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...

2022.13 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.

2022.8 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.)

2022.6 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.)

2022.1 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.

2020.16 Aestivation

This is only the second sestina I’ve ever written, the form taught to us at @allographica by dear friend @CaronFreeborn.

I’ve started to crave touch
Like water on a cracked rock,
Desert-hot, blinded with dust,
Knowing how rapidly it will soak in,
Knowing how this blessing
Will never feel quite enough.

I can’t quite imagine the sensation of enough,
And all I know is the touch
Of myself, over and over, seeking the blessing
Of repetition, dry skin wearing into rock.
There is a cradle of sensation waiting, I trust, in
Which I will submerge, cleanse myself of lonely dust.

It’s all I seem to feel: brushing dust
From aching shoulders, collecting enough
To drown in.
I turn my face to the rain, daring its cold touch,
A rush that could rock
Me to my core, win my blessing.

It seems thin, my blessing –
What can this husk offer but dust,
Forty-five years accumulated on this rock.
Too much, sometimes, but not enough,
Screened and screening, touch
Fingertip to tempered glass, breath in...

I’ve lived by the sea so long – tide in
Or out, but always present, a blessing
Of salt and movement, spray touch,
Licked lips, eyelashes, no dust
There only sand, and battlements, and force enough
To stroke away the most enduring rock.

So now I perch on my rock,
High and dry, bared teeth a rictus grin,
Too stubborn to say: enough,
To seek a closer caress for blessing,
Knowing it is nothing but more dust,
Another delay to truly loving touch.

Sometimes I rock myself, it’s not enough,
Grip and scratch a touch too much in
Secret blessings far from webcams, shaking dust.

Image source: Wikipedia article on aestivation.

2020.13 Season of the Lych

(If you'd like to tackle pantoums and other repeating forms, I've made a spreadsheet for them (obviously!): http://bit.ly/poetryrepforms)

So this must be the Spring of our discontent.
Our grumblings now barely touch the weather;
While some of us will struggle to make rent,
Still others are just spending, hell for leather.

Our grumblings now barely touch the weather;
While some urge all us sinners to repent,
Still others are just spending, hell for leather,
And in the dark, conspiracies foment.

While some urge all us sinners to repent,
The rest explore the length and strength of tethers,
And in the dark, conspiracies foment;
To break the fragile piece takes one more feather.

The rest explore the length and strength of tethers,
While some of us will struggle to make rent.
To break the fragile peace takes one more feather,
And this must be the spring of our discontent.

Lychgate at the Parish Church of St Mary & St Giles, facing the High Street, Stony Stratford
Source: Geograph.com, © Copyright Malcolm Campbell

2020.11 Along for the Ride

Written at the @allographica virtual write-in this afternoon, using the @napowrimo prompt for today and the random line generator from the Language is a Virus site (words: suspect concede encode chomp store ride approve belong, of which I didn't manage all of them – in my defence, it’s a pretty short form!).

Our fate appears to be encoded
I suspect we will have to concede
Our store of tactics all out-moded
Our fate appears to be encoded
Approval rating all eroded
It won’t be long until we plead:
Our fate appears to be encoded
I, suspect, will have to concede

Image from Martin Lubeck’s website

2019.13 Memento Mori

“But we don’t know how to summon a demon…”
It’s not every day you get to say that.
She looks at me with something like love
But something much more like pity.
“Close your eyes,” she says, “and wish.”
I start to argue now:
“Wishing never brought…”
But close my eyes
Anyway –
It’s too
Late.
Picked up the latest (hard copy) book I’d been reading, and used the first suitable line to kick off a Abracadabra poem. The book was Book One of Lucifer, a graphic novel written by Mike Carey (yes, inspiration for the TV series), and you get what you ask for, I guess…!

Incidentally, I found out recently that the better translation of Memento Mori is: remember that you are going to die.

2019.6 A List of Things

Things That Bring Smiles

You breeze through the door;
You rock sideways in your seat,
Bursting with rockets.

Things That Won’t Leave

That sparkly bath bomb;
Grand National 2010;
Hair dye fingerprints.

Things You Don’t Remember

How I take my tea;
Open crisps: invitation;
That Grand National.

Things That Wake Me Up

Slammed doors – car or house;
My name, a kind hand stroking;
You suppressing tears.

