NaPM April 08 2016

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 


Topic 08: Write a poem inspired by a place you have lived or inspired by a place you have wanted to live.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[heslopian]

The Ice Palace

A great network of cloth and couch inside the sheer ice-walls,
cold, opaque, beyond the limits of interaction. This is my Hell.
(Hell need not be an evil place, my darling.
By Hell I mean Heaven, my Heaven,
one without camp little angels playing Jim Reeves tunes on harps.)

Anywhere a little bit claustrophobic would perform just as well, however;
a bedroom overlooking an alleyway
so I can lay awake at night in the warm and light
and think: I'm in here, cosy as the grave, and they're out there,
Death and the tramps having sex in the bins...

(Death, after all, is a bit of a pervert,
comin' over 'ere, takin' us by surprise, just like the bloody immig'ants...)
The Ice Palace is that place in my dreams where I imagine myself
while sitting in bars or at family functions,
pretending to be healthy, serene, and still fully human.

[just mercedes]

The house of woman is old and weathered,
its wooden walls set on the edge of the sands
above a spill of bright yellow lupins.
A woman stands in the doorway, sweeping
the sand of forgetting away from her feet.
Behind her, swathes of violets, dark blue,
their soft tide of perfume washing the air.
A white blossom flares in a very small sunbeam,
chimes and curtains shake out on the wind
and hands swift as sparrows tear at the bark
for the crimson secret that keeps breasts pure
as burning snow. The ghost of a crescent moon
holds nothing between its horns but the path
to the house of woman.



after Robin Hyde

[Todd]

Further Up, Further In


I tried to walk through the gleam
of the butcher’s knife,
past the cold necessity of murder.
My feet crunching through
the broken dishes
through a hundred years
of winter, past the lamp post,
to stand between the pieces
of the broken table,
release frosted breath
I didn’t know I held, and demand
death walk backwards.

[billy]

The Pennines.


As waves of rolling heather swamp the peaty moor,
purple headed stems whip and whisper to the north.

Waterfowl alight and skim on windy waters,
as rippled mirrors hold a thousand golden suns.

A Kitty Hawk that wheels on wing before its dives;
A shrieking shrew succumbs, a squeak or two then death.

There's life and death to rival one of Shakespeare's plays
on this moorland stage of reeds and austere crags

[cidermaid]

Very, very nice Billy
@ todd - Dam, not a single duff offering.  All equally impressive. (jealous much ).

[billy]

thanks AJ, it's getting harder to keep up

[RiverNotch]

Man, that's beautiful Billy. But now I feel sick with jealousy, thinking about them moors -- well, mostly how the scenery comes close in its own way to the scenery of the nature-walks here, but without the heat. But wow -- I mean, if it isn't so hot here right now, I'd be practically in the moors with that.

---

MEMORY RECLAIMED

a memory a film
viewed once, eventually excitement
loud action, hero
slaying dragon
or princess opening sex
drowned out, as always,
in favor of the little things

the children -- perhaps the sun
setting red in the horizon,
dramatic string section
hanging chords -- cut to night

red firelight
on the deep in contemplation face,
a young voice, his words in the quiet like
"should I heed? should I heed?"

and smells of sage on rafter, thickening
moss on wood, bed of furs
beginning to foul, sour wine --

my son my younger self, we heed now
sitting here, locked
in illusion
now let me enjoy my pipe

[bedeep]

Last Try for Home

Crawling toward home
I make it only
as far as the landing
where I see the Ark
near ready to embark

I drag my bloody knees
a few yards further and lift
a hand too weak to wave

and some kind soul
comes down the ramp
gathers me up and helps me board.

That old tale of two by two
was another story.
This time whoever gets this far
can go wherever
we're going. Oh

let it be the land
the dove finds
with olive groves
full grown and bearing.

This labor needs its birth,
this long travail, its earth
of fruit and freedom.

I sleep now
and will not wake
til landfall.

