NaPoWriMo #11

I am really beginning to enjoy this process. I've realised that it doesn't take very long to produce a first draft. I'm not actually taking any less time on the writing process than I used to. It's just that when I have an idea, I know I have to set pen to paper within a day, whereas previously I'd let it roll around in my head for days and conjure up all kinds of resistance to actually writing something down. Probably because I wanted it to be really good on the first try, so that I didn't spoil my bright shiny idea.

Having the prompts is great. Each time I see one I think I can't possibly come up with anything using that word. And then my brain cells have a secret meeting somewhere, and pretty soon the ideas are coming. Or at least one idea which is all I need. Because they are words I might not think of using, left to myself, I find myself remembering things or exploring things that I wouldn't have done on my own.

Editing of course, is another matter. There will have to be a lot of that in the coming months.

Celluloid

Saturday afternoon at the Kinema.
It is somebody's birthday,
or we wouldn't be here.
Ninepence for the stalls, or sixpence
for the cheap seats at the front
if you don't mind a crick in your neck.
The rich kids in the dress circle come every week.
They send a rain of lollies
down from the balcony.
We are not sure what rich is,
having no television to tell us
what we are missing.
Perhaps they are not rich after all,
merely the children of parents more indulgent
than ours, or more desparate. Anyway,
they are initiates in the mystery
of the weekly serial, which for us is a story
without beginning or end. The cartoons
and the main feature are what we are there for.
And yet now, we remember nothing
of these celluloid stories - only the accent
of the reporter on the Movietone News
and the sound of jaffas
rolling down the aisles.

(Jaffas are a round sweet found in New Zealand, with a chocolate centre and a bright orange outside. As far as I can tell, no one ever bought Jaffas at the movies to eat, only to make noise with).

Now, I'm off to Poetry Thursday to check out the next prompt.

NaPoWriMo #10 (and Poetry Thursday)

For today's poem, I have managed to use the daily prompt "breathless", along with a line left by a Poetry Thursday participant, Megan for the weekly prompt ("but we're used to it"), and then for good measure, I added an ending that uses one of my favourite words, "meniscus".

I had planned to ignore the daily prompt in favour of doing the weekly prompt to use someone else's line, but when I saw Megan's line and started figuring out how to use it, I realised that "breathless" fitted right in. Thanks Megan!

Untitled

There isn't much romance here
but we're used to it. We have settled
into the packets of our lives,
space at the top showing how there used to be
more air. But the weight is the same.
I do his banking, fetch the drycleaning,
post his letters. He knows what to do
when a child wakes in the night
breathless and wheezing. You can't eat kisses.
We are practical people. We may not be sure
whether the glass is half full
or half empty, but we do know
how to read the water level
from the bottom of the meniscus.

NaPoWriMo #9

After yesterday's whiny post, I find I actually managed to come up with two today. Setting the words down on paper during a coffee break at work helped (instead of waiting until I got home).

I'm hoping to play catch up this weekend, and visit all the other participants to see what they are doing with the prompts. I've only had time for a few so far.

One of these results from my musings on the possibilities of today's prompt at Poetry Thursday - "hollow" (yesterday's prompt, by the time I post the results). The other is a description of a scene near my work, into which I drop the word - whether it belongs there or not, I haven't quite decided.

Hollow (1)

You keep on rewriting
the book of your life. At each retelling
you become more tragic.
The cover bears illustrations
of delicate colours and haunting beauty.
Do not read it any longer. Keep it in the background
to enhance your decor, hollow out its pages,
use it as a hiding place
for your most secret key.

Hollow (2)

The leaves are falling from the trees
and all the colour has fallen out of the sky.
It is a landscape in black and white,
but the fields are from the studio
of another photographer - a study in sepia.
Tall seedheads scattered among the grasses
flocks of brown birds fly up and perch
on the backs of the sheep, brown with dust.

Over beyond the plains
the inky blue mountains
scroll across the horizon
like a painted backdrop. A hollow wind blows
from the proscenium arch.

NaPoWriMo #8

Today's prompt: "at first blush".
It wasn't until I did a search at dictionary.com that I found this phrase had a meaning I wasn't familiar with: "without previous knowledge or adequate consideration". I don't think it is used in New Zealand English. I was thinking more of the "first blush of dawn" and wondering how to avoid sentimentality.

