16 - Ouroboros

#NaPoWriMo Day 16 and that night I wrote a piece of free verse inspired by the prompt “Golden eagles could be returning back to English skies after 150 years” as part of my ongoing (possibly Adrian-Mole-esque) attempts to get a news poem into Rattle, which I’m becoming increasingly sanguine about and just seeing it as an opportunity to do a submission to a friendly place and keep finding fresh, weekly prompts for easy poem-inspiration.

Easy. Right. So the process went something like this (skip to the poem if you’d prefer):

Me: I shall write a poem about golden eagles. Golden eagles are great!
Writing Brain: Uh, yeah. Great.
Me: No, we agreed: golden eagles. The Patreon subscribers picked it unanimously. We just did hours of research and shit.
WB: Mmmh. Not feeling it.
Me: Deal with it.
WB: [stubborn silence]
Me: [tries to tempt WB out with setting up an acrostic]
WB: [tumble weed]
Me: Fuck’s sake, fine. [slumps] Leave me, then. I’ll just sit here, bereft. Like this nation bereft of all those species that got hunted to extinction…
WB: Oh, hello.
Me: What?
WB: Say that again?
Me: Uh. “Fine, leave”?
WB: No, the other thing.
Me: “We are a nation bereft”?
WB: That’s the puppy.
Me: Uh, okay…? [starts writing]

[time passes]

WB: Ooh, we could expand this list of extinct British animals…
Me, cautiously: I guess…?
Me: Wait. Are we writing a political poem instead of a nice nature poem…?
WB: Maaaybeeee…?
Me: Fine, I supposed ecology is pretty political…
WB, absently: Now you’re getting it…

[after a couple of stanzas]

Me: So, just a short one, after last night’s sestina, right?
WB: Oh, absolutely.
Me: Right.

[80 minutes later]

Me: Why is the poem going over the page?
WB: Nearly done…
Me: You mean it’s not finished yet?!
WB: Shh, I’m busy.
Me: [growls]

[time passes]

WB: Hey.
Me: What? Done?
WB: Not exactly. Could you go look up a list of reintroduced species to the British Isles for a kind of rollcall near the end?
Me, throwing hands up: I guess!

So that all happened. And then I realised that my delivery during the recording left a lot to be desired (there was definitely a bit that came across horribly classist, for one), so I re-recorded the last two stanzas. And then did the last one again, because WB chipped in saying “eh, that’s a bad assonance” (you’re a bad assonance!) and rewrote two lines. And then there were bits which no amount of cleaning could fix which needed pick-ups and that’s why I’m a day late releasing this NaPoWriMo poem (which doesn’t even mention golden eagles by name…), officer.

Anyway, remember that, if you’re a subscriber to my Patreon, you can hear the much-belaboured recording of this piece (and the fifteen preceding it) there. The link to the relevant post is here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/ouroboros-155915962

---

We are a nation bereft –
we swept out all the things we
didn’t think fitted our
image, insisted on diminishing
diversity, this unenlivened
island made bland as butter,
utterly subsumed in
consuming greatness.

No more bears or boars,
these shores cleansed,
carcass flensed; we’d throw you
to the wolves, but that’s not
an option anymore.
The aurochs gone, the great auks
axed, taxed by a species that
sees vulnerability and
bleeds it dry.

Anything deemed too big for its boots
is rooted out and then, ironically,
we go looting elsewhere, and
dare to complain when these actions
have consequences, begging the
question: when does entitlement
get fed up with itself?

I exaggerate, of course:
#NotAllHumans actively stamp out
the damp borders of this
hoarding nation, saying
“Let’s slay things, let’s make this
frayed system more desiccated,”
dedicating efforts to ending
indigenous and migrant
variety alike.

But, gods help me, enough of us
do nothing, and that’s… bad.
So thank heavens for those
closer to the ground by choice,
voices raised, daring their best,
questioning the status quo,
knowing that all this hard
graft might not stem disaster, but we’ll
sink faster in the quicksand of
handing off our responsibilities.

