#napowrimo day 29
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consider what the maggot wants
It is spring again
and the snow has turned green
and the mouse of your heart
with its long red tail
longs to scurry out your chest
to eat crumbs of star,
and, if not the moon,
then your delicious head-cheese brain.
.
And you are a cat
carcass, lily petals
between your teeth,
maggots in your death-fragrant
esophagus,
and you feel like such a fool.
.
You wanted something beautiful,
and the want made you ugly,
and now you are nothing but worms
squirming about your skeleton.
.
The mouse, still in the darkness of your body,
has no idea anything went wrong.
It’s still thinking of bouquets
and charcuterie boards and love
when you, the maggot, slip through its eye.
#poets on tumblr#spilled ink#original writing#napowrimo#napowrimo22#napowrimo 2022#day 29#animal death#maggots
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Assignation with Apples
Nature’s fruits and their aromas
are laden with sweet memories:
a windfall of sparkling baubles
or a bird café of dulcet squabbles
over worms in russet orbs that end
as feasts for our feathered friends.
Each bite of your acidic sweetness
arouses a harvest of ripe blushes
in an orchard under cover of night.
‘We are sweet temptation in moonlight,’
your apple breath whispers again,
and so we linger…
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Source: Found Poetry from Page 29 of The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson.
#thepoeming#shirleyjackson#hauntingofhillhousepoems#found poetry#30 poems in 30 days#napowrimo
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NaPoWriMo 2023 - Day 29
If I were a blank canvas
a stranger to your touch
where would you begin?
Where would your strokes land,
what colors would you choose
to paint me?
I close my eyes,
feel your hands do their work,
I flow with the rhythm
of your creation.
You illuminate every part of me
as you see me in a new light,
and when you are finished,
you sit back and marvel at the sight.
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NaPoWriMo Day 29: Finding Joy
Image shows a new bud on a fir tree with spiralling pale green features similar to a romanesco cauliflower. Image copyright Mabh Savage 2023.
My God
You take my breath away
Look at all this love
You found me
Look at all this Joy
I found
In your shadow
In your light
The chaos they accuse you of
Just cos it follows
In thy wake
Does not means
You’re the cause
You bring me…
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#GloPoWriMo#Lokean#Loki#magic#mental health#napowrimo#NaPoWriMo 2023#pagan#poem#poems#Poet#poetry#poets#religion#spirituality#Witchcraft#writing
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NaPoWriMo 2023 Day 29
In spring, bear visits. • bungee cords were too strong but • the lid bent in half.
#bear#cloudscape#dothework#haiku#landscape#NaPoWriMo#poetry#process#spring#watercolor#watercolor painting
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Poetry Month Challenges Day 29: Yearning and Yield
Poetry Month Challenges Day 29: Yearning and Yield #poetry #photography #abstractart #NaPoWriMo #PAD #AtoZChallenge
Yield in Yearning by Maria L. Berg 2023
Yearning and Yield
I still absolutely love the image I made for yearning last year. Much of my current yearning—strong, persistent craving or desire accompanied by tenderness or sadness for something unattainable or distant—to create thought-provoking images that express the contradictory nature of life, began last year during the A to Z challenge with my…
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#A to Z challenge#abstract nouns#abstractions#Blogging A to Z#contradictory abstract nouns#GloPoWriMo#NaPoWriMo#new poem#PAD Challenge#poetry prompts
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Napowrimo Day 29
Official Prompt:
Start by reading Alberto Rios’s poem “Perfect for Any Occasion.” Now, write your own two-part poem that focuses on a food or type of meal. At some point in the poem, describe the food or meal as if it were a specific kind of person. Give the food/meal at least one line of spoken dialogue.
My Prompt:
I do enough of prompts with sight but never enough with sound so here we go. Pretty simple, I want you to listen to a piece of music called “Fragrance of Dark Coffee” and just write based on that. It could be in the background of a scene of a prose poem, it could be what the music makes you feel!
