# The Urban Poetry Challenge thread



## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 2, 2014)

Register your interest people:
Monthly challenge in which we write a poem based on (or inspired by) an agreed theme or topic or possibly style.
Who's in? Any suggestions as to the rules?


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## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 2, 2014)

sojourner Belushi Dillinger4 DotCommunist 

(I love how the poetry types are all my favourite people )


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## sojourner (Apr 2, 2014)

Hurray!! Yep - I'm in! Shall we keep the competitive edge out of it altogether, and not have competitions? Just themes (and yes styles if people are up for it). I've got a list of prompts, or we could lift them from a site I know that is operating right now, which is this:
http://fiftytwopoetry.wordpress.com/


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## sojourner (Apr 2, 2014)

ShiftyBagLady said:


> (I love how the poetry types are all my favourite people )


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## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 2, 2014)

Also Dulwich Mishi and mansonroad , might you be interested in this?


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## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 2, 2014)

sojourner said:


> Hurray!! Yep - I'm in! Shall we keep the competitive edge out of it altogether, and not have competitions? Just themes (and yes styles if people are up for it), maybe run for a month to give people enough time to write something. I've got a list of prompts, or we could lift them from a site I know that is operating right now, which is this:
> http://fiftytwopoetry.wordpress.com/


Yeah, I reckon so, that's why I preferred to call it a challenge. Mainly because I personally dislike the idea of creative competitions...

Yeah, we could take a few from that site or take suggestions from posters if there's anything they really want to explore. I don't mind which.


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## DotCommunist (Apr 2, 2014)

sojourner said:


> Hurray!! Yep - I'm in! Shall we keep the competitive edge out of it altogether, and not have competitions? Just themes (and yes styles if people are up for it). I've got a list of prompts, or we could lift them from a site I know that is operating right now, which is this:
> http://fiftytwopoetry.wordpress.com/



I agree with this. 'Low competition,just a monthly theme and see what happens


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## sojourner (Apr 2, 2014)

There's also a mate of mine's 'comps and calls' which we could use not only for prompts, but if you've got anything you want to send off to publishers or free competitions, here:

http://compsandcalls.com/Cathys_Com...2014/3/31_Comps_and_calls_for_April_2014.html

I'm just suggesting links that may be useful btw, not pushing them  Just in case we can't think of owt!


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## DotCommunist (Apr 2, 2014)

all poetry is about sex, death or weather if you think about it


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## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 2, 2014)

'Sex, love and writing poems' according to my lecturers. And they've got a point...


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## el-ahrairah (Apr 2, 2014)

go on then.  i've been meaning to do some creative writing, this might be the kickstart i need.


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## DotCommunist (Apr 2, 2014)

anyone calling theme? April?


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## sojourner (Apr 2, 2014)

Are we done with all the preliminaries then? Rules? We don't need no steenkin rules 

Does anyone have a theme they'd like to write about?


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## Belushi (Apr 2, 2014)

I will try asnd contribute but I'm not making any promises, remembering how difficult it was to come up with things for previous writing threads


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## Santino (Apr 2, 2014)

The theme is flesh. And the form is sonnet (classic or modern).


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## DotCommunist (Apr 2, 2014)

your mum is fleshy and modern.


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## sojourner (Apr 2, 2014)

Santino said:


> The theme is flesh. And the form is sonnet (classic or modern).


Do we have to do them together then?  I thought the form thing would be fun to do every now and then, not as an obligatory part of each theme.

Edit: I'm just gonna write on the theme this time.


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## Belushi (Apr 2, 2014)

It would be a mistake to set form as well as subject imo, youre going to be pushed enough to get people to contribute anything as it is.


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## Pickman's model (Apr 2, 2014)

i am surprised to see
that none of the posts above me
is written in rhyme
it's a bloody crime


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## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 2, 2014)

Pickman's model said:


> i am surprised to see
> that none of the posts above me
> is written in rhyme
> it's a bloody crime


I was going to tag you (or whatever it is we call it when we draw posts to somebody's attention) as I thought you might have something to say about this. Are you going to write poems for us? Do.


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## Pickman's model (Apr 2, 2014)

ShiftyBagLady said:


> I was going to tag you (or whatever it is we call it when we draw posts to somebody's attention) as I thought you might have something to say about this. Are you going to write poems for us? Do.


i will commit my thoughts to verse
although they may not scan
but i'm sure you will read something worse
at least that is my plan


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 3, 2014)

Santino said:


> The theme is flesh. And the form is sonnet (classic or modern).


 I would love to join in....but I just writing what I loosely call poetry. Any subject is fine...but I would have no idea what a sonnet is, nor do I care what a sonnet is. If I did I would have stayed on in the sixth form, back in the day, if they had allowed me to, which they never...So you'll have to count me out I'm afraid, I just liked the idea of sharing what I pretend passes for poetry...


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## Greebo (Apr 3, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> I would love to join in....but I just writing what I loosely call poetry. Any subject is fine...but I would have no idea what a sonnet is, nor do I care what a sonnet is <snip> I just liked the idea of sharing what I pretend passes for poetry...


Fair enough, you could always put it on the urban writing thread, or poem of the day, or start another thread.  

FWIW a sonnet is a poem of an expressive thought or idea made up of 14 lines, each being 10 syllables long. Its rhymes are arranged according to one of the schemes – Italian, where eight lines called an octave consisting of two quatrains which normally open the poem as the question are followed by six lines called a sestet that are the answer, or the more common English which is three quatrains followed by a rhyming couplet.

The Structure of a Sonnet Poem

ab ab, cdcd, efef, gg - English
abba abba cdecde - Italian
https://www.youngwriters.co.uk/types-sonnet

OTOH modern sonnets do not follow a specific pattern or rhyme scheme. They have the look and feel of free form poetry, but sonnets do have certain characteristics that classify them in that category. A sonnet is a way to express a narrative in a lyrical fashion. It is important that sonnets demonstrate a story-like progression. But while they tell their story, sonnets are lyrical and musical, brief and memorable.
Modern sonnets do not follow a specific pattern or rhyme scheme. They have the look and feel of free form poetry, but sonnets do have certain characteristics that classify them in that category. A sonnet is a way to express a narrative in a lyrical fashion. It is important that sonnets demonstrate a story-like progression. But while they tell their story, sonnets are lyrical and musical, brief and memorable.
http://students.english.ilstu.edu/ckerick/Repurposing/modernsonnet/definition.htm

Modern Sonnets do not follow a specific pattern or rhyme scheme. They have the look and feel of free form poetry, but Sonnets do have certain characteristics that classify them in that category. A Sonnet is a way to express a narrative in a lyrical fashion. It is important that Sonnets demonstrate a story-like progression. But while they tell their story, Sonnets are lyrical and musical, brief and memorable.

Modern Sonnets do not follow a specific pattern or rhyme scheme. They have the look and feel of free form poetry, but Sonnets do have certain characteristics that classify them in that category. A Sonnet is a way to express a narrative in a lyrical fashion. It is important that Sonnets demonstrate a story-like progression. But while they tell their story, Sonnets are lyrical and musical, brief and memorable.


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 3, 2014)

Thanks for the explanation. To be perfectly honest I just try to write poetry because it's something  enjoy. I'm sure I'm not the only 'urban poet' who wouldn't know what a sonnet was, nor want to spend too much time trying to write one, when I just like poetry. So best leave this thread to the educated classes, and exclude working class poets who just like writing...


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## Greebo (Apr 3, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> <snip> best leave this thread to the educated classes, and exclude working class poets who just like writing...




FWIW I do get where you're coming from; sometimes the writing of it is far closer to scratching a maddeningly insistent itch and letting something out, instead of spending ages wrestling something out of thin air just because you can (or have been told to).


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## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 3, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi that's bollocks: there'll be nothing elitist about this thread, if you ever wanted to just write for the joy of it then this is the place to be. 
Won't be offended if you don't want to of course, feel free to start your own thread or contribute to the poem of the day thread where I'm sure people will appreciate it.


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## Disjecta Membra (Apr 3, 2014)

i'll try and flesh out something for this.


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## sojourner (Apr 3, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> Thanks for the explanation. To be perfectly honest I just try to write poetry because it's something  enjoy. I'm sure I'm not the only 'urban poet' who wouldn't know what a sonnet was, nor want to spend too much time trying to write one, when I just like poetry. So best leave this thread to the educated classes, and exclude working class poets who just like writing...


Nah - don't be like that. I have no fucking idea what a sonnet is either!

When I first suggested we might try form sometimes, I meant it as an informal exercise for those who wanted to try it, nothing obligatory or owt. And separate to actual themes.

I've already said I'm not going to try writing a sonnet, so come back in and let's enjoy just writing eh Dulwich Mishi ?


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## el-ahrairah (Apr 3, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> So best leave this thread to the educated classes, and exclude working class poets who just like writing...




Plenty of working class poets on this thread Mishi, don't worry.


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 3, 2014)

el-ahrairah said:


> Plenty of working class poets on this thread Mishi, don't worry.


 
I am sure I will scribble down something...the problem is...once the pen starts working and the cogs in my head turning...I have no idea which direction! ;-)


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## sojourner (Apr 3, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> I am sure I will scribble down something...the problem is...once the pen starts working and the cogs in my head turning...I have no idea which direction! ;-)


Isn't that the beauty of writing?   I fucking LOVE that.


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 3, 2014)

sojourner said:


> Isn't that the beauty of writing?   I fucking LOVE that.


  It is indeed! which is why I enjoy it so much, no 'rules and regulations', and mine are very simple, as I have an ordinary, working class vocabulary. Ie: I need a dictionary to read The Guardian! ;-)


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## Santino (Apr 3, 2014)

It's sad when people don't even want to learn.


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## Greebo (Apr 3, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> It is indeed! which is why I enjoy it so much, no 'rules and regulations', and mine are very simple, as I have an ordinary, working class vocabulary. <snip>


IMHO there is nothing working class about being proud of ignorance or subliteracy; to do so plays into the hands of those with more money and/or more power.

BTW you've even got me agreeing with Santino, I may have to take a decontamination shower.


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## 8115 (Apr 3, 2014)

Is this the thread?

My poem

Flesh burns
like hair
but you don't make me feel
that way

there are some things you never get used to
like the smell of a pub kitchen after time.

I don't love you.


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 3, 2014)

Santino said:


> It's sad when people don't even want to learn.


 
It's NOT a case of not wanting to learn. I write 'off the cuff'...lots of my poetry is written in notebooks, sitting on buses or trains, in fact I'd say most of it is. I do not have the desire, nor the time, to learn about styles of poetry, or how towrite sonnets, or whatever form of poetry. I just like writing.  I just write because I enjoy it, I have no desire to try to learn something, I left school in 1983!


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## Santino (Apr 3, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> It's NOT a case of not wanting to learn.





Dulwich Mishi said:


> I do not have the desire... to learn about styles of poetry


Help me out here.

It just strikes me that there are very few areas of life where, on these boards at least, people would be congratulated on not even being interested in knowing more. It's just a fetish about the holy irrationality of art, and its bullshit. The more you know, the fewer mistakes you might make, the more options you have. If you know the rules, you can break them, re-write them, ignore them. If you don't know them, you don't even know which rules you are actually unconsciously obeying.


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 3, 2014)

"IMHO there is nothing working class about being proud of ignorance or subliteracy; to do so plays into the hands of those with more money and/or more power."

Who said I'm proud of ignorance or subliteracy? Though to be fair I'll let you know once I've looked up 'subliteracy' in the dictionary! ;-)

And I resent being accused of being proud to be ignorant, becausse that's just bloody offensive! The only thing I'm proud of is being working class.

All I did was state a fact that vocabulary is more limited that most poets, simply because a lot of poets are middle class, and an unusally large number whose books I read are university educated &/or work in academic fields, as teachers, or higher. Me? I left school at 16, and English Language is my one 'O' Level. Pardon me for holding my hand up and admitting I don't know as many 'fancy' words as others who might have been more educated than me.


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 3, 2014)

Santino said:


> Help me out here.
> 
> It just strikes me that there are very few areas of life where, on these boards at least, people would be congratulated on not even being interested in knowing more. It's just a fetish about the holy irrationality of art, and its bullshit. The more you know, the fewer mistakes you might make, the more options you have. If you know the rules, you can break them, re-write them, ignore them. If you don't know them, you don't even know which rules you are actually unconsciously obeying.


 I'm sorry, but I'm not even going to bother trying to read or understand that really, load of old bollocks really. I just enjoy writing. End of.


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## Santino (Apr 3, 2014)

Jesus


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 4, 2014)

Santino said:


> Jesus


 Erm...ditto! Except I don't believe in him... ;-)


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## Greebo (Apr 4, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> <snip>All I did was state a fact that vocabulary is more limited that most poets, simply because a lot of poets are middle class, and an unusally large number whose books I read are university educated &/or work in academic fields, as teachers, or higher. Me? I left school at 16, and English Language is my one 'O' Level. Pardon me for holding my hand up and admitting I don't know as many 'fancy' words as others who might have been more educated than me.


