NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Five

Looking Back

When in the chronicle of wasted time

you find my name among past lovers

and think about those open arms

and the empty hearts,

do you best to blame every ill we wrought

on me and me alone.

I will take all those words

and keep them closer than I ever could you.

I’ve been absent for a few days so I’m playing catch up with the NaPoWriMo Prompts. Day Twenty-Five challenged us to write a poem that started with a line from another poem so I’ve taken the first line of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 106 ‘When in the chronicle of wasted time’.

 

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Four

Your Mother

Your mother was antediluvian.

Woollen skirts and flat soled shoes.

She burnt the dresses deemed to short

when the sun was low enough

that the neighbours wouldn’t see the smoke.

She spoke to you with asperity,

and I noticed when sleepovers

became weekends,

and then weeks.

Only to be punctured

by cantankerous phones calls

demanding locations.

The first time you swore,

she turned white.

It wasn’t really the first time,

but she’d never heard you before

and the fuck stabbed her

like all the little hair pins

she used to hold herself together.

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Three

So today it is 400 years since Shakespeare’s death. I absolutely adore Shakespeare and have done for a long while.

One of the first dates that the fiancée and I went on was to watch a live screening of Macbeth, directed by and staring Sir  Kenneth Branagh. It was utterly brilliant and the setting they used, a de-consecrated church, really added to the production. I also have the 2015 film version of Macbeath downstairs which I’ve been trying to make time to watch. I think today would probably be a good day for it.

For today’s NaPoWriMo prompt, we have been challenge to write a sonnet. An apt prompt in view of the significance of the day. I have tried writing a sonnet before and it’s not a form that I find very easy. As someone who doesn’t tend to use rhyme much I feel like too much of my focus goes on getting the structure right instead of the poem.

But, I have managed all of the other NaPoWriMo prompts and it is Shakespeare’s birthday. So, I’m going to set the poor man rolling in his grave, with my attempt at a Shakespearian sonnet.

Ten Past Midday – A Sonnet

The hallway clock just stuck ten past midday

yet here I lie still in sheets tossed and creased

wondering what words might have made you stay

and what other women sleeps with my beast.

In your pillow I can still see the shape

of your cheekbone resting against cotton,

eyelashes dark on skin and mouth agape

unaware I was to be forgotten.

Without the heat of you this air feels cold

and I am left reaching for ghosts to hold.

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Two

Earth

At school I learnt how tectonic plates moved.

Their sliding, shifting, wanderings

always there beneath the earth’s skin.

I learnt how the Amazon forest

was considered the lungs of the planet,

and watched presenters with sweat slicked skin

meandering in small wooden boats

along the forest’s main, arterial vein.

I learnt that I was part of a predator,

its jaws already closed around the world,

teeth sunk into flesh.

I learnt that I would be needed to do my part

and watched as change came slowly,

creeping along, stuttering and stalling,

and I hoped that all those little parts,

would be enough.


 

I’m playing catch up a little today. Yesterday’s prompt for NaPoWriMo was to write a poem in honour of Earth Day. Funny enough, Earth is also today’s daily prompt for WordPress so I don’t feel so bad about being late since I’ve been able to combine the two prompts in this poem.

 

 

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-One

Day Twenty-One of NaPoWriMo, write a poem around a minor character from a fairy tale. I wasn’t sure what to do with this prompt but then the idea for the following poem struck and I decided to try and write that. I’ve noticed I use repetition quite a lot in my poems so I’m going to try and avoid it for the next few I think.

Also! Today is National Poem In Your Pocket Day!

The Witch’s Gardener

The witch’s gardener was too old to remember his name.

He sat by the turnips,

stamped his feet against the dirt

and tried to rattle the soil from the cracks in his boots.

That was about all he was good for these days.

When the man came over the wall,

searching for rampion,

he stayed where he was,

hunched a little further into his collar

and let his body melt into the clutter by the potting shed.

Became one with the terracotta, the twine and the mulch.

When the witch asked about a thief

he shrugged.

Blamed ‘rabbits perhaps?’

more mutter than question.

He didn’t see the man come back,

he didn’t hear the witch’s deal,

he didn’t see the stolen child.

He let his body melt into the clutter by the potting shed

and when it was quieter,

let himself whistle

as he tended the veg.

The witch’s garden was too old to remember his name.

There was no one to tell it to anyway.