Lucky Dip:
Dawn
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NaPoWriMo 2023 Day 29: Cake
#napowrimo2023 #birthdaycakes
A weird relationship between the cake and what you think about yourself
Today’s prompt is to write about a food or a type of meal. The poem should be of two parts and must have one line of spoken dialogue and also describe a specific type of person.
I.
Mixed the perfect amount of flour,
Oil, sugar, chocolate syrup
Baked for 120 minutes and then
Ting!
It's ready, the entire room smells of effort;
Baking a cake is how we show love.
Perfect ingredients
Mixed in…
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NaPoWriMo 2023: Day 29 ("I am the Laksa for you")
Day Twenty-Nine
Start by reading Alberto Rios’s poem “Perfect for Any Occasion.” Now, write your own two-part poem that focuses on a food or type of meal. At some point in the poem, describe the food or meal as if it were a specific kind of person. Give the food/meal at least one line of spoken dialogue.
I.
I can’t trust you,If you don’t like Laksa,Don’t get me wrong,I’m not saying that,I…
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NaPoWriMo National Poetry Writing Month Prompts for Days 25 to 30 - April 25- 30, 2023
“Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.” – Marianne Moore
In a moment your latest batch of prompts to inspire and challenge — but first:
This Saturday….independent bookstores begin their celebration. BookTree is Kirkland is part of this. Thank YOU for supporting indie bookstores near you!!!
The 2023 Independent Bookstore Day begins on April 29. This year once again…
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#Chris Jarmick#Jarmick#NaPoWriMo#National Poetry Month#Poem a day#poetry#poetry is everything#Writing#writing exercises#writing prompts
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Childhood in Monochrome
Loving grandparents were always there
to house me, feed me, teach me,
grandmother in charge of my care
while my parents struggled daily.
Now only a handful of monochrome
photographs remain as tattered ghosts
of the past, but my love of home,
stories, poems and music still cast
their light on the present.
They are forever present.
Kim M. Russell, 29th April 2022
It’s Friday, the penultimate…
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1519 -105
29/23
#23GloPoWriMo
Year 2023 Month April Day 23
Prompt Dated 23/4/23
Response No : 1
Poem No : 29
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Featured Poem :
Our featured participant for the day is Moment of November, which inverts Emily Dickinson’s “My Nosegays are for Captives” into a lovely verse that takes roses as its starting point.
My Roses are for Seekers
Napowrimo Day 22: Pick an Emily Dickinson poem and make it your own.
I chose “My Nosegays Are For Captives”
The original:
“My Nosegays Are For Captives”
My nosegays are for captives;
Dim, long-expectant eyes,
Fingers denied the plucking,
Patient till paradise,
To such, if they should whisper
Of morning and the moor,
They bear no other errand,
And I, no other prayer.
My poem:
My Roses are for Seekers
My roses are
For seekers, world-weary;
Eyes bloodshot and blurred,
Souls impatient and ready.
To such, if they
Would only shout out loud
Of expectant constellations
And refuse to cease the sound,
They would have no farther
To go.
I’d give of mine, with plenty
Left to show.
Poetry Resource :
Our daily resource is African Poems, a website devoted to presenting poetry from Africa, with an emphasis on making oral poetry available to a wide audience through recordings.
The city of Ògbómọ̀ṣọ́ is located within Oyo State, south-western Nigeria. It is close to a forest region that was an area of indigenous iron mining and smelting. The towns in this region are home to the largest concentration of Ògún festivals in Yorubaland, Ògún being the Yorùbá god of iron, blacksmithing, tool making, hunting and warfare. More poetry about Ògún can be found here.