Enough of the prolier than thou game, Sweetie.   

Being working class isn't wiped out by staying on at school or even going back into education later on.  Marx said that working class meant that the only thing you could use as a source of income was your own work - by his definition I'm lumpen proletariat (underclass). BTW sorry Sweetie, I didn't realise that I'm supposed to write down to you, I must've made a proper tit of myself in your eyes.

BTW talking of making a tit of yerself, several urbanites on this thread are working class and proud of it, but after your rant they probably won't say so here.    From now on, when talking to you, I'll try to limit myself to words you might see in the Sun, or in a book for adults learning English as a second language.  With extra smilies. to keep it clear.  

The words which I have were only gained after thousands of times of flicking through a dictionary while trying to make sense of something or checking the spelling .  My background (and current life) is every bit as working class as yours, but it's not used as an excuse. 

So what if you have to use a dictionary?  Stretching your mind as well as your body is good.    I also understand the difficulty of trying to do that when worn out after a long day of work.  It's still worth doing.


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## Greebo (Apr 4, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> I'm sorry, but I'm not even going to bother trying to read or understand that really, load of old bollocks really. I just enjoy writing. End of.


'ello, troll features.  You made me agree with Santino, again.  

I can't read music to save my life (I really have tried to, several times    ).  On the other hand, I've got a good memory, can count, and have got a pretty good ear (including keeping track of what everyone else is doing).  So I play and sing mostly by ear.  I'm not interested in the technical side of music for its own sake, but I take the bits which seem useful.

The same can be done when using words.  There's no harm in slightly polishing a natural talent.


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## Miss Caphat (Apr 4, 2014)

..all is restless, tongue in butter
I feel like kittens
falling down your well
Oh hello
nerf platoon
sinks inside and don't ask why
Cream all day, but hesitate
oh fuck
tired knees
I sneeze
"Hello"
you rest like cotton candy
in her vase
I see you, margarine
and raise you
a dollop of
shaving cream
for your neck;
which Adam's apple
grieves
and hesitates
"Oh wait!"
but it's not,
mate
"Check, mate?"


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## sojourner (Apr 4, 2014)

For fucks sake, even on here there has to be a fucking argument doesn't there? Just leave him/her be Santino, and stop fucking judging and patronising eh? Let people just write. If you're not gonna write, fuck the fuck off.


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 4, 2014)

sojourner said:


> For fucks sake, even on here there has to be a fucking argument doesn't there? Just leave him/her be Santino, and stop fucking judging and patronising eh? Let people just write. If you're not gonna write, fuck the fuck off.


 Couldn't agree more...and don't worry, I've got a 'broad back', stick and stones and all that...have to, being a Dulwich Hamlet supporter for forty years! ;-)

As for Greebo calling me 'troll features'...well I just love that word word 'troll', whatever it may mean. as far as I'm concernedit's just a word bandied about when someone defends their corner, or makes their point, and you get the hump because they don't agree to you. Fortunately I always stand my corner, and don't suffer fools...


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 4, 2014)

Greebo said:


> Enough of the prolier than thou game, Sweetie.
> 
> It's not a game, I just tell it how it is, and don't be a prat by patronising me by calling me 'Sweetie!
> 
> ...


 
The only dictionaries I use are to check spellings really, or when someone throws as word at me, to describe me, for example. Though I do always have a rhyming dictionary in my bag, if that counts...


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 4, 2014)

Hmm...that last post didn't quite come out as I expected, was responding to bits, bit by bit, but most of my dissected replies have appeared in the 'box'.

Anyway, time for everyone just to enjoy poetry, and accept we have different styles, backgrounds and opinions. But then that's the 'beauty' of messageboard eh? ;-)


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## sojourner (Apr 4, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> simply because a lot of poets are middle class, and an unusally large number whose books I read are university educated &/or work in academic fields, as teachers, or higher. Me? I left school at 16, and English Language is my one 'O' Level.


This is where we differ. 99% of the poets I know (and read, and watch/listen to) are working class. Almost all of them work in crap jobs, if they have them at all. We are all skint, apart from the odd one or two. 

I also left school at 16 with exactly the same one O level as you.  I did go back to school though, in my late 20s, but not to do poetry or creative writing or owt.

I had only read one poem before I started writing it, and not even in full - it was Paradise Lost by Milton, cos it came up on the Access course I did.  

I don't write like anyone else, and it's important to know and remember that every single poet has their own voice, their own style. I disagree with Santino that you should 'know all the rules'. The only ones I know are the ones I've taught myself, out of curiosity. 

Anyway - on with the writing. I've got something together fairly quickly - just wants kicking into shape a bit more.


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 4, 2014)

sojourner said:


> This is where we differ. 99% of the poets I know (and read, and watch/listen to) are working class. Almost all of them work in crap jobs, if they have them at all. We are all skint, apart from the odd one or two.
> 
> I also left school at 16 with exactly the same one O level as you.  I did go back to school though, in my late 20s, but not to do poetry or creative writing or owt.
> 
> ...


 Perhaps i should have said 'published poets'. Since I started scribbling in January last year I've been a regular borrower at the Poetry Library. I started at the beginning of the "A's", borrowing whatever books catch my eye (Yes, that does mean I commit the 'cardinal sin' of judging a book by it's cover!) & I am now in the "O's". An unusually large proportion of those are by people who have been to university, or academics, either school teachers or at colleges. So that's what I based my original comment on.

To be honest, as i'm sure we all know, anyone can be a poet, so if you move in working class circles, of course you'll know a number of working class ones, I enjoy listening to a number at various Open Mic nights I been, and go to. But there is, I think anyway, an 'urban literary myth' that poetry is just for the educated, which I think 'frightens' many working class people away from writing.


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## sojourner (Apr 4, 2014)

It goes for published poets too  I've been published getting on for 40 times now, lots of those poets I mentioned are published too.

Yep, would agree that some people would love to keep poetry elitist. It's up to us to change that.


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## Pickman's model (Apr 4, 2014)

.


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## Greebo (Apr 4, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> <snip> As for Greebo calling me 'troll features'...well I just love that word word 'troll', whatever it may mean. as far as I'm concernedit's just a word bandied about when someone defends their corner, or makes their point, and you get the hump because they don't agree to you.  <snip>


You got the hump because I refused to accept that if you left school with one O level you're stuck that way forever.  My mum didn't even get an O level in English Language before leaving school.  It took her another 10 years before going to night school and getting an A grade in it.  She just needed a teacher who hadn't already decided that she was stupid and unable to learn.

BTW Skip to Z and try Benjamin Zephaniah, you won't be disappointed.  http://www.poemhunter.com/benjamin-zephaniah/


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## Pickman's model (Apr 4, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> Couldn't agree more...and don't worry, I've got a 'broad back', stick and stones and all that...have to, being a Dulwich Hamlet supporter for forty years! ;-)
> 
> As for Greebo calling me 'troll features'...well I just love that word word 'troll', whatever it may mean. as far as I'm concernedit's just a word bandied about when someone defends their corner, or makes their point, and you get the hump because they don't agree to you. Fortunately I always stand my corner, and don't suffer fools...


anyone who says 'don't agree to you' must suffer fools, being one themself. i take it your corner is the naughty corner.


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## bandagedbrain (Apr 4, 2014)

Hi all, first post, love the site, but hopeless with computers, phone, block in learning. Can't type fast, takes me ages. A few words come to mind.

A bonnet for the sonnet
Dressing up words, stripping them bare,
tangled in class thats not very fare,
Its not words you know
as my other would say
its belief in yer words
at the end of the day
many a folk will mention the art
of copying words that dont sit in the heart
understanding the meaning is all fine and good.
Learning empowers without rules that it should
who gives a fuck, the meaning of a sonnet
a threads come undone, theres a bee in yer bonnet.


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## Pickman's model (Apr 4, 2014)

can't type fast, can't be arsed
but a storm of words i'll put your way
words for laughter, words for tears
and words to fill your day
i can't be arsed to type too fast
but you'll read what i have to say
you'll read it quick or read it slow
on the bridge or on the quay
on the bus or the tube
in your car, on your bed
you'll read what i have to say
i can't be arsed to type to fast
cos you'll read it anyway


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 4, 2014)

sojourner said:


> It goes for published poets too  I've been published getting on for 40 times now, lots of those poets I mentioned are published too.
> 
> Yep, would agree that some people would love to keep poetry elitist. It's up to us to change that.


 Sorry, I was referring to published, as in actual books, not those in magazines, though I'm not knocking that as a lesser achievement, merely meant my comment referred to books on shelves.


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 4, 2014)

Greebo said:


> You got the hump because I refused to accept that if you left school with one O level you're stuck that way forever.  My mum didn't even get an O level in English Language before leaving school.  It took her another 10 years before going to night school and getting an A grade in it.  She just needed a teacher who hadn't already decided that she was stupid and unable to learn.
> 
> BTW Skip to Z and try Benjamin Zephaniah, you won't be disappointed.  http://www.poemhunter.com/benjamin-zephaniah/


 
I haven't 'got the hump'...as you put it, I diasagree with you. Two totally different things. And yes, I have heard of him, and read some of his stuff. And cleary, I'm not labellnig the entire mass of working classes of our country...but referring to how I feel about me, and what I have time to do.


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 4, 2014)

Anyway, back to 'topic', so to speak, yes relating to this threas too...

Here's my attempt, which I knocked up on the bus to work this morning...instead of reading a certain tabloid, as others might expect! ;-)

"Flesh is the Word"

Sometimes I have that feeling
Of being held back
By my lack of words.
Which is absurd
When you think about it
For a word is a word
Whether it has a single syllable
Or a second or a third.
Honesty's the best policy
Right from the start
I can't use words I don't know
I'm no literary tart.
No problems with a dictionary
Just don't ask me to paint a picture
As I'm even worse with Pictionary.
All I want to do
Is write poetry for fun
Maybe pad it out
With a little pun.
No intent to tax my brain
I simply scribble
To keep me sane.
Too much hard work
Trying something fancy
Hunting for words
I don't understand
What I write down
By neccessity bland.
Your biting and sniping
Will not work
Call me what you like..
Even take me for a jerk.
I'm NOT going to
Flesh out my writing
By making it artificially posh
And I don't give a shit
If you think that's tosh!


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## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 4, 2014)

Pickman's model said:


> anyone who says 'don't agree to you' must suffer fools, being one themself. i take it your corner is the naughty corner.


 No, it just means I'm shit at typing, and didn't notice the mistake...


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## ViolentPanda (Apr 4, 2014)

Belushi said:


> It would be a mistake to set form as well as subject imo, youre going to be pushed enough to get people to contribute anything as it is.



Have to agree.  Writing to form may be a great "academic exercise", but for me it sort of takes over from the theme as you try to fit to the form.

Maybe I'm just crap at writing poetry, though. 
Actually, no "maybe" about it.  The best I usually do is western haiku, barely-metered blank verse or limerick.


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## ViolentPanda (Apr 4, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> I would love to join in....but I just writing what I loosely call poetry. Any subject is fine...but I would have no idea what a sonnet is, nor do I care what a sonnet is. If I did I would have stayed on in the sixth form, back in the day, if they had allowed me to, which they never...So you'll have to count me out I'm afraid, I just liked the idea of sharing what I pretend passes for poetry...



Poetry is poetry.  Whether it conforms to what "the academy" expects of poetry is totally irrelevant.  It's about writing what's in your heart and mind poetically, and "poetically" doesn't necessarily mean writing in rhyme, in meter, or even for an audience.


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## ViolentPanda (Apr 4, 2014)

Santino said:


> It's sad when people don't even want to learn.



You can't live without learning.  If you try to, you're not living, just existing.


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## ViolentPanda (Apr 4, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> "IMHO there is nothing working class about being proud of ignorance or subliteracy; to do so plays into the hands of those with more money and/or more power."
> 
> Who said I'm proud of ignorance or subliteracy? Though to be fair I'll let you know once I've looked up 'subliteracy' in the dictionary! ;-)
> 
> ...



TBF you kind of implied that you have a limited vocabulary *because* you're working class.
I too am working class and left school at 16, with an English language 'O' level, and a Maths CSE.  Neither acted to limit my vocabulary.
As for poets you read, a lot of published poets *are* uni-educated.  That's kind of a hold-over of poetry being seen as an *academic* form of writing by critics and commentators.  Nowadays, though, there are plenty of published poets who aren't uni-educated.  In fact most of my favourite poets aren't.  I hate to imagine what William Blake would have written if he'd have been to uni, and as for Attila or Benjamin Zephaniah...


