I am a stranger in this.

Image from Borgen Magazine. Description in alt-text.