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a bucolic meadow



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Mon Apr 10, 2017 8:45 pm
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Virgil says...



Daydream - Number Thirty-three

For you only saw through kaleidoscopes,
through shapes, your only way to cope.
Embellishing in their adorning patterns,
you were somewhere else, off in Saturn.

In a daydream, you got lost in your musings,
without a care that father would be disapproving.
In your fantasies, father did not loiter at a tavern,
you were somewhere else, off in Saturn.

It seemed that always he had a flask in hand;
his own way of escaping to his own land.
Oblivious, you didn't know until years after
you were somewhere else, off in Saturn.

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Mon Apr 10, 2017 8:46 pm
Virgil says...



Fireplace - Number Thirty-four

As you sat close to the fireplace
the flames kissed you on the cheek.
With warmth and tenderness,
the fire cradled your most fragile thoughts.
On the edge of the rocking chair
you wished to be closer;
more intimate with the heat.

Smoke exited through
the chimney, departing
into the crisp air.
How glad you were,
to be inside that day,
yet you welcomed the breeze
from the thin screendoor.

Underneath a cocoon of
silk blankets, you hibernated,
knowing that you would
come out feeling anew.
In the evening, you woke
from slumber, attempting
to wash the tired out of
your eyes with water.

Attempting to drown it
from your system with
a cup of strong coffee,
but none of this could
purge the aching from
your delicate bones.

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Mon Apr 10, 2017 8:48 pm
Virgil says...



Photograph - Number Thirty-five


Recollections of past experiences
and events flood the body, a beach
where every grain of sand holds a scene,
a memory, yet I am the only one there.
I squeeze the sand underneath my toes,
a familiar feeling that brings back an epoch
in which you and I were complementary colors.

Instruments that played off of each other,
together bringing a form of mellifluousness.
Now a distant memory, only a photograph
where everyone in the picture has red eyes,
and I get it, we were demons in the past,
mischief-makers who did not yet know
what the word consequence meant.

I can almost hear the ambient melody
that played from your car that day.
The waves lapped around your shins
as you waded deeper into the sea.
I watched you from afar, not daring
to go too near the tremulous waters.
Now, I only have a photograph,
a glimpse into a past memory.

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Tue Apr 11, 2017 8:54 pm
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Virgil says...



Hemlock - Number Thirty-six

How beautiful the rows of hemlock look
in the early morning, when the sun is still
climbing mountains to get back to its venue,
colors in a schism of who gets to own the sky.

The vogue of the florets deludes what lies beneath
their outward semblances, the silence casting
a subtle paranoia over these prolonged rows
of a crop harvested to not nurture but to embitter.

The ashen blossoms accumulate sunshine,
welcoming streaks of light with open petals.
How alluring the hemlock looks, being poured
out a bijou vial into an ornate chalice.

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Wed Apr 12, 2017 1:40 am
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Virgil says...



Moth-eaten - Number Thirty-seven


The headlights of your car
mowed down the asphalt road,
tire marks left behind with
the scenery of this moth-eaten town.

Passing by houses
that have only become more
antique over time,
their creaky floorboards
and narrow hallways
in which the webs of spiders
have accumulated.

Spun to create the most
delicate of silks, together
laced and interwoven
the fates of many.

The selflessness
of a mother spider
is in her nature,
letting go so her
offspring can bud
in the fruitful domain
she left behind.

This is what life is,
weaved and intertwined
if only by the thinnest
of threads.

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Wed Apr 12, 2017 2:15 am
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Virgil says...



First line is a prompt provided by the lovely @alliyah!

Miscreant - Number Thirty-eight


To save his own life, he would have to kill
there was not a hint of doubt or dubiety
regarding that. In his hands, he fumbled
a letter-opener, almost exposing himself
to the man outside who had his fingers
loose on the trigger of a pistol he stole.

How sudden, this scene was, events unravelling
in a matter of seconds. Yarn symbolizing the lives
the miscreant held scissors to, ready to cut into
their lifelines, many fates stretched across his fingers.

He stepped out from the background,
penumbra with six arms and three heads
on the wall, oh how descriptive the shadow
was. These tribulations were left to be covered
by white sheets, blood seeping through the cotton.
A cycle of mourning that turns to forgetfulness
until the next "Breaking News" caption slides
onto the stocky television at the laundromat.

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Wed Apr 12, 2017 7:47 am
Virgil says...



Carcass - Number Thirty-nine


I leave the carcass of a watermelon out for the birds, thinking that maybe they'll like it better than I did, attempting to bite into the layers of green with eyes of avarice. With the remnants left in the verdant grass, I stored the lasting pieces of the fruit in my cheeks, letting it thaw until it became nothing but melt.

The juice still sticky on my hands, I wash them off as water trickles from the hose in the backyard. A surge of scalding and torrid water turns lukewarm the longer it is left on.

