evil like a hobbit: Cal's NaPoWriMo Thread

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH IN STYLE

"A poem begins with a lump in the throat,"
- Robert Frost

So, this here is my poetry thread for National Poetry Writing Month. I welcome any comments et al. I haven't really written poetry in ages; it will be nice to write some again. My goal is to finish at least 30 poems by the end of it all.

So far I've got nothin'. Blame work.



Ta,
Cal.



TABLE O' CONTENTS

oo1 apr. the lure.
oo2 apr. gaining favor outside the temple.
oo3 apr. runes // staveless runes // carpathy. carpathia.
oo4 apr. theoscope.
oo5 apr. satan gets all the best lines or thank you, John Milton.
oo6 apr. object permanence.
oo7 apr. save me something cyrillic.
oo8 apr. say we are our secrets.
oo9 apr. beauty is only skin deep; the attitude is in the bones.
o10 apr. boys—whether you like it or not—are people too.
o11 apr. ring-giver or praise, bob.
o12 apr. anorexia nervosa.
o13 apr. all ripe together in the summer weather.
o14 apr. the passerines, or "perching birds".
o15 apr. write me a sonnet, John Donne or please understand my everlasting yea has restrictions.
o16 apr. an evening prostrate or passing redness in the west.
o17 apr. no second troy to burn.
o18 apr. so say we all.
o19 apr. bathysphere.
o20 apr. groa.
o21 apr. the girl with horses tangled in her hair.
o22 apr. and they all fall down.
o23 apr. Limerick would be nice.
o24 apr. Mesquito Island.
o25 apr. my kingdom for a horse.
o26 apr. burgandy blooms.
o27 apr. a response to a firm decision or the taking back (emancipation) of Regan Ware.
o28 apr. as simple as hunger or beauty discovering.
o29 apr. flying over a lake of custard and seventeen giraffes blow raspberries at you.
o30 apr. "I met at eve the Prince of Sleep; his was a still and smiling face."

o1 apr. the lure.

To catch a silly, stupid fish
at the end of your line;
hooking a crooked piece
of metal in the
mouth of your catch—
just like a lie willingly
wanted. The wait for
acceptance as
long as a young woman’s
forearm. And all just
to throw it back.



--

This was inspired by a poem by Andrew Marvell.

You know, I've always been jealous of people who can write short poetry. Mainly because I love it so much. Strong meaning here. I like the carefully chosen words. The pleasant imagery. I'm not sure I understand your second simile, though. Was it just one of those spastic these-words-fit-here sort of decision, or is there something I don't know?

Anyway. Here's to a month of fruitful poem-ing.

-Kylan

Kylan < I am really not sure what exactly I was thinking for those words, but I am leaning more towards the 'these-words-fit-here' thing.

*toasts* Here's to it.



o2 apr. gaining favor outside the temple.

the breath, while like cobwebs
and pressing, pressing like a vice
blind, the lull of quintessence
over more than one sense.
no reflection, only radiation of
crafted, closéd tension.

fingers, like ghosts of the old country;
gods of norse-lands and novels breathe
in the sky so delicate, so quiet;
insinuous*.
just a
touch of
frost.



* { a compound word made from insinuations and sinuous.

These next set of poems are supposed to be grouped together. It is an exercise I am trying out. They are on the same theme but the first poem is piled stresses, second is unstressed, and third is in iambs.

o3 apr. runes.
(piled stresses)

forget not yet the
graft this heart took
to get your earth back
beneath its feet.


o3 apr. staveless runes.
(unstressed)

remember the insertion
my heart made to gain
your creation under
my toes.

o3 apr. carpathy. carpathia.
(iambs)

forget me not the
graft I got, so I could—
for this heart,
get your earth beneath
my feet once more.

Oh, your last poems are just so pleasant, though the april 2nd is my favorite right now, it's lovely!

Yeah. April o2 is pretty much fantastic. I loved the uncontrolled, unexpected nature of it. The ordered words, the succinct beauty. Awesome. I want more.

-Kylan

Thank you so much, guys. Apparently, I can't spell though, so I've fixed all the errors in o2.

Ta,
Cal.

o4 apr. theoscope.

I wish I could live lines like Mortimer*: as accurate
as triangles and baselines made by the
Ramsden diopter**; each dip and draggle of coast line
something new and reveling; something to
be embraced with ample excitement. But, I have
spent time—too much—watching at rest the
wreck and the raising of copses by the sea***.



