Poetry

In The Valley – 3/10/17

I randomly stumbled upon a quote that went something like this; you won’t remember mowing the lawn or going to work, so go climb that mountain! And it got me thinking about the little things in life, so this is sort of my response to that quote, because we can’t always be climbing mountains. 

I might remember when I mowed the lawn, pushing the monster through the tangled green, wearing black gumboots and a red face, the giant hum shielding my ears from all other sounds and the daisies cheeky, never cut, for they are too low to the ground.

I might remember when I curled exhausted in the chair and closed my eyes, and the air swirled outside my eyelids, dark green, and red and splashes of yellow around the mahogany furniture. And when I opened my eyes my eyelashes swept up against my curled fingers that were propping up my face.

And I might remember how every time I highlight text electronically, no matter how many colours I used last time; green for common use, yellow for sub-points and blue for quotes, it always stains dark pink when I start again, because that is always the colour I used last, the colour of extremely important points.

 

-zu

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Poetry

I don’t know the why (dVerse prompt) – 17/9/17

I remember the joy when I first realised a poem does not need to rhyme. I wrote a not-bothered poem, unrhyming, looked at it and thought, this isn’t poetry. Then I looked again and thought, who cares? I like to write my poems in huge blocks and chunks of text, then I come back later and cut it up into the rhythms my tongue tasted as I spewed it from  my mind to the blank white. If I write fast enough I can get this feeling out, amazing how my thoughts come forth in settled patterns, forcing a poem. Later I will read it back and think, how on earth did that genius, that tiny bit there, come out of me? I will then cut ruthlessly to remove the non-genius. I do not remove it all because to do so would often leave me with one word here and one there looking completely unrelated on the page. I often write in Drought. Dust colours my nostalgia, my water is my utopia, my earth and joyous home is crackling grass and the flying crows that whiten bones. I write in feelings and also gel pens or black pens or computer screens. I try to make my feelings clearer by obscuring them in metaphor, in the hopes that someone will pick my wild random phrase and say, you know, I have felt that too. I want my words to give me wings. I will write an impossibility and after when I read it through, I will say, you know, I believe that this could be real and look, look at how that word there is fluttering, it wants to be true as well.

 

Summer takes a sigh

Lungs collapsing in the sun

Birds fly on up-draft

 

-zu

A prompt from dVerse, to explore why we write in the style we do, with a traditional haiku at the end. I’m not sure my response made my why any clearer, but I didn’t realise before I thought about it that this is definitely my style, at least at the moment. I haven’t put in any line breaks as I usually do so you can see it as it is raw. I still and probably always will be growing in the way I write, so this is a snapshot of me now, I guess.

20170919_202114

 

Poetry

Fingers – 17/9/15

You know how when someone makes a blanket,
Their fingers hold the thread,
Turn it over, slip it in,
Pull it tight.
They debate the colours, hold them up.
Admire this one with that.
They tie the tassels on the end,
They tie the knots.
They work until the wool is tangled
And then spend half an hour unravelling.
They build it in stitches
And squares,
First one and then twenty, It grows under their fingers.
Every time they pull the thread through to make a stitch.

 

But when you hold that woollen blanket,
Granny squared, or purled and knitted,
Each colour bouncing off its partner, just right,
You don’t see the stitches.
You can’t feel the fingers knitting.
It’s joined so seamlessly that this is just a blanket,
Thread turned into fabric and every time the fingers turned it
Just the right way to make this whole
Is gone, forgotten,
Lost in the space between this thread and that one,
it’s slipped out of the gaps
And is laying slightly crooked on a concrete floor.
The only way to feel the loving fingers is to pick it up,
Put it around your shoulders.
You’ll always be safe in here.
Stretch it tight across you, that’s a cool hand running across your back,
And then even if you can’t see the fingers
That twisted this into a hug,
They’re there. Just be held.

 

-zu

I was gunna use this for Sanaa’s prompt at Real Toads but it doesn’t really count because I didn’t go out to write it, I was in my room looking at my granny square rug on my bed. It does fulfil the idea of just letting the idea come naturally, as the prompt says, ‘as Francis Bacon wisely states; “Write down the thoughts of the moment. Those that come unsought for are commonly the most valuable.”‘ This is a great prompt though, and I’d like to try it again sometime, actually going out next time! 

 

Poetry

Real Interactions Turned Poetical. – 15/9/17

The painter philosophical,

Tubby fleeced and rovers boots,

Sermonising, gesturing, he’s a preacher,

Half a Russian dancer,

Half wry smiles and shrugs.

Back to work I guess.

 

-zu

 

A metaphor challenge today from dVerse. I think I still have a lot to learn about metaphors. 😊

Also found this Ted talk about metaphor by Rosemary to be really helpful and inspiring: https://youtu.be/eXC3-ZFkhDo

Also this is based on an honest-to-goodness real person I met today, who probably never woke up this morning thinking he would be made into a poem by evening and probably will never know that he was.

Poetry

Clouds – 13/9/17

I was born free; no body owns me

I can sleep on the sand

Following summer into the north

I can cloud drift

To rule the horizon

But I come back to

Beach scented oceans

Again. Because clouds

are still trapped by the earth.

-zu

Prompt from dVerse, a Quadrille using the prompt “free” and exactly 44 words. Mines a bit late!

Also drew a bit of inspiration from this corny song from the old Pippi Longstocking movie! https://youtu.be/a7m4vPcfeOE

Poetry

His Granddaughter – 10/9/17

His granddaughter’s hair is long,

While he’s been going bald for years.

They’re sitting, shoulders brushing,

Attention caught ahead.

She leans over to whisper, he bends his ear in,

And when she moves back

About ten long hairs catch on his arm,

Linking them across ten centimetres of space.

 

-zu