When I return to the place where I set the cadaver of the watermelon, I see it is no longer glistening, ants heaving pieces over their trifling shoulders, carrying them back to the little hillocks they reside in. I leave the remains out in the middle of the lawn for the sun to shrivel and go back inside, unable to stomach the heat for any longer.

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Thu Apr 13, 2017 2:34 am
Virgil says...



Prompt:
Spoiler! :
Jot down the important events from a particular year, for example, the summer of 2002. Freewrite about it, see where it takes you.


A Poet's Universe 1/7

Maudlin - Number Forty

I flip through the photographs
where the dates were still
embedded into the spot
for captions in smudged letters
that could barely be deciphered.
Though, the pictures took me back
to when I was a child, too young
and oblivious to see.

I avoid pictures, having distaste for
the thought that someday, my name
will be a myth, an ancestral fable
to tell. I see pictures of my father
when he still had blonde hair,
holding me close to his chest
as I slept. When my mother
laid passed out on the couch,
from illness; I guess things
don't change much after all.

I remember when we packed up
to leave that house behind
once great-grandmother died,
always a cigarette hanging
out of the side of her mouth.

I remember her sleeping
to the sound of ambient buzzing
coming from an off-air channel
on the television. I remember,
yet I do not wish to go back;
for I do not know how,
these memories distort
every time I touch them.

She tells me I have soft hands,
and I tell her she is wrong.

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Thu Apr 13, 2017 2:37 am
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Virgil says...



Prompt:
Spoiler! :
Find a poem you like, then place your notepad or piece of paper next to the poem and begin line by line going through what the poet has done. Where the poet has a metaphor, make one up yourself. Where the poet has rhyme, try to rhyme yourself. Follow the pattern of enjambment and line breaks the poet has done from line to line and stanza to stanza. Try not to be too derivative though! Play around with it, read it backwards, and see where it will take you. Include the link to the original poem with your own, or have it in a spoiler.


A Poet's Universe 2/7

Don't Be Scared by Carol Ann Duffy

Spoiler! :
The dark is only a blanket
for the moon to put on her bed.

The dark is a private cinema
for the movie dreams in your head.

The dark is a little black dress
to show off the sequin stars.

The dark is the wooden hole
behind the strings of happy guitars.

The dark is a jeweler’s velvet cloth
where children sleep like pearls.

The dark is a spool of film
to photograph boys and girls,

so smile in your sleep in the dark.
Don’t be scared.


Transcribed into: Dusk - Number Forty-one


The dusk is only a mantle
for the moon to cloak her cranium.

The dusk is a secret theatre
for the cinema reveries in your mind.

The dusk is a bijou sable gown
to parade the tinsil stars.

The dusk is the oak trench
lying beneath cords of euphoric ukuleles.

The dusk is a goldsmith's silk fabric
where cherubs slumber like moonstones.

The dusk is a reel of film
to picture boys and girls.

So grin in your dormancy in the dusk;
don't be afraid.

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Thu Apr 13, 2017 2:41 am
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Virgil says...



Prompt Three:
Spoiler! :
Dig through your old notebooks, your old diary entries, your pocket books from last year’s NaPo, or maybe even try digging through your portfolios here on YWS - pick any random lines gathered from a few of these sources and find a way to re-envision them or make a collage of them!


A Poet's Universe 3/7

Uvula Moon - Number Forty-two

Sugar dies on your teeth
as you sip the Coke,
the taste clinging onto
your molars. Carbonation
fizzing as it makes its way
down your sore throat Mouth
a desert and taste buds
sand dunes, ones pressed
against the roof of your mouth
as if it is a low and overhanging sky.
Your uvula is the moon, dangling
over the parched earth.
I pin the remarks underneath
a swelling tongue, a serpent
made for the wastelands
where trees do not burgeon
and the rain does not fall.

- My dry mouth in the summertime.

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Thu Apr 13, 2017 2:43 am
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Virgil says...



chimney breath - Number Forty-three

i walk barefoot on
the asphalt streets,
it's summer again
and your hand is
interlaced with mine.
i am at ease as we amble
together around town,
commenting on the
rural scenery.

i did not question the ideality
of this day, never a single
contradicting musing.
yet, this landscape was one
paved in my mind, though
i did not concern.
perhaps in an afterthought
i would take heed
to the characteristics
that spelled out utopia.

that spelled out
dream turned nightmare
as the happenings
became more distorted,
more awry as time passed.
soon, you left, vanished into
the air polluted with the breath
of chimneys. i woke, speaking
a quiet curse on chapped lips.

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Thu Apr 13, 2017 2:52 am
Virgil says...



Prompt Five:
Spoiler! :
Choose an odd job as a subject for your poem, for example: the picture above is a cliff dancer. There are also beer tasters, fortune cookie writers, crash-test dummies, YWS war gladiators. After choosing your odd job, do a Google search. Find some appropriate articles and jot down words that are special to this job. Choose words that sound and look pleasing to you. Then, using first person voice write your draft and employ some of these specialized diction.


