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
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
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
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
#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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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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