Ok that was all in caps as it felt very serious.
This is my third year doing napowrimo and even though I did only two thirds of the days last year I got poems out of it that are/have been published in magazines (sadcore dadwave springs to mind check that mag out because its great) and anthologies and my upcoming first collection with flapjack, So thank you napowrimo for always taking my work to unexpected places and for foisting creative change and development on me.
I will as usual be taking part in my own way. Which means doing some of the prompts but as the late Mr Morcambe said: not necessarily in the right order, may just do my own thing some days. I will not for the sake of finishing the full 30 days subject you to another cat haiku about trying not to write a cat poem, that’s when the creative barrel is scraped. Not sure about today’s effort I may have exhausted my creative capabilities making a snood from a scarf that has been lying around half knitted for years (it has all manner of holes were it shouldn’t but that’s a ”design feature”) I cast it off using a you tube video! Anyway enough of my knitting achievements here is the poem.
I used day one’s prompt on the site: http://www.napowrimo.net/2013/04/it-begins/ and the poem I used is one by Muriel Spark called What? I just loved this first line, I;ve been reading her collected lately, the line is ”A black embroidered hand bag full of medium-size carrots”
‘’A black embroidered hand bag full of medium-size carrots’’
such as the one my friend cannot bear to be parted from
even though the zip is long bust and she closes it with
a large dangerous looking safety pin I fear she will puncture
herself with when inebriated, some familiarity woven into
its worn fabric too precious to part with
she and all the best women I know are the kind to carry
medium-sized carrots in our recalcitrant hand bags
forget and find them spilling out like an accusation
the sort of thing that never happens to more preened women
those who donlt favour the impracticalties of velvet
who wouldn’t have , like me, today, have had to find
the right kind of note book without the standard lines
that constrict my scritching, space to write space enough to think
I over zealously filled the prized brassy fountain pen
And will carry to work camoflauged by business casual
An ink splot on my finger exactly like a slug.