[billy]

great to see bedeep and everyone else sticking the course. don't forget to play catchup if you miss one

[bedeep]

This was more challenging than the previous ones for some reason. I should polish the first half of that but I'll do that another day.

*rubs hands together*

Next?

[Weeded]

Down this windy road of cracks and holes
and many pit stops is a run down home 
lush with smiles and holy stones thrown,
they say experience reaps,
but in here it sows 
superior thinks looking down is up
and no matter the path the road hits ruts
and nails of rust and bumps that jut,
any vehicle that crosses put
demons in their view
posing as great spirits
are stuck in their tomb
no matter the view
the plan goes askew
but whenever you ask,
they'll say it's you.

[cidermaid]

Home for me is a hill top view.
Mist filled valleys
and distant  minor mountains
divert my eyes from the M5 to linger,
searching for the school clock tower,
tucked behind the mauve mounds
of Malvern.

I don’t know how or why,
but each county has a unique tell;
a feel, a smell.  
It is that intangible
something that you miss.
A certain “homeness” sensation
that can never be sent in a care package,
like a favourite brand of tea.

My part of Dartmoor
is softer, more rounded.
The soil smells cleaner;
less earthy somehow.
Bluebells and dog roses
and a thousand other flowers
fill the spaces in between
my home hills and here
and after fifteen years
I think the view
from the top of the hill
looks right.


rough bones of a poem only - Found this a hard prompt.

[Keith]

Under the up and over door

We built the garage without cigarettes,
it still has the bruises.  
The fluorescent tube is blackened
but it coughs loud enough
to send spiders checking corners.
I twirl a finger on the worn down vice
It shudders through rust,
sets my teeth on edge.

I'm not sure what it is.
There’s a layer of dad on these walls,
concrete under the paint.
I shake a few old spray cans,
ball bearings ride the empty insides
motor bikes on the wall of death,
pilot goggles and a piss pot helmet.
There’s a layer of me too,
a scrawny bit dipped in grease
split fingered and blood blistered.

Its not about the smell either,
cooked engine oil and turpentine.
To look at it its nothing but relegated
MFI draws and cut down Formica work tops,
nails in jam jars and extra strong mint tins.

No, it’s not about any of that.
It’s about craftsmanship, taking care
the penciled scope and scaled up repair
the weight and balance, air and brush,
handmade projects, screwed
and bolted, glued and tacked,
a chiseled rose on gold leaf thorns.
All metal filings on my memories
that glint each time the door goes up.
Yes that’s it,
that's what I see when I'm able to look.

[Tracy Mitchell]

Wonderful, Keith.  There is a true note being struck.  "There’s a layer of dad on these walls" - I know exactly what you say.  There is gold in this mine.

[bedeep]

Keith that's really wonderful. Thank you for it.

[Weeded]

Damn Keith, that was amazing

[Leanne]

The Gold Coast

Salted sands of shining hue,
warm beneath the bronzing glow,
all tranquil is the shushing blue,
where dreams are born and left to grow –
among the gleaming ebb and flow
of smiles and splendid stories told
by those whose job it is to know:
the glitter city spreads its gold.

Add plastic glamour to the brew,
sit back and watch the polished show,
while parti-coloured troubles stew
inside the gilded portmanteau
that tourists carry when they go
back to their sordid lives and old
existence while, amid the woe,
the glitter city spreads its gold.

Beyond the aura bright, a few
avoid the lure of ethics low,
and from their mouths the Scriptures spew,
while at the mass of sin they throw
dire warnings, like the cawing crow;
stark right to moral breasts they hold,
yet in the seething undertow,
the glitter city spreads its gold.

In black and white, the to and fro
ensures the Coast is never cold –
so while the shallow breezes blow,
the glitter city spreads its gold.

[Tracy Mitchell]

Stunning, Leanne, and by that I mean stunningly good.

[Todd]

Leanne: A pleasure to actually read out loud. I loved the sonics.