14 - Count Down

#NaPoWriMo Day 14 and today I’ve written an Abracadabra inspired by the Random Line Generator. The words I was given were clean, taunt, inspect, secret, guard, thick, brush, and vapour, and it’s quite the challenge to fit them into such an already curtailed form. Judge for yourself how you think I did!

Remember that, if you’re a subscriber to my Patreon, you can hear a recording of this piece (and the thirteen preceding it) there. The link to the relevant post is here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/count-down-155651088

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“Is it clean yet?” the old man taunts. “Come on, boy!
“He wants to see your face in it, come night.”
The young lad shakes his head and brushes
thick detritus of an age free.
Intent to pass inspection,
he fails to keep his guard.
The secret hour strikes;
he sees nothing
as vapours
claim his
life

Original mirror image obtained from Wikipedia, then thoroughly messed with by me

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

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.)

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.

2019.11 Dies Forte

Vent away, she says with a smile.
Eventually, I respond, it won’t be
Necessary. We ponder in silence.
Generally, she suggests,
Everyone needs some kind of release.
Anger isn’t always a weakness.
Nevertheless, I say. It’s firm, soothed with a tiny smile.
Carefully, we negotiate each shift of topic;
Echoing throughout: our shared agenda,
Itching to be heard, made real,
Surging tide beneath our keels.
Long silences are loqacious here and now.
I pause yet again, reach to touch her hand.
Victory is in the little things.
Impishly, she all-but grins,
Nods.
Gathering ourselves, we rise on cue,
Wander out into the sunshine,
Exiting a chapter that didn’t give us much to say.
Lost in the dazzle for a moment, she tips her head back,
Laughter arcing into free air.

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.

2015.26 - Typical

Quick work eludes Robert
Today - Yvonne’s upset is
Occluding PowerPoint

And sadness doesn’t feature...
Great - Hilary’s just knocked:
“Later?”

“Zap Xiangyang,
“Call Vienna, Bob -
“NOW: meltdown!”

Momentarily numb
Bob vascillates, caught:
Xiangyang zipped?

Lurching, knowing
Jian holds grudges,
Face drops,
Sighing absently.

Phones Oliver,
Intimidating underling:
“You twit - remember Ecuador?!”
Wilts quietly.

2015.24 - Logbook

Today in the Allographic workshop (Finding the Narrative, with Matt MacDonald), we put together twelve words/ phrases between us with which to make a poem. They were: sand, running, flocculent (thanks, Emma!), it, 2001, Caribbean, the sensation of cat's fur under fingertips, Justine, green, teeth, winnowing,  bloody.

I cheated slightly (you're supposed to work all the words in explicitly), but hey...
___________________

2006:

Your footsteps are already fading,
The sand winnows into plumes,
Ash-breathed, kiting westward.

2005:

We have said nothing,
Loud enough to break glass.
I suck silence from between my teeth,
Start to make lists.

2007:

I still run, hunting calf-burn,
Celebrate heat in the clang of
Ambitiously green liquids in
Frictionless bottles.

2004:

I coo between gritted teeth,
Inch, bark-bellied, as you advise from below,
Summon the sensation of cat fur
To reaching fingertips, clench thighs against
The trembling.

2008:

A blue-and-white summons:
Justine has friended you.
Gape at the warmth of shallow waters,
The sudden fan of creases
I will never feel beneath my thumb.
Find myself on the driveway,
Stale cigarette smoke tugged into my lungs.

2003:

My kitchen is a haven of strange scents,
Abruptly, I am someone with a steamer,
And buckwheat tea.
You dab dots of jerk seasoning,
Suck your finger, grin.
The steamer falls, to be attended later.

2009:

"Wow, where did you learn that?!"
I lie with a nameless book.
'Flocculent' is your word - a nest of
Tiny morning dreads.

2002:

I emerge into cotton mouth,
Iron filing dregs like sweet penance.
A half-known ache pulling me to my right,
Your comma shape a gravity well.

2010:

He packs the bloody space with cotton wool,
I breathe the bitterness of
Doing the right thing.

2001:

You are salt water on my chest,
A shuddering warmth calling my arms,
A coiling strike upwards at my throat,
A tsunami in slow motion.

2011:

I click, gaze, scroll west,
Ease shoulders into unfelt heat.
It's good to see you made it, after all.

#15 White Knight, Emerald Street

I'm still quite ill, so I went searching for inspiration and found it in the internet. Specifically, this is thanks to the Language Is A Virus "Random Line Generator", from which I got:

"cherries mist lemonade ice water kisses antiquewhite [which I interpreted as two separate words] glass black emerald faded" this time.

This is what happened (yes, I cheated two of the words into the title... what?!), in all its curious glory:


Your drink curls and spumes,
Cresting obsessively
Around the thick, slanting walls
And unnecessary cherries.

Your gaze is drawn into the whirlpool,
Not even tracking the ice,
Just pulled to the eddying centre

My teeth are dissolving
Under three half-pints
Of lemonade,
Waiting.
Occasionally watching
The insolent bob of lime

I am resisting metaphor,
Staving off allegory
You are swaying,
Fingers sticky,
Looking like someone
Who's dissolved syntax,
And is aiming, next,
For balance.

It is twenty-seven minutes
Since I checked my watch.
A clever antique
Worth checking.
If I hold it up,
I'll hear the dependable
Clips of silence
Slicing through
The jars of chatter.

I take a breath
Hold it
Release,
Crease and flex fingers
That itch for action,
To match feet
And tick
And heart.

"Not yet", I tell them.
We're waiting for the mist
To kiss his brow,
We're waiting for
That tell-tale quiver,
Not long now.
We're waiting for the final
Fade to black.