he devoured me
in sections but he left
he devoured me
in sections but he left
bye weird leaf wicked
agitate of wind up high
bye unique creature
cleave to me apart
lament the lost reluctant
to arrive to next
i tried so hard to be
what i had to be ~ so did
he ~ we had some laughs
me like tree in forest ~ no-
one hears silent wails
SCHOOL FEEDING pt 1
The bell’s gone. We are wide-mouthed frogs, riveted like cracked open birds waiting for worms.
Stand in line. Wait your turn.
A boy’s socks fall down while standing upright. It’s my itchy thick tights that go south. My mouth waters. We inch forward.
Will there be custard? Mysterious pudding lurks beneath. Make no sudden moves.
Being served from the hatch where the dinner ladies skulk takes its toll. More than one child this term has lost control of a bladder.
You wonder, will there be bread rolls today or squishy buttered Wonderloaf. Bread’s the best bit.
I hate gravy i hate gravy i hate gravy i hate gravy i hate gravy. Lumpy
Big boys pull my pigtails. They pick their own scabs and eat them. Big boys laughs. What does this mean?
Hunger is constant, factually. Something pure in the strange world of the dinner hall. I am very small.
SCHOOL FEEDING pt 2
Change of continents entails change of lunch habits. It’s not even called dinner here.
Crack open a window, Let the heat out, matey. It won’t go. Lumpy
Hey you, pinkie, say sommat. ( pause for laughter) Are ya Pommie or sommat? Ya gotta be kiddin’.
Drones on. The teacher. The flies. The booming swells of air that’re as solid as the sweaty upper lips and arm pits of kids.
It’s clear I only remember summer dinners. They were perhaps the hottest. 1976 was the longest.
I’m shameless in my envy. Clots to the colour of thick meaty gravy.
How we stay friends when she gets her name scrawled on a greasy paper-bagged tuck-shop order, I’ll always wonder. She sinks her tiny teeth in. I get none. Hoarder
i must not swear. i must not swear i must not swear i must now swear
The smells of Balfour’s piespastiessausagerolls wafts in form the corridor. Enters the stifling classroom, bows, lift up out of the crates, breaks my heart, makes me levitate.
My package of sandwiches (fritz and sauce), sits limp, squashed, tepid at the bottom of my school bag. I hunt them out with foetid fingers when the bell goes off.
Released into the quadrangle, we squabble over frozen Farmer’s Union iced coffee. Vying for a lick, it is eaten granita stylie before my envious eyes and dried up lips.
Seagulls circle overhead, gawping, squarking, diving bins. My stomach gnaws.
April 9 2020
P-s Why won’t WordPress accept my formatting!!!??? aargh!
Day 9.- Today’s resource is Kirsten Kaschock’s chapbook, Windowboxing. Kaschock, a dancer as well as a poet, titles her poems using neologisms or portmanteaus, and each one proceeds as a series of essay-like sentences. The poems are interspersed with drawings, and some are even formatted in the shapes of boxes, forcing the reader to turn the book (or their head) and engage with the poems as they move through space.
Our prompt for the day (optional as always) is inspired by Kaschock’s use of space to organize her poems. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a “concrete” poem – a poem in which the lines and words are organized to take a shape that reflects in some way the theme of the poem. This might seem like a very modernist idea, but poets have been writing concrete poems since the 1600s! Your poem can take a simple shape, like a box or ball, or maybe you’ll have fun trying something more elaborate, like this poem in the shape of a Christmas tree.
hey ! brother !
can you tell me how to get to
that seedy street where everything’s a-ok?
can you sell me some of that
you know it, baby
little flakes of manna you wanna
lick up with a chaser of the milka
some kinda kinder, honey
i’m a bit disoriented by this, i’ll admit
this place looks familiar, but something’s different
in the air
it’s clearer out there
there’re big birds singing all yellow and feathery
no engine noises no dull roars no debris
i’m 3 shirts to the wind, 1001 nights away
from any open sesaming, hanging out to dry
flat carpeted, mate!
can you pin-point my location if i point at it?
wifi’s down, there’s no connection, just distance
looking up there’s nothing
no planes, no Supermans, no reds, whites or blues
i’m untethered by this, i’ll admit
to looking for signs on the ground
ears pressed to the hard splatts of gum
tacked to the pavement fag ends crumpled tickets, dirt
refuse collected as maps to the future of man
in the gutter
where the hell are ya?
under my feet?
listen, she yells
a waft of silence follows
i guess i’ll have to find my own way
in the aftermath of this
can i go out to play?
will there be milk and cookies after this, mom?
a sandwich or crisps
some for every brother?
a gentle hum comes
Day 2:-and asks you to write a poem about a specific place — a particular house or store or school or office.
bottle top skitters
see what i have done?
stubborn woman inside out
pursuits sparks lights up
even the sky bleeds ~
at the end ~ in the blood comes
sunsets moments rest