05-07-2023, 03:14 AM
Thanks River and co for running this, I haven't written much in a long time (I doubt I wrote 30 poems in the previous two years) and it's good to get back in to it. Having a goal of writing 30 poems in 30 days makes it a lot less painful to write stuff I don't think is any good - and eventually you will find some gold.
Here's some poems I enjoyed - there are a bunch of others as well.
NAPM 13 Prompt: write a poem inspired by edges
RiverNotch
Those who have the luxury
to claim they live on the edge
are still within the confines
of bourgeois fantasy:
try climbing down a cesspit
still in operation
without any equipment,
with your arms and legs
full of sores and bites,
to try and clean it out,
to buy something to eat
after an empty week. This stanza and the previous two are perfect - I really like beginning an idea with 'try'. That is something I think I will steal and use myself going forward. It's a good jumping off point for a poetic image as it puts you in the middle of the action - and here River follows it up beautifully with some dank imagery and feeling.
At that point, some would claim
they were not even living.
---
NAPM 9 Prompt: Gold.
CRNDLSM
Golden brown garlic butter crust
250 degrees out of the oven
But the tongue doesn't care.
The brain doesn't care this cost
A quarter of the days income.
That a doctor's visits overdue
Or that the engine light turned on.
The emotional rescue is cheaper
than therapy, and some people
can seriously mass produce it.
---
NAPM 6 Prompt: The euphoria of doing something for the first time.
Quixilated
From this moment on, this is the only thing I ever want to do.
It was lightening crackling through my brain, like chemicals prickling through my veins. It was the feeling of standing at the bow of a ship as it races full sail into the wind.
It was like finding a secret door that leads to a mysterious passage in a crumbling castle. It felt like a shadowy ancient forest full of trees that sometimes seem to have faces and sometimes don’t where everything smells of moss and petrichor and leaf-green sunlight flickers on the forest floor like candlelight.
It was that feeling you get as a child where you suddenly know that you are a child and desperately wish to stop time and place in your pocket the ability to wonder at the magic of butterflies.
It was like staring at the full moon on a warm summer night and catching the scent of roses and lilac on the slightest breeze.
It was like walking barefoot along a familiar cool-earth path that ends at a friendly door where a wise old woman waits to send you on a magical adventure.
It was a portal, a door, an escape hatch. It was air.
I fell into a book when I was eight years old,
and I’ve been chasing stories ever since.
Here's some poems I enjoyed - there are a bunch of others as well.
NAPM 13 Prompt: write a poem inspired by edges
RiverNotch
Those who have the luxury
to claim they live on the edge
are still within the confines
of bourgeois fantasy:
try climbing down a cesspit
still in operation
without any equipment,
with your arms and legs
full of sores and bites,
to try and clean it out,
to buy something to eat
after an empty week. This stanza and the previous two are perfect - I really like beginning an idea with 'try'. That is something I think I will steal and use myself going forward. It's a good jumping off point for a poetic image as it puts you in the middle of the action - and here River follows it up beautifully with some dank imagery and feeling.
At that point, some would claim
they were not even living.
---
NAPM 9 Prompt: Gold.
CRNDLSM
Golden brown garlic butter crust
250 degrees out of the oven
But the tongue doesn't care.
The brain doesn't care this cost
A quarter of the days income.
That a doctor's visits overdue
Or that the engine light turned on.
The emotional rescue is cheaper
than therapy, and some people
can seriously mass produce it.
---
NAPM 6 Prompt: The euphoria of doing something for the first time.
Quixilated
From this moment on, this is the only thing I ever want to do.
It was lightening crackling through my brain, like chemicals prickling through my veins. It was the feeling of standing at the bow of a ship as it races full sail into the wind.
It was like finding a secret door that leads to a mysterious passage in a crumbling castle. It felt like a shadowy ancient forest full of trees that sometimes seem to have faces and sometimes don’t where everything smells of moss and petrichor and leaf-green sunlight flickers on the forest floor like candlelight.
It was that feeling you get as a child where you suddenly know that you are a child and desperately wish to stop time and place in your pocket the ability to wonder at the magic of butterflies.
It was like staring at the full moon on a warm summer night and catching the scent of roses and lilac on the slightest breeze.
It was like walking barefoot along a familiar cool-earth path that ends at a friendly door where a wise old woman waits to send you on a magical adventure.
It was a portal, a door, an escape hatch. It was air.
I fell into a book when I was eight years old,
and I’ve been chasing stories ever since.