I realised, two days ago, I wanted to do NaPo this year. Oh heck, I thought, it's already April. So I'll aim for a total of 30, and at least one a day.
I love the frothing grey sea, Like teeth smashing against the surface and snatching back streaks of sand. The frothing grey sea is violent and careless and I see it would slay for me.
I love the consuming downpour, which is devoted to the decree of gravity abandoning without restraint its divinity. I imagine it diving down me and dragging my fears like the air to the dirt.
I love the howling wind which creeps through my windows and kisses me as a lie beneath covers/ whisking away the warmth and safety of indoors. It whispers in my ear and the laughter is fresh and foreign.
Last edited by Baezel on Sat Apr 07, 2018 11:35 am, edited 1 time in total.
I’ve started to add honey to my tea, which is partially for the flavour, and partially for the pleasure of knowing there’s three spoonfuls of heather in my daily routine.
Dear Friend, the world is not as easily defined as you see it to be, and we are not the lost case marching with a dead man’s pace you think.
Today the weather was grey, and you were tired on our walk, and seemed lost to anxieties grabbing at you and throwing, and leaving you on the ground tossed But the moss was green. Please.
I’m worried For you and the world and our humans who can only picture disaster. Trust in us. We may soon choke in smog, but we aren't yet, and the moss may grow green.
I don’t beg you to change who you are, for you are something wonderful. But I ask you to expect from the world what you expect of me. For there will always be bites, but if you and I and some of our humans decide to hope, perhaps we can stand against them strong.
First, the soil is bare. Full with a lull of peace as leaves creep to dirt and your feet crush poor sleeping life.
Soon shoots burst through, small but sure and enduring spring frost. Bursting, spreading brushed green as birds sing and scream, hungry.
Now their heads bob like snow drops but Madonna blue virgin over brown and churning warm dirt. Swelling pregnant.
Note: This is my first attempt with structured poetry, and I experimented with climbing rhyme and the various types of rhyme. Here's a question for more experienced poets: Does it get easier? I found this quite stifling and forced. I'm not sure if this is because I'm used to free style and don't have practice with this, or because I'm just not the person for this sort of deliberate thought in my poems.
You feel the change as you leave the town. Walk along the road and look for houses- there are no more, apart from the forester’s.
There is a field between the town and the forest. Cars climb uphill past it. Climb with them, and look- there is no more pavement. Grass grows small yellow flowers with more leaf than petal.
Halt- can you smell it? The air is like warm syrup, too thick really to breathe. And sweet with pine resin. Turn to the shade, under the leaves.
Even if you close your eyes there is that feeling deep within your bones and blood flowing from the lazy wind on your cheeks to the rock above the dirt beneath the sole of your shoe.
The moss cushions your breath a yellow green of hundreds of shapes and homes insects and beetles. Above there is the bird song like a blanket with loosely woven yarn from every corner of the world. Under the blanket you cannot see the birds, but how they sing.
Stretch your arms around into the loneliness. Call your dog back (quick) and startle at the echo, which echoes off God knows what and quiet your breath, check it’s still soft.
I don’t know how these daffodils grew. Three sisters scream yellow, the only bright yellow. The mud is purple and the sky, the small sky, it is blue. Knots of bluebells unbloomed burst like fireworks and line the hills, hiding every soil but the path.
The path curves before the hill gets too steep to walk, too steep for tall trees to stand in our vision. Stop here and look ahead. The sun bleaches the sea white and the cattle croon gently.
There is a clearing at the start of the end, when above us is no longer green. Toe the tire-marks where people park there cars here. And on the road, we pass our first car. You can see the rooftops of the town- the hall, the steeple! The roads, the people.
Close the gate behind you.
Last edited by Baezel on Tue Apr 10, 2018 12:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.
It was a tiger’s bite, Tongue in your mouth, Sweltering kiss sort of bliss. For the Lutheran pastor who woke up all alabaster had been locked in that surgical place.
And while slightly illegal, in the abandoned steeple a hypothesis met his skin. But then the doctor in practise so overcome with fantastic wonder left the bindings quite thin.
With a bang! with a clatter across the street our priest pattered, like a man spending the morning drunk
Then our lobotomised clerk looked at the church, and said “I don't think this will work.” And now you find yourself sat, after a casual chat, with lips itching like healing scabs. And though the priest has less lobe he has no more less love and gives you the most wonderful grin.
And just like that, the rules of societal law (which really were nothing more than cloth) tear at the hems and fall to applause And leads to a climax we all are surprised at least of all the woman and the clerk.
The bath serves as a shock and wakes the system and washes the peach from their lips. And the disjointed remains which had to this complained, now rise up and say “Stop.”
So the wind in the leaves sound like the engine to thieve, the time they have together and the woman clutches her chest, for if her husband caught her like this, she could only picture the disaster.
When the car door slams shut, it’s the devil standing outside who unlocks and enters the house. He looks at the bed and says quite strained: “I could’ve sworn I had only one wife.”
But the priest stands up and shakes his hand. He says “I’m not typically into gents, but I must admit your goat legs seem rather intriguing, and I think I’ve lost all my holy restraint.”
So with a tiger’s lips, there’s a biting kiss, which leaves us here morally grey. And this sort of bliss and lack of dorsolateral prefrontal cortex has made this a scientifically interesting day.
