Poem

19th April 2016

I smoked a cigarette last night it burned I felt unfamiliar large and wanted/unwanted half way down the burn.

Today I saw clocked and unclocked dandelions cracking concrete curbs.

The sky was unclouded and the air was warm in my throat.

The daffodils are crumpled already the blossom is lines the streets in all the palest shades of white and pink the tree outside my house shed its blooms in one windy day and I did not see the petals fall.

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Napowrimo day 12 prompt

So today’s prompt was to use an index: http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twelve-4/

So I made a poem using text taken from the notes from the journals of Sylvia Plath I wentb through the notes in order typing words and phrases sometimes cutting words and adding nothing.

I cannot and I cannot and enough heartbeat and warmth enough and you won’t see him if he asks again would no doubt be shallow the lady or the tiger encouraging letter I met a man I moved to a new house at midnight excerpt bronze boy night after night screaming only listen to me this last once I thought even dreaming of being strewn with starfish and shells we also had trouble yesterday the rejection girl thought she wanted each wrapped why don’t I write? So the headlines blare the two of them in an unidentified hand

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Day 11 Prompt

Here we go prompt was write a sensory poem with a philsophical end: http://www.napowrimo.net/day-eleven-3/

12th April 2016

The chill is off the air despite my bicycle being blown sideways leather jacket becomes bat wings and my trachea closes my breath is raw and ragged my wheel dips the whole tyre and more into a pothole at speed and as I rise up out of it wavering without falling my breath stops and my heart badums badumbdadumdadums blood in my ears I am grateful for the navy leather gloves returned to me by a friend my bones have been chilled for weeks thrusting fists in pockets at traffic lights near my door the blossom is out uneven on the trees they have not recovered from the early false start spring made in December I can tell the temperature has risen because I can smell the stench of the wheely bins kindness outshines the cold today my heart is warming up

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Back on the Equine Day Ten Prompt

Ahead of tomorrow’s Stirred Found Poetry Workshop (Marble Beerhouse Chorlton 6pm) I have decided to have another go at Napowrimo and do the day ten prompt which was to make a poem from book titles: http://www.napowrimo.net/day-ten-4/ its small and abstract but yes it is a poem so here we go:

Between the acts death of an ordinary man

forgotten life the secret history

llife as we have known it small island

strange meeting under the net

the accidental spiderweb come wind come weather

never let me go tender is the night

sexing the cherry

 

Books used:

Between the Acts Virginia Woolf

Death of an Ordinary Man Glen Duncan

Forgotten Life Brian Aldiss

The Secret History Donna Tartt

Life as We Have Known It Margaret Llewelyn Davies

Small Island Andrea Levy

Strange Meeting Susan Hill

Under the net Iris Murdoch

The Accidental Ali Smith

Spiderweb Penelope Lively

Come Wind Come Weather Daphne Du MaurierNapowrimo Day Ten

Never Let Me Go Kazuo Ishiguro

Tender is the Night F Scott Fitzgerald

Sexing the Cherry Jeanette Winterson

 

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Napowrimo Day 6

I did use the prompt: http://www.napowrimo.net/day-six-4/

 

6th April 2016

You were the one who taught me order my own frites and sorbet from a high chair you used to paint whole ducks with spices and this is still my favourite dish.

I have learned to take my steak bloody, I drink green tea, brew it loose in my midnight blue tea pot, I will eat octopus tentacles with glee, on my birthday I will have a kir royale. Mother planted seeds so that your resting place will help make honey.

I can slowly stir mushroom risotto, roast a chicken, slash a lamb leg with garlic and rosemary, know you need more wine for coq au vin, delight in the frying of onions and spices for curries without a recipe.

My kitchen is ill appointed you would recognise the cabinets and the rusted fridge I crack eggs in one movement on the pyrex to make sweetcorn fritters, I probably first did this with you, felt like I had to make something with my own hands for my dinner on this day this dish I have made for over twenty years, I have added cornmeal and chilli.

There is no champagne to toast you as we once did when we who were left behind were less fragmented there is a third of bottle of ginger wine I take it with ice and soda water. In your honour I will learn to cook something wonderful with the lurid tin of harissa paste with the lighthouse I bought on a whim.

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Napowrimo Day 5

It is April so I write about death I actually did work in today’s offical prompt you can see it here: http://www.napowrimo.net/

I saw a woman cycling carrying a swathe of white Lilies in a back pack their open mouths speak the language of death but she smiled as she carried herself onward. I am bleeding and smiling in the sun woman’s bodies are contradictions.

Last night there was screaming I pressed my nose to the window breath obscures three foxes two are boxing one keeping watch I had never heard this before they belt their tuneless racket while circling each other then rise up I take the side of my fist to the glass I cannot imagine they can hear this human rattling after such a sound a fox looks up and they disperse.

On the telephone my mother asks what flowers I want her to take to your grave we decide to plant cottage garden seeds in hope that bats will alight there when the holly hocks open yearly an ecosystem next to a dual carriage way over looked by marble.

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Poems From Last Month’s Stirred Poetry

Started a poem not on any of the prompts which I may post later but thought I would use this month to pay some attention to my blog and to that end am adding three poems that came out of last month’s Stirred Poetry workshop themed around the work of poet Audre Lorde reminder that submissions for the zine are still being taken as well details here: https://stirredpoetry.wordpress.com/2016/03/17/call-for-submissions-audre-lorde/ the workshop can be found here: https://stirredpoetry.wordpress.com/2016/03/17/workshop-audre-lorde/

 

After the line ‘’Out of my Flesh that Hungers and my Mouth That Knows’’ From On a Night of the Full Moon by Audre Lorde

There is anticipation of months of digital impulses transmitting desire the flesh is hungry in my dreams I am gorging on flesh and I wake unsated fretful my mind can depict such accuracies of flesh such completeness of desire in my subsconscious my mouth that knows there is more time to traverse until my lips are taken and are rough with lust the mouth that knows in place of flesh it drinks and the tongue runs on and on when not tasting skin. Out of the flesh there is want there is the staring eye the ravenous appetite for books literary fucking is the best you never had all is sublime fucking in black and white type serifs perfect it all, block out the fumbling of bodies.

 

After the repeated couplet structure in Hanging Fire

 

I have been scalded by snow

my face was raw as Caliban

pained and anxious my thoughts

were muddled by hurt and antihistimines

how fragile a self is epidermis thin

it is spring and the wind

is still stealing my breath

 

How unreadable is the mirror

and the mind my face

was burnt meat in my eyes

my skin is psyche linked

flaring with stress kitchen breakdowns

it is spring and the wind

is still stealing my breath

 

today my windpipe and

a train reservation conspired

with the weather to

make my cycle journey

arduous crawling I easily

forget how freewheeling happens

it is spring and the wind

is still stealing my breath

 

After Recreation: A Filthy Ars Poetica

I write of the body my poetry is rooted in my tongue and my cunt my limbs poetry comes out of unspent and spent desire I pour out my lust on note books, bus tickets, torn envelopes it feeds on encounters of the body my body their body the differences in flesh it feeds on flesh I once thought I could never write when cunt struck I have learned to keep the pen moving when in lack of desire and my body feels too untouched to be touched I have learned to touch my own reaches of untouch and lay it bare I have learned to write my desire my unfulfilled desire I am full of words for every state between revulsion of the male gaze and my own leering views poetry of mine does divide my mind and cunt I find my desire is the ink.

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