* { a man in the 1700s who mapped the northern isles of Scotland with a theodolite.

** { an earlier name for a theodolite: one of the first instruments made for the purpose of survey.

*** { during Jacobite rebellion in Scotland a man by the name of Moody set fire to the caves which Scottish “Jacobite” nobles were hiding in.

Hey Cal,

I am with Ky. I even for being able to pack so much punch in a little amount of words which flow beautifully, by the way.

fingers, like ghosts of the old country;
gods of norse-lands and novels breathe
in the sky so delicate, so quiet;
insinuous*.
just a
touch of
frost.

I've been smiling at everyone's poetry and how creative and different everyone's is and this just made my smile bigger.

o3 was my favorite!

Keep on writin'

~Angel

Just some lines thrown down on the page inspired by Milton's Paradise Lost

o5 apr. satan gets all the best lines or thank you, John Milton

I’d prefer not to have an anchor stuck in my scaly hide
huge like this deceptive whale. This lake of fire
burns through me—physical banishment,
proof positive of my leap against faith.
I’m the James Dean of biblical epic,
and yet each time I turn around someone is
improving on my misquotation. Like Milton.
And, as I stand at the gates of hell, under
birthing pains of Sin and Death,
the thought comes to me: there is no heaven lost here
only paradise gained.

I'm hugging your last poem right now. Really.

E gads! I totally forgot to post things.

o6 apr. object permanence

every time your fingers split
and your face appears,
I reach for you. and yet
you disappear again.

closer and closer I get,
though your retreat, tantalizing,
is far more sophisticated than
my groping hands.

before school, peeling
red centers with dead
white ridge lines; dismembering
my hands, one at a time,
seeking the truth that
I can’t seem to reach.


o7 apr. save me something cyrillic.

let there be morning while
she casts a revolution smile
over blundering billboards turned over
by the nineteen hundred and ninety
classic coke bottles.

the old country gasps at her red western
lipstick. confused by the swagger and
knowledge in her step—such saunter
in the bright sunshine.

each stitch in the hems of her dress
says something different; no longer scars
but proud benediction of the past—I’ve lived,
her shoulders speak; I’ve known, her knees
convey; and in the corners of her mouth,
the world confess to a brand new day.

there is revolution in her smile
while the morning rests: kaleidoscope
on an eastern daughter.


o8 apr. say we are our secrets.

the secret in the back of my skull,
I’ve never pressed open. Never gouged apart
and displayed plainly for all to see. No, I’ve
Kept it hidden in hairpins and the cresses of my
best blue jeans.

ashamed, never. This secret has made me—built me
from the earth up. Not cancer but a catalyst
for maturation.

and, say we are out secrets, I’m never giving mine away.
I know the sound my own step and the cursive curves of
my own name. if I betray my secret it turns from truth
to fact. and fact just like any other bend in history
can be changed.


o9 apr. beauty is only skin deep; the attitude is in the bones.

mark up those pretty little hands, dear, but touch
those cheekbones, and fire blossoms. marred skin
is left to pitch the range of an artist’s palate.

green broke, an arm twists only so far, before
the bone resists and retaliates. watch out, dear,
bones fight back. beauty is only skin deep;
the attitude is in the bones.

w00t. I'm actually posting this one on time.

o10 apr. boys—whether you like it or not—are people too.*

small, branded sunflower seed shells make like shooting
stars, or rocket launches, convex trajectories until they hit
the ground. the car bounces along the road, jumping in and out
of potholes large enough to house lakes and entire
species of frogs.

a boy’s hand—all thumbs—reaches into the bag once more. his
other on the steering wheel. he flicks one, lone, striped sunflower seed
at the girl in the passenger seat with her best summer dress and bright blue
summer straw hat on.

she ducks and evades the shot; and plasters herself tightly against
the door.

she sighs: I don’t understand you. he hears it in the way
her breath trails off like the ends of a puff of smoke. He still
spits sunflower seeds at her anyway.


* { quote by Clinton Kelly; clearly I watch too much What Not to Wear

1. I love What Not to Wear.
2.

green broke, an arm twists only so far, before
the bone resists and retaliates. watch out, dear,
bones fight back. beauty is only skin deep;
the attitude is in the bones.

That is just pure genius and beautiful, and you have me at your feet. -worships-