----------



## sojourner (Apr 4, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> Sorry, I was referring to published, as in actual books, not those in magazines, though I'm not knocking that as a lesser achievement, merely meant my comment referred to books on shelves.


I meant books, mags, chapbooks, and online


----------



## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 4, 2014)

sojourner said:


> I meant books, mags, chapbooks, and online


And that's something I'd never heard of, before I started using the Poetry Library: 'chapbooks'???
Surely a book's a book?
It prompted this one from me....

*"Books for Chaps"*
So tell me
What are you?
Surely a book
Is a book
Is a book?
But not you.
You are a special book.
For chaps.
But what type of chap are you for?
The ones who are rather posh
Who go 'Jolly good old bean'
And ask me to 'be a good chap'.
Or perhaps a bit more
Rough and ready.
The sort of chap
Who wears Burberry
Goes to football
And says: 'Do you want some?'
So come on
What sort of chap
Are you?
Me?
I'm just a poet.
Not a chap.


----------



## bandagedbrain (Apr 4, 2014)

Picking of time
dont care if its fine

A form to fill out
To ask what you're about
Ordering the date, don't be late
Spelling your fate

back in synch, link by link
mantras measured, convulsions severed
while time is tethered
A race case, someone elses pace
flagging in front, leading at back
whos time track, not mine.


----------



## Greebo (Apr 4, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> And that's something I'd never heard of, before I started using the Poetry Library: 'chapbooks'???
> Surely a book's a book? <snip>


Er, no.  Before paperbacks were around, there were large expensive books with durable (often leather) covers; far too expensive for a lot of people, and not very portable either.

If you wanted something smaller and cheaper, you bought it off the chapman - a sort of walking poundshop.  Among the other assorted cheap and cheerful bits, these chapmen often sold pamphlets and booklets (aka chapbooks) printed in short runs, on the cheap  (often no cover and with maybe 32 pages at most) which sometimes ripped off other people's material.


----------



## Dulwich Mishi (Apr 4, 2014)

Greebo said:


> Er, no.  Before paperbacks were around, there were large expensive books with durable (often leather) covers; far too expensive for a lot of people, and not very portable either.
> 
> If you wanted something smaller and cheaper, you bought it off the chapman - a sort of walking poundshop.  Among the other assorted cheap and cheerful bits, these chapmen often sold pamphlets and booklets (aka chapbooks) printed in short runs, on the cheap  (often no cover and with maybe 32 pages at most) which sometimes ripped off other people's material.


 Thank you...always nice to learn something! ;-)


----------



## Greebo (Apr 4, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> Thank you...always nice to learn something! ;-)


BTW these were a handy way of spreading all sorts of juicy bits of gossip and scandal, what with being so easy to quickly tuck inside your clothes without making a telltale bulge.


----------



## DotCommunist (Apr 4, 2014)

*O come lucky April, I’m damp but not enough*
*Socks and mouth are dry.*
*Night draws slower through temporal trickery*
*Greenwich don’t mean time.*

*Fortunate fickle April, your greyslate skies*
*broken by lunchtime solar reminders*
*of what summer might be*

*The overcoat April? The summer jacket*
*filled with last years return bus tickets,*
*forgotten fag dowts?*

*Is it spring Miss April?*

*Can I wear the shorts and vest?*

*She doesn’t answer.*

*Cruellest month, my April*


----------



## DotCommunist (Apr 5, 2014)

Greebo said:


> BTW these were a handy way of spreading all sorts of juicy bits of gossip and scandal, what with being so easy to quickly tuck inside your clothes without making a telltale bulge.



chapbooks and quarterlies/almanacs/etc kept many a victorian jobbing writer in funds! Old Dickens was published so initially ennit


----------



## Johnny Canuck3 (Apr 5, 2014)

In the background, behind Youtube Bach
Fugue for lute is the rhythmic sound
Of the lustist's intake of breath
Audible between the spare rhythm
Of Baroque meter.
Mirrored by the breath of the listener
Regarding the screen
Alive to the rhythm
Putting in time
Alive to the final call of oblivion


----------



## sojourner (Apr 5, 2014)

*Rebellious Senescence*

The cell awakens,
kindling skin.
Ignites to multiply, accommodate,
proliferate, then slows,
begins to slough;
falls
to
_dust._

Becomes vacuumed,
brushed,
drowned in suds;
_inhaled,_
swept through global lobes,
500 million alveoli times the population;
_consumed_
in wholly communion.
Taken in on cosmic tongues,
we taste each others lives without consent.

Pelt that smiled, wept, worked and slept,
made love, made hate, contained
all the jewels of existence;
freckled flakes that danced,
clapped, birthed and bruised,
were wrinkled, inked, and sea-salted.
Melatonic particles within without collective mouths:
we carry friends and enemies,
painters, poets, scientists,
killers, kings and commoners,
of every hue and class.

We taste this day our daily flesh
for it rebels, refuses death;
loosens to accommodate,
to multiply,
proliferate,
to slough, to float,
to fall to dust,
to be consumed;
to resurrect.


----------



## ViolentPanda (Apr 5, 2014)

Real poetry tears
a wound in a beating heart.
Blood-wash over the ink.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 6, 2014)

Ooo I like 'blood-wash'


----------



## DotCommunist (Apr 14, 2014)

I saw shadows on the moon
selene watches (from the wall)

rankled confused,
perturbed
Discombobulated

The shadow fell across a tranquil sea

When liquid silver etches darklit moments
so stark
delineates your thinking
you worry that she's shadowed

as if some constant became change
as if words in your mouth grew old
akin to the coin in hand
when gold is worthless.

in every shop worn year I see it rise
I see eclipse


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 14, 2014)

people write their poems on here then.


----------



## Dillinger4 (Apr 17, 2014)

grey skies after blue
cherry blossom rain
today: autumn in spring


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 17, 2014)

Cuddling; 
flesh of my flesh
the good, the best
their rounded limbs fill me
wildly, as if they can ever 
roll over and around
those weeping holes in my armoury,
be my bandages,
best my memory,

be enough to paper over
the cracks, what was given 
with one hand
never to give back

Fiercely
I hold them 
to me, knowing too much,
too little of their fate,
trapped in the love of their bones,
their breaths, their laughs,
knowing honestly 
it's late
it's not too late.


----------



## Dillinger4 (Apr 17, 2014)




----------



## sojourner (Apr 18, 2014)

Fantastic poem May   So dark but still shining with light. There IS a fierceness (not gonna say ferocity, that's wrong somehow) there. Love it.


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 18, 2014)

Thank you, from you that means so much (especially as your contribution to this thread is one of the most beautiful poems I've ever read and really touched me). It is also special because that's the first poem I've written in years, after totally losing my confidence, and instead of worrying it to death like I usually do, I wrote it in five minutes and uploaded without editing. I could feel myself wavering on the edge of a perfectionist/procrastinatory edit, so I told myself to stfu and just slap it up there.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 18, 2014)

It's an amazing poem. I'm so glad you wrote it - and I hope this means you will write more. Sometimes, they do fall out like that - it's a mad rush of words that sometimes don't even feel like they came from you. But they did 

And thank _you_ - I really enjoyed writing that one. Gonna learn it to perform soon


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 25, 2014)

So, any thoughts for next month's theme?


----------



## Steel Icarus (Apr 26, 2014)




----------



## DotCommunist (Apr 26, 2014)

May Kasahara said:


> So, any thoughts for next month's theme?




I've been thinking about debt. It means more than money-debt. The debt you owe, the debt you could or couldn't meet, the concept of what is due to those worthy of repayment.

So debt.

perfectly fine if someone else has a theme but I have been obsessed with blood debt for the last three months. The idea that even should you hate someone, if you have blood debt with them and your society and personal honour demand it- blood calls for blood. Debts follow you. Sometimes capital follows more keenly than a blood debt.

But if if you owe in blood there is nowhere to hide, even in jail or on some island fishing community or lost in the scrub somewhere. If they don't come for you, blood debt will come for  yourself. Forgiveness etc, thats never there.



anyway, choose yourselves but I vote for debt


----------



## DotCommunist (Apr 26, 2014)

Dazed by the airstream, the passage ruffles
such wind! Such breath-sucked width of passage
fast, quick, silverfish cunning. To gasp.

Names of wind as names of god
Sirocco
Coriolis
Dervish

Is my breath my own?


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 26, 2014)

I think most people are crap at poetry (me included).


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 26, 2014)

having fun is fine


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 26, 2014)

ViolentPanda said:


> Maybe I'm just crap at writing poetry, though.



This is true


----------



## Delroy Booth (Apr 26, 2014)

Poetry is shit


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 26, 2014)

Delroy Booth said:


> Poetry is shit



Not true!


----------



## ViolentPanda (Apr 26, 2014)

Cheesypoof said:


> I think most people are crap at poetry (me included).



Nah. I think we're led to believe that, because what actually gets out into the public domain is the best of the best, and we think "my stuff doesn't compare", when the truth is it doesn't have to, all it has to do is speak.  If it does that effectively for you, then it *can't* be crap, IYSWIM.
I mean, personally I'm useless at writing in most rhyme schemes, but poetry is more than writing rhymes.


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 26, 2014)

ViolentPanda said:


> Nah. I think we're led to believe that, because what actually gets out into the public domain is the best of the best, and we think "my stuff doesn't compare", when the truth is it doesn't have to, all it has to do is speak.  If it does that effectively for you, then it *can't* be crap, IYSWIM.
> I mean, personally I'm useless at writing in most rhyme schemes, but poetry is more than writing rhymes.



Good point - was just messing in my other post - you are a good writer, so that raises an interesting question:  all good writers poets?

I remember working with one guy, whose journalism flowed like poetry, incredible! He really stood out. I think that kind of talent is rare. Many folks have a good flow, many can write a really good email when they feel emotional or passionate about something. It's interesting too, the notion that poems just 'flow' out of poets when inspiration strikes, like songwriting - while I believe this to be true, many of the greatest poets/ writers go back and edit their work afterwards, and that process takes discipline. Like poets and their portmanteaus.


----------



## Dillinger4 (Apr 27, 2014)

I reckon you'd be great at poetry, cheesy. Give it a go.


----------



## Greebo (Apr 27, 2014)

Dillinger4 said:


> I reckon you'd be great at poetry, cheesy. Give it a go.


Agreed.  

Edited to add:  No pressure, to try it yet, just when you have the time, energy, and inclination.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 28, 2014)

Cheesypoof said:


> Good point - was just messing in my other post - you are a good writer, so that raises an interesting question:  all good writers poets?
> 
> I remember working with one guy, whose journalism flowed like poetry, incredible! He really stood out. I think that kind of talent is rare. Many folks have a good flow, many can write a really good email when they feel emotional or passionate about something. It's interesting too, the notion that poems just 'flow' out of poets when inspiration strikes, like songwriting - while I believe this to be true, many of the greatest poets/ writers go back and edit their work afterwards, and that process takes discipline. Like poets and their portmanteaus.


Well, some of them DO flow - they come out almost perfectly formed. Some of my best poems came out like that.

And then others take months - another of what I would say was one of my best took seven months in all. Editing IS important. There is no one way of creating a great poem. There's lots of ways.

Same as Dilly though, I'd love to see something that came from you


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 28, 2014)

Cheers lads! I recall writing some poems for two weeks about 10 years ago. I was quite inspired, and they rushed out of me pretty swift. The inspiration was of course, a broken heart . The poems are pretty terrible but they do, 'flow.' Horrendous stuff, here's one of my 'efforts' 


He woke upon the world unstrung
an earth without an Everest;
where history had been bludgeoned hung
forgotten in the wilderness.

where wistful birds that laid their prey
had scampered in the darkness;
and huntsmen guarded, forged and struck
whatever they could harnass.

where trampled truncheon's lost and found
and soldiers cramped in sadness,
spoke languages of war and doom
under the tilted carcass.

The world shrieks out with blood and murk
and dictators autonomous
concerned with bitter souls defeat
victorious regardless.


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 28, 2014)

Another drunken effort, good lord! This is called 'Optimism.'

To shine a beacon on a murk
the optimist practicians.
till fate befall with thunderstorm
the loneliness that beckons.

It robs his moneyed happy life
the richness of his pickings;
the sickness drains his countenance
a penance slow & stricken.

Till death do part remission and
the happiness that's taken
replace the murk with mutiny
a gamble not foresaken.


----------



## DotCommunist (Apr 28, 2014)

'tilted carcass'

like this image.

I saw a dead body today, was at the hospital to pick up a heavily sedated person and had to ask porters for directions, halfway through explaining where I needed to be I spotted the covered gurney and asked 'has that gentleman passed on?' 


yes SHE has was the response. Limbs at angles unnatural.

tilted carcass is perfect.

sfelt oddly profane, rushing hither and thon to find my ma when there, there was a corpse.


