18 - Snowflake

#NaPoWriMo Day 18 (technically 19) and today I’ve been writing a pantoum inspired by too many conversations that I suspect many of you will find… familiar…

Remember that, if you’re a subscriber to my Patreon, you can hear a recording of this piece (and the seventeen preceding it) there. The link to the relevant post is here: [Patreon post]

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I ask him not to use that phrase;
I am polite, I do not shout.
He tells me that it’s just his ways,
I don’t know what I’m on about.

I am polite, I do not shout;
we must be careful to be safe.
I don’t know what I’m on about:
his arrogance begins to chafe.

We must be careful to stay safe,
and not upset the "normal" folk.
His arrogance begins to chafe…
of course: I cannot take a joke.

Please don't upset the Normal Folk.
(He tells me that it’s just his ways…
of course: I cannot take a joke.)
I ask him not to use that phrase…

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If you’d like to write your own pantoum, why not make use of my handy-dandy shareware spreadsheet that can help get you started? https://bit.ly/poemrep

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...

2021.8 Chariot

The Allographic prompt today was to go to Wikipedia’s entry for 8-Apr and pick something to write about. I chose the life of Constantina, which turned out to be quite the ride.

My only worth: a bride-price for a king;
A civilising influence to boot.
(It seems my latter legend holds a sting.)

Depending on your source, I made a suit,
Or else was sent where I could cause less harm
(A civilising influence to boot.)

It seems that older wives can have their charms
For this Augusta made his blood run hot.
(Or else was spent where it could cause less harm.)

But now I’m dead I could be all I’m not,
Some scribe who never met me penning verse
(For this Augusta made his blood run hot.)

And fever stole my breath – it could be worse
My reputation’s made another shift:
Some scribes who never met me penning verse.

From harridan to saint I’ve armed a gift
My former worth: a bride-price for a king;
My reputation’s made another shift –
It seems my latter legend holds a sting.

This is a terzanelle, created using the Repeating Forms tool.

From Wikipedia, arm reliquaire of Saint Constantina, Santa Maria della Scala in Siena,
by © José Luiz Bernardes Ribeiro, CC BY-SA 4.0

(Image description in alt-text.)

2021.7 Torpor

I plan to go out for a ride
My weather app has sage advice
High winds may cause resolve to slide
I planned to go out for a ride
It turns out that it’s warm inside
“Backsliding” isn’t very nice!
I’d planned to go out for a ride
My weather app had sage advice

Nice and simple, this is from the Day 7 prompt – to write a triolet about today’s weather – for which I used the Repeating Forms tool, and then fiddled with tenses.

2021.2 Garrafad

The Day 2 prompt was: go to page 37 of the nearest non-poetry book and write something inspired by it. With most of my books still boxed, I pounced on my copy of “Discovering Skye” by Jonathan MacDonald, bought in Spring 2002, from memory. Page 37 reveals the relatively modern, very polite legend of Garrafad (*see below), and why the Kilmartin cemetery was not built there… I went with a pantoum, for some reason, though messed with the format a bit.

I don’t mind; I rarely mind
to hold these stones is all I ask.
I’m not the growling, hurting kind,
but most don’t see beneath my mask

To hold these stones is all I ask –
rain and wind and sky and fish –
but most can’t see beneath my mask…
some quiet – that’s my only wish.

Rain and wind and sky and fish…
I’d frankly rather sleep alone;
some quiet – that’s my only wish!
Downstream is better for your stone.

I’d frankly rather sleep alone;
I’m not the growling, hurting kind
downstream is better for their stones;
I rarely mind; tonight I mind.

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.

2020.15 Narrative

Another April tradition as I try to catch up again (been a bad week): terzanelles.

Although they say bad judgements never cease
(I’m sure that you have plenty – so have I)
You’ll find I’m not the villain of the piece.

Feel free to shout your questions to the sky
You never know what blessings may return
(I’m sure that you have plenty – so have I).

You may well feel frustrated, shocked, and spurned
It’s time to join with those petitioning
You never know what blessings may return.

Now those at fault attempt positioning
With those who called the tune and paid the price
It’s time to join with those petitioning.

A crisis is no reason to be nice
To those who don’t deserve and never will
With those who called the tune and paid the price.

So take your time: make up and pass the bill
Although they say bad judgements shouldn’t cease
For those who don’t deserve and never will
You’ll find I’m not the villein of the peace.

Image source: Aquarian Insight (thanks, Google image search)

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

2020.1 Luxury

We are searching for candles
Drawers are rifled and rejected,
Corners inspected,
Best guesses anyone’s for the making.
Maybe this is not the time
But shining is important, so we dig quicker.

We are searching for candles,
For the first of two birthdays
Ticked off in swift succession,
Successfully silent, cardless
Except for, in each instance,
A different, solitary, stubborn gifter.

We are searching for candles
Tiny, delicate, beckoning heavy breaths,
A gesture against this… situation,
The one we stopped naming –
Another small wall against the sign
On every site, the flash panels dimmed.

We are searching for candles
And I neglect to mention the job lot
Bought before anyone else could get them,
Seeing in myself the excesses rendered
By a different childhood, remembering
Water shortages and powercuts the others dodged.

We are searching for candles
And the big ones – tucked into a corner
Of my tiny study, sturdy, quarantine
Against panic and not yet welcome,
A bet placed against ever needing them –
Weigh, plain and ponderous on my drifting mind.

We are searching for candles
We don’t have forty-five
(If we have any
(We must have some – I’ve met me))
And, even if we did, there would be
More wax than cake, more flame than flavour.

We are searching for candles
Three people who want to sing forth brightness,
Post positivity,
Eager to confirm that this is unique,
Frantic for fripperies,
Scintillating colours to cover reality.

We find the candles
Stuffed among the cloth napkins,
A full drawer that no-one ever moves,
Choosing to eschew using something
That smacks of pretension,
Trousseau to impossible parenthood.

We light the candles,
Nine in total,
Sing, hold breaths,
And wish,
And wish,
And wish…