Things That Send Me To Sleep

A kind hand, stroking;
Your voice shares that well-loved book;
Crackling woodfire.

Things That Bring Tears 

Too much compassion;
Sister Act: that one high note;
July’s final gasp.

Things That Spark Poetry

Injustice; work stress;
Family; love; eavesdropping;
Pivoting seasons;
Memories of home; the sea;
At the right time: anything.

Already falling behind my self-imposed target of two per day for the rest of the month, but I continue to strive with this Pillow Book-style poem (thanks for the prompt, NaPoWriMo), done as six senryū stanzas and one tanka, because that seemed appropriate for the original material.

2019.5 Flim-flam

We meet at lunch, and no-one’s pleased,
You call my question “good”.
If flattery, I’m not appeased.
We meet at lunch, and no-one’s pleased,
My work persona’s feeling squeezed,
Forgetting shouting’s not a “should”.
We meet at lunch, and no-one’s pleased,
You call my questions “good”.


One of my traditions for NaPoWriMo is to write a triolet. Here’s this month’s.

2019.4 Ghost Tour

“Will you cover for me?” I’m helpless, delving into a set of well-worn expressions, shunning the stutter he beckons, projecting: Yeah, I reckon. “Listen,” he says, “I owe you one.” At this point, more like twenty, a reckoning that’s chasing propriety into an early grave. A new voice: “Step lively,” says Greg, head a conspiracy tilt past the fire hatch and we scurry, him stubbing, me shrugging, Greg’s gaze a spinning speculation I nudge from him. “Madame’s on the march,” he confides. I sigh. “No closer to the prize?” My turn to roll my eyes, grab regulation headgear, unprop the door while trawling for witticisms. Zilch. “There’s always next time.” “Sure, love. Sure.” We watch as he darts ahead.

Tip-toeing upstage,
We are mismatched murderers
Longing for a break.


Over to our old friend the random line generator for inspiration for this not-very-strict haibun, Words generated were: cover, march, listen, tip, upstage, point, chase, ghosts.

2018.17 Cycle of Development

I ask you what you want from me,
I try hard not to sigh
I lay out: Time/ Cost/ Quality?
I ask you what you want from me,
You say that it’s all up to me.
(I wonder if you’re high…)
I ask you what you want from me,
I try hard not to sigh.

2017.26 - Degrees

“There’s always seasonal work…” you say
Gazing through the window to the world beneath
“The year’s come round like a big circle thing.”
It’s hard to bite your lip and smile

Gazing through the window to the world beneath
I wonder what to say to you
It’s hard to bite your lip and smile
The window mostly gives me back myself

I wonder what to say to you
Waiting for the connection to resolve
The window mostly gives me back myself
I ask you what you’re doing now

Waiting for the connection to resolve
(The year’s come round like a big circle thing.)
I ask you what you’re doing now
“There’s always seasonal work…” you say.


Trying out a pantoum for the first time, yet again spending longer on untangling the explanations (and making a spreadsheet to do some of the heavy lifting for me) than on writing the poem. In case you’re wondering: the quotes in the first (and, therefore, final) stanza are genuine things a recruitment agent said to me while looking out of the fifth floor window after I was made redundant from a teaching post. It’s made a pleasing refrain and repeated (not always entirely sweet) in-joke in the intervening years, and seemed to suit the form.

2017.25 - Living

Sofa
Sits foresquare
Against the radiator,
Sagging, ragged, lightly stained.
Memorial.

Person
Taps syncopatedly
On the sofa
Staring at life sideways.
Poet.


The NaPoWriMo challenge of a few days ago was to write a double elevenie. It feels very much like it took me longer to untangle the description of the form on the site than write this. I feel insufficiently challenged. However, I have written a new poem in a new form so… there you go.

2017.22 - A Sofa Called Despair

I think I’ve come under a spell -
I’m not writing poems so well;
My brain’s had enough,
It’s been filled with dry stuff,
And my eyeballs are starting to swell.

It’s not that I don’t love to write,
But I’m coupling words every night.
#amwriting (Whatever!
I’ve jettisoned clever,
And am scribbling any old shite.)

But I can’t quit while I’m still ahead
Even though my Muse fucked off to bed.
If you cannot do better
Just get bloody meta
And write about writing instead.