And see? The Fisher King
builds, buck-toothed and broad-tailed
in this ailing nation once more.
White storks haunt lake shores,
scores of pine martens and many tiny ants
gathered and nurtured and handed
back to a land that needs them.
Demanding more than monoculture,
ungovernable greed asset-stripping
this habitat for… snacks,
has to start somewhere.

There are bison now in Kent, and the Isle of
Wight has white-tailed eagles thriving,
driving out the unchecked
predators, invader turned prey.
And hey, I know what you’re thinking:
“This place is more crowded now and
how will we cope with these new-old things
incoming, taking up space, fiercely protected,
who gets to stake their claim,
blame shifting… this way…?”

And I say: reparations from the audacious few
who caught us all up in their hunger have to
happen, so please, bring on the wonderful
thunderclap of wings broader than
I’m tall and I’ll sing you such songs
of old wrongs righted. No longer benighted,
we can be inspired, and wild,
and rightfully just a part, not
monarchs, but citizens, dancing,
balanced again at last.

What’s that, Fay? You decided to draw something you’ve never drawn before for this already very involved poem? Cool. Cool.

---

The Ouroboros represents many things, depending on the cultural background you’re viewing it from. Unity, protection, duality, completeness, the trap that is the physical universe, and the end containing the beginning (and vice-versa) being some of them. Up to you which you’d like to apply in the context of this piece…!

11 - Anvils

#NaPoWriMo Day 11 and tonight I’ve been writing a haibun inspired by a very real story that happened a few hours ago…

Remember that, if you’re a subscriber to my Patreon, you can hear a recording of this piece (and the ten preceding it) there. The link to the relevant post is here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/anvils-155399668

---

I am searching for the perfect metaphor, all unknowing, a way to say: this is the situation, pay attention, I’m not joking, it’s serious business, not something to downplay, get ever-so-British about, not a sideways shuffle into clout, this thing I’m on about. I have been skirting closer to the truth while people nod, knowledgeable, exchange sympathies, euphemisms dripping with sincerity and wildly off the mark, while I slump, succumb, let them off the leash to bark up the wrong tree, watch them run, blissfully oblivious. Why spoil their fun? But now you’re here – caught in the dipped beams as my friend encourages us to creep from the car and crouch, coo cozening comments. You’re having none of it – big bright bastards battering you with blather, bugger off! So you scuttle into last summer’s dried grass at the foot of habitat whose name you carry, barrier to chatterers, and hide enough of your head to no longer see us, torso tense in prickly denial. And, while my friend’s snapping pictures, I’m thinking: That’s familiar. That’s a Mood. That’s… a simile so spot-on the gods, no longer dropping hints, have got it literally spotlit…

In hiding from debt,

I spy an apt analogue:

Hedgehog in headlights

Depiction of the evening’s discovery made imperfectly by me (Krita & Huion)

3 - Truncated

Confession: I slept through Friday (3-Apr) and so I’m invoking my personal Emergency Short Form Protocol (i.e. I’m allowed two emergency short forms – haiku/ senryū, limerick, clogyrnach, or tanka in the course of the month – if I chain them to make a longer poem, that doesn’t count as an ESF) already. Someone on Threads said that we should all Google Pink Fairy Armadillos, if we were unaccountably unaware of their existence already, and I took that as a sign…

(Don’t forget that you can access recordings of these poems on my Patreon!)

---

You shouldn’t exist.
Your design is too tricky,
and yet you persist…
Pretty burrower won’t you
share your stubbornness with us?

---

If you fancy writing a tanka for yourself, you can use my Repeating and Concrete Poetry Forms spreadsheet, which has a number of syllable-counting forms in there too…

Picture of taxidermied specimen courtesy of Daderot via Wikipedia

You can access the recording of this poem via Patreon.

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.

2018.15 Suffered a Sea Change

Woke to grey fingers
Legacy of last week’s sweat -
Spring’s gait hitched again.

2017.12 - Neon

In the dark, the cut ones
Dance with black light,
Caressing galaxies.

They summon the
Impossible creatures,
Singing themselves to flight.

And stars bear witness,
Grit-cling to the singers
Bring new life, heavy and wise.

