Young Writers Society

Day 23, Poem 1

Form: Free verse. Again.

drought

It's been nine whole days since
the rain stopped, and I'm dried out
beneath a segmented sun.
I have no patience
for the endless flies, the slow
turn of the sky, the inevitable
mistakes wandering trackless
through the desert of routine
and I try to be

gracious to frustration, polite
to the confused

nudging my way towards clarity, but

the summer heat sticks like
candyfloss to the palms of my hands
and the small of my back

the whole world gasping

I am walking through sand; I see
a cloud on the horizon and I wish
that it would rain.

Notes: This weekend I'm going to go right through all the forms I've been neglecting and write a poem for each. Because I can, mostly.

Day 24, Poem 1

Form: Canzone

crosswalk blues

the city at noon is a picture drawn in chalk
bright smudges on a canvas made of steel and bone.
caught in the crowded streets it's hard to be alone
yet harder still to be together, in the light.
we keep our eyes on shadows, and we cross when told;
taking refuge on the islands between each turn.
like islands ourselves, we're each untethered and spurn
connection with each other; save that one polite
and unexpected question. to our delight
we meet each other briefly in the middle, caught
by the same current. conversing, like crossing's fraught
with difficulties and dangers we all must fight
yet building bridges, a paradox, is painless:
two strangers, bonding over books, remain nameless.

Notes: I was in the city today when I met this woman at the crosswalk. She asked me what the book was I was carrying, and when I showed it to her she totally lit up: apparently she loves the author as much as I do, and recommended another similar novel. I was having a bad day and was originally a bit startled to be randomly addressed by a stranger, but because the author is pretty obscure finding another fan totally made my day XD

Day 25, Poems 1-5

Form: Haiku

pages weigh gently
ink staining the feathers of
angels, written on


children made of eyes
sunlight glances in mirrors
bright conversation


fresh stars bloom each night
lotus in a shallow pool
hang there glowing, still


a book writes itself
into the life of a man
who reads openly


oranges open
bright citrus slicing cleanly
miniature suns

Notes: I found a very interesting site on Haiku y'all might enjoy here.

Day 26, Poem 1

Form: Kyrielle

The Park in July

I lie here in this grassy space
my palms turned upwards to the sky
cupped in the bowl of winter's grace-
the brittle edges of July.

The red-limned trees curve round this place
rustling with questions and reply;
their fallen leaves are sewn like lace
into a soft quilt of July.

I lie with raindrops on my face
like kisses, tentative and shy
and settle in the earth's embrace:
there's none so loving as July.

Just to let you know, I HAVE been reading all of these, since you're so marvellous, and since this is turning out to be a learning session for me as well, finding out about all these different styles of poetry that I knew nothing about - so thank you .

I loved the Canzone cross walk blues - though I didn't think they should have been 'blues' as such! It was tight and well-woven together, with all the little things mattering and it was quite a snuggly piece to read.

The haikus I'm never too fond of, so thank god you wrote more than one!

And out of the three last ones, the Park in July is my favourite - and that's really bizarre, considering the fact that I'm not big on rhyming poetry, usually, but this one was oh-so-smoothly pulled off! 'Red-limned trees....cupped in the bowl of winter's grace...brittle edges of July...fallen leaves are sewn like lace/into the soft quilte of July' - these were my favourite parts. And was the contradictory 'brittle edges of July' vs the 'soft quilt of July' bit done on purpose? Wasn't too keen on the ending, but it didn't matter as much as the rest did.

Honestly, once I've got a free moment (and so do you), I'm going to ask you about the structure for each of these, and how you manage to conform to them so well.

Day 27, Poem 1

Form: Ottava Rima

somebody's father (not my own)

The man at rest is mighty to behold;
his feet upon the sofa back repose-
he shows no outward signs of getting old
(he shaves his head, before the grey hair grows
and overlooks his belly; it's a fold
of flesh, a badge, and everybody knows
it's unacceptable to be a man
without a bit of muscle, if you can).

The room is littered with the signs of life
well lived: an almost empty bowl of dip
sets in a shiv'ring puddle that his wife
will clean up later, with the final chip;
an aftermath of crumbs surrounds the knife
he used to scratch the itching on his hip.
The telly's blazing football, but on mute:
without the cheers, his snoring is acute.

The man at rest is not the man at play,
nor he who wakes up every dawn to work.
Instead, the man at rest is held at bay;
all innocent of those his foibles irk
(and if his stubbly hair is kind of grey
the belly more a paunch than harmless quirk-
let it be said that love has neither eyes
nor ears with inclinations to despise).

Notes: Thanks, Navita - nice to know someone is still reading I'll see if I can track down the links to the guides I used for you, if you like.

bubbles! I haven't read anything of yours in ages, and just happened to stumble across your NaPoWriMo thread this morning as I was avoiding homework. Lucky for me, because I found a great poem.

I love poems, stories, and paintings that describe everyday life, but do it well. The ordinary is so underappreciated, I think, so I always like seeing it represented in a way that captures its importance, or something interesting about it that isn't immediately apparent. Extra props and love to you for rhyming. You're awesomesauce.