I'm getting to the point of wondering why on earth I set out to do this. A poem a day? When I get up, go to work, come home, do housework and collapse tired into bed? I must be nuts! I couldn't possibly keep going if I worried about whether what I am writing is any good or not. I may or may not cringe when I come back to it after the month is over. Much of my working out is done in the car, or similar places. What seems like a good idea then tends to feel really stupid when I come to write it down. There's nothing to be done about that but to carry on regardless, I don't have time to stress about quality. Thank goodness for the prompts - even if I think I have nothing to say on a subject, it stops me dithering and changing my mind all day. The prompt is the prompt and that is that. (But I'm thinking of resorting to a few days of haiku, just to keep the count up).

At First Blush

1. The dawn, the rose bud,
the baby's chek.

2. The man who gives you this card
is an air raid warden. Lie down
on the floor and do exactly
as he tells you.

3. At first, blush. Later,
learn to join in.

4. She draws an "f" from the bag of tiles.
She changes "blush" to "flush"
From innocence to guilt. Or rage.

5. After the petals fall
the thorns, the blood.

NaPoWriMo #7

Today's prompt: "leather"

(I have been reading Miroslav Holub's wonderful series of poems "The Minotaur")

The Minotaur to Theseus

Never trust a woman.
You don't need her magic
ball of thread. She wants it to entangle you,
not to guide you. Just keep your head,
and your left hand on the wall,
or your right, it doesn't matter,
as long as you're consistent.
Reverse hands, and you'll find your way
back out. I don't know why
I'm telling you this, since it will lead
to my death, most likely.
I'm not the monster they make me out
to be. No danger to anyone
bold enough to do anything
but cower in a trembling heap.
Just because I'm big and ugly, doesn't mean
I wouldn't be kind to old women
and small children, given half a chance.
The roaring? In another century
it will be motor bikes. I'm just another boy
trying to be a man, wearing a leather jacket
and trying to look tough.

NaPoWriMo #6

Today's prompt at Poetry Thursday is "kneel"

The wave runs at the shore,
falls on its knees to kiss the sand
The sea brings offerings
a seaweed necklace, driftwood, shells
The land buries them deep
The sea erodes her boundaries,
grain by grain. The land
heaves herself up from the sea's depths.
What the sea once covered
becomes a mountain.
It is the age-old tussle of the littoral zone
but still the sea
writes love letters on the sand.

(I think maybe I am being a bit indulgent sneaking the worl "littoral" in there. It's a word I love, but I'm not sure that it makes the poem any better).

Only 24 days to go!

NaPoWriMo #5

"Don't mess with the muse"! - Feeling edgy yesterday, I headed off for a walk up the hill. As I walked, I calmed down and found myself composing in my head about half of the poem I had been trying to write based on the first daily prompt at Poetry Thursday - "absolve". As I joined in on these prompts a bit late, I had missed this one out earlier.

When I got back home I found dinner was nearly ready. I had gone over the lines so many times that I thought I would remember them, but of course when I came to put them down on paper later in the evening, I didn't remember them so well after all. I think I have just about recreated what I came up with. But it is a reminder to me, that the poetry muse demands that her ideas be paid attention - they should be noted down straight away.

"Absolve" to me is quite a formal word. I fell in love with the sound, and wanted to work in all of its rhymes. I didn't, quite, but I used a fair few of them. Of course formal rhyming poetry is really hard to do well, but I wanted to try. Trying to use the word at the end of a line, without changing it to "absolution", made it even harder. Despite the religious use of the word "absolution", I see "absolve" as being different to "forgive". "Absolve" to me means a declaration that there was no fault in the first place. Forgiveness is an acknowledgment of a fault before a release from the longterm effects of that fault.

(I really should come up with better titles than the word which is the prompt. But a poem a day is hard enough without worrying about titles).

Absolve
Low tide. Mudflats pockmarked by breathing holes
of hidden clams. A heron stalks. The slow revolve
of leaf fall, joining others to turn to silt
where tree trunks join reflected trees. They shatter and dissolve
as the wading heron lifts in flight, pissing as it goes.
This mud and shit is necessary beauty
- part of life - it's how all things evolve.
Whatever I have done, or failed to do
that lies between us unresolved
is as it is. I will not whine "it's not my fault",
may ask you to forgive me, but never to absolve.

