Day 6: write
a power poem (see link)
velvet-mounted
blade
and magic
helmet,
slide on
a pair of steel gloves,
a stream
of chain mail,
dead-spiked
boots,
summon a
ride
on the
last unicorn.
you don’t
want me to leave,
but only
want to interrogate:
where I’ve
been,
who I’ve
met,
where I’m
going next
without you.
Not wanting
me to be
anywhere
without you.
I
usually lose.
So today
I’m prepared.
I’m
suited up.
And the
world is waiting
without you.
Day 5: write a tree poem (see link)
broken deep
with your fingertip
written in rings,
rotating days into years.
where a bough breaks,
bark peeling like skin.
leaves take flight,
red-green haloes.
Day 4: write
a short poem (see link)
be unmeasurable.
Day 3: write a disappointment or celebration poem (see link)
can go either way –
a wedding or a funeral.
where two walk out or one lies in,
both a crossroads in the life path.
the hang of shoulders,
hues and scents of cut flowers.
or wear a blue expression,
bring new, reminisce on old.
or reach a dead end
without explanation, conclusion.
companions for the ride.
A horse and cart stand showy or lonely.
throw confetti, share the first dance.
For the other, one magpie sounds sorrow.
an invisible divide,
a curtain, a separation,
something to divide a nation.
families, friends and pets,
languages and religions,
phrases, thoughts, echoes
of memories and stuffed albums.
demolish, build again.
You’re left with the grit,
the weight, the dearth of
belonging, of knowing.
a hunger for how things were,
those rose-tinted yesterdays
before the rise of a great wall.
left a shadow, a scar,
a thing unerasable,
a bleed in the sky.
A waking of the hour.
A call to act,
not look away again.
Day 8: write
a ‘True (blank)’ poem (see link)
but it
would only be one truth
or a slice
you wish to say,
play, unravel,
dig out of the dirt
in the
way you unearth a plant
section
by section. First the leaves,
trailed
by the stalk, the roots
sinewed,
rough and gnarly
still
swallowed hole invisible,
moss-strewn,
this green gunk
spreading
the word, inviting
the truant
world to listen in.
Started
this challenge today from Robert Lee Brewer of Writersdigest.com. I was looking
for a poetry prompt and I’m not starting on what is day 8, so I’m behind! Here’s
the poem for day 1. I’ve written the ones for day 7 and 8, so posting in an
interesting order!
Day 1: write
a fresh poem (see link)
& I
fail to notice the shift
in your
expression,
cheeky phrase,
slight wink,
daft grin,
think it’s
a trick of the light,
a nervous
tick.
Whether I
notice depends
on my multicolour
mood,
headspace,
lean space,
how confident
I am,
the
daydream landing.
.
You get
fresh
& sprint
back into normal,
cut I
don’t notice,
wondering
how you failed
to impress
when you
do it all the time.
never chase,
never give
away
the
chink in my armour.
My grandad was in the 1st Airbourne Divisional Signals. I wrote about him on this blog before on Remembrance Day cos he was one of the kindest people I ever met. He supported me in everything I wanted to do. And he drew, took a lot of photographs and was into music and travel. And people. He loved socialising and parties. His nickname was Johnnie, and lots of people called him that, but I didn’t know until I was older.
My mum didn’t talk about him after he died cos it was too hurtful – same with my nan. So so much of the family history is missing for me. I know my grandad was in the 1st Airbourne Divisional Signals as a lieutenant corporal and I found a photo of him online with them, two months before the division dropped at the Battle of Arnheim. I googled this and found that the operation was a failure due to meeting German forces and three-quarters of the division were lost. The division didn’t see combat again. He also served in Egypt and was a peacekeeper in Palestine after the war - when troops didn't know what might happen years later when peoples are moved into someone else's territory.
After the war he joined the police and became a detective. My mum told me he worked on cases involving children who had died or been murdered. And my dad said he refused a promotion due to police corruption and he took a sideways move to work in courts.
