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Cadi's Caterwaulings



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Fri Apr 07, 2017 5:30 pm
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Cadi says...



Okay, here goes!

I am not a poet, and I have not written anything since November. But, Becki says if she's writing poems, then I have no excuse for not writing poems.

So let's do this.
Last edited by Cadi on Fri Apr 07, 2017 8:55 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
  





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107 Reviews



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Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Fri Apr 07, 2017 7:20 pm
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Cadi says...



#1

London lady leaning languid, braced against the metal rail,
scarcely sways and doesn't blink as brakes engage, bus slows and stops.
Brushed by breeze through op'ning door and pushed by passengers alighting,
peels a page across her book and phases out the
beep -
beep -
beep.

(Not for us the clink of coins, charade of change and nope of notes;
tap and beep to pay your fare in this top-speed town where contactless is king.)

Rumbling roar, red bus revs up and rolls away, grumbles on along the road
around the corner. Reaching out she rings the bell, brring above the driver's head,
and as they speed towards the stop she swings her satchel round to take her book,
swings herself around to face the door, and step out smoothly when it hisses wide.

London lady loping languid, striding up the street
"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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107 Reviews



Gender: None specified
Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Fri Apr 07, 2017 9:20 pm
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Cadi says...



#2

My guiding stars were aeroplanes;
they shifted when I blinked.
The landmarks that I thought I knew
grew grey and indistinct.

I'm shiny on the smaller scale
("that's bog, but this bit's firm").
I just wish I still had aeroplanes
to guide me longer-term.
"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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107 Reviews



Gender: None specified
Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Sat Apr 08, 2017 5:55 pm
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Cadi says...



#3

Blazing brilliance bakes the air,
sweeps clouds aside and paints the skies a crisp, clear blue.
Last week's wind has spent its breath, worn down to mere breeze
tickling café awnings and soft new leaves,
curling in at the windows thrown wide to catch it.

Weekdays we bemoan the heat, sardine-stacked in stale, shared air,
swept along beneath the street to office desk in businesswear,
sweaty and confined and longing to depart

but

today is weekend, gloriously free to lounge and laze in sun's embrace,
on wooden bench in that scrap of space
reclaimed amidst the city's sprawl and dubbed BEER GARDEN.
Sunglasses donned and jumpers doffed,
we lay claim to a patch of light and unwind all our cares,
ice-cube-clinking, condensation-coated drink in hand
quenches thirst, as the conversation, casual and comic,
quenches our thirst for companionship.
"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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107 Reviews



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Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Sat Apr 08, 2017 7:56 pm
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Cadi says...



#4 (look nobody said NaPo poems had to be good okay)

A pile of clothes upon my chair
Four weeks since I put them there
Washed and dried, the socks in pairs
But I haven't put them away yet

Fifteen books beside my bed
In each, a mark how far I've read
"I'm reading those ones still," I said
But I haven't turned a new page yet

The novel draft I wrote last year
The poems that I've scribbled here
I know I planned to persevere
But I haven't--
"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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107 Reviews



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Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Mon Apr 10, 2017 8:20 am
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Cadi says...



Spoiler! :
In an ideal world, this would be twice the length,
with a more complete narrative. Here in the real world, I keep getting called away from writing it, so I'm going to just post the sketch.


#5

My lady, Fate is hard against us,
his bias clear at every move.
I beg we turn our bows about
and make for port, afore he proves
his mood a black one; hoist the sails
and tack us round to face the dawn
or else I fear we'll end beneath
these cursed waves on which we're borne.

Retreat is not an option, sailor
steel your sinews, still your heart.
We're sailing West, or not at all;
that's been the goal since journey's start.
Beyond the waves, adventure waits
pirates, gold and lands unknown!
Mayhap we'll even chance to find
that fabled king, his ancient throne!
"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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107 Reviews



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Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Mon Apr 10, 2017 1:17 pm
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Cadi says...



#6

O, what anxious, hidden souls,
sharing scraps of us,
lowering our shields for
want of connection,
reaching for friendship
in 140 characters.
"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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Tue Apr 11, 2017 7:37 pm
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Cadi says...



#7

Twisting, dancing flakes of crystal, settling lightly into drifts of powder,
kicked up in puffs before our toes or, compacted,
gives that freshly-pisted creak beneath our soles.
Frozen friend, twirling into our faces -
now more, more, from flakes to clumps,
dances more furiously,
drives more harsh,
fills our vision
from peak
to peak,

until

w h i t e o u t

(near total sensory deprivation

no up

no down

no left

no right

icy bite brain freeze

slithering slowly shortest stretches pole to pole and

realising that sound is

your own skis and

you are alone)

and at
this point
we angle
downwards
head for the alpine bar where,
ensconced against the iceblast weather,
with sweet vin chaud and chocolat viennois
we'll say,

"So, same again next year?"