(The photo is of the "Sugarloaf" - taken on my walk yesterday. Low cloud wreathes around the television transmitter tower while sunset streaks across the sky in the background).

NaPoWriMo #4

I've been looking forward to Easter, because it means four whole days of not going to work. What I still don't have, that I had before I was working fulltime, is great stretches of time when I'm in the house alone (or at least, alone except for one or two very quiet people). This weekend we have visitors. And we went over to my daughter's house for hot cross buns at lunchtime, and then everyone came back here for more hot cross buns for afternoon tea. Somehow I seem to have less poetry writing time than on those days when I know I have to get my daily poem posted before I leave for work in the morning.

The latest NaPoWriMo prompt at Poetry Thursday is "broken thread". This one has such obvious metaphorical connotations, that I wanted to see what else I can do with it. I came up with the following, that as far as I can see doesn't have a single metaphor anywhere. Everything is exactly what it is. Sometime, when I'm not pushing myself to produce a new poem every day, I'd like to push this one around some more and see if I can shape it into a rhyming (or almost rhyming) sonnet. I think it has that potential.

Broken Thread

Because he was born in poorer times, he saves
everything that can be mended. And because
he lives in richer times (time poor),
he hasn't mended any of it. A burnt-out
electric kettle, a toy truck with one wheel missing
(the children long since grown, and in no hurry
to produce children of their own). In the garden shed
lies timber, wire, electric plugs, old tins
of paint - one day he'll use these things
to fix something, he's sure of that. Meanwhile
in a chest in a corner of the spare room, there's more
- old letters tied with string, a child's shoe,
a necklace of pearls on a broken thread
less valued for what they are
than what once (long ago) they meant.

Poetry Thursday: Interview with a Poet

In Bernadette Hall's book, "The Ponies", I came across a poem with the following lines:

Did I tell you that since her death the only people
I can bear to read are the beautiful Czechs?

It must be their weight and their sardonic wit

This led me to seek out the Czechs. I am currently reading a book of poems by Miroslav Holub, "Notes of a Clay Pigeon". In it I found the following poem. This is not quite what Dana and Liz had in mind, no doubt, when they asked us to write a letter to a poet, but it seemed similar to me. I had plans originally to write a poem of my own on the theme, but I have been busy with the daily prompts for NaPoWriMo. So if you would like to read some of my own poetry (rough first drafts anyway - one a day is hard), just check out my other daily posts.

Interview with a Poet

You are a poet? Yes, I am.
How do you know?
I have written a poem.
When you wrote the poem, it means you were a poet. But now?
I shall write another poem some day.
Then you may again be a poet. But how will you know that it
really is a poem?
It will be just like the last one.

In that case it will certainly not be a poem. A poem exists
only once - it cannot be the same again.
I mean it will be just as good.

But you cannot mean that. The goodness of a poem exists only
once and does not depend on you but on circumstances.
I imagine the circumstances will be the same.

If that is your opinion, you never were a poet and never will
be. Why then do you think you are a poet?
Well, I really don't know...
But who are you?

- Miroslav Holub

More Poetry Thursday here

NaPoWriMo #3

The fourth NaPoWriMo prompt at Poetry Thursday: yield

Yield

The rock to the water
the cement to the grass
the shell to the insistent beak
the carcass to the maggott
the bridge to the storm

the rose to the aphid
the aphid to the ladybug
the ladybug to the first frost of autumn
the frost to the noon sun
everything yields

if it were not so
we should all be stopped
in a single frame of a movie,
so let us sit a while and listen,
let us yield
to the soft flow of the air
filling our lungs, to our bodies
turning to dust,
to the approaching dark.

NaPoWriMo #2

From the third prompt at Poetry Thursday : perennial

Perennial

You have planted a garden
of bitter herbs, of everything
that has spines and thorns.

You are bored even with the colours
of your happiness. You want flowers
of different hues. You are moving

to another part of town. Do not expect
things to be different there. You carry
your seeds with you: in your hair,

under your fingernails, caught in the folds
of your desires. With every exhalation
they shower onto the earth.