I remember visiting him and my nan in hospital. He died of a blood clot in his brain, caused by a man shutting his
head in a door in a court room, I was told as an adult. I call that attempted murder, to be honest. I remember
my grandad as this amazing, chatty, sociable, supportive, creative, warm guy,
who never had a bad thing to say about anyone. And I remember him running after
this guy who stole a woman’s bag at night-time. He just took off. And then another
random guy helped chase him down too. My mum was having a fit cos he wasn’t well,
but there was me thinking he was a superhero. Anyway, I loved my grandparents’
flat, which smelt of her amazing cooking and puddings, and had this crazy
60s-style white padded bar that was straight out of Austin Powers. And there was this gigantic Weeping Willow outside.
He lived in
Forest Gate and during the war he wrote letters to my nan, hoping his house
still stood! I’ve been to see it! It’s still standing. My grandparents married
after the war, I think. She died before him of cancer. Both were in their 50s. My
grandad’s dad was a labourer and look-out man on the railway, and he lived in
Forest Gate, and he was hit by a train on the railway. It was a dangerous job
back then. My nan’s mum was a nurse at a hospital in Woolwich.
I don’t
know what cases my grandad worked on, but after he died, when I was 12, our
life became difficult. I had two years of hell at school, and my mum started
having problems at work. We had to move to the other end of the country when I was
17, and I hated it there. I had to give up art. I lost all my friends from
primary school. I ended up at the bitchiest school ever in Bexley. It was
horrific. And I always wondered why. Since 2015, my life has collapsed and I
wonder if it’s related to having a grandad who was a detective. I don’t know
what he worked on. But I loved him. Happy anniversary birthday x
No pedigree required
They don’t know the dog.
Every single one is different.
Each breed similar but still different.
Every bark and every wag unique.
You think of symmetry when everything is
asymmetrical.
Take a face reflected, unreflected,
the two halves can’t match, and that’s the way
it’s supposed to be – says who?
They used to say this and women roared. Loud. Out
loud.
As if we’d walk quietly with our fingers on our
lips
echoing our school programme, cross-legged on
wooden floors,
eyes down, backsides numb, looking that odd word ‘demure’,
careful not to offend anyone with our bare naked
selves,
our bold flesh, our fucking wild opinions. As if.
As if we couldn’t be full-figured human beings
rather than replicas of some rich director’s wet
dream.
a slow ebb, seeking to drown female voices bit by
bit,
stealing thunder, concealing faces, muting a
generation.
We’ve been talking about it for decades.
Are we simply throwing words at the prowling tide?
History will stare back at lists and lists of
missing names.
Things unsaid, unplayed, unseen, unfelt, un-everything.
But all these things were dreamed by someone
special.
Seek and destroy rather than lost and found.
If you don’t understand it, or you can’t control
it,
strike a light and watch the whole damn forest burn,
turn around and wait for someone else to pick up.
Pieces stay pieces. The bones of twigs snap
underfoot.
Vacant spots in queues miss bodies. They rot in
graves.
Or at least I read the book of one woman who said
it.
Survivor of a death camp. So she should know.
The weight of living when everyone else you know
has died.
We all need the water wing. The bridge to walk on
water.
If a person offers false hope, steals it away with
a smile,
don’t let them re-enter your room. Lock the door.
A sealed letter should remain sealed.
Someone else’s note is not yours to be played.
Items left in trust should sit undisturbed.
If they build you up only to pulverise,
flatter you only to disfigure,
befriend you only to judge,
lie in order to lie with you,
you know the answer, I don’t need to say anything.
You don’t need to prove to anyone that you matter.
not letting feelings leak, as if a person is a
bottle
without a message they might need to send.
An SOS to the night sky, the moon and stars,
shedding anonymity for truth. A call-out for the
missing.
It’s not weakness to break.
When did everyone start pretending?
Defence, humour, explanation, absence, anger.
No one should be submissive unless they want to be.
No one should be forced to give way, to suffer in
silence.
But every rose has the potential to scratch.
Take a secret to the grave unless saying it saves a
life.
Forgive and be forgiven. Don’t let it eat you up,
inside out.
Let it go.
No vocabulary, no punctuation, just empty sound.
A language with no code floating in space. A cloud
of jam.
It’s not for you. It’s not for you to understand.
Insignificant. Wasted energy. A balloon already
burst.
the whole wide world emptied out, the bath plug
pulled,
so we can rest in the midst of this storm we call
life.
Everyone needs peace or we shed ourselves.
Just as trees lose leaves when winter bites.
