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Points: 46
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Sat Apr 07, 2018 11:29 am
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Baezel says...



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.
  





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Sat Apr 07, 2018 11:32 am
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Baezel says...



7/04/2018
Poem 1

Title: I love.

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.
  





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Points: 46
Reviews: 15
Sat Apr 07, 2018 11:33 am
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Baezel says...



07/04/2018
Poem 2

No Title

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.
  





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Sat Apr 07, 2018 7:27 pm
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alliyah says...



Lovely start here @Baezel and you are not too late to begin NaPo - we're only a week in. :)

I'm really enjoying your word choice in that first poem you posted along with the light rhyming and assonance you used which makes it fun to read.

Some great language right here;
I love the consuming downpour,
which is devoted to the decree of gravity
abandoning without restraint its divinity.


I look forward to reading what you have to write! :)
but i don't think i can ever love someone
who doesn't understand that teal
is a different color than
dark cyan.

  





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Points: 46
Reviews: 15
Sun Apr 08, 2018 10:32 pm
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Baezel says...



08/04/2018
Poem 3

Title: Dear Friend

Trust,
Please, I beg you.

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.
  





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Points: 46
Reviews: 15
Mon Apr 09, 2018 7:18 pm
Baezel says...



09/04/2018
Poem 4

Title: Bluebells

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.
  





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Reviews: 15
Mon Apr 09, 2018 7:40 pm
Baezel says...



09/04/2018
Poem 5

Title: Ninth of April, Weather Warm.

Come with me to the woods.

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.
  





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Points: 46
Reviews: 15
Tue Apr 10, 2018 12:54 pm
Baezel says...



10/04/2018
Poem 6

Title: The Doctor Had a Thought

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.
  





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Wed Apr 11, 2018 8:52 pm
Baezel says...



11/04/2018
Poem 7
Title: Where Ends Are Made

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.

Heat warms those around you.
  





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Thu Apr 12, 2018 6:40 pm
Baezel says...



12/04/2018
Poem 8
Title: McKells

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.
  





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Thu Apr 12, 2018 7:13 pm
Baezel says...



12/04/2018
Poem 9

Title: Oh, I could love.

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.

Damn, I wished someone loved me.
  





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Points: 46
Reviews: 15
Fri Apr 13, 2018 8:33 pm
Baezel says...



13/04/2018
Poem 10

Title: Paintings of Greek Women

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.

Inspired by: Kelli Russell Agodon's 15th prompt. http://www.agodon.com/uploads/2/9/4/3/2 ... agodon.pdf
  





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Sat Apr 14, 2018 9:53 pm
Baezel says...



14/04/2018
Poem 11

Title: Hating Yourself

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.

You are,
at most,
worth petty annoyance.
  





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Gender: Female
Points: 46
Reviews: 15
Sun Apr 15, 2018 9:37 pm
Baezel says...



15/04/2018
Poem 12 16+ for language

Isn’t it bizarre,
that every day of my life on
this damned earth
war
has raged.

Good fucking God, it’s beyond thought.
The only fucking difference between
me
and
them
is where we are
when the b om b s la n d …



You don’t think about it,
do you?

God damn it and damn anyone who insists you forget.
Language alone cannot fix anything but
fuck
if I am going to do nothing.

Look me in the eye and tell me what this will achieve?
Will the wicked die?
Great.

Who fucking blows up
the nursery to
deal with a rat infestation.

Is this just human nature?
Is it instinctual to those
around me? Can
we live any other way?

Why must everyone die at
our hands?
  





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Gender: Female
Points: 46
Reviews: 15
Tue Apr 17, 2018 9:31 pm
Baezel says...



17/04/2018
Poem 13

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.
  








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