And I scribble enigmas,
Sleep-starved, sitting
Propped against nature,
Breaking it thread by thread

Watching the flowers die.

A friend posted this link recently, and it was clearly percolating away in my mind. I rejected all prompts, much to my body’s annoyance, until I remembered this one. Did I mention that I’m quite tired at the moment?

2015.19 - Half-day, April

Zephyrs seem to bless me;
Dress-down Friday
Flings me, beribboned into
My kind of sunshine.

There is nothing to fight.
Scents are gentle;
Sounds of city bustle
Blend together.

Everything's adventuring -
Crows and footballs,
Ants and bare arms,
Blossom, grass, guitars.

There's a holiday haze
To the town's fumes,
I'm being lured to lay my head,
Rest on this bench, regretless.

Junk is jaunty,
Garbage is art,
It's all part of the
Wide day's pattern.

We are flattered by
Wary, warm light,
The flight of cut grass,
And the season's first ice cream.

2015.4 - Apocritical

Spring is sprung, the grass is ris',
The bird is on the wing,
But I'll confess to hating
What these warmer seasons bring.
It isn't buoyant crocuses,
Or curly lamby mops -
I even love the dandelions
That feed those bunny hops.

It isn't randy froggies
Frothing up my pond at night,
Or the fact I leave work later now,
Confused by longer light.
It isn't that the pretty folk
Strut out in short-cut tops,
It's that when you leave the window cracked
The bathroom fills with wasps.

Okay, it's not that large a threat -
In fact, it's one wasp only -
But the first ones of the season
They are big, confused, and lonely.
The line about them being
Frightened more of me is crap
If that was so, why would it
Try to cwtch up to my lap?

As an adult, I know fine well,
Even given half a chance,
It wouldn't sting me rigid,
And yet still I do that dance
The one that is accompanied
By hopping, flaps, and squealing,
As if, with sheer decibels
I can yet send it reeling.

In the kitchen I could take
The chance to trap it in a glass
But, here, bereft of clothing,
Well, I think I'll take a pass.
Perhaps it's time for therapy
Where my fears some shrink dissects.
It's that or spend the summer
Out-manoeuvred by insects.

________________________

True story. Also: this is why I don't do rhyming poems... :-p

2015.1 - Sky Road

Today I am gust-riding.
Today I have curled
Straight fingers into
Wind-feather ribbons,
Hitched myself to chiming light

The night clangs,
Roars, hisses,
Bellows indiscretely,
Rattles curtains,
Unburdened with the
Need for sleep.

But today I am
Rubbing eyes and smiling
Feeling sight shift
With flickering shadows,
My mind slip to ride
Free air to untold places.

#24 Parliament

"Make a big fist now", he urges
My own drowning in the grip
Of generations

You sidle, stomp,
Shake your shoulders,
A veteran performer
But still up betimes

We have been told your story
The intricate knit of land
And prey and you,
And watched you land, sighing,
Laughing, snapping, pointing, shuffling,
Shifting from foot to foot.

I feel you echo this
On my fingertips,
Watch, incredulous at fortune,
See you duck as the image-maker
Blinks and beckons
"Come on, boy!"

I release you to your warden,
Still in awe, grinning,
Head spinning;
Wishing, wishing, wishing.

***

Photo by Carla Keen

#19 Orrest Head, Windermere

Poetry's no good
When the landscape writes its own
Lines against the sky

Mere colludes with
Fells, sun, and horizon to
Scour me with beauty

I'm eyes without mouth,
Ears without fingers, and a
Soul with no outlet.

#12 Rolling

She's looking for a new name
A way to shake fate
And take on the rain.

She's searching for fresh hope
A place beyond coping
No longer alone.

She's calling down fire
A blind strike to burn
Her way out of the mire

She's opening to clean air
Daring to reclaim fair
Share fortune's favour.

She's summoning the tide
Riding the wild crests
Arms wide to net the moon

She's standing her ground
Pounding earth
To bring forth thunder

She needs to be tree and stone
Hearth and forge
Shore and wave
Wind and lightning
Heart and breath and blood

But just now
She's looking for a new name
And it will be glorious.