The village was founded in the 17th century by hunters who formed a mutual assistance community, Egbe Alongo (Alongo Society), that also served as a military pact to defend against slave raiders. The village grew as refugees fleeing slavers, and later the Fulani Jihad in the 19th century, were offered shelter in Ògbómọ̀ṣọ́. The town established a reputation as a birthplace of warriors that continued through the 20th century when soldiers from the region became famous during the Nigerian–Biafran War.
One of the indigenous genres of music that originates in Ògbómọ̀ṣọ́ is Ìjálá Ọdẹ, a style of oral poetry mythically and ritually associated with the worship of Ògún. Ìjálá poetry was historically composed by hunters to describe the characteristics of the animals they hunt and to eulogise hunters and warriors at their funerals.
The poet Ògundáre Fóyánmu was born in Ògbómọ̀ṣọ́ in 1932 and died on the 13th October, 2012 at the age of 80. Introduced to oral poetry through his father, an Egúngún chanter, Fóyánmu became instrumental in the evolution of Ìjálá Ọdẹ in Ògbómọ̀ṣọ́.
This rendition by Ògundáre Fóyánmu was recorded on Saturday the 25th August 1978 and performed before the traditional ruler of Ògbómọ̀ṣọ́, Ọba Jimoh Oladunni Oyewumi, who is here referred to as Akano Oladunni.
Here, the poet lists the lineage of kings who ruled Ògbómọ̀ṣọ́ since its founding by the hunter Olabanjo Ogunlola Ogundiran and his wife Esuu in 1659. We hear Fóyánmu praising the successful battles of the early leaders, before moving on to celebrate the traders, musicians, farmers, soldiers and other indigenes of contemporary Ògbómọ̀ṣọ́.
The performance ends with Fóyánmu encouraging the citizens of Ògbómọ̀ṣọ́ to join the cooperative society, reflecting the mutual assistance pact made by the founders of the city in the 17th century.
My thanks to Adéjọkẹ́ Yéwándé Olúwájọbí for the translation that follows.
Ogbomosho
Akano Oladunni, (1)
always remember your progenitors in all your endeavours.
The king of Ogbomosho!
Because paying homage is important.
As the spirits of predecessors will on this note support the successors.
Ogunlola bears the name of the first king. (2)
Truly!
Soun Keeetan, the spirit of Laberinjo,
the greatly feathered peacock,
the highly-armoured warrior.
All these greetings belong to the First Soun!
The one who brings elephant to town.
The one who fights with all bravery.
The one who strikes in the battle like thunder.
The powerful one who is always daring.
The one who has armoury all over him.
The one for whom drums made from brass were massively beaten.
May you get home safely!
He will always support you as a father supports his child.
And Jogi Oro Apati who does not fear war at anytime. (3)
He challenges both the oracle and the idols.
Welcome!
He who does as he wishes.
All hail the king!
He will also support you.
And Ikumoyede Ajao, (4)
the one who possesses royal semen,
the endowed king of Bambi.
Welcome!
The king who had five wives,
each of them had one child for him,
and every of the child became king.
Oh Foyanmu, you are versed in history!
Ikumoyede was the husband of Agbo-in,
the daughter of Alaafin of the Old Oyo empire.
And she bore Toyeje, the fiery general. (5)
Ikumoyede was the husband of Balusoke Adubo.
Adubo was a native of Ajase-ipo town.
She was the mother of Oluwusi Aremu, (6)
the one who was slim and possessed long plaited beads.
Welcome!
Ikumoyede was the husband of Aina.
Truly!
She was the mother of Lawyer Gbadewuwon,
the envy of all royal men.
Ikumoyede was the husband of Asande,
a native of Irawo town.
Welcome!
Asande ogun was the mother of Idowu Ibolanta (7)
Welcome!
Ikumoyede was the husband of Ogunrun.
Ogunrun was a native of Agun town.
Bravo!
She was the mother of Akintunde,
the one who enjoyed eating snakes.
Ibikunle of Ibadan did not let us mourn.
As he always emerged with valour.
He was indeed a pride of the ancestors.
Oh Foyanmu, may the spirit of the king support you!
May he support you as a father supports the child.
Amen!
ETC
Prompt :
Finally, here’s our optional prompt for the day! Start off by reading Arvind Krishna Mehrotra’s “Lockdown Garden.”
*******
Lockdown Garden
BY ARVIND KRISHNA MEHROTRA
1
Close to each other,
socially undistanced,
the mulberry leaves,
uniformly green,
shall turn brown together.
It’s like a herd dying.
2
Firm to begin with,
the mud clod
could’ve injured you.
It crumbles in your hand.
3
In the heap of dead
leaves crinkly as
brown skins, those
breathing things
foraging around
the bamboo stand
are jungle babblers.
4
It was planted
all wrong, too
close to a wall,
under the mango
trees. There was
nowhere for it
to go except up
like a mast and
that’s where
it went, taking
its leaves with it—
long, tapering.
I never saw them
fall. It never
flowered, which
would’ve helped
me look it up in a
book of flowering
Indian trees. Now
I’ll never know
its name nor of
the bird singing
at evening
in the shrubbery.
5
She stood outside
the gate, a woman
my age, head covered
with flowery print,
a sickle in her hand.
Could she come
inside and cut
grass for her goats?
It was ankle high.
Her face was inches
from mine and I felt
her breath on my skin.
It’s after I’d turned
the corner that I heard
what she’d said.
6
The shingles unwalked on,
the doors bolted,
the squirrels back in their nests.
Under the moon a bird floats
and settles on a branch.
The sky is pale.
The leaves of the ironwood
when new every spring
are a deep pink.
The evening goes out like a flame.
We’ve seen different things.
It’s always been so.
Tell me, love, what you saw today.
*****
Source : Poetry 2020
*****
Now, try to write a poem of your own that has multiple numbered sections.
Attempt to have each section be in dialogue with the others, like a song where a different person sings each verse, giving a different point of view.
Set the poem in a specific place that you used to spend a lot of time in, but don’t spend time in anymore.
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Poem Title : THE CHAIR
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1
The chair, the desk,
the large rooms,
the cubicled sections
the long corridors
the colonnaded porticos
and the lawns
with formal borders
a crooked fir tree
graceful frangipani
bougainvillea and quisqualis
and the bridal creeper
trailing over
the boundary walls
I never really knew
how much the gardens
meant to me
and the vases of flowers
on the tables.
2.
Teatime was always the best of times
and of course it was always teatime
Well, after eleven o’clock, definitely
Bearers in white with red cummerbunds
and ornate turbans of red and white
with gold piping seen here and there
between the folds, and a stiff hoopoe’s crest
of starched white mulmul topping the confection
could be seen soundlessly floating up and down
the gleaming corridors of power with polished door of teak and mahogany opening on both sides
amidst the potted palms and aspidistras
bearing silver trays with silver teapots
( later steel ) and milkpots and sugarpots
spoons and strainers and starched damask napkins
with Brittania Marie Wafer Biscuits and trail mixes
of spicy salted vermicelli and roasted gram and pulses
at the very least ; at best piping hot samosas
plump with mashed spiced peas and potatoes
served with a dash of Kissan’s tomato sauce
which is in fact mostly made of pumpkin
and ice- cold rosogullas in their own syrup
or sugar- bombs of soft sticky hot gulabjamuns
served with fresh hot Darjeeling tea
O the tinkling of those spoons in those teacups
and the tiny clouds of steam rising like mini dragons
from each fine porcelain or bone-china tea-cup when tea was poured from the hot teapot pot
into each translucent cup, table brewed -
a soupçon of milk, and one sugar, please .
3.
The gossip was always hotter and spicier
than the snacks and the tea, especially
in the rooms of the departments of personnel
finance and cabinet coordination, especially
on Tuesday afternoons, when the Cabinet
usually met, and transfers and postings were decided :
you could see hacks from over a dozen newspapers
eager for slivers of news that even a passing peon
could drop, before the big feast of the post- cabinet
Press Conference, with pakoras and pineapple pastries
and ready- mixed tea from aluminium tea kettles
for official spokespersons, assistants, clerks,
and media persons. Four thirty to five , in the Secretariat Conference Hall
under the pink Clock Tower in the Old Secretariat.
4.
To sit for hours
in colour- blocked
salwar - kameez-
dupatta- jacket
poring over petitions
and yellowed pages
of the law books
and “ reporters “
of High Court
and Supreme Court
Judgements with
titles and years
etched on their
covers and spines
in gold on red black
or brown leather
sparring with lawyers
in their black coats
and gowns and stiff
starched white collars
bow ties and recording
evidence and citing
precedents and dictating
judgements in tones
sonorous to drowsy
stenographers…..
5.
Upstairs in the record room with the port- hole windows
records from a hundred fifty years ago were slowly
falling apart among the district gazetteers, and the clerks
and record- keepers wheezed and coughed
with asthma and tuberculosis, driving up the costs
of medical reimbursement.
6.
One day the marigold garlands and rose bouquets
came out in cartloads and speeches were delivered
framed and presented to a jolly good “ fellow”
and a farewell ride given on a car pulled by colleagues.
That night, a buffet dinner at a posh hotel.
Then silence, more or less.
7.
Cholai, the principal under- gardner,
brought home a bunch of handpicked flowers
on my birthday .
We had some tea and biscuits
and a pleasant chat in the verandah.
Birds sang to us - I , relaxed on my rattan recliner,
He , very proper, on a polished shisham chair.
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Poet : Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia
Poem 29/23 rd Day
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Stepping through my post-doc archive: Jan 2022
So January was when I decided I should probably keep track of the things I'd been working on, which, according to my wee bibliography-of-me is as follows for 2021 into Jan 2022 -
Aamli, P. (2021a). Working through climate grief: A poetic inquiry (unpublished doctoral dissertation). Hult Ashridge Executive Education. Also available under “supervised theses” at: https://www.drstevemarshall.com/writing
Aamli, P. (2021b). Lockdown [Poem]. Allegro Poetry Magazine, 26(March). https://www.allegropoetry.org/p/issue-26-march-2021.html
Aamli, P. (2021c, April 08). I come from [Poem]. Dissonance Magazine, (NaPoWriMo series). https://www.dissonancemagazine.co.uk/zine/i-come-from
Aamli, P. (2021d, April 25). Rage is the thing with wings [Poem]. NaPoWriMo (Day25, co-featured poem). Retrieved on April 25, 2021 from https://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-five-7/
Aamli, P. (2021e, May 31). Small talk [Poem]. Shot Glass Journal (online literary poetry magazine, focusing on short verse), 34 (May issue).
Aamli, P. (2021f, July). The midnight hush [Poem / finalist]. Twelve ‘o clock poetry competition: Anthology. Wingless Dreamer.
Aamli, P. (2021g). Spring equinox in Leeds [Poem]. Allegro (online literary poetry magazine), 27 (September).
Aamli, P. (2021h, August 31). Dawn boat [Haiku]. South Wales Evening Post: Haiku of the day (Jim Young, Ed.).
Aamli, P. (2021i). The postman’s park [Poem]. In Between The Lines 2021: An anthology of creative writing. City Lit.
Aamli, P. (2021j, October 08). Sunset [Poem] Paddler Press, 2 (“Roots & wings”). https://paddlerpress.ca/issues-trip-log/
Aamli, P. (2021k, October 08). Before lockdown, I used to walk to work [Poem /nominated for a Pushcart Prize, 2021] Paddler Press, 2 (“Roots & wings”). https://paddlerpress.ca/issues-trip-log/
Aamli, P. (2021l, October 08). VE fly-by as London unwinds out of lockdown[Poem] Paddler Press, 2 (“Roots & wings”). https://paddlerpress.ca/issues-trip-log/
Aamli, P. (2021m, October). Hope in mid-winter [Poem]. Decembré poetry competition: Anthology. Wingless Dreamer.
Aamli, P. (2021n, November). To my executors [Poem / finalist]. In M. Malamud, Ed., The art of death: Literary taxidermy competition 2021, p. 29. First Regulus Press.
Aamli, P. (2021o, November 28). Standing alone in the rain [Poem]. In The water episode (season 3, episode 10): Poetry on the theme of lakes, rain, the sea. Blue Door to the Cosmos. https://audioboom.com/posts/7987450-the-water-episode-poetry-on-the-theme-of-lakes-rain-the-sea-soft-spoken-poetry-to-hel
Aamli, P. (2021p, December 08). If nothing we do matters [Advent blog series, day 8]. EpicHR. https://epichr.co.uk/2021/12/08/adventblogs-if-nothing-we-do-matters/
Aamli, P. (2022a, January 01). Consider the foxglove [Poem]. The Tiger Moth Review 7, p. 63-64. https://www.thetigermothreview.com/issue-7
Aamli, P. (2022b, January 27). It does not say RSVP on the Statue of Liberty [Poem]. Freezeray Poetry, issue 21. http://www.freezeraypoetry.com/paula-aamli.html
And of all these pieces, I've decided to re-include Consider the Foxglove, which was published in Jan 2021 by Tiger Moth Review (with some small tweaks to make it easier to read) and subsequently included in my pamphlet, A Lockdown London Life...
CONSIDER THE FOXGLOVE
A Golden Shovel
My initial excitement at working there is
gone, obliterated by compromises. A
harsh critic of my life might define
this discomfort as envy, a failure to fine-
sse my way past the point that deline-
ates deciders from decided-abouts. Between
these two realms is a vast chasm and I a-
gree, younger me longed to live in clover
with the higher-ups. Now I understand,
even my own middling life looks like a
fantasy. Random chance was my friend.
Today, in mid-life, in central London, I stand
staring at the plants in our garden. There's
a foxglove exploding with purple bells, so a-
live. All week I have watched it unfurl its fine-
ery, slowly stretching from the leafine-
ss of its broad base, up towards the blue line
of the sky. In the brief beat between
glory and decay is this plant's reality.
Its whole point of being is to be, and
this is what I envy. Whilst I pretend
to be at peace, I have lost faith in the grand
unfurling of purpose through history. You-
th wants so much, strives so much and never
believes in age, death or failing. You know
that's how youth is supposed to be, still
certain of a place in the unfolding story. You-
th's future is a promise we should not breach
but our youth see an end approaching. The-
y know we will have to teach ourselves to stop
choking the ocean and uprooting the trees. If
the old story of repentance was ever true, it
is surely true today. Is there a way to was-
h our carbon sins away? That would be worth
the cost of conversion. Can we change the
course we have been setting? An up-hill
path, steepening the more we resist the climb.
I am encouraged by the rising clamour. There's
“boardroom chit-chat” about nature, perhaps a
sign of hope, whatever the motivation. Fine
if capitalism "saves the planet", if we confine
the level of pay-off flowing to the rich? Holine-
ss has always been a negotiation between
need and expectation. And still the foxglove
continues to unfurl, to make its brief stand,
stretching vainly to connect earth and sky. A
yearly ritual in which Nature happily waste
s energy from the sun on this brief burst of
life-becoming-compost. And tell me, at your
own end, will you account so well for your time?
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NaPoWriMo Day 29 Prompt - 'a kiss on the inside of a wrist' @brownhourpoetry #BHPNapo22 #napowrimo #napowrimo22 #nationalpoetrywritingmonth2022 #nationalpoetrywritingmonth https://www.instagram.com/p/Cc9ZTmcPbNn/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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