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 28, 2014)

And part of the 'Jesus' collection 

If to be human is such a terrible thing
that Judas kissed Jesus,
and Mary Magdalene's body was moneyed
sold for the sake and sloth of men and glory.
upon first glance it seems a tragedy,
that Jesus demands of us
an emulation, with host and hope,
of infinite, God and Trinity, reply -
how can we, as amoeba in vast quantities supply, or
rectify,
this parody?
Do this in memory of me.


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 28, 2014)

DotCommunist said:


> 'tilted carcass'
> 
> like this image.
> 
> ...



Thanks! They do tilt, I am intrigued with carcasses and the process of the 'demise' of the physical body, I love the word too.


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 28, 2014)

This is a poem I wrote about my experience in the Arctic

Glance up at the skies
The red skies at night
the red dawn of the north
The arrival of aurora

Shards of green stream through like javelins
Rushing against the tide of my blood
Oxygen streams into my lungs,
filling me with fuel.

Guiding us our life and our earth
Guide our blood and our bones
Guide us on the journey of life
Protect the love that gives all

Blue flames and polar haze
Cold stones and grey seas
Gorse under my feet
Oxygen filling my lungs.

Guiding us our life and our earth
Guide our blood and our bones
Guide us on the journey of life
Protect the love that gives all

Rushing through my veins and my bones
Charging against the shrapnel and murk
Salvaging shards of the reckless heart
filling me with fuel.

Guiding us our life and our earth
Guide our blood and our bones
Guide us on the journey of life
Protect the love that gives all


----------



## Dillinger4 (Apr 29, 2014)




----------



## sojourner (Apr 29, 2014)

Love the Arctic one and the Jesus poem too Cheesy


----------



## Pickman's model (Apr 29, 2014)

here's a poem i wrote about my experiences in the arctic

in the north when the lights are low
you can see the sky still glow
but lower down a different breeze
whistled from my arse and between my knees

although the swedish inlandsbahn
is scenic, pleasant, nice and calm
beware their tasty reindeer snacks
which stop a pleasant sphincter relax

i once was there, upon that train,
which took me north and north and north again
past the arctic circle and fields of barley
to the town of gallivare

at that town, both cold and drear,
my trapped wind did disappear
the noisy rumbles ne'er did cease
for half an hour their foul release

be warned by me both one and all
and people, adults big and children small
while travelling in northern parts
recall that reindeer gives you farts


----------



## Dillinger4 (Apr 29, 2014)

It is about the human condition


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 30, 2014)

sojourner said:


> Love the Arctic one and the Jesus poem too Cheesy



Thanks soj!! Your own stuff is awesome. But I love your everyday writing too, and look forward to your posts!


----------



## sojourner (Apr 30, 2014)

Cheesypoof said:


> Thanks soj!! Your own stuff is awesome. But I love your everyday writing too, and look forward to your posts!


Ta!

You have a very unique turn of phrase, poetically. Not seen anything like it. But then, that's the beauty of poetry innit? Each person has their own voice


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 30, 2014)

sojourner said:


> Ta!
> 
> You have a very unique turn of phrase, poetically. Not seen anything like it. But then, that's the beauty of poetry innit? Each person has their own voice



How do you mean (i'm just curious!). They are either metaphorical, or pondering a question. i have always enjoyed reading a poem where someone considers the pros and cons of an idea and makes a conclusion. I have one about the joys of drinking and some folks judgment of it...need to find it. And i also think people should think big with their poems - dive straight into the subject without fear. It's good wording that is hard....but we all know that!!!


----------



## sojourner (Apr 30, 2014)

Cheesypoof said:


> How do you mean (i'm just curious!). They are either metaphorical, or pondering a question. i have always enjoyed reading a poem where someone considers the pros and cons of an idea and makes a conclusion. I have one about the joys of drinking and some folks judgment of it...need to find it. And i also think people should think big with their poems - dive straight into the subject without fear. It's good wording that is hard....but we all know that!!!


Just the way you've placed the words and the sound-images they make   Your alliteration and assonance seem haphazard almost, but work really well.  I've always loved asking questions in a lot of my poetry too


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 30, 2014)

sojourner said:


> Just the way you've placed the words and the sound-images they make   Your alliteration and assonance seem haphazard almost, but work really well.  I've always loved asking questions in a lot of my poetry too



Thanks! the odd phrase here and there are half good, but then savagely destroyed by a clumsy phrase. They do flow, but that don't count for much...

i love poems with actual questions, and poems that read like prayers. If it reads like a prayer that could be said in church, you're onto something good. I actually think that a new prayer that gives thanks needs to be written. There are so few of them in Christianity. Most prayers seem to be asking, or saying you are sorry.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 30, 2014)

Cheesypoof said:


> Thanks! the odd phrase here and there are half good, but then savagely destroyed by a clumsy phrase. They do flow, but that don't count for much...
> 
> i love poems with actual questions, and poems that read like prayers. If it reads like a prayer that could be said in church, you're onto something good. I actually think that a new prayer that gives thanks needs to be written. There are so few of them in Christianity. Most prayers seem to be asking, or saying you are sorry.


No no - haha - we are always our own worst critics, which is a Good Thing imo.  You haven't savagely destroyed anything  They are complex and intense, dense poems. I really like them.

When I was reading the bible I wrote loads of semi-religious stuff. I really like this one, a very early one that got published. It's almost like a prayer I suppose:

*Baptism*

Rosary hails monthly grace.
Maria, rinse your dress in salt.
Your christ is with you
on his knees
wonderworking as you pray.

Dispels the curse with gentle words:
‘Maria, rinse your dress in salt.
Stigmata should not
stain or taint,
nor pain come from the sword’.

She lets the love of jesus in,
his trinity of rebels;
fingertips and tongue and lips
release the blood of prophets.

Ascending now with prayers out loud,
the rapture washes over her.
_Rosé_ flows where roses grow,
to splash upon the altar.

Purifying robe of sin,
Maria rinsed her dress in salt.
Where jesus’ holy
blood was spilt:
Magnificat baptism.


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 30, 2014)

sojourner said:


> No no - haha - we are always our own worst critics, which is a Good Thing imo.  You haven't savagely destroyed anything  They are complex and intense, dense poems. I really like them.
> 
> When I was reading the bible I wrote loads of semi-religious stuff. I really like this one, a very early one that got published. It's almost like a prayer I suppose:
> 
> ...



That's great! Nice repetition of words - also liked the phrase 'Maria rinsed her dress in salt.' Love the phrasing here:

Ascending now with prayers out loud,
the rapture washes over her.
_Rosé_ flows where roses grow,
to splash upon the altar.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 30, 2014)

Cheers  It came out of one big long poem, which got split into two, and they make a pair. The other one's called Crucifixion. It's almost a repetition of Baptism, but with crucial words changed, as well as different capitalisation. 

I'd love to see your drinking poem  And what you said about 'I actually think that a new prayer that gives thanks needs to be written' - well, you thought of it, you write it  And put it on here


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 30, 2014)

Cheesypoof said:


> He woke upon the world unstrung
> an earth without an Everest;
> where history had been bludgeoned hung
> forgotten in the wilderness.
> ...




I love this one, it's amazing. It has a real martial rhythm to the language, but so melancholy and evocative.

You have inspired me to read through all my old stuff too - some corkers from my teenage years there, I might post some later 

In the meantime here is a more recent effort:

*Small hours*

So this is what it would feel like if we argued all the time,
the mellowish silence a hoar of frost,
resentment’s hand on the tap of tears;
alone, my feet clam up in the chill,
an ocean of cold down there, alone.
So this is how it feels to watch the fire go out,
an angry bed gives way to frosted compromise,
silence for tea, words ripped away from meaning,
the null and void of emotions
with no one to run to.

My wedding gift to you:
a fire that will never go out,
one heart forever your compass
seeking the true point, hands
that never cease turning toward,
an end of the bed that will always be warm.


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 30, 2014)

*Bad dreams
*
When I dug deeper, I discovered the world
was made of ash.
The things you gave me were taken away
and nothing made any sense,
nothing made any difference.
A closer look at the trees
revealed the painful pulp of their own
future feelings.

A desert storm blew over, and the
sea and the sand washed over
me, in you, coated inside our box
with all the things we did not see, did not do.

Darkness and light together are
grey, and that is what we are,
our memory burning bright
if only briefly,

except for me, who wails
and whys endlessly
through a mouthful of salt, bitter tears,
sweet release, that dry again
and memory dies again.
My face is locked in this
salt prison.

All of us roam, all of us ride,
why pay the piper for a promise
with nothing inside?
You rest, and I roam
within you…nothing makes
any sense,
nothing makes any difference.


----------



## Cheesypoof (May 1, 2014)

May Kasahara said:


> *Bad dreams
> *
> When I dug deeper, I discovered the world
> was made of ash.
> ...



powerful stuff May, bold and brilliant. There's honesty and philosophical questions (more of which is needed in poetry!). We all need to write like this....cold, brutal truth from the heart.


----------



## sojourner (May 1, 2014)

Whewww!!! Fucking hell May!! Goosebumps! 

These are amazing poems. I am well chuffed we've got this thread - there's all sorts of ace surprises coming out


----------



## ShiftyBagLady (May 1, 2014)

These poems are excellent. Well done everyone 
I'm really sorry that I've not contributed yet, I did think up an idea and have written it down so that I can pay it some proper attention but I've had lots of essays to write and am not sleeping very well and blahbahblah. I'm removing myself from urban for a few weeks to get my shit together but I'll pop back on at some point to post it up and to see what's happening with this month's theme as I don't want it to be like the other writing thread that I never contributed to...
Thanks again for everyone for sharing, particularly May Kasahara as that last one really conveys the anguish and isolation of grief and was very moving. It's really brave to share that stuff


----------



## May Kasahara (May 1, 2014)

Thank _you _Shifty. I had lost all faith in my ability until I clicked on this thread and thought 'fuck it, why not'. You've helped rejuvenate my withered inner pen  and I feel excited by writing poetry for the first time in many years.

A poetry community  It's fascinating reading/seeing/hearing everyone's distinct voice, especially as we already know each other's everyday U75 voice, as it were.

Please do post something up if you get the chance. I'd love to read it.


----------



## sojourner (May 2, 2014)

Wot May said.  

I was thinking about you last night Shifty and wondering whether you had anything. No worries at all though - totally understood, given the workload.

So - are we gonna go with a new theme now it's May?  Dotty mentioned 'debt'.


----------



## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

.


----------



## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

i've always been a fan of symons, e.g. 'stella maris'







HY is it I remember yet
You, of all women one has met,
In random wayfare, as one meets
The chance romances of the streets,
The Juliet of a night? I know
Your heart holds many a Romeo.
And I, who call to mind your face
In so serene a pausing-place,
Where the bright pure expanse of sea,
Seems a reproach to you and me,
I too have sought on many a breast
The ecstasy of an unrest,
I too have had my dreams, and met
(Ah me!) how many a Juliet.
Why is it, then, that I recall
You, neither first nor last of all?
For, surely as I see to-night
The phantom of the lighthouse light,
Against the sky, across the bay,
Fade, and return, and fade away,
So surely do I see your eyes
Out of the empty night arise;
Child, you arise and smile to me
Out of the night, out of the sea,
The Nereid of a moment there,
And is it seaweed in your hair?
O lost and wrecked, how long ago,
Out of the drowning past, I know
You come to call me, come to claim
My share of your delicious shame.
Child, I remember, and can tell
One night we loved each other well,
And one night's love, at least or most,
Is not so small a thing to boast.
You were adorable, and I
Adore you to infinity,
That nuptial night too briefly borne
To the oblivion of morn.
Ah! no oblivion, for I feel
Your lips deliriously steal
Along my neck, and fasten there;
I feel the perfume of your hair,
I feel your breast that heaves and dips
Desiring my desirous lips,
And that ineffable delight
When souls turn bodies, and unite
In the intolerable, the whole
Rapture of the embodied soul.
That joy was ours, we passed it by;
You have forgotten me, and I
Remember you thus strangely, won
An instant from oblivion.
And I, remembering, would declare
That joy, not shame, is ours to share,
Joy that we had the frank delight
To choose the chances of one night,
Out of vague nights, and days at strife,
So infinitely full of life.
What shall it profit me to know
Your heart holds many a Romeo?
Why should I grieve, though I forget
How many another Juliet?
Let us be glad to have forgot
That roses fade, and loves are not,
As dreams, immortal, though they seem
Almost as real as a dream.
It is for this I see you rise,
A wraith, with starlight in your eyes,
Where calm hours weave, for such a mood
Solitude out of solitude;
For this, for this, you come to me
Out of the night, out of the sea.

Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/s/stella_maris.html#k0VyYM6yFpIrzqSy.99


----------



## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

although there's something to be said for dowson too

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed 
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, 

Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, 

When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, 

Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, 

Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.