Day 28, Poem 1

Form: Virelai Ancien

the junkyard David

he stands amidst the refuse and remains;
a toaster, a fridge, the guts of old trains
stacked like body parts-

that bloody grease all through his hair- and starts
to rebuild. he knows nothing of fine arts
or the sweep of clay
that the track from sod-earth to sculpture charts;
he only knows that careful work imparts
more than disarray.

things hang together: he builds every day
out of new pieces, trying to convey
the oil in his veins.

Notes: 'Reida! Long time no see. How are you? I definitely agree with you about the ordinary things being the most interesting (sometimes) to write about. I've been trying to choose topics I wouldn't usually address mostly for that reason. It's a stretch, though XD Thanks for stopping by ^_^

Day 29, Poem 1

Form: Ghazal

the true nature of fire

I have set these candles on the frame to burn;
two melting offerings for the flame you burn.

We watched the light grow brighter and the sky dark.
When the fire died down, it was shame made you burn.

There are ashes on my lips. They taste of snow.
The remains of letters you disdained to burn.

You tend the fires of Hell with a different face
but disguises are all the same to those you burn.

If I had words enough, I'd warn those young hearts-
don't come close: you think it's such a game to burn.

Notes: Ghazals are kind of a sucky form in English, because the repetition makes them clunky (at least, all those I've ever attempted, lol). Each couplet is supposed to be unrelated except for a general theme about unrequited love and/or God, and have absolutely no enjambment. So, you can see the challenge -_-

Day 29, Poem 2

Form: Palindrome (line unit)

birds in motion and at rest

i. rest

nights are winged and softly pass.
birds rest; in light and silence find
each house an island.
their half-closed eyes are
jewels in loose settings
like moons.
they play with cats.

ii. motion

cats play with moons; they like
setting loose jeweled eyes, half-closed.
their islands house each, finding
in silence and light no rest.
birds pass softly, and winged
are nights.

Form: I decided to go through some of the forms I haven't done yet. I couldn't possibly manage every single poetry form ever in a month (let alone the two days left of NaPo!) but I do want to go through the ones I did last year. There are four left now - one more today, and another three tomorrow

Wow.

I've got to say, that palindromic poem was one of the most amazing poems, stucture-wise, that I have ever read. I can only imagine the amount of thinking that must have gone into that. What made it all the better was that you'd found a suitable contrasting image as well - rest and motion - to go with it.

I must thank you once again for introducing me to something unbelievably clever . You are a genius of different forms.

Day 30, Poem 1

Form: Heroic Rispetto

My Brown Coat

Here am I, in my adult coat and shoes,
a lonely figure on a football field.
Each step is weighted with a wish to lose
myself in leaves, and to temptation yield.

Child-woman and woman-child am I;
a youthful autumn, a changing season breeze;
I am a gold-leaf-brown blown from the trees.
I pull my dark coat close against the sky.

Notes: Thanks, Navita. Palindromes are an amazing form- one of those types that knocks you on your ass when you realize how it works. One of my favourite ever poems is a palindrome by a (former) YWS member, Incandescence. Try googling them sometime- they can be absolutely awesome when they're done well

Day 30, Poem 2

Form: Chaucerian Roundel

out of the rain

He says, "Get in here," and she says "Later,"
as she stands on the low deck watching the weather,
the hills and the storm clouds dancing together.

It's been a long time since anyone made her
do anything; he's at the end of his tether.
He says, "Get in here!" and she says, "Later,

when the wind and the treetops have ceased to caper,
when the waltzing cumulus takes a breather.
The storm outside is some powerful weather."
He said, "Get in here." And she said, "Later."

Day 30, Poem 3

Form: Pindaric Ode

the telemarketer

He holds the telephone up to his ear;
a voice on the line says, sir, you should hear
this offer we're
promoting. Holiday- at just half price!
The weather here, this time of year is nice.
Take my advice.

Outside in the fields, he has sheep to shear;
a rust-iron shed won't stand another year.
The man's sincere-
and the thought of a rest-cure does entice,
to dine on curries, rich with heat and spice.
The man's precise-
he talks of mountains, and a sky so clear
all those who visit call it white, and sheer,
gracious and austere.

His ute won't start unless he kicks it twice
and the bathroom tap's badly prone to ice.
It's not a vice
to want to get away from this frontier.
But he says, no thanks- (doesn't shed a tear)
I'll just stay here.

Day 30, Poem 4

Form: Terzanelle

why women carry mirrors

all women have three faces: it's a fact,
like every bird has wings and fish have gills.
they fit beneath the skin, flat and compact,

watch from the eyes as if from windowsills.
these are the grace notes in a pretty face,
like every bird has wings and fish have gills-

the virgin, with her innocence and grace
must tread a lonely road or lose her charm-
mother, with all her strength, must know her place:

at home, protecting hearth and child from harm-
and lastly, whore, who straddles both these lines.
she's strayed too far from safety's cautious arm.

all women have three faces: it's a fact.
in consequence, the world is full of mimes.
they fit beneath the skin, flat and compact-
just waiting to burst free from their confines.

Notes: And thus, I leave you. NaPo is officially over. It's been fun!