NaPoWriMo #1

I'm running a little late to get started on this. And what I thought was going to work out while I was driving in my car has fled my brain now that I've found time to sit with a pen and paper. The idea of NaPoWriMo is to write a poem a day during April - I feel that if I can write thirty poems, whether one a day, or none some days with a catch-up at the weekends, that will be good enough for me. And that establishing a regular writing habit will be far more valuable than actually producing something I like.

Here is the first very rough draft based on the second of the daily prompts at Poetry Thursday : "spiral"

A Spiral is the Shortest Distance Between Two Points

How efficient you have become, rising
in the dark and leaving early to avoid
traffic. You have searched out
the most direct route, studied intersections
to find the easiest turns. All day
you will add numbers, balance the books.
You have calculated the easiest curve
around the park. The joggers are always there,
but this is unexpected, beyond the trees
and their long shadows, a flock of white gulls
wheeling and looping in the early light.

Take a Walk With Me #5

Last Saturday, I took a long walk. This Saturday, I'm being domestic. It's a beautiful warm autumn day. I have two loads of laundry on the line. I'm getting my exercise by sweeping and mopping floors, vacuuming and generally tidying up. My pedometer broke months ago, but I'd guarantee that I've walked enough steps to get in my daily quote of exercise, and then some more. I'm enjoying little things. Like my new electric jug. It replaces the one given to us for a wedding present. That one was a fine long-lasting stainless steel jug, but it was built in the days before they came with a built-in shut off. Every so often I'd leave the room for a minute while it was boiling and forget to come back for a while - which resulted in a burnt-out element. This time I planned to replace the element, but I found that it would cost as much as a new jug. Furthermore the plug was no longer legal, so should the cord need replacing I wouldn't be able to. The new jugs come all in one. If the element goes, there's nothing to do but throw it out. I have deep reservations about this from an environmental point of view, but at least the jug turns itself off when it comes to the boil. Which means I am far less likely to return to a steam-filled kitchen and a burnt-out element.

Oh, and then there is drinking coffee from my favourite mug from Happy Hens.

In the meantime, here are more photos of last week's walk.

After High St, I arrived at Cathedral Square which is the centre of the city. There is an area in the city which is promoted as the "Cultural Precinct". It includes the cathedral, library, museum, art galleries and the historic tram which takes a tourist route around the central city. All these attractions were having an open day last Saturday, which was one of the reasons I went into the city. Of course, by the time I had got there I was getting tired! I estimate it would have been about a one hour walk, but I kept stopping to take photos and browse in shops, so I was on my feet for more than three hours.

This is the spire of the Anglican Cathedral. Usually they charge five dollars to climb the tower steps - there is a fantastic view from the top. Last Saturday it was free. I had planned to make the climb, but by the time I got there I looked up, listened to my feet talking to me, and decided "been there, done that".



The various attractions of the Cultural Precinct were marked for the day by these huge red inflated balls. I was about to take a photo when the young girl came up to give it a push. (She did move it a few feet, though it was rather wisely tethered by a chain).



Often at the weekend there is a game of chess going on in the Square using these huge chess pieces.



Almost at the end of my walk now - I will post the final few tomorrow and then I will have to think of something else to post about!

Poetry Thursday: More Image Inspired Poetry

I seem to have jumped the gun on the Poetry Thursday prompt. Last week we were asked to write poems inspired by images, and I posted a poem inspired by a Picasso painting. This week we were asked to take it one step further, and try a poem based on a painting - perhaps specifically from the point of view of the model or the painter - what were they thinking? Since that's what I did last week, this week I am posting the poem that was my alternate choice for last week's prompt.

I am happy to say that I was talking to the poetry editor of Takahe magazine at a poetry reading last night, and asked him about his definition of "previously unpublished". I've now established that it's OK for me to submit poems that have been on my blog. Some journals won't accept them. Since Takahe is the only literary journal that has ever published my poems, I now know I can post my poems here and still have at least one possible place to submit them. (Being on the staff probably helps - I do the accounts).

This poem was inspired by a number of things I saw in one particular week. I thought the fence photo showed the name of the fence strainers, but when I checked it didn't show up. Strainrite is the brand name.