----------



## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

.


----------



## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

and yeats

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.


----------



## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

.


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## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

or wilde

We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The 'Treues Liebes Herz' of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,

Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
'The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.'

But she--she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.


----------



## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

.


----------



## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

x


----------



## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

This is one of my favourite poems, Tractor, by Ted Hughes

The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness. 

It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice. 

The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump. 

I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life. 

And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where? 

Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-shit.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks - 

Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron 

Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform 

And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.


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## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

.


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## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

xz


----------



## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

.


----------



## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

soj - been looking for that Oliver Reed inspired poem, STILL cant find it...grrr.....

I promise you though, when i do, it'll be worth it


----------



## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

nm


----------



## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

.


----------



## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

jj


----------



## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

.


----------



## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

nk


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## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

Right....heres a poem I just LOVE. But what make ye of the Plath?  I certainly find her morbid introspection enticing, and dare I say, dated?  I only realized a few years ago that Gigilo is in fact about HER (upon about the fourth reading!!) 

Pocket watch, I tick well.
The streets are lizardy crevices
Sheer-sided, with holes where to hide.
It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac,
A palace of velvet
With windows of mirrors.
There one is safe,
There are no family photographs,
No rings through the nose, no cries.
Bright fish hooks, the smiles of women
Gulp at my bulk
And I, in my snazzy blacks,
Mill a litter of breasts like jellyfish.

To nourish
The cellos of moans I eat eggs -
Eggs and fish, the essentials,
The aphrodisiac squid.
My mouth sags,
The mouth of Christ

When my engine reaches the end of it.
The tattle of my
Gold joints, my way of turning
Bitches to ripples of silver
Rolls out a carpet, a hush.
And there is no end, no end of it.
I shall never grow old. New oysters
Shriek in the sea and I
Glitter like Fontainebleau
Gratified,
All the fall of water and eye
Over whose pool I tenderly
Lean and see me


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## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

i don't know how you find the ending dated, seems pretty timeless to me and rather better than i though plath did.


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## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

the sea gulls nest upon a roof
beneath an azure sky
they hunt for food for their young brood
and sit where once a pigeon coo'd
on a chimney warm and dry


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## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

this is no country for auld men
and not for young ones either
no work for young and not for auld
so all we do is mither


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## sojourner (May 3, 2014)

I was starting to think we had a string of increasingly violent prose poems then 

You know what would be really nice? If you both edited/deleted these posts. This thread was starting to take real shape, have some real heart and excitement in it. I have really loved the poems and it's started May writing again. And she's fucking amazing isn't she? It takes guts to post your creative output in public, so let's not ruin that. 

This is just a very polite request from me to you both. Thanks


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## ViolentPanda (May 3, 2014)

Pickman's model said:


> this is no country for auld men
> and not for young ones either
> no work for young and not for auld
> so all we do is mither



This obviously being the English mither, not the Welsh mither.


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## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

No problem soj. I was enjoying the thread myself up till then. Will edit now, as you requested.


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## Pickman's model (May 3, 2014)

h


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## Cheesypoof (May 3, 2014)

.


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## sojourner (May 4, 2014)

Thanks Cheesy 

Pickman's model  - could you, please?


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## Pickman's model (May 4, 2014)

sojourner said:


> Thanks Cheesy
> 
> Pickman's model  - could you, please?


when Cheesypoof has finished i'll do mine


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## Cheesypoof (May 4, 2014)

sojourner said:


> Thanks Cheesy



All done! Soj - I have a question for you about your spoken word performances - do you stick to the words of your poems as you say them, or do you sometimes improvise? I have huge admiration for spoken word poets, and free style performers too.


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## Cheesypoof (May 5, 2014)

Like to share with you, a poem I found (through those crazy emails!!) that my SISTER  wrote about me, in Oct 2006 (during my poetry phase )

Ode to a Free Spirit

She climbed the steeper staircase
Which led to the inner door
She turned the handle purposefully
Unafraid of what lay in store
She navigated her way hopefully
As the masses kept watch on the shore.

She wrote afterwards:
You are the real free spirit in our family and that is why this poem
is an ode to those special qualities which I admire in you.


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## Pickman's model (May 5, 2014)

./.


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## bubblesmcgrath (May 5, 2014)

Mid term break by Seamus Heaney


I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four foot box, a foot for every year..


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## sojourner (May 6, 2014)

Cheesypoof said:


> All done! Soj - I have a question for you about your spoken word performances - do you stick to the words of your poems as you say them, or do you sometimes improvise? I have huge admiration for spoken word poets, and free style performers too.


Thanks you two - appreciate it 

I stick to the words I've practised Cheesy. It takes me quite a while to learn them, as I have a shit memory. Also - you should never under-estimate how much you ARE going to shit yourself when you get up on a stage, in front of a mic, in front of people.  Everyone shits it. This means you are less likely to be able to make stuff up on the spot.

I do sometimes add in a 'yeh!', or tiny remarks, lots of facial gestures too, but no, I never change my words unless it's a fuck up on my part


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## 8115 (May 6, 2014)

Do we have a theme for May yet?


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## DotCommunist (May 6, 2014)

I'm still lobbying for 'debt' but am fine if anyone wants to go elsewhere.


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## 8115 (May 6, 2014)

Debt sounds ok to me.


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## 8115 (May 10, 2014)

I need a theme. Going to try and take more than five minutes over my poem this month. What about "housing" for a less depressing theme? We could come back to debt, as life always does.


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## Dulwich Mishi (May 20, 2014)

8115 said:


> I need a theme. Going to try and take more than five minutes over my poem this month. What about "housing" for a less depressing theme? We could come back to debt, as life always does.


 I haven't looked at this thread for quite a while. As it's been suggested more than once I'll try and do something on the 'debt' theme...if i manage it I'll share it on here. I have written very little in both April and May; probably no more than a dozen or so. Not too bothered about that, I've had other things on my mind, and truth be told, first and foremost only write to suit myself really. I'm sure I will get back into the swing of things....


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## Greebo (Jun 6, 2014)

Not in keeping with the debt theme, but riddle me this:
If you're going out, 
I'll wait for you, 
If you're coming out, 
Then come with me, 
I'll go round you 
If you're going in, 
My comrades save lives 
And some call it a sin. 
Useful when nailing 
But never a nail, 
If I split 
I'll turn you pale.


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## Santino (Jun 7, 2014)

condom


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## Greebo (Jun 7, 2014)

Santino said:


> condom


Not exactly difficult.


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## DotCommunist (Jun 11, 2014)

What lies quick is not
lime or lover or swift cut
it speaks of sorrow


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## Dulwich Mishi (Jun 30, 2014)

Slightly off-topic, but on a poetry theme, there's a free poetry event called 'Open Bed', on Sunday 13th July, doors open at around 7 of half past I think, at the Flying Dutchman pub, on the corner of Wells Way & Southhampton Way in Camberwell.

If you're not into the World Cup Final on the box on the same night, this would be a good distraction for you!

The format is two 'headlining' poets, with the rest being 'opne mic' slots.

You can check the person who runs it out on Facebook, as well as the event itself.

And more details here: http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/eventview.php?search=unmade bed


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## Greebo (Jun 30, 2014)

Dulwich Mishi said:


> Slightly off-topic, but on a poetry theme, there's a free poetry event called 'Open Bed', on Sunday 13th July, doors open at around 7 of half past I think, at the Flying Dutchman pub, on the corner of Wells Way & Southhampton Way in Camberwell.< snip>


Corrected for you, unless timetravel has become possible.


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## Dulwich Mishi (Jun 30, 2014)

Greebo said:


> Corrected for you, unless timetravel has become possible.


 D'oh! Bit of a typo, I'm afraid!


----------



## Dillinger4 (Sep 27, 2014)

A single blackbird
In fading twilight, singing
The song of autumn


----------



## Rebelda (Dec 5, 2014)

Pound of Flesh

Raindrops in snow skinned arms;
A roof, over thinking.


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## May Kasahara (Jun 13, 2015)

Just looking through an old diary and found this.

Submersible

hands to the hull
expecting your tapping, your ghosts
late at night I hunt you through the dark

so many fates wrapped up in 
your airless little world
it is hard to believe in you
tappings, knockings
are you alive in there?
what do you hear?

wonder about the tide
is it stormy where you are
serene at the bottom, awaiting lift
toward the light

when your fate is in others' hands
serenity reigns
you are at peace, whatever
storms fly above

at night I dream I am in there with you
gasping for escape


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## sojourner (Jun 15, 2015)

A really atmospheric piece May Kasahara   Great title, and wonderful ideas that swim around the unborn child, but a child who may be carrying other spirits/your expectations within?  I can't help but think of your son and your brother here - a feeling that is repeated with that powerful last line.

Okay, on a technical side of things, I've got a few suggestions that you're more than welcome to ignore  Always remember this is only my analysis, you are the poet creator.

I'd move that 'in' from the end of the 1st line/2nd stanza to the start of the 2nd line. 
Also, the 'whatever' in the penultimate verse - I think it would work better on its own line. Gives it much more freedom that way - more room for interpretation.
You use pronouns freely, but stanza 3 lacks one in the first line, and I think it would work better if it had one.


----------



## May Kasahara (Jun 15, 2015)

Cheers soj, critique always welcome  I posted it exactly as I found it in the diary, do usually tinker with things as you suggest but didn't really have a clear enough view on this one iyswim, so your feedback is v helpful.


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## Ceej (Jun 17, 2015)

I love this thread!! I so wish I could write...strictly at the consumer end of the deal, me.
Off to this tomorrow...
http://www.speaking-volumes.org.uk/events/stand_up_and_spit/


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## sojourner (Jun 18, 2015)

Ceej said:


> I love this thread!! I so wish I could write...strictly at the consumer end of the deal, me.
> Off to this tomorrow...
> http://www.speaking-volumes.org.uk/events/stand_up_and_spit/


Oh my god - fucking well jealous Ceej !


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## Ceej (Jun 18, 2015)

Shame you're not in London, sojourner - you could come with!


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## sojourner (Jun 18, 2015)

Ceej said:


> Shame you're not in London, sojourner - you could come with!


I so would.  A mate linked me the Morning Star piece about it, thinking I could apply, but a) it was all booked up and b) you kinda had to have been there at the time in order to qualify getting a gig on it  

Enjoy!


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## sojourner (Jun 19, 2015)

So Ceej  - how was it? A few FB mates went and have been raving about it *jealous*


----------



## Pickman's model (Jun 19, 2015)

sojourner's filled with jealousie
because s/he missed the poetry


----------



## sojourner (Jun 19, 2015)

Pickman's model said:


> sojourner's filled with jealousie
> because s/he missed the poetry


She - SHE!

I can't believe you still didn't know that.


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## Ceej (Jun 19, 2015)

It was utterly immense, sojourner - 7-30 till after 11 and my old mate, Atila the Stockbroker was there!! Ginger John and Janine Booth were brilliant, as was Atila. Spend next weeks' grocery money on poetry book and T shirts - who needs food 
Talk about the cream of the crop....I'll not see a better night than that.


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## sojourner (Jun 19, 2015)

Ceej said:


> It was utterly immense, sojourner - 7-30 till after 11 and my old mate, Atila the Stockbroker was there!! Ginger John and Janine Booth were brilliant, as was Atila. Spend next weeks' grocery money on poetry book and T shirts - who needs food
> Talk about the cream of the crop....I'll not see a better night than that.


Fantastic!!    Hahaa - well, yeh, not often you get them all together in the same place is it? Nice one


----------



## Pickman's model (Jun 19, 2015)

sojourner said:


> She - SHE!
> 
> I can't believe you still didn't know that.


i don't know how that errant / crept in


----------



## scifisam (Oct 19, 2015)

I was looking for a thread on which to post a poem and ask for feedback, but since it's in a sonnet form, and most of you seem to think writing to a form is worse than Hitler, I think this is probably not the best place for it. I really like some of the ones posted here, esp Dotty's personified April and May K's one about parenting.


----------



## ShiftyBagLady (Oct 19, 2015)

I like sonnets, PM me if you don't want to post it up here


----------



## scifisam (Oct 19, 2015)

Ok,  Ty!


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## ShiftyBagLady (Oct 28, 2015)

Have got a blog that I'll be putting my poetry on, follow me follow me follow me follow me but don't lose your grip....
parataxis.wordpress.com


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## May Kasahara (Oct 6, 2016)

AS it's National Poetry Day and all, here's one that I started working on and then forgot all about  so it's still well rough, like.

ROUND ROBIN

It’s been a bad year for the children,
passed between hands that couldn’t do enough
and hands that do too much,
awash, away, among the waves
of shock, salt, cars
traffic
between states
they do not, cannot recognise.

It’s been a bad year for the children
while our goods and gains continue to grow
high as the waves, fat as butter,
wasted as the grain
we burn on our shores.
Life-jacket red,
the sun sinks
gilding a path across choppy waters
leavened with the dead.