Spoiler! :
(When you think about it, skiing is a bizarre hobby.)

This does not feel like my best work. This does not feel like GOOD work.
But, it is a work. Technically. So let's let it stand, for now, and maybe I'll write something better tomorrow.
"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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107 Reviews



Gender: None specified
Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Wed Apr 12, 2017 6:14 pm
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Cadi says...



#8

Maligned monstrosities, grim and gritty;
clotted constructions of concrete chunks;
brutalist blots, unsightly eyesores;
a skyline destroyed just for--
just for...
Built for
a roof to cover the homeless
a bed for the invalid's rest
a drama to stir up emotion
a hope for humanity's best;
brutalist beauty, built for a future
where no-one should suffer from want.

All of the chrome and the glass in this city
outshone by a heart, just a little bit gritty.

Spoiler! :

Check out this gallery of some of London's most famouse brutalist architecture. We tend to think of these blocky, concrete buildings as ugly eyesores, and we rarely stop to think about the reasons we built them - hospitals, housing, arts centres - in the first place. The Barbican and the National Theatre give me these weird feelings whenever I go in - like I've stepped into somewhere slightly otherworldly, slightly magical, and that's a wonderful feeling to get from a building dedicated to the arts.

In terms of the poem, I was hoping to wind up with a more disjointed flow in the first half, and a more pleasant rhythm towards the end. Not sure how well I managed that?
"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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107 Reviews



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Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Sat Apr 15, 2017 12:09 am
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Cadi says...



#9

There is a bird trapped in my chest.
Just a wren - a tiny thing -
and mostly it sleeps, perched upon my ribcage.
But when I speak, it wakes and, frantic,
batters itself against my bones;
my heart skips to match its wingbeats
and I cannot sit still for its consuming agitation.
"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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107 Reviews



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Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Sat Apr 15, 2017 10:19 pm
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Cadi says...



#10

Object permanence
is the understanding that
even when you can't see something
it is still there.

Sometimes, I forget that
even when I can't see your smile
it is still there.
"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
  





User avatar
107 Reviews



Gender: None specified
Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Mon Apr 17, 2017 8:29 pm
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Cadi says...



#11

I'm trying to write a poem
And it's very late at night
I ought to be asleep
And the words won't come out right

Spoiler! :

Written at daft o'clock last night, of course
"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
  





User avatar
107 Reviews



Gender: None specified
Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Tue Apr 18, 2017 10:24 am
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Cadi says...



#12

Here we go:
the traditional bank holiday pastime
(no, not the optimistic, rainy barbecue,
nor the post-roast somnolence, neither)
crawling up the motorway
behind everyone else who dared leave town this weekend.

Right heel numb by the accelerator,
left knee aching from the clutch,
we roll forward, ten yards, and stop again.
(I use the break to take another spearmint Polo,
packet resting on the steering wheel.)
There's a flashing 50 on the gantry overhead,
beneath which we will pass at 5.
(If we have 200 miles to travel, at what time will we arrive?)

They interrupt the music to bring us
up-to-date traffic news
"The M5 is absolutely choca right now,
from Taunton through to Weston-super-Mare."
(We nod - can confirm, is true)
and my phone rings out an alert from Google
"There may be traffic on your route."

Yes. I think we found it.

Spoiler! :
This terrible poem is also the excuse for writing such a terrible poem- seven hours of driving in bank holiday traffic are good at turning brains to mush.
"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
  





User avatar
107 Reviews



Gender: None specified
Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Tue Apr 18, 2017 3:35 pm
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Cadi says...



#13

Dear nation,
this is just to say
I didn't think we were burning up
fast enough

so I have lit up
another
box of gunpowder.
"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
  





User avatar
107 Reviews



Gender: None specified
Points: 9326
Reviews: 107
Thu Apr 20, 2017 7:00 pm
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Cadi says...



#14

I could
unknot my cares from this keyboard,
let the cords fall and so send this sentence
without pulling my heart out behind

I could
unpick my hopes from my tongue,
let the seams burst and so speak these words
without sucking the breath from my chest

I could
unhitch my thoughts from this grindstone
let it be still and so quiet my fears
and tonight sleep a little bit sooner

I could

Spoiler! :
As with basically all the poetry I write, this feels like a strong first stanza with some other stuff tacked on behind. This might need a rewrite in some distant future.

What do you reckon?
"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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