#10 On the First Sunny Week in April

Today is smiling,
No longer shy over bare
Shoulders of branches.

We are awash with
A froth of blossom, giddy
With fertility.

Greens are glossier,
Windows give back more blue, and
Hearts burden us less

We squint into kind
Brightness, ease shoulders against
The sun’s warm caress,
Grin to feel Spring’s fingers tug
Our hair, quaff drafts of cool air


For those of you interested in such things, I've combined three haiku/ senryū as verses, with a final tanka.

#4 Smoke Without Fire

Pulses quicken, sirens whine and blare
The sky is close, a touch is all it takes
Breath seems precious, nothing I can share
Pulses quicken, sirens whine and blare
Gasp for the memory of freer air
Unfreighted by humanity’s mistakes
Pulses quicken, sirens whine and blare
The sky is close, a touch is all it takes



I'm back to work after a couple of days off sick. The polluted air is thick here, waiting for wind and rain...

Cross-posted to the Cambridgeshire NaPoWriMo blog.

#23 The Poet Cautiously Removes Her Jumper

Another challenge form - my first triolet, though something looks a little wrong - if there's a glitch, please let me know! :)

Summer's here at last
And the air sweats insects
Nothing moves too fast
Summer's here at last
All too soon it's past
But now it's nearly perfect.
Summer's here at last
And the air sweats insects

#20 Investment

Patently true - considering I'm doing this instead...

Today, I am revising,
Despite the beguiling light,
Crow call, twitter, buzzing bees,
And outdoor clatter.

I am stewed in matters
Academic, resisting
News feed, Twitter, DVDs,
And Facebook chatter.

I'm absorbing data -
Saying "maybe later" to
Fresh air, shopping, walking out,
And friendly banter.

Dammit, I'm revising.
Any minute now...

#19 Wild Honey

And she tastes sweet,
Sweet as chocolate did
Before you started counting.
Now calories and plantations,
Percentages and guilt and pounds
Drop to the ground
All foundered by her sweetness.

She is the welcome slap
Of ocean air,
Daring you to take its caress
To everywhere you feel,
Clear down to the
Bottom of your lungs,
Tug freshness into every
Crevice, scream your acceptance
In new and unknown tongues.

And she lights your sky,
Your glittering guide at night,
The smile that wakes you
And takes you by the hand at dusk.
She is the musk of
Summer rose, the first
Full fall of snow,
And now she's all you'll ever know.

#18 Printemps 2

The season brings its
Own bright colours, dancing in
Pink, white, and yellow.

Trees curtsey full skirts
To flirt with nodding buds, the
Lush spurting green spikes.

Warm gusts chase clouds that
Fade with each breath, no longer
Pall - decoration.

I stride, breathing deep,
Letting Spring leap into me,
And laugh with each step.

#17 Dogfight

Usually I love the wind,
Like facing up and
Pitting myself
Against its gusts, but,
Just for once
I'd've liked some still today
Quiet and calm,
Dark, bright, or cold
I don't mind
Just without the bind
Of doubling myself
To meet its
Playfully aggressive greetings.

My breath's been stolen
By rough slaps,
I'm chapped, unhappy,
Palpitating,
Waiting for my ears
To thaw
From sore to normal.

Yes, recovering
Grey-faced
And waylaid,
I would say
I could have
Done without
The wind today -
That beguiling brat
Who thinks it's all that,
Loving to chat shit
And steal my hat.

#1 Printemps

She peeks,
Bright and unreliable
She coquettes, pirouettes,
As yet untouchable.
Yesterday, late,
She turned a twinkling eye
Over her shoulder,
Fingers still extended
To her father.

Today she faces us,
Her smile almost unbearable
To starving eyes.
And despite ourselves,
We wag cautious tails
Among shivering pink
And thin green decorations,
Hope that hand she raises now
Is beckoning.

Appetite no longer dulled
Amid anticipation's bones,
We feel a warmth stir
That we'd long supressed,
Pretending stoicism,
Looking forward to the rest.