(Poem taken down for publication reasons)

Take a Walk With Me #4

A few years back our esteemed City Council decided to instal a sculpture to honour Queen Elizabeth II. This sculpture is placed on the pavement just outside Alice's, the video store I referred to in the previous post. What did they choose? Three bronze corgis. It was not a decision that was without controversy. I think they are quite fun, except that they do tend to get in the way of pedestrians.




On the opposite side of the road I was intrigued by the contrast of the bright orange bin and graffitti covered concrete wall at the back of the alley, against the rather upmarket shoe shop next to it. (I'm thinking I might go back and experiment with the angle on this one).



A small correction: of course, as I should have seen if I had looked at the photo, the phrase "Do what inspires you" doesn't advertise the CPIT. It is actually a slogan of NatColl which is a private tertiary institution teaching subjects such as graphic design, web design, digital imaging etc. (It's still a good slogan!)

Take a Walk With Me #3

At the end of yesterday's post I was heading north, on the eastern fringes of the city. I then turned off that street onto High Street. Christchurch is laid out on a north-south and east-west grid of streets, mostly, but High Street cuts across on a diagonal. So in these photos I am headed north-west into the city centre.

High Street has quite a quirky mix of shops - some slightly seedy and others less so. There are antique shops, second-hand record stores, stores selling designer fashions, others selling herbal products, crystals and incense.



I was rather taken by the mint green motor scooter propped up against this bollard (is that the right word for it?). Behind it was a small cafe with tables and chairs on the pavement. The posters at the top advertise CPIT (seen in my previous post) and read "Do What Inspires You".



Charlie Chaplin stands outside a video store called "Alice in Videoland" or "Alice's" for short. Alice's is Christchurch's best store for alternative and foreign videos and DVDs although they do have mainstream movies as well.

Take a Walk With Me #2

These shipping containers were stacked by the railway tracks. I thought the blocks of colour looked rather quilt-like.



Across the railway overbridge and into the fringes of the city area. This is the Roman Catholic Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament.




Looking back towards the hills in the direction I had come from. A rather ordinary street scene, except that I loved the way the blue building and the blue car echoed and intensified the blue of the sky. The blue building is part of the CPIT (Christchurch Polytechnic Institute of Technology).

Take a Walk With Me...

My plan was to get up early this morning, go for my usual walk up the hill, then take my daughter shopping (she had a step ladder to pick up for her new house which is a bit awkward on the bus, and she doesn't drive).
When I woke, however, I found the hills were shrouded in mist. So I read the Saturday papers until she arrived. Later, when the mist had burned off, I thought about my walk. But I also wanted to go into the city centre for various reasons. So, I thought instead of driving into town, driving home, then driving to the hills for my walk, I would just walk into the city instead.

I took a great many photographs. So I decided to spread them out over a number of posts - if you care to come back later in the week, you get to walk with me all week :)

I started off in the suburbs of course, and went past this park where a game of late summer/early autumn cricket was taking place:



I'm not really into cricket, but I did love the crisp green and white, bathed in sunlight.

It's a New Zealand Thing...

I snapped this photo of the latest Tui billboard on the way to work this morning. Can you tell what it is advertising? This is a long-running ad campaign in which the left hand side of the billboard changes (it has a black background, but the photo has lightened it and picked up the fact that the previous lettering has been painted over). The right hand side is always the same - "yeah, right".

This phrase has come to represent Tui so much, that road signs pointing to their headquarters apparently read "Tui. Yeah, left".

Since I feature poetry on my blog regularly, I was rather taken by this version.

Poetry Thursday: Images

This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday was to be inspired by an image.
Once again, I've been pretty busy (looking forward to a break at Easter), so I pulled a poem out of my files. This poem was inspired by a Picasso painting which you can find here (you will need to scroll down the page).

Seated Woman with Fish Hat

after Picasso

I'm sitting here with a turbot on my head
This is ridiculous
I hope it's finished soon
Even with the lemon on top,
This fish is starting to stink.
That fellow - Pablo something-or-other -
Calls himself an artist - Hah!
He's given me two eyes on the same side of my face
Like a flounder
Doesn't know a front view from a profile
If he's an artist, I'll eat my hat

More image-inspired poetry here