Turns out that doing poetry admin is antithetical to writing poetry. I knew this, but I can’t just stop for April. Either that or all the late nights are draining my creativity. Or it’s just one of those days. Anyway. Limerick. Still on target. Bah. {twitches}

2017.19 - Unobserved

The things I did while no-one was looking
Like peeking inside the old man’s chest
Were only ever so slightly shocking

No-one, unobserved, is quite at their best
In my shoes you might well have done the same
Like peeking inside the old man’s chest

I’ve checked, and I don’t feel the slightest shame
It would never do: to be thought boring
In my shoes you might well have done the same

And no-one with me will be caught snoring
I’m certain of that: I feel quite clear
It would never do: to be thought boring

It’s only alone you can bring yourself cheer
I know that nobody else need know
I’m certain of that: I feel quite clear

Without judgement we all would be much freer
The things I did while no-one was looking
(I know what nobody else need know)
Were only ever so slightly shocking


It’s another of my NaPoWriMo traditions - a terzanelle. Slightly freaking myself out that I’m now starting to find form easier if I’m stuck for a topic, but I’m sure that’ll pass. The first line is a corruption of a line I saw in an image I found when I was looking for something else entirely.

G. K. Jourdane - Things I Did When No One Was Watching

2017.16 - Ghazal

I walk differently with women,
Sing a different key with women.

My vigilance leans, eyes shutter;
Something else to see with women.

Voices like the sea, throats awash -
Laugh, or disagree, with women.

Arms wide as a tree, wind-dancing,
Sway safe in the lea, with women.

Not just them, but we, a bonding;
Have faith, and be free, with women.


I’ve secretly wanted to give this form a go for a couple of years. The last time I looked at the rules, I felt the same pain I do when considering certain types of quadratic equations. I fled from the explanation, and decided that Ghazal was not for me. And then this year I thought: nope, this is NaPoWriMo, and you push those pain boundaries. If you can do sonnets, Roberts, you can do this. I put a call up for topics/ prompts on that social media, and came away with a hill of helpings. I chose Lara’s “The company of women” and decided that today was the day for my first ghazal. And finally found an explanation/ description that made sense to me.

I suspect I’ve not done the form (or myself) much justice here, but then my first sonnet sucked badly, so onwards and upwards, eh? ☺

Tomorrow I may well give myself a break from counting syllables (four forms in a row… pfff…!) and do something like a clerihew or some stream-of-consciousness free verse.

2017.14 - Generation

Uppity.
He’s never called that –
Cocky, bold,
Decisive,
Maverick and rule-breaker;
Never uppity.

My brass neck
Sets off shrill alarms,
My mettle
Detected;
Unnatural, they call it –
Brazen, unholy.

I’m a steed
Of a different stripe,
Stand hidden
In plain sight;
Pierrot makeup, broad back,
Prized for my fine skin.

You should know:
Underneath it all
I’m angry,
With reason;
I won’t smile for the telling,
See, I’ve learned too much.

I won’t kneel,
So don’t hold your breath;
No trophy,
Owned or sold,
Obeisance be buggered –
I’ll walk my own path.


Elaborate set-up: using a different random word generator, I generated five words (uppity, brass, zebra, known, obeisant), then plugged them into Google image search. Scrolling through some weird and wonderful results, and jumping some links, I came across:

Since I’d also come across 

 and 

along the way, the scene was set for the theme. I then trawled Wikipedia for poetry forms, and found a Shadorma. My only regret is that I can’t seem to find out who the ladies in the first image are, so, if anyone can enlighten me, I’d be very grateful!

2017.13 - Amber

You take my flesh in hand and start to score
You press with gentle force to mark a seam
You know the path, you’ve traced its route before
This armour guards a softness, lush as dreams.

This task takes patience, time, and outright skill
First layer gone and now the harder part
A thin, tight membrane keeps you from your fill,
So lift the bitter, taste my sweeter heart.

The air sings, tart-sweet, beckoning your tongue;
And busy fingers blush, juice running free,
Impediments are done, the feast’s begun,
My core surrendered, you devouring me.

The fresh scent lingers, memories kept real;
Ripe flesh is worth the challenge of the peel.


It’s NaPoWriMo, which means sonnet-time. And I asked my partner for a prompt, and got “orange peel” - so we can blame whoever gave my partner’s group that for an improv prompt.