Day 10: Advertisement Jingle

Today's NaPo prompt is to write an advertisement poem. Ah! I thought there's no way I can do this, but when I saw the mention of advertising poetry as a product, this strange jingle came into my head:


Eat Poetry

A spoonful of poetry
makes the world
go down better.
(sweet treat)

A spoonful of poetry
crystalline sugar
for the mind.
(hyper high)

A spoonful of poetry
makes everything
taste better.
(delicious days)


 

Day 9: Playlist Poem

Today's official NaPo prompt was to pick 5 songs from a playlist on your iPod and incorporate their titles into a poem. 

My first effort on this came out a tad melancholy (despite the upbeat songs!), and just as I finished it, another idea popped into my mind, based on a different prompt I saw today -  to write a poem to someone you love or once loved something you never got to tell them. 

Songs:
Paint the Silence - South
Firecracker - Ryan Adams
I Feel It All - Feist
Dog Days - Florence & The Machine
Heart's Content - Brandi Carlile  


Postscript

I think the world of you, and a world more - 
that's basically the gist
of what I wanted to say
but never did.  Never did 
get to share my heart's content 
in a scattering of telltale truths

like I wanted to.  All those petals 
of plucked daisy questions
never answered, still suspended 
in air, surreal scene that blurs
every other.  Dog days of summer
come and gone since, unnoticed.

Now I paint the silence around us
with a palette of platitudes: 
not meant to be, mismatched, misunderstood, 
missed, their colours sickly
on my face. But I still 
feel it all. And the lost chance,

that firecracker of telling
I never got to light, stubbed by doubt -
could have just as easily 
exploded, crackled the future 
alive in a fantail of sparks -
as went out. 

Day 8: Rewrite Another Poem

Today's prompt is to rewrite another poem. Luckily, I've had an idea in mind for this kind of exercise for a while now, having always wanted to do my own version of 'Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird' by Wallace Stevens. (You can read that poem here: Thirteen Ways of Looking...' )

So here goes...



13 Ways of Looking at a Table

1. A square of civilisation. Square root of civilisation. 
    Town Square of the home.

2. Rigid enforcer. Slab of order. Dogma dictator. 
    The vertical construct of life. 

3. Dinner-time. Family heartland/hardlined.

4. The after-life of a tree.

5. Square peg adjudicator to round holes of conversation. 

6. A sharp-edged boundary: Do Not Cross. No hands land. Keep your eyes 
    where I can see them.

7. Plateau for sharing, spreading out plans. From Grand Canyon heights. 

8. A grained gulf of silence, no going against.

  

9. Man-made manifestation of the physical hardness of living. 
    Simultaneously, a monument to smoothing the splinters in life. 

10. An invitation to honesty. Beckoning cards. 

11. A pew. An altar. A premise. A pining prop. Ode
     to disgruntlement.

12. The only impetus you need 
      for a still-life. 

13. Plane of practical existence.

Day 7: Love Poem...To an Inanimate Object

I was immediately intrigued by today's prompt: to write a love poem to an inanimate object. Cool!

Thought about it for a while and no, unlike the suggestion on the site, there's no pen I have an ardent admiration for, no notebook or infact, any other writing paraphernalia that I'm fond of. Hmmm, I thought, what other object is dear to me, always beside me? I decided on my glasses, out of sheer practicality. My thick-rimmed geeky-style specs. Without them, I'd be at a loss, but I often treat them with a lack of respect... so this is the perfect opportunity to sing their praises. 

(I kept thinking of all those wonderful odes Pablo Neruda wrote to things - like a tuna-fish at the market, tomatoes, a book, wine - while I was writing these and the flippant tone in part may have come from him...)

*And I had so much fun with this exercise that I just had to do another ode, which I've included here too.

Ode to My Glasses

Kooky-cool, kohl-black
you are the epitome 
of definition. Sleek sides, 
peripheral pals
you make everything 
bigger, brighter, better.  
Oh how I admire
your swish curves 
and oogle-eyed 
look-at-me advances,
how you add intensity
to the blurriest 
of situations. 
Perfect prop 
to punctuate arguments, 
add a pernickety off-and-on 
emphasis when required,
suave sultry sidekick
to a bookish demeanor,
authentic alias 
when I need it most: 
you take a face from nought 
to smart - an instant 
intellectual pick-me-up, 
and would come in handy 
if I ever needed to disguise 
my superhero visage. 
Geek-chic, you seem like 
you'd fit right into 
a Parisian soireé
a Left-Bank conference,
or a professor's frown 
of philosophical intent. 

But more than just that: 
I need you. You're essential
to completing me. 
And I'm sorry now
for all those times 
I tread on you by mistake
clipped your wings,
threw you to the side,
wore you on my head
as a fiddly distraction, 
a cheap accessory, 
most especially for the silly 
on-and-off affair
with the Dailies
who left my eyes
in tears.
Truth is, I can't see 
the horizon line 
without you, or even -
myself.




