"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Ahead of April, I'm going to do the Inspiration Activity Hunt from last year, to get me in the mood!
NaPo Goals: I want to write 30 poems, one a day. I also want to read lots of other people's poems, and leave them comments where comments are welcome! Given *waves hand at the whole world* all this, I'm going to be super forgiving of myself if I don't actually get any of this done. Goal post (lol).
A Non-YWS Poem: I had to analyse To Autumn by Keats at GCSE, but I still like it.
My Poem: I still think #2 from 2018 was a concept that deserves more than I gave it.
Outside: There is a satellite dish. There is a round, circular, grey, pale grey, matte grey satellite dish. It's attached to a pole, a long pole, a long, narrow, grey, pale grey pole. It's against a dark roof, a dark grey roof, a pitched tiled roof with orderly, linear, lined-up dark tiles.
Quotes: "I love you whatever your water content" is not from someone famous (it's from a friend of mine), but I like it. I also like "Love doesn't just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.", from Ursula K Le Guin, who I've been reading a lot of this year.
Prompt Central: What was the message of the last thing you watched? Use that as a theme for your next poem.
Poetic Line Generator: your oldest friends of words touch wordlessly,
Page 30: "Not anymore, sir." (Feet of Clay, Terry Pratchett)
Laffy Taffy Jokes: What kind of brush do you use to comb a bee’s hair? / A honeycomb.
Nonsense metaphor: Grief is a piano
Last edited by Cadi on Sat Apr 11, 2020 6:53 pm, edited 2 times in total.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Black and white it is not; the chords, once played, sustain indefinitely. Major and minor, the new baseline of your life diminishes with time until some accidental reprises the melody (and you realise it never went away)
Spoiler! :
April, let's do this! This one uses the "nonsense metaphor" from the inspiration hunt.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Fourteen days in Mexico Three in the Yorkshire Dales Model village, Legoland Rocking trains on rails Paintballing programmers Popcorn and cinema chairs Meals cooked by someone else Going up and down stairs Mother's Day bouquet of flowers The pub with all the plants Summer sunrise on the River Thames Visits from uncles and aunts Barbecues Volleyball Picnic lunch A space less small
Spoiler! :
If this had a title, it would be "Specific Tiny Futures to Grieve".
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Beneath my leaves in dappled dark come see, my friend, these rusted spars of steel encased in swaddling bark, two girders welded to my heart; and if you'll bend your head to read each graven pole still states its creed: adore another disesteem thyself
By month, by year, through languid time, growing timber realigns and though I did not choose these signs, now deep embedded, they are mine; but if my grain could be unfused, what other message might I choose? esteem all others adore thyself
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
curled in a sunbeam cushioned and cosy golden-bathed turning pages escaping
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
I love you whatever your water content be your thirst quenched, and your flesh water-fat, floating in a paradise of fountains and pools, sailing on an ocean of joy; or your tongue sandpaper-dry, your cheeks gaunt and hollow, grasping for a single drop of water as your own leaks out in sobs.
Spoiler! :
We're running with the "just slop one out" approach to poetry writing today, folks! This one scribbled in about two minutes when I realised I was about to be busy for the rest of the evening.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Walking loops in squares of green, tiny scenes of branch and leaf, dripping rain and blackbird's song; though not long, a small relief
Spoiler! :
It's an awdl gywydd! It's also about my walk this morning.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
My dad and I built a shelf. He brought the wood, the tools, and his grandfather's know-how; I brought the design I couldn't find in IKEA; and we made it, one sunny Sunday.
Lightly in pencil we marked the size, with spinning saw we cut; chisel, drill and router bit sharply into hard-wearing oak, spitting out mouthfuls of sawdust on the grass. We were a whole morning at it, measuring, shaping, joining, and at the end he varnished it for me, brushing its shining, tawny coat.
Then I drove home to my gardenless flat: me, two bits of wood, and that deep, tight knot of care unspoken.
Spoiler! :
I'm missing some things, and some people, pretty hard right now. I guess we all are.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Cadi I'm enjoying your napo so far! (and I also love that you're inspired by the Inspo Activity Hunt again - that has some fun prompts!)
My favorites of your's so far I think are the welsh one - poem 6 - it was just the perfect bite-size poetry piece, and good use of smart word choice too!
And then I also thought, "Specific Tiny Futures to Grieve" was pretty impactful - I've been thinking a lot about those "tiny griefs" and I think you do a good job capturing some of the ordinary losses that people are going through that really adds up - it's a beautiful timely reflection.
Looking forward to the rest of your thread this month! (also you're right on track for 30 poems!! )
you should know i am a time traveler & there is no season as achingly temporary as now
Thank you, @alliyah! Yes, the Inspiration Activity Hunt is a fun way to get some diverse prompts!
#8
temper short day long work frustrating patience gone
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
I did say, in January, that I'd like to watch more films this year but I did think, this might be silly, I'd get to watch them in the cinema.
Spoiler! :
Low effort, doesn't scan, doesn't really rhyme, unless it actually does in the accent you're reading it in. Still counts.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
I am the bumblebee on wing from blooming flower to hive (and back) collecting the nectar of life (moving my body stretching my wings reaching out to red clover turning away from barren lawns) keeping me in honey building myself a future.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
The park gates hadn't been locked for the night so I went through saw that familiar place rendered unheimlich by the dark the path stretching into unknowable shadow
I have been too long indoors too long in the city that this scrap of grass, a mere four hundred yards around sets my heart skipping in my mouth longing for the enclosure of rows of four-storey buildings.
Spoiler! :
Bonus poem, courtesy of my nearly-midnight walk.
Last edited by Cadi on Sat Apr 11, 2020 6:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Me, not-quite cross-legged (hips too tight, knees too stiff) arse going numb on the dark planks of the balcony.
Me, draped in evening sunlight (cooler than the fire of noon) breathing deep air that breathes in breezes.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
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