A Poet's Universe 4/7

Nymph - Number Forty-four

Once the humans were gone
and all was silent except for
the birds chirping of morning,
the nymph came out of hiding.
With that, she restarted her lesson,
always speaking in a choral manner
as if there were a thousand voices
stored in her vocal cords.
She taught the oaks and poplars
how to be silent, how to only whisper
to the sky. The nymph versed them
in the ways of talking without speaking,
composed of gestures and slight motions.
Talking without letting a single breath
out into the open air. And I, I watched,
a meager human from afar.

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Thu Apr 13, 2017 11:17 pm
Virgil says...



Prompt:
Spoiler! :
Choose a category-- fruits, vegetables, fish, bones in the human body, etc. You’ll want to choose something broad that has a lot of variety. Then create a bank of words about that category that intrigue you, words with great sounds, rhyming or alliterative words, verbs, adjectives, etc. Make up some words of your own. Try to make words sound as delicious as possible. Then begin with "Because I never learned the names of _______" Then create a poem from your word hoard, make it rhythmic, make it flow and make it yours. The beauty of Jellema's poem above, is that a lot of the words are made-up. Feel free to use this technique as well. Be creative with it!


A Poet's Universe 5/7

Callisto - Number Forty-five

Because I learned the names of
Callisto, Europa, Ganymede,
brothers from their youth, I know
the names of a handful of moons.
A handful, glossy marbles in a hand,
a little like that. Titan, Charon, Rhea,
some are convinced they're myths
like their origins. Nix, Styx, are you
by chance related? Phobos struck fear
in the hours of Nix, nightmares forming.
Mimas, Umbriel, Hyperion, Oberon, Tethys,
what have you in common? Other than
the stardust that has collected
on your surfaces? Other than
the hours I wasted at night
trying to find you in the sky?

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Thu Apr 13, 2017 11:19 pm
Virgil says...



Prompt:
Spoiler! :

Write a portrait poem - a poem that shows a particular scene or place, a dreamscape, or a moment where you’ve learned or experienced something new, such as your first time learning how to surf. Your first attempt trying to cook an exotic recipe. The first trip you took to a foreign country. You may even write about an experience from an alternative point of view, such as in this poem, Gerstler writes about survival in the point of view of a caterpillar.

Now that you have a draft going. Go through each word, line by line. Erase all the adjectives and all the adverbs that you see. Erase as many prepositional words as possible. Did you lose a lot of your poem? If so, refer back to prompts 5 and 4 - allow your nouns and verbs to do all the work and try again!

If you’re still struggling. That’s okay. Poetry is like a sculpture and the process of erasing, eliminating, cutting and polishing is what poetry is all about. This prompt is extreme but the exercise is a good one. Keep chipping and chiseling away at that poem until you get something you like without any adjectives or adverbs used! **I will allow ONE adjective or adverb, but that’s all. Absolutely no haikus. Needs to have at least 10 lines. (No one-word lines) **

Because when you have a poem that can evoke an experience without any use of fluff - you have mastered diction!


A Poet's Universe 6/7

Mid-July - Number Forty-six

The crescent moon glistens, redirecting
stolen sunshine over the tin roof
of the toolshed that sits in your backyard.
Moonlight is cradled by the trees, nurtured
on its way down to the earth. In your
garden, the fireflies dance, it's
mid-July and you don't want to go.
You pour gasoline onto a cloth, tossing
it into the fire to keep it going;
you know it won't last for much.
This night is bound to end, but meanwhile,
your eyes are a void for the stars to fall into.

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Thu Apr 13, 2017 11:28 pm
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Admittedly hated this one, first poem I've fully hated so far from NaPo, feels kinda weird, but I finished A Poet's Universe! Which means I got the Relic Badge. I prevail with that.

Prompt:
Spoiler! :
Writing a Sonnenizio (spin-off of a sonnet)

Begin with a line borrowed from someone else’s sonnet.

Select a single word from that line and repeat it in each subsequent line. Consider part of speech and different forms of the word. In the example poem, Addonizio is repeating the word "part" but she also uses partway, party, and partisan. She uses her word as noun, verb and participle.

Have a total of 14 lines.

Make the last two lines rhyme.


A Poet's Universe 7/7

Craft - Number Forty-seven

In my craft or sullen art, I write
in the wake of owls, crafting nocturnal
tendancies, rooted in old craftsmen
and their penchants to craft deep
into the night. Crafting when others
are sleeping in their cozy beds. Crafting
sorrows onto the canvas, their craft
paying less than well. Crafting, their
only comfort other than night's craft.
lies that bring comfort. Your craft
taking hold of your only thoughts, crafting
into your life, into your time. Crafting
into your thoughts; this is a haunted craft.
This is a haunted craft; only the first draft.

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“Such nonsense!" declared Dr Greysteel. "Whoever heard of cats doing anything useful!" "Except for staring at one in a supercilious manner," said Strange. "That has a sort of moral usefulness, I suppose, in making one feel uncomfortable and encouraging sober reflection upon one's imperfections.”
— Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell