What is your favorite type of weather?
My favourite type of what?
My favourite type of feather?? Eh??
Sorry, could you speak up, the wind is howling and my hair is blowing around my face, air getting caught up in my clothes, in my breath, tickling my legs, getting under my wings. I could almost take off. Don’t you just love that?
.
not a haiku
half-waist magic sun
sinks past thighs shivers timbers
rumbles up spine down
.
haiku
walk with a swagger
one ankle over other
hips in hippy~ness
!
haiku
lost in the rhythm
arms tracing long ellipses
pulling something close
.
haiku
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i dream i’m drowning
it’s an old one
but it no longer owns me
now i’ve come home to avalon
.
thoughts of rain awake me
the lady comes again for me
from across the levels blurred in
a banging of silver bangles
a breathing womb of grass and apples
a trembling of limbs still stuck in the suck
of muck-moist land that’s been drained for ages
until it rains; and it rains
.
she is ages older than me, yet young
she speaks an older tongue, voice
fizzy with dialects of scrumpy cider and musky crusts of ancient cheddar
echoes dance from dank chalk caves
wassail wassail wassail
and so it was
and so it is
.
i dream her lovely face
etched upon a sorrow of cloud
heavy as half a pound of moonlight
light as a fragrance of lemoncakes
i dream her silken garments
and steely armaments
reflected in the ancient lakes of this summer land
do you see me, she rasps
swirling me in underwater loves
she drags me to her breast where i rest
kisses the stone of my bones
unheeding of the summons of Merlin
defiantly ungifting trinkets to the kings
the legend of the lady
awaits a feminist twist
shhhh, she whispers, coming
and i dream myself asleep
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not a haiku
.
ps
I moved the the isle of ancient avalon last year. Do you know where that is? Quite simply, Somerset in the West Country of the UK, near Glastonbury. I felt a pull to come here and so here am i. Still dreaming…
NaPoWriMo day 25
prompt is based on the aisling, a poetic form that developed in Ireland. An aisling recounts a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land or country on/in which the poet lives, and who speaks to the poet about it. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which you live. Perhaps she will be the Madonna of the Traffic Lights, or the Mysterious Spirit of Bus Stops. Or maybe you will be addressed by the Lost Lady of the Stony Coves. Whatever form your dream-visitor takes, happy writing!
Give me —
five fists full of summer grass
without uprooting anything at all
Offer me —
six swift licks of your herby skies
including denuded scented rainflies
Pick the —
arch of your mouth out of the earth
pulling up a brace of this yellow birds —
you know are my favourite treats
give them a sprinkle of rose water and thyme twists to enliven them
Release breezes —
of them to me, sweetness
Christen my skin
with unbearable brightness
i can bear
and i shall
climb the concrete of your seven towers
my limbs shedding strips of your shaggy shapes
that coat you like smoke
as i go
to kiss the gossamer of your scars
as i bestow
upon you the broths of my belly
cover you in my darkest berries
catch you falling in
the parachute of my hair
.
not a haiku
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NaPoWriMo prompt April 19:-
write a poem that starts with a command. It could be as uncomplicated as “Look,” as plaintive as “Come back,” or as silly as “Don’t you even think about putting that hot sauce in your hair.” Whatever command you choose, I hope you have fun ordering your readers around.
pale-green tea in a delicate cup
unceremonious —
koi in a pond swimming up
miniscule coal glowing in foaming
waterfall in my infinite chest
autumnal tumble spring expressed
palms pressed, lips open
to happiness —
to all things beckoning
recognising every small thing as tasting
fortuitous —
that stuff of thankfulness
.
oh, that soft embrace from — you know who
you are — rhymes of mint thyme coriander sage i
planted in a riot of wild flowers and trees i
will never see the shade of
oh, and that kiss — you know who
you are — amber and a thousand stars
stammer
in a pond swimming in
your mouth making the sound of
my name secure
murmur
oh, and that caress — you know who
you are — a sacrament of butterflies, thunder
rising on a summer breeze — a whole summer
lain in front of us to pray in
cascades made of holy gifts sipped to my infinite limbs
in the pond swimming around
winter hours shining in burnt orange glints
oh, and that gaze — you know who
you are — tiny tremors that become exquisite
shivers on a fresh blanched page
oh, and that hand in mine — you know who
you are —
oh,
you are
in
bubble-wrap pops
copper-blue eggs
nut-brown arms
cornflower silks
twitterings of little tits
snatches of salt-sharp winds
silver pepper-pot twists
dapples of yellow apples
white-linen billows
black-chocolate pebbles
thick-cream envelopes
effervescent-cobalt soaps
ecetera eceteras
sent to my infinite heart
insistent persistent gift
oh, joy — you know who
you are
.
not a haiku
.
NaPoWriMo day 13.-
….in honour of the potential luckiness of the number 13, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that, like the example poem here, joyfully states that “Everything is Going to Be Amazing.” Sometimes, good fortune can seem impossibly distant, but even if you can’t drum up the enthusiasm to write yourself a riotous pep-talk, perhaps you can muse on the possibility of good things coming down the track. As they say, “the sun will come up tomorrow,” and if nothing else, this world offers us the persistent possibility of surprise.
.
like a river i hold close in my arms, my body
your run through me — a quiver
of arrows and slings stroke my limbs, my mind
like stars plucked for your eyes to startle me
a name stammered and chimed — a sound
surrounds — a kind of grace escapes
.
i’ve lain down in moonlit thoughts of you
awoke to the sun of your skin and fingers
taunting the morning with stolen scents —
of your breath as breakfast, love
of murmurs of bees stirring my hair
a dapple of flowers gathering
over a slither of summer heather
over darkened hills, a moan, a chill
a gasp of lemon-dazzle glints blackening
the shiny stones of you blinding
me to other
worlds
other landscapes
other loves
drowned out
.
this is my sorrow, my secret, my dove
the rain in my mouth announces it
no other
hears it
as happiness
swallows
.
not a haiku
.
NapoWriMo day 10 :- write a love poem
Attempted Glosa ( see below )
.
cassiopeia tree-heads nod from your skies
to mine though cloud divides muted eyes
i blink through sheaves of sand-gulls screeching
‘criss ink-stained papers, tears leeching
an unknown alphabet-net of dumb faces
i’m hung from tooth and skeins of white spaces
indentations where my head has lain
inventing fabrics of your pillow in vain
no matter, no stuff where dreams are hooked
i go to bed, as you are getting up
.
momentary glitch flashes ‘tween lashes
freckles of luminous liquid silences
i rise from these crumpled sheets
still littered with fragile sighs replete
in bellies unmet, limbs hung with longing
a wood-burner bright in my breast, sunset songings
in dull light, my white night dress soaked
in unspoke couplets, threads drift afloat
on twigs rigged with cloud-down as you curl
aziz, on the other side of the world
.
water over stones over stretched
connects the dots of lights over ledges
eastwards ascendant scents falling
into premonitions of your gift-intentions
seared on darknesses, stitched in tocsins
i loosen my dream-throat to catch at
from whence you are, lost, dust and ash
notes acriss my midnight coverlet where
aziz, you have scattered the stars
.
you go about your day vertically
i go about my night horizontally
wallow-wandering, thought of by me
you think as i think and dream muddily
plucking unstrung pearls you cast emergent
from whence you’ve sent as sacréments
glistening on pregnant sleeping lips
awake, i drink them in intrinsic sips
your water voice falls wild, aziz
towards me here, like seeds
.
.
n.b
tocsin: single long note or alarm bell
aziz: beloved
.
My lines are chosen from a poem by Carol Ann Duffy
.
World
.
I go to bed, as you are getting up
in the other side of the world
You have scattered the stars
toward me here, like seeds
.
napowrimo.net
NaPoWriMo day 3 : This one is a bit complex, so I saved it for a Sunday. It’s a Spanish form called a “glosa” – literally a poem that glosses, or explains, or in some way responds to another poem. The idea is to take a quatrain from a poem that you like, and then write a four-stanza poem that explains or responds to each line of the quatrain, with each of the quatrain’s four lines in turn forming the last line of each stanza. Traditionally, each stanza has ten lines, but don’t feel obligated to hold yourself to that! Here’s a nice summary of the glosa form to help you get started.
limbs beds glass hearts bread
and wings ; things i have broken ;
also, promises
.
haiku
barbaraturneywielandpoetess 