It’s been a bad year for the children,
they’re not safe around water,
too much of it
or not enough,
we never seem to get it right
we clench them up too tight
or let them roam too far
we pass them by, pass them between
our borders, boundaries, frightened by a tale
of a stranger in a car.

It’s been a bad year for the children
as they bend and break,
tear and tell
and no one comes.
They seem to think they can just
go on growing,
all that food! All that attention,
How much do they need,
really? How much will they bleed?
We try to keep them in
keep them down, contained, we beat them thin
like hammered gold leaf
till they’re a face smiling out of our paper
_can you die of a broken hip
my baby’s moving not breathing
poor little thing someone took her_
We never seem to get the information we need.

Yes, it’s been a bad year for the children
and the teenagers don’t
seem to want to talk
anymore, thumbing
that stupid broken language
from palm to palm like they’re
blind deaf and dumb.
We can’t seem to get through to them
where they’re going wrong.
Maybe things will be better
when we send this around
next year?


----------



## Pickman's model (Oct 6, 2016)

2016

it's been a bad year for the children
a much worse one for the slebs
the weather's not met expectations
but it's better than being dead

it's been a bad year for the children
hearing sounds of years gone by
bowie and prince are not forgotten
when they hear them the children sigh

it's been a bad year for the children
a much worse one for dead slebs
the dead pool lists are all filled in
and the children all go 'meh'

Badgers


----------



## DotCommunist (Oct 7, 2016)

When selene hangs yellow crescent
I see a witches hook nose, inner curve.
The cackle forms and I laugh too.
Friendly moon.

If the lady is full white, round, austere.
I reflect sober as she, for now.
Full bodied sky fruit with a smallpox veneer.
Stern Moon

Should she wax or wane the balance,
I follow that too. Shrink or swell.
Faces half shadowed, her and I


Once, just once, she wore red for me.
Normal phenomena they say. But
I know better, selene knows better.
Blood moon


----------



## Ceej (Oct 24, 2016)

Had the very great pleasure of meeting sojourner on Saturday night, and great to see the not-very-well ShiftyBagLady. Soj is such a brilliant performer - already loved her poetry but awesome to see them live. Joy Frank was great too...though turning around to see a sea of Donald Trumps will feed my nightmares for some time!


----------



## ShiftyBagLady (Oct 24, 2016)

I'm glad I made it, it was touch and go for a while there but I had a great time. Must admit that I felt a bit like a fan as I knew almost all of sojourner poems but I loved the performance of them. It's a cliche to say she brings the writing to life but I think that's the best description; her performances are so full of life and energy that it makes the words more potent. Highly, highly rated.

Joy Frank was a joy to behold, I loved her silly and her serious and her moving poem about her son and her rap, those were my favourites. I posted a video of the trump thing on Facebook, hope she gets to see it.

Lovely to see you too Ceej, always a pleasure


----------



## wtfftw (Oct 24, 2016)

I'm sad and sorry not to have made it.  Had a migraine.


----------



## sojourner (Oct 25, 2016)

Thanks so much for coming ShiftyBagLady  and Ceej  - and Ron Merlin  too!  It's Joy France btw, not Frank   And yeh. she really is something! Housmans was really quite reserved compared to the Brixton gig, and I'm afraid I got even shoutier because of it


----------



## Ceej (Oct 25, 2016)

Joy FRANCE...no wonder I couldn't find her anywhere! *slaps head*

The shouty bits were the best bits, sojourner!


----------



## Cheesypoof (Apr 17, 2017)

we need to get this poetry thread going again. sojourner? May?


----------



## albionism (May 15, 2017)

.


----------



## sojourner (May 15, 2017)

Sorry Cheesypoof  - never saw that post of yours until now. It's prob best to tag me if you want me 

albionism  - sommat you want to share, mate?


----------



## albionism (May 16, 2017)

sojourner said:


> Sorry Cheesypoof  - never saw that post of yours until now. It's prob best to tag me if you want me
> 
> albionism  - sommat you want to share, mate?


I put a short poem up, but was a bit
embarrassed so I deleted it.


----------



## DotCommunist (May 16, 2017)

I saw a mouse, I didn't care for it.
Beady eyed arrogance, shocked still twitcher,
coiled to run and run

There was a cat, tom by build,
studied lazy contempt,
coiled to rend and tear.

The Red Kites came early this year,
to wheel in updrafts, dive to the London Road.
Their easy carrion-call existence

At home a small life rests, beady eyed,
arrogant with youth, with teeth
and fur and insatiable curiosity.

I care for it.


----------



## sojourner (May 16, 2017)

albionism said:


> I put a short poem up, but was a bit
> embarrassed so I deleted it.


Don't be embarrassed!  Put it up again  



DotCommunist said:


> I saw a mouse, I didn't care for it.
> Beady eyed arrogance, shocked still twitcher,
> coiled to run and run
> 
> ...



Nicely done dotty


----------



## sojourner (May 16, 2017)

Right - how about someone pick something off this list, and we all have a week to write sommat?

https://belljarblog.files.wordpress.com/2013/04/a-month-of-poetry-prompts1.pdf


----------



## DotCommunist (May 16, 2017)

I could do a luadation all day long but I couldn't bring myself to air it. One to be read at my funeral to remind weeping eyes of what a smug bastard I could be at times


----------



## stethoscope (Mar 14, 2018)

Ceej said:


> It was utterly immense, sojourner - 7-30 till after 11 and my old mate, Atila the Stockbroker was there!! Ginger John and Janine Booth were brilliant, as was Atila. Spend next weeks' grocery money on poetry book and T shirts - who needs food
> Talk about the cream of the crop....I'll not see a better night than that.



A bump only really because we went to see Janine Booth last night, she was aces


----------



## sojourner (Mar 14, 2018)

stethoscope said:


> A bump only really because we went to see Janine Booth last night, she was aces


Heh - me and Janine are doing a gig together this Saturday as it happens, in Otley Labour Rooms! She is fantastic, agreed.  When we did a gig last year, it was like meeting the southern version of me  so am proper looking forward to this one!


----------



## Ceej (Mar 14, 2018)

She's brilliant (as is sojourner) - dream team - come to London!!!


----------



## sojourner (Mar 14, 2018)

Ceej said:


> She's brilliant (as is sojourner) - dream team - come to London!!!


I am hoping to return to That London, possibly in October, and if I do, we will deffo be doing a gig together


----------



## Pickman's model (Mar 14, 2018)

march 2016

hawking's dead but cliff still lives
i'm not sure there are many positives
nigel farage lives - now there's a pity
his slow painful death would not be shitty


----------



## sojourner (Mar 14, 2018)

*Butterfly						   *

Remember to look up at the stars

_Not the kind who whine about their first world problems on a million different channels
always me me me_

to look up at the stars and not down at your feet	 

_and reach out to the universe with all your tiny fingertips_

and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see

_in a world where reality TV isn't real
and filters alter everything
teeth tits face fists
tiny hands and truth_

and wonder how the universe exists													 

_especially now
when our weaponry of satire is extinct_

how the universe exists.
Be curious

_but don't forget the NHS
or the cunt in charge of it_

And however difficult life may seem			

_poison on the streets
two women every week
babies being bombed by BAE artillery
young guns silencing the songs that others sung   
corruption in the corridors
lungs full of gas
love from Assad
_
there is always something you can do
and succeed at

_even if it's breathing in
getting up
putting one foot
on the floor
and then another_

It matters that you don't just give up

_did I?_

It matters that you don't just give up

_be a butterfly

_


----------



## scifisam (Mar 14, 2018)

Pickman's model said:


> march 2016
> 
> hawking's dead but cliff still lives
> i'm not sure there are many positives
> ...



Hawking was a time traveller after all then!


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 1, 2018)

I'm doing NaPoWriMo this time, anyone else?


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 1, 2018)

(sojourner DotCommunist ShiftyBagLady marty21 anyone else, see my blatant attempt to revive this thread)


----------



## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 2, 2018)

Fuck it, I should give it a go.
I haven't properly written any poetry for ages, I've done what equates to sketches of poems but haven't actually committed to writing them. Maybe I'll work on those...

What's your plan May Kasahara? You got an hour or so put aside every day to write? Got stuff to work on? Going to respond to writing prompts?


----------



## Thimble Queen (Apr 2, 2018)

Oh I'm tempted to write something everyday for April. Not sure if I have the time though... I suppose they don't have to be super long or perfect


----------



## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 2, 2018)

Thimble Queen said:


> Oh I'm tempted to write something everyday for April. Not sure if I have the time though... I suppose they don't have to be super long or perfect


Take ten minutes: five minutes stream of consciousness, five minutes to edit it


----------



## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 2, 2018)

I'll try to remember to drop some writing prompts off here for anyone who just wants to dip their toe in every now and then


----------



## Thimble Queen (Apr 2, 2018)

ShiftyBagLady said:


> Take ten minutes: five minutes stream of consciousness, five minutes to edit it



Do you put yours on a blog or anything?


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 2, 2018)

ShiftyBagLady I've joined a prompt group on FB so am using those. Yesterday's was to choose six assonant words and use them to write something.


----------



## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 2, 2018)

Thimble Queen said:


> Do you put yours on a blog or anything?


No, I don't because that counts as publishing and most competitions and publishers want strictly unpublished work. I do a poetry and photography scrapbook and Instagram with poems I like, that's my only 'output' at the moment.
I've been thinking about setting up a poetry feedback workshop because there's nothing I like more than talking about poetry. Think that's a plan for the future though...


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 2, 2018)

In the shop with the man's name
you spent fifty pounds on a new knife
with a name that sounds like 'saboteur'.
We joke once we get it home,
show the children its sharp blade,
a slice of light.

You laugh as I avoid the new knife
but it turns first on you,
slicing into your finger like a ripe tomato. 
The juice of you is saltier than your swears.

I carry on wielding our nameless stalwart 
which, unknowingly sharpened by you
so that it might match up,
turns in my hand
and bites me in sympathy.


----------



## 8115 (Apr 2, 2018)

A poem I half wrote around 2014. Needs a lot of work, any feedback welcome.


Alright bitches.

Did you see me, standing on that wall?
How tall I am?

I haven't gone mad.

Snap snap.

Low grade.

Smells like home.


I get cold.


----------



## Baronage-Phase (Apr 2, 2018)

<another fucking post deleted:ed>


----------



## 8115 (Apr 2, 2018)

Even in the time
it takes
to write a poem

smoke a fag

check an email.


A million stars die.


----------



## DotCommunist (Apr 2, 2018)

O come lucky April,
born on a raft of stale jokes
You'll be here, come what may.


----------



## Baronage-Phase (Apr 4, 2018)

It's done
All gone


----------



## sojourner (Apr 4, 2018)

Okay then, let's do this! Napowrimo!  First up is this one

*Advice For Free*

Remember watching Motorhead
in Bingley Hall in Stafford?
The time that fella's ears bled?
Lemmy's warts,
the wall of sound,
and Philthy going mad?

Remember where we stood that night?
And how that fella, six foot three,
came and stood in front of me,
so we just moved a step along
and simply carried on?

At every single gig for years
a giant stood in front of me.
And usually, he'd introduce
the contents of his arse to me,
silently.
Fifteen pints of Guinness and a king prawn biryani.

And then of course I'd always stand
in pre-ordained desire paths,
where every single punter would have to walk right into me
on their way to have a piss or get another pint.
It didn't matter where I stood,
I was always in that line.

But the last gig that I went to,
there's a fella stood in front of me,
he wasn't very tall at all,
he was only five foot three
but in his tiny fist he clutched
a Samsung fucking Galaxy - S9.

He held it high, he held it long,
his phone recorded every song.
He didn't watch the gig with eyes,
his lust for life was minimised.
He didn't mosh, he didn't dance,
he didn't even sing.
And now at every single gig
there's hundreds of them just like him,
obliterating lines of sight with smart-arsing technology.

When they wend their way back home
and watch a live gig on their phone,
and wonder why it sounds so shit,
I hope they will remember the advice I gave for free:

PUT YOUR FUCKING PHONE AWAY MATE
PUT IT IN YOUR POCKET
PUT YOUR FUCKING PHONE AWAY
BEFORE I FUCKING BREAK IT
PUT YOUR FUCKING PHONE AWAY MATE
PUT IT IN YOUR POCKET
KEEP IT SAFE WITHIN YOUR KECKS
BEFORE I FUCKING LOB IT


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 4, 2018)

Today's prompt was a Golden Shovel. Never even heard of before, much less written one, but I did write one using a line from Suspended In Gaffa by Kate Bush.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 5, 2018)

May Kasahara said:


> Today's prompt was a Golden Shovel. Never even heard of before, much less written one, but I did write one using a line from Suspended In Gaffa by Kate Bush.