Lap-Top Love

Baby in blue, that's what I call you. 
From the first moment I saw your turquoise top
and carried you careful, like a newborn in my arms, 
I knew, we'd be together, forever. 
Always at my beck and call, always true. 
I love the ping you make when you turn on,
your silence when it matters most, your blinking modesty,
steady hum of approval, the soft and easy touch of your keys
that know so well, by now, how to read me. 
Always by my side, slung in a hug, sat on a knee, 
you've become the keeper of my most deepest secrets.
Here's to you, hardware of my heart, enabler, of scribbled dreams.

Day 6: Outside Your Window

Today's prompt from the NaPoWriMo site is to look out your window and write down first, the nouns that you see, and then the colours, and finally the verbs of what is going on, and from there, make a poem out of your word pool.

I got stuck for ages on this one - the familiar view seeming too bland.  It was only when I saw our cheeky garden robin fly in for a go at the new bird food, that interesting subject matter presented itself. But I did not follow the suggestion's structure - too constraining! 





King of the Garden

Red belly gets there first. 
Of course. Crafty connoisseur 
of people manoeuvres. 
The bird food in the holder 
high on the washing line
only up half an hour 
when he arrives, expectant,
with a regal flair, timing 
impeccable. I watch as he darts 
about the wall for a bit, jaunty head 
sussing things out, beak pecking
a crumb here and there, 
before doing what no robin - 
according to the guides - 
is supposed to do: 
flies up, zooms in and lands 
with all the precision of a glider pilot
on the green hanger rungs. Sleek, 
steady, sure of himself, he settles in 
to nibble his lunch in the air.   
A sweet feat for a ground-feeder.
Evolution laid bare. 
Anything for a bite, eh? 
He cocks his head, alert
for other bird arrivals, red breast 
a flash of warning to nearby rivals. 
And I think, maybe, just then
in his beady unblinking eye, I see 
a shine of sly recognition
but never a thank you,
from this lion-heart
who wears his flames proud,
in the meek garden. 

Day 5: The Golden Shovel

Today's prompt is to write a 'golden shovel' poem. That is, taking a poem, in this case - 'Watermelons' by Charles Simic (from the proffered choices) and using it as scaffolding to write a poem by having a word of it at the end of every line. So, you can read it by reading the last word of every line of your poem!

Watermelons - Charles Simic 

Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.


Saturday

We hope in green,
sit cross-legged in parks like modern Buddhas
inhaling the day, trying to focus on 
the gold beneath, the laughter, the
moments that bring the ripe fruit 
of living to our lips. This is it. Time to make a stand,

test plans. We won't live forever. We
tilt our heads skywards, bask in sun, eat  
ideas like grapes, burp mistakes. The 
world is our feast. The world is a big fat smile
beckoning. No need to stop and 
wait, prep, deliberate. Let's make a pact, spit
on it and shake. Get on out

there. Everything is possible, believe the
hype. And when we smile, show teeth. 

                                     


                                             
                                                                                    
                                             

Day 4: Charm

Today I'm using yesterday's NaPoWriMo prompt: to write a charm poem in the style of a recipe/nursery rhyme. 

Ok then.



Spring Spell 


Take one blue pool of sky
and scatter in
the sugar of snowdrops,
some egg-yolk yellow daffodils,
a butterfly wing 
pinned to a tulip's lip,
the leafy tongue
of a bud beginning. 
Use a sundial 
to count to twenty one.


Add a swig of sun and the first sprig
of grass, twittering 
of birdsong, little lamb leaps.
Pick possibilities like wildflowers.
Drink the green juice 
of reborn leaves
beneath a cherry blossom
and the bloom of a smile
on a blushing evening.
Braid a primrose promise to
let light in, darkness out. 
Cherish 
your new chance.

Now -
take the seedling of a dream
and plant it in your heart. 
Keep it often in sight,
water with love
and watch it 
grow. 

Day 2: Myth

Today's prompt on the NaPoWriMo site was to use myth as inspiration. It implicitly said not a Greek or Roman myth, but oh, you're not a poet if you don't take liberties with the 'rules'!

I had the Prometheus story in my head for a while now - the one where he is tied to a rock and an eagle comes and eats out his liver, only for it to grow back and the eagle return to tear it out again, over and over. Never-ending pain, eternal punishment. All because he dared to steal fire from the gods. A powerful meditation on pain this, and I got to thinking about the phrase 'eaten  by regret'...

The Prometheus Effect

'The mind replays what the heart can't delete...' 

Every night
bound to the bedrock 
of sleep, deep
in the ruffling dark, 
the eagle of regret 
rises 
to tear with its beak

at my offending heart. 

Every night 

the incessant nipping

of what could have been, a wound
that never closes. Your loss -

repeated, replayed 
in cruel ways

blots out

the recovery of days. 

Every night 
my heart is eaten like prey, 
flesh ripped from fantasy.
My punishment 
for playing with fire. Torture 
of the kind

only mythic heroes
can endure.

 

Day 1: April

April

April sounds 

like something
being peeled -
a fruit, a word, a coat -
to a shiny reveal.  
Or, said quickly 
under the breath
an almost rhyme 
to  'I will,' a promise 
to be kept.
Said aloud, the echo
of a smile. 


April looks 

like a seedling
triumphant
above ground.
Pink blush at night
and apricot light
at dawn.  
A ribbon being tied
into a bow. 


April feels

like a bud 
on the brink 
of bloom, all petalled
expectation.

© Siobhán Mc Laughlin