When the backboard drops they spill like water over a fall, woolly bodies frothing from the flight decks, feet upon each others’ backs. There is a boy behind the hurdles, already knee bent in anticipation, fingers spread for the catch. Outside, a woman is selling cauliflower. Holds the head of it like a newborn between the palms of her hands. A farmer rattles pounds in his fist, counts his luck, passed it on to the winning bid. In a corridor there is a circle of bowed heads and five pence jumps, till the circumference is a singular. A lone man is loading up, clicks the gates on what he brought, tries not to fumble the catch. Someone whispers at an absence, shakes a head at suspicion, does a math of miles inside their head. They wait to hear the hammer fall.
We were handed the chessboard without any instructions. Did not know Queen from Rook, or Bishop from Knight. We clustered our pieces on opposing corners, unaware that the aim was to take the other one out, to claim their colours as our own, capture the King. take a crown from the body only to reset the pieces and begin again. Instead we skimmed each other, slipped between the checkered tiles to the grey land beyond. I remember the first time you touched me, how the world shuddered as I fell. I learnt the meaning of captured, what it was to be conquered and still I came back to loose myself each time we played because defeat was so much better than anything else I could find. “write a poem that prominently features the idea of play”
I felt you climb inside me. Your fingers slid between the cracks, drove them wider, and you crawled into the darkness, to paw through all the clutter I’d hidden away in the shadows of myself. Now I carry you around like loose change, always rattling through my skull off beat and missing the tempo, so the ripples turn to rapids and I have nowhere to turn but you and all the other phantoms in my head, taking up room. So I smile, cheeks cracking like sugar work, sweetness with no substance. These are the only walls I know how to build. Playing catch up today. Got home from work yesterday and didn’t feel like writing so I’m using my lunch break to make up for it. Not using the prompt for the 5th either I’m afraid. Might give it a go at the weekend when there’s more time.
He kept his apologies in shoe boxes at the bottom of the wardrobe, where they stayed gathering dust until he’d pick a pair to wear out. Then he’d wear them until holes were worn through the soles and the fabric of them became crepe paper packing on unwanted gifts. They never matched his outfit, or suited the occasion, you could pick them out a mile off three shades too bright and a little too polished. I could never take him seriously when he came to my door wearing his best apologies and tried to explain to me how really, it was me who was wrong. Written For The Daily Prompt: Apology
Day Seventeen for NaPoWriMo and today’s optional prompt was to find the nearest specialised dictionary and take ten words to use in a poem. Apparently the only specialised dictionary I own is ‘500 Words You Should Know’ by Caroline Taggart. Using a random number generator I pulled out ten words which you can find the definitions to in the glossary below.They weren’t the easiest to cram together in a poem. An Eponymous Man I asked him how his day had been over coffee, I did not ask for him to delineate his life over three straight hours, until the room became crepuscular and I had heard all about his useless amanuensis. I learnt how in a time prelapsarian he apparently wasn’t so subfusc, his need for the material hadn’t been so voracious, and his tendency to be pejorative was minimal. He informed me that his job was e…so…teric. I nodded politely and smiled, not quite trusting my mouth to move or even open. ‘In his mind,’ I told my friend later, he’s eponymous to everyone’s story. …
In The Kitchen The window steams, until droplets run fat and thick in wandering lines to the peeling paint on the windowsill. Their slow bodies slurping into one another’s paths, growing, conjoining, until the puddle is there. The tulips now old, have lost their colour and hang limply, heads bowed and wilting, in the vase tainted green by the water inside, and slimed over with something I don’t care to name. Sunlight fragments through the glass. I’m still waiting for dawn. Make sure you check out the first of our poetic guest posts for the month by Muthri Raja! Until the 30th April, Writing and Works is playing host to poets from across WordPress, all here to explain why they think poetry is amazing and important. Want to join in? Email me at email@example.com
We, the fallen e. s i r You, autumn hurricane c a t c h me in tumble arms of coppered bronze with fists of pawing, sweeping gold… Turn me inside turn me out turn me all about. I decided to write a bit of a nonsense poem. It’s really difficult to remember how to spell catch when your writing each letter on a different line…
Had I know assembly was required, I might have hesitated with your heart. I might have taken it from you with softer hands and placed it down with thought for the fissures I somehow missed when my fingers ran its surface and pressed into its weak points seeking some greater entry into something more of you.
The living room was your first hunting ground. Like a lioness with belladonna in her eyes I watched you prowl these lands unsure if I was prey or pride. Pressed into every curve and line flesh so tight to planes I’d not thought to seek. You were something else entirely a fluidity of your presence stretched… Beyond this livingroom. Beyond us to a point where you were not mine but their’s. Everyones. Shade like a shadow I melted into the background turned to scenery a prop. I watched your prowl from the scrub.
How often have you woken a bolt in our bed. Eyes wide, lungs strangled fighting for breath, my watchman, my lover, my eyes in the dark, how is it that night now comes to bore holes in your heart? Once upon another life you say. You paced these streets, these city streets, let lanterns guide your way. But now we have no lanterns, and now you have no light, and all my watchman is, is afraid of the night.