Let this be the place where ends are made, where you stumble and create a pathway or fate. Love born can burn, can fill, can still, and let this be that place which holds you till
you find, in this place, where ends are made, you no longer have the means to fulfil your fate. It’s here where desperation collapses and rots and you simmer and boil and ferment ‘til you’ve thought-
It’s bursting me, reaching the end it’s made and I can no longer contain my itch for fate, and scream your gift! let this pungent creature free, and remember this place when you’ve realised what be.
Mr McKell blinks when his boss snaps her fingers in front of his face and oh, he’s doing nothing and his mind is stuck with the flies, but she’s never been one for honey, so I suppose she’ll leave it for now.
Today Mrs McKell threatened to divorce her husband over a broken plate. They paused their argument briefly to prevent Dog eating the broken pieces. They haven’t restarted it, but throwing the plate in the bin still leaves the edges sharp.
The marriage counsellor makes a calling to their house, but can’t get in for the front door gets stuck on everything they’ve swept under the rug, so I suppose their sticking it alone. Sticking it alone.
Mr McKell and Mrs McKell have always managed until now, but I suppose managing isn’t perfect, and so whatever they compromised has left things behind, and whatever they left behind have things to say, and until now they’re kept them quiet but, see, now they can’t ignore them.
So it’s when Mrs McKell is out in town buying some fresh eggs that Mr McKell breaks down in tears, great fat sobbing ugly tears which leave a damp patch on his shirt when he wipes his face.
Mrs McKell is quieter about it, humming hysterically at the till. “Thank you” she says two seconds too late. “You forgot your change” yells the cashier, but Mrs McKell doesn’t hear and she leaves.
The mothers, fathers, and brothers in law can’t help, because the McKell’s are a quiet pair, and they’d rather bury their issues and ignore the weeds than try grow a nice garden. They don’t know Mrs McKell has been sleeping on the sofa for the past three months, and they don’t know Mr McKell spent six hours on a Dog walk last week. The McKell’s don’t talk about it, and then they leave. And I suppose now they’re sticking it alone.
I think I could fall in love with a great many people.
Example #1
He’s tall and a bit hollow shaped, like the outside world presses in on every inch of him. But let him smile like something is breaking his teeth from the outside in. (By which I mean somewhat defiantly, and with no concern for whatever he’s trapped within.) He loves the outdoors like I do, but not the same way, and together we add dimension to each other’s perspective. Let him hold a hand to my back as we stand on the cliff looking over the sea, let salt crust our hair.
Example #2
She doesn’t look it, but she loves to laugh; I would never know unless she told me, an off-hand comment, because her laugh is short and blunt. Her eyes are warm, though. Her affection is constant and constantly warm but constantly surprising, because I first saw her wearing a crisp white shirt and silver watch. She will talk to me and turn to me when she wishes to, and will play with my hair when I tell her something I’ve been thinking of.
Example #3
And because what better way to learn French than talk to a French person, I met him when I was in France. We interacted because we found something about each other interesting, I suppose because we’re both those slightly sort of unbearable people who noticed interesting things about other people. (He’s worse though, of course.) And while some people have a code of honour, he has a code of melodrama. He isn’t nasty though, like he could be. I can poke fun at him, and he will bemoan and weep and eventually laugh.
Example #4
She wears her hair in a bun because she forgot to brush it this morning, because she’s an exhausted undergrad student and we’re both in our final years. She has opinions on plant-insect interactions, but I introduced her to Virginia Woolf and she blushes if I write her poetry. I’ve described her as an owl and a beech, and a dusting of icing sugar where icing sugar has no right to be. She’s shared with me her daydreams of heroes and battles and together we narrate the birth of the forest.
There are those paintings, I’m not sure when they’re dated, but there are those paintings, which I suppose might be renaissance, and these painting are always sweet and are always soft and sometimes you can smell the sea as if the Greek towns they depicted had been built around you.
Everyone is in a constant state of leisure, but they aren’t always happy, and the colours are always light. The women wear silks, and light blue cloth, and recline on outdoor chaise, with a pomegranate in hand.
This painting hides their face. The fruit, and the hand it’s held within, obscure it. The fruit is the only red and stands out on the page. I’m not sure how it would taste. Of either sour grapefruit, or pastel chalk.
It would feel summer cool, bare skin in wind but sun kissing against your neck. Not yet red.
Don’t hate yourself, you haven’t even killed a man yet.
Oh, “Hate is a strong word”, and they tell you the truth. Hatred is something to be earned. Don’t water down its worth and leave you unarmed against the worst.
Title: LET IT BE KNOWN THAT THIS HERE IS OUR STARTING
TODAY we stand yelling, and screaming up almost a tantrum, but our sobs reek purely of joy- purified joy- hope- love and life and everything I swear we have been denied.
OUR tears stand in the setting sun like molten gold, or catch the deep red and burn like blood dripping, like winding snakes, like we’re Eve and for so long we’ve been chewing fruit and now- meat! It seems to burst between our canines as we shed that gold and blood.
TAKING in the world around us like we are now starving, suddenly aware of how empty we were so now we feast. We feast upon anything we can wrap our teeth around like babies exploring the world, like when we blink it vanishes as if we haven’t yet learned object permanence.
PERHAPS we shall flicker out, but let it be known we shall flicker out like magnesium and we shall glow so bright I dare you to stare us down and not fall blind and clawing at your eyes, like the sun and her stars standing above us and above you- but while you stand under we are kindred, born from a desperate collapsing suffocating every small thing we hoped to claim. And as we’re kindred we can smile with her burning.
Gender:
Points: 46
Reviews: 15