Are you gonna post it up here May Kasahara ?

I understand if folk don't wanna post it here if they want to have it published somewhere, but I would really like to see everyone's stuff, have our own little Urban Napo.


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 5, 2018)

sojourner said:


> Are you gonna post it up here May Kasahara ?
> 
> I understand if folk don't wanna post it here if they want to have it published somewhere, but I would really like to see everyone's stuff, have our own little Urban Napo.



Yeah, it's difficult innit - I do like posting stuff as feedback is important to help me determine whether anything should go out for possible publication...but then loads of places say no prior publication anywhere ever 

I will post my shovel though  just ran out of time last night.


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 5, 2018)

You will be pleased to hear sojourner that all this writing is making me want to go out and read at open mic nights


----------



## sojourner (Apr 5, 2018)

May Kasahara said:


> You will be pleased to hear sojourner that all this writing is making me want to go out and read at open mic nights


That DOES please me, greatly   You are an absolute natural - you should be out there all the time!

There were no less than 3 other poets at that gig last night and the fella who runs it was thanking me for bringing poetry to his nights. He said no one bothered before I did mine, and now loads of folk are starting to do it. Ace


----------



## sojourner (Apr 5, 2018)

May Kasahara said:


> Yeah, it's difficult innit - I do like posting stuff as feedback is important to help me determine whether anything should go out for possible publication...but then loads of places say no prior publication anywhere ever
> 
> I will post my shovel though  just ran out of time last night.


I wonder if there's a way to 'hide' this thread, or perhaps if we use the spoiler tags - would it show in searches then?


----------



## sojourner (Apr 5, 2018)

(2nd poem for Napo)


*Origin*

This began with whispered words,
bites from shiny apples;

a desire to command, create;
a hunger to articulate intensity,
to mechanise a melody inside.

This commenced with prephonation;
tutoring of simple lips,
tentatively glossolalic.
Patterns forming,
disconnected information circling itself,
pulling at phonetic cords of morphemes

and spitting out bubbles just for fun, in between.

I did not suck my thumb.
I used hydraulic energy
and learned to work the motors of the muscles
in my head; masticating syllables,
exorcising scribbles made of air and formless urges;
engineering frenulous activity

and spitting out bubbles just for fun, in between.

This began and will not end until the breath begins to fade,
'til incantation drains away and starts to dig itself a grave,
knowing that it's naked and emaciating daily;
'til my tongue begins to wilt,
and the bricks I used to build myself
a living wall of symbols
fall apart, decay and die,
and disappear;

until I do not spit out bubbles just for fun, anymore.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 5, 2018)

May Kasahara said:


> ShiftyBagLady I've joined a prompt group on FB so am using those. Yesterday's was to choose six assonant words and use them to write something.


May Kasahara  - link me to that group would you please?


----------



## Steel Icarus (Apr 5, 2018)

*No here*

To be two places at once, and neither
as cardboard armour hides the truth.
Either a man without a country, or an emperor
of a land I cannot use.

_Smiling and coping. Existing, yet not
being._

No-one has been here but me. Impossible
that such a place
would remain unremarked upon, missed
by cartographers on even their most careless days.

_Managing and screaming. Soldiering, yet
spir
		   all
	  ing._

One face behind another. Am I here
and I am not here.
There is
no here.

_False god of a far-flung temple.
Unheralded seneschal
of a fled campestral._


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 5, 2018)

sojourner said:


> I wonder if there's a way to 'hide' this thread, or perhaps if we use the spoiler tags - would it show in searches then?



PM group?

The FB group is Carrie Etter's one


----------



## sojourner (Apr 6, 2018)

Ooo I like that SI.  The spiralling bit makes me want to play more with the formatting so it actually spirals.  You used one of the prompts for that poem didn't you? I read that one but couldn't make anything with it.


----------



## Steel Icarus (Apr 6, 2018)

sojourner said:


> Ooo I like that SI.  The spiralling bit makes me want to play more with the formatting so it actually spirals.  You used one of the prompts for that poem didn't you? I read that one but couldn't make anything with it.


Oops, was I supposed to be following a theme?


----------



## Steel Icarus (Apr 6, 2018)

I tried to make it spiral but on here it's impossible


----------



## sojourner (Apr 6, 2018)

Great minds 

That's a shame. You got a blog or owt where the formatting will work?

I'm gonna try putting one on here now but not sure if the formatting will work or I'll have to post a link.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 6, 2018)

*Hotdesk Almanac*


She keeps secrets in me.
Lifts my lid for privacy,
blows bubbles in my guts,
leaving evidence inside
with full impunity.
I am discreet
rebellion.

He spits bile inside me.
Hatred for his mummy
and the baby
and the way the teacher treats him
like he's soft.
_He isn't._
I contain his scarlet ache safely.

I display names and dates,
scratched in perpetuity,
significant to no one now
but me.
I am their history.

I soak up saliva, endeavour, secretions, bad temper, frustration, intentions, and tears.

I echo young flesh bent double
					   over long division
						 desperation;​
water colour imprints of a small boy's dreams
wrought in indigo blooms									
_													  OVERFLOWIN_
_													   G _	rough-book margins.

I have held purple shame, ragged breath,
passed-around-the-class nasty notes,
stolen fuzzy felt, plasticine catharsis
coloured orange, blue, and green.
I am wood, legs, nails, holes, hurt.
I collect.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 6, 2018)

This time I edited an old poem, that was never finished, with the prompt in mind. The prompt was about experimenting with line breaks. The formatting won't quite work on here, nor the font type (that doesn't work on any fucking online platform!) or size, so I'll leave that up there, and link to it on Write Out Loud as well.

Hotdesk Almanac | Write Out Loud


----------



## sojourner (Apr 6, 2018)

S☼I said:


> Oops, was I supposed to be following a theme?


Haha  Nah, there are plenty of prompts going round, but it's entirely your choice as to whether you use them or not.

Just that yesterday's was about opposites, dialogues, and abstract to concrete - which you kind of followed.


----------



## seeformiles (Apr 6, 2018)

Here’s an rhyme I wrote last week for Easter based on my childhood - when we’d await the coming of the Easter Hare (as that’s the German way) - and Mrs SFM hatred of stray pubes. I recited this as we tucked into a choclatey breakfast :

Easter

Strike up the band! 
Kick up your legs!
The Easter Hair’s hiding
In one of these eggs.

Which one could it be?
Which silvery coat?
You’ll only find out
When it tickles your throat!


----------



## sojourner (Apr 6, 2018)




----------



## 8115 (Apr 6, 2018)

Starbucks (after William Carlos Williams)

The guy
in Starbucks
has made 
a mistake

and given me
the wrong
sized coffee.

Forgive me.
I only come in here
because it's quiet.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 7, 2018)

*Not Doris Day's Armpits*

(to the tune of Que sera sera)


When I was  only 12 years old,
I shaved my armpits
bare as can be.
Will I be sexy?
Will I be fit?
Here's what they said to me:

'Oh the itch the itch!
Whatever possessed you, bitch,
to bulk-buy a load of Bics.
Oh the itch the itch'

When I grew up I carried on
hacking my arm pits
week after week.
Did it get better?
Did it hurt less?
Here's what they said to me:

'Oh pit hair pit hair,
we wish you were thick as fur.
We wish you had curly hair.
Oh pit hair pit hair'.

Now I am grown and blades have gone,
so has my pit rash
and that mad itch.
Now I am furry.
Now I am sleek.
Here's how it makes me feel:

Oh pit hair pit hair,
you make people stop and stare,
you're sexy cos you don't care.
Oh pit hair pit hair.


----------



## Baronage-Phase (Apr 7, 2018)

sojourner said:


> *Not Doris Day's Armpits*
> 
> (to the tune of Que sera sera)
> 
> ...




Love it !!


----------



## sojourner (Apr 7, 2018)

cheers Pip

It was about time I wrote a serious and thoughtful piece eh?


----------



## Baronage-Phase (Apr 8, 2018)

<deleted by request: ed>


----------



## sojourner (Apr 8, 2018)

Ooo I like that Pip!


----------



## sojourner (Apr 8, 2018)

*Kontemplations
*

Considering
the cunt,
containing curse and origin,
alive within a Twelfth Night letter from Olivia
and Hamlet's country matters,
the Dead Sea of Ulysses,
Penguin prosecutions, unsuccessful,
and the trump cards of tender Beckett wives. 

In monologues and myth making,
displayed on Venus figurines,
in Dinner Party paintings,
Courbet's fevered inspiration;
sacred, praised in Bridal Hymns,
Hindu yoni,
sheela na gigs
and Leonard Cohen's alpha and omega. 

Consider art and architecture,
literature and sculpture.
Consider sin and censorship
and interdicted culture.
Consider birth, consider sex,
consider our existence,
and ponder
on the power
of the
cunt.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 8, 2018)

I confess I mostly wrote this to wind up the idiots attempting to silence me on a poetry site, but it does have a valid point anyway


----------



## ShiftyBagLady (Apr 8, 2018)

Haven't written thing a thing all week because my fucking life wouldn't allow it. I have read a bit though 
Was having a smoke on the balcony just now and heard my neighbours playing Bob Marley. I was going to try to write something based on the senses this week so they provided some aural inspiration. 
Thanks guys. 
Now shut up.


Untitled 

Is this love, is this love, is this love
That the neighbours are feeling?
Surely not with the door open,
Surely not with the plashing of the rain

They've got know, got to know, got to know
Now. As do I, with the sirens wailing.
As do I, with the stillness of droplets
Hoping to fall from the leaves.

Is this love in the kitchen?
Is this love in the grey heart of Babylon?
Is this love with the smoke in my lungs
And the ploshing of rain in my tea.

Little darling, is this love?
In the madness and the shouting?
Is this love with the sharp bird trilling 
With the daffodils fading fast into earth.

Is this love with the boujie glass buildings
scraping the underbelly of the sky?
I need to know. Now. With the rain
Falling soft on my face and my thigh.


----------



## Baronage-Phase (Apr 8, 2018)

Half way down the road
I see them.
Two huge manes
Of palest pink.

They cascade to earth .

Time's measure...
A pure blossom.
Weeps with joy.

And life is changed
Beautifully,
With the turn of a dial.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 9, 2018)

Ploshing of rain in my tea - ace Shifty!

And again Pip, lovely piece that.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 9, 2018)

I used the prompt again today and finding it really fucking difficult to write something that even gets near quality every day!  Anyhoo the prompt today was 'something big coming together with something small'.

*Superseding Planets*

thin and unliveable, named after war
bloody and brutal and cold

smashable bubbles of glassy cat's eyes,
we played with them in the road

vast in diameter, iron-rich regolith
channels and valleys and dust

tiny parameters, sand, ash and ribbons
of ruby, virescent, and rust

hold a marble to the sky
concentrate and close one eye
supersede and disappear
the mighty rock of Mars


----------



## krtek a houby (Apr 9, 2018)

Internet madness
Infinite sadness

The game is endless
And often quite senseless

Are they right, though
The one who is my foe

Internet handles
Uploading scandals

I don't know
Perhaps I should go


----------



## Baronage-Phase (Apr 9, 2018)

Tweeze
Pinch
Poke
Damn!

A hair on my chin
Is growing too fast.
It's winning the race
Of the hair on my face.

Wait....
Wait....
"Take that" ..stubborn follicle!
Such sweet relief

It's gone.


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 9, 2018)

*Bluebeard's Babies*

At night Mummy and Daddy take off their faces
they wear each other’s
or the ones they keep in the bottle
on the high shelf.
You’ll learn this
once you get to the age
of helping,
until then you mustn’t
come downstairs after dark.

Mummy and Daddy never cry 
although their voices are big and strong
as ogre’s hands
so when they say
‘put down those breadcrumbs’
or ‘spin me some gold’
or ‘take that cow to market’
you must listen.

They never show us the other faces
they say we will learn about them
once we get to the age of knowing
but for now Mummy will sing
and Daddy will rock
good night, good night, good night

I am of the age of helping.
I fetch and carry, mend and matter
Daddy says that one day I will please a king.

Immy was the age of knowing.
Mummy and Daddy say 
she has gone
on a quest.
At night when I’m not listening
to their faces grunt and groan
I think of the door not slamming.
I don’t ask
when Immy will be coming back
that belongs 
to the age of knowing.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 9, 2018)

Wow May 

I instantly googled Immy, bluebeard but got nowt so now I am left wondering crazily where that name comes from. Could it be a play on I'm?

Hmmm....

Loved the images in there anyway though.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 9, 2018)

Had to edit the shit out of that post. Fucking keys on this laptop are shit


----------



## May Kasahara (Apr 9, 2018)

Heh, no I just made up the name and not really a direct connection to Bluebeard either. Just started randomly thinking about what life as a child of extremely (fairytale level) dysfunctional parents would be like, while I was doing the vacuuming


----------



## sojourner (Apr 10, 2018)

May Kasahara said:


> Heh, no I just made up the name and not really a direct connection to Bluebeard either. Just started randomly thinking about what life as a child of extremely (fairytale level) dysfunctional parents would be like, while I was doing the vacuuming


As you do, like


----------



## sojourner (Apr 10, 2018)

*Subjects of Denial*

My hair is clean and brushed and smart.
Hers is drenched and dirty.
I am wearing cosy clothes.
She is bare and purple.
I'm inhaling bluebell air.
She is breathing fire.
I am watching pixellated subjects of denial.

I am strong and tall, unbowed.
She is weak and wailing.
I am fifty years of age.
She is but a baby.
I have biscuits on my lips.
She has froth and horror.
I am watching pixellated subjects of atrocity. 

I have eyes that blur and leak
but I am speaking freely.
She has eyes that cannot see.
She is wheezing frantically.
I am hearing grown men lie.
She is hearing people die.
I am watching pixellated subjects of denial. 



(The prompt today was to write a poem of simultaneity. I watched the news last night and this fell out today.)


----------



## sojourner (Apr 11, 2018)

Today's effort is so bad I'm only putting a link to it   The prompt was a state of the union address, to yourself, for yourself. I've already written stuff about my future, so I wrote this instead

State of the Utopian Union Address | Write Out Loud


----------



## sojourner (Apr 12, 2018)

The prompt today was to write a haibun - prose poetry finished up with a haiku. Didn't quite crack the prose bit, but enjoyed the challenge.


*Springtime at Aintree*

Vultures descend on a city red and blue,
eating up the green grass.
Profit-driven fingers semaphoring odds
and the ends are as regular as clockwork here.

Runners and their riders gather at the gate,
accumulators tethered to their necks.
A sweat-streaked chestnut whinnies as she blows
and gathers up her feathers for 											
_They're off!_

And the chestnut flutters,
flounders over safety measures,
scavengers roaring out displeasure,
_had a tenner
each way
on a double_
and they crumple up the stub;
deaf to her snowblind breath.

Now the chestnut sleeps
with a bullet in her dreams.
Lilies for her wings.


----------



## sojourner (Apr 13, 2018)

Is no one else playing now?


----------



## Baronage-Phase (Apr 13, 2018)

*Life is short ...*
"so live it well"
I said to myself,
As I rang that bell.


----------



## Baronage-Phase (Apr 13, 2018)

Sorry sojourner 
I just read the prompt...
Will do another.


----------



## Baronage-Phase (Apr 13, 2018)

Sun on the water
Cloud in the sky.
Walked along cliff lines
Towards the lay by.
The dog rushing forward
All waggy with glee,
Turns round to bark
And then looks up at me. 
'Go get it', I shout 
As a branch soars through air..
He rushes, delighted,
Tail up ...not a care
In his world
There's no despair. 
Retrieving it quickly
He jostles his head,
Shakes it and tosses it
Down on a bed
Of soft golden sand
That's warm to his touch.
It sticks to his nose
And annoys him so much.
"How lucky you are",
I think as I smile
At my little companion
With his big toothy smile.


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## mx wcfc (Apr 13, 2018)

I haven't written a poem for a very long time, but I would like to join in in case I can get started again.  Most of my writing then was lyrics.
This is somewhat dated, now that adverts on telly seem to have to have multi racial couples, which is real progress compared to when I wrote this in the late 80's as some of the references will make clear.  So forgive me, but here we go......

Picturesque living room ladies
On perpetual diets of Daz
Freshly car washed Cortinas 
Delightful deep frozen Dads
With their 2.63 children, who never scream or fight
They just play in the mud, dressed in all white

Well they're clean alright,
they're clean, they're white
Conservative voters
they sleep at night
in their cosy semi ds
in cul de sacs
only feed Whiskas to the family cat
Sunbed suntan, breakfast AllBran
Your Timex watch is digital
The brand you buy is CRITICAL.

I say, rinse out blue scum.


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## Baronage-Phase (Apr 13, 2018)

mx wcfc said:


> I haven't written a poem for a very long time, but I would like to join in in case I can get started again.  Most of my writing then was lyrics.
> This is somewhat dated, now that adverts on telly seem to have to have multi racial couples, which is real progress compared to when I wrote this in the late 80's as some of the references will make clear.  So forgive me, but here we go......
> 
> Picturesque living room ladies
> ...




I love the "delightful deep frozen Dads"...


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## sojourner (Apr 16, 2018)

PippinTook said:


> Sorry sojourner
> I just read the prompt...
> Will do another.


You don't HAVE to follow the prompt PippinTook  - I've not done it for every poem. I'm just finding it a useful tool sometimes


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## sojourner (Apr 16, 2018)

perpetual diets of Daz - excellent mx wcfc


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## sojourner (Apr 16, 2018)

*Offside*

Was I away
the day they taught the rules
and regulations?
Or was I just not listening?	
Looking and not seeing?
Glazed and completely non-engaged
by talk of tactics, strategy,
positioning and passing?
Perhaps.

Or was I feeling sorry
for my thin and thirsty pumps,
for my skinless shins,
for my tiny-skirted body
turning purple
on the winter-weathered chilling fields of horror?
Whatever.

I was never in the right place,
always in the player's way,
inside outside offside wrong side,
unable to manipulate the pain-shaped stick
or see the D line, sidelines, centre circle box lines
underneath the sleet and snowy drifts.

Screamed at.
Picked last.
_Letting down the team._
Teacher despairing of a girl preferring books
to a backline
_every time,_
words to hypothermia,
letters to competitive
physical sports,
to a turf war I never even wanted.
Hockey wasn't _jolly fun_ at all

but offside is an art form now.


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## sojourner (Apr 16, 2018)

My effort for today's prompt about sport or a game.


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## Baronage-Phase (Apr 16, 2018)

sojourner said:


> *Offside*
> 
> Was I away
> the day they taught the rules
> ...





I love this...it is my teenage school life!!!


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## Pickman's model (Apr 16, 2018)

sojourner said:


> *Offside*
> 
> Was I away
> the day they taught the rules
> ...


didn't we have a lovely day the day we did cross-country
running along in the autumn chill life doesn't get better than this you know
didn't we have a lovely time the day we did cross-country
jogging along up hill and down and around and someone's fell over a body you know
scarpering through bushes and trees trying to find a short cut
wasn't it great, wasn't it fun, it's a great auld laugh if you can be bothered to run
the following year my plan it was clear to skip the great cross country
a note i forged so i sat it out, lighting fires in the park and getting told off


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## sojourner (Apr 16, 2018)

Might wanna work on them line breaks Pickers


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## Pickman's model (Apr 16, 2018)

sojourner said:


> Might wanna work on them line breaks Pickers


not really, i like the roughness of the lines.


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## Pickman's model (Apr 16, 2018)

people always tell me
i should smooth my poems out
do something with the line breaks
and even to watch my mouth
but i'm not really bothered
and i don't really care
i'm writing for myself, you see
so piss off if you're square


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## sojourner (Apr 16, 2018)

Pickman's model said:


> not really, i like the roughness of the lines.


Fair dos but I was singing it in my head and kept coming up short.

Your poem, do what you like fella.


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## sojourner (Apr 16, 2018)

Pickman's model said:


> people always tell me
> i should smooth my poems out
> do something with the line breaks
> and even to watch my mouth
> ...


Oh fucking charming!


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## Pickman's model (Apr 16, 2018)

sojourner said:


> Oh fucking charming!


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## sojourner (Apr 17, 2018)

*A Little Smash of Plaster*

I bet it's still there,
a little smash of plaster
in the nicotined ceiling,
held in my memory forty-odd years. 

Dad'd blush and mutter,
ramble about "safety"
as we would tell the tale for the umpteenth time,
gleefully relishing the moment. 

It must have been a present.
He couldn't have afforded one from paper round or jobs done,			 
and everyone had one							   
or knew someone who did,
bruised thighs to prove "Does it hurt?" 

Tin cans. Fat rats. Prohibited blackbirds,
brought into the garden									  
by monkey nuts and cunning,
and summer days of nothing much to do. 

I thought the window would go through,
he hit it that hard.
Smashing on the single pane,
"Put the bloody safety on!"
"Get in here NOW",
enraged at the flagrant breach of Rules. 

My brother limped in, ready for a bollocking.
Dad ripped it off him,
launching into what went wrong
if Rules weren't followed.
"Put the bloody safety on!
What have I been telling you?
You'll have somebody's eye…" *BANG!*
*"SHIT!"*

The shiny .22.
A furious Dad.
A pellet to the nicotined ceiling.
A moment of surprise.
Silence for a second.
Plaster-white confetti on our heads.
Then we couldn't draw breath we were laughing that hard.
"Put the bloody safety on, _DAD_". 

I hope it's still there,
that little smash of plaster,
a pellet-shaped cavity,
held in my memory forty-odd years.
Put the bloody safety on, Dad.


(12th poem for NaPoWriMo 2018 – poem about a family anecdote)


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## sojourner (Apr 18, 2018)

*Floral Evensong*

The day slept long
and the honeysuckle roared   
jaws unsewn
siren sounds for night-flight hawks
to lick her pink and yellow hollow
bring sweet syrup to her lips
to satisfy and saturate
and permeate her pollen




13th poem for NaPoWriMo 2018 – The prompt today was: pick a poem. Cover up every thing but the last line. Write a line that completes the thought of that line or otherwise responds to it. Then uncover 2nd to last line and do the same – this gives you the 2nd line of your new poem. Keep going until you get to the 1st line of your source poem, which you complete and respond to as the last line in your own poem. It probably won't be the finished draft, but hopefully will contain the seeds of one.  I used 'Risk' by _Anaïs Nin, _which probably explains the sauce!


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## Baronage-Phase (Jan 11, 2019)

<deleted by request: ed>


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## sojourner (Jan 12, 2019)

Delicate, poignant. Lovely, in a sad way Lupa  x


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## Baronage-Phase (Jan 25, 2019)

...


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## Baronage-Phase (Feb 10, 2019)

There's a cat out in the garden,
Crying to come in.
It's a stranger calling to me
Mid the midnight din
Of cars and merry voices
Singing as they go
Along the path
Home from the pub
Full of beer and full of grub.

I look out in the black night
To find this calling cat
"Where are you?" I call out
"It's cold and dark and wet".
I shine a torch around the place
And wait to hear his cry
Nothing happens for a while
I turn to go inside.
When once again the voice cries out
It's loud and clear and like a shout...
He mews and calls
And now he knows
I'm certainly no threat..

Along the wall I see him walk
Just a silhouette
With two bright eyes
That glow and shine
I know this cat
Will soon be mine.


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## Pickman's model (Feb 10, 2019)

Lupa should have put some food out and it'd have been your cat more quickly


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## Baronage-Phase (Feb 10, 2019)

Pickman's model said:


> Lupa should have put some food out and it'd have been your cat more quickly



It was late...
I put some tuna out this morning and it was gone when I checked back half an hour later.


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## May Kasahara (Oct 8, 2019)

After months and months of creative constipation, I suddenly wrote a poem last night about the comfort of squeezing spots  sojourner 

Will try and post it up later.


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## Pickman's model (Oct 8, 2019)

last night before bed i gazed in a mirror
my wan reflection filled me with terror
by my mouth, in a little dimple,
i spied a vile horrid puce pimple


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## sojourner (Oct 8, 2019)

May Kasahara said:


> After months and months of creative constipation, I suddenly wrote a poem last night about the comfort of squeezing spots  sojourner
> 
> Will try and post it up later.


Yay  Look forward to it!


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## May Kasahara (Oct 8, 2019)

COMFORT

And in the depths of my grief my skin
offered up minimal gifts,
small pimples easily pickable 
with hard beads of sebum that squeezed
out with exactly enough
pressure, one two three 
of them, chest
and arms and back
as if my body were murmuring 
_not the face
not the face, not the face_;

hard beads like seed pearls that rose
from the flesh with nary a murmur 
and exiled themselves into
my wandering hand. I knew they 
would not leave 
a scar, not like
those messy teenage things that had to be 
hacked through with my thick
inexperienced fingers,

not spewing pus everywhere 
but depositing there on my palm
the payload of white grease
daintily encased
in a moonlike shell,

easily flickable 
away.


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## sojourner (Oct 9, 2019)

Given the subject, that's a beautiful poem. Well done  

I would put the 'they' at the start of the next line though, in this bit:

my wandering hand. I knew they
would not leave

I know you want the 'would not leave' to stand out, but it still will and you won't have a 'they' hanging off the end of the line x


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## May Kasahara (Oct 9, 2019)

Oh yeah, the line breaks are all over the place - I've done nothing with it yet, just blurted it out onto the page. I'll deffo try that your way, thanks


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