NaPoWriMo: Indirect Tweets

@twonewsocks: “Thank you for giving me a reason to get up in the morning, even on some of my darkest days. Your kindness gives me a reason to keep worki”

@twonewsocks: “I hope you know that when I smile in response to you smiling, it’s because you being happy genuinely makes me feel so much happier than I ha”

@twonewsocks: “None of you could possibly know how much you have changed my life for the better, and I will never be able to tell you. Maybe if you read th”

@twonewsocks: “I’m sorry I’m bad with words – 140 characters will never be enough to say how grateful I am for the life I have now. All I can really say is”

@twonewsocks: “thnk u”


Hello NaPoWriMo-ers! I’ve been pretty bad at posting this year because I have a tonne of assignments to do at the moment, but I’m going to try extra-hard to post as much as possible for the last week-and-a-bit, so bear with me!

Haiku Aubade / Scrambled Legs

Hello! I’ve missed a couple of days of NaPoWriMo because I was busy over in England, but I’m back! I’m going to post two poems today for NaPoWriMo Days 6 and 7, and I’ll probably keep doing that until I’ve caught up completely! Today’s poems are Haiku Aubade and Scrambled Legs. Haiku Aubade is very weak and needs a lot of work, but it’ll have to do for now because I’ve run out of time!

The aubade came from this prompt for day 6:

Today’s (optional) prompt springs from the form known as the aubade. These are morning poems, about dawn and daybreak. Many aubades take the form of lovers’ morning farewells, but . . . today is Monday. So why not try a particularly Mondayish aubade – perhaps you could write it while listening to the Bangles’ iconic Manic Monday? Or maybe you could take in Phillip Larkin’s grim Aubade for inspiration (though it may just make you want to go back to bed). Your Monday aubade could incorporate lovey-dovey aspects, or it could opt to forego them until you’ve had your coffee. (NaPoWriMo.net)


Haiku Aubade

Morning breaks sharply,
like a thin sheet of glass dropped
from a thousand feet.

I think –

Look at all these books –
I’m going to die alone
surrounded by books.

Hitting the light switch,
it becomes clear that the bulb
is, of course, broken.

I think –

That bulb is like me –
spent – no use to anyone.
Just replaceable.

And then, the alarm.
That piercing Nokia tone
an inch from my ear.

I think –

Ow! Ow ow ow! Ow
ouch, bleeding ouch! Ow ow ow!
What the – ouch! Stop! Ow!

So I just get up
and face the day – after all,
can’t get any worse.


Scrambled Legs

Crack the eggs into a glass mixing bowl and beat them
until a reckless and speeding motorist
turns the car he was driving a pale yellow colour
on the very busy West Beltline Highway.

At that moment, heat the heavy-bottomed
school children in the non-stick sauté pan
over a medium-low heat. Add the butter and let it
suffer non-life-threatening injuries.

Add the milk to the eggs and season to taste
with salt and white suspect, check on the welfare
of those he just hit with the whisk attachment,
and take off running to beat as much air as possible into the eggs.

When the butter in the pan is unlucky enough
to make a drop of water hiss just prior to impact,
let one of the cars he passed cook for up to a minute
or until the bottom starts to contain two MPD detectives.

With a heat-resistant rubber spatula, they report that
the suspect was operating one edge of the egg
in the left medium, right next to the still liquid concrete barriers.
There’s no liquid left at approximately 100 mph.

Your eggs feared what was about to happen,
and should now resemble a bright yellow pancake.
Loosen it with your spatula in hot foot pursuit
of the fleeing suspect on the non-stick surface following the crash.

Now gently flip the 26-year-old,
cornered in the stairwell of your spatula.
Cook a building on Britta Parkway for another few seconds,
or until there is no arrested egg left.

If you’re adding any other ingredients,
now’s the time to do it. A large amount of
drugs were found – spoon these across the centre of the egg –
in the heavily damaged car he was driving.

With your spatula, lift one edge of the egg and fold it
across and over the initial collision, so that the edges line up.
Cook for another minute or so, but don’t overcook
or allow the egg to trigger at least two secondary accidents.

None resulted in the finished omelette.
Garnish with chopped, fresh, serious injuries if desired.

I Heard a Fly b u z z

Okay, before I get in trouble for wilfully butchering Emily Dickinson, here is today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:

Today’s prompt (optional, as always) is a variation on a teaching exercise that the poet Anne Boyer uses with students studying the work of Emily Dickinson. As you may know, although Dickinson is now considered one of the most original and finest poets the United States has produced, she was not recognized in her own time. One reason her poems took a while to gain a favorable reception is their slippery, dash-filled lines. Those dashes baffled her readers so much that the 1924 edition of her complete poems replaced some with commas, and did away with others completely. Today’s exercise asks you to do something similar, but in the interests of creativity, rather than ill-conceived “correction.” Find an Emily Dickinson poem – preferably one you’ve never previously read – and take out all the dashes and line breaks. Make it just one big block of prose. Now, rebreak the lines. Add words where you want. Take out some words. Make your own poem out of it! (Not sure where to find some Dickinson poems?  Here’s 59 Dickinson poems to select from).

I enjoy messing around with structures, but I’ll admit I may have gone a bit over the top with this one! Anyway, it was fun!


I Heard a Fly b u z z 

(From I heard a Fly buzz – when I died – (591) BY EMILY DICKINSON)

I heard a fly buzz when I died. 
The stillness 
                   in the room was like 
the stillness 
                    in the air between 
the h
        e
         a
          v
           e
            s of storm. The eyes around 
had w r u n g them dry, and their breaths were 
gatheringfirm for that final 
onset when the    King    be witnessed 
in the room. I willed my keepsakes, 
signed        away what portion of me 
be assignable, and then it 
was there [interposed]: A fly with 
        ¿blue, 
                              uncertain, 
                stumbling 
                                           buzz?
between the light and me.

And then 

the windows failed, 
(and then I could not see to see.)

Incident Report for Case #2015-088166: A Sestina.

Investigation disclosed that the pedestrian 

was escorted out of Chaser’s Bar & Grill 

due to her high level of intoxication 

and that while being accompanied by a friend, 

she ran into traffic. She was hit by a vehicle 

causing her to flip onto the hood.

 

As she soared, not unlike an eagle, over the hood,

what went through the mind of the pedestrian?

Did she look down on that vehicle 

and at her flip flop (still caught in the grill)

and wonder what had happened to her friend?

Did she curse her own intoxication?

 

Did the flight offer its own sort of intoxication

to the woman, now catching hawks in her hood?

Perhaps she decided the air was her friend, 

and that this “gravity” thing was all very pedestrian 

why be Kara Zor-El when you can be Supergirl?  

Let your own momentum be your vehicle. 

 

And when she had mastered this vehicle, 

did she, instead, grow to love this intoxication?

She had found a thrill outside of Chaser’s Bar & Grill,

starting a new life as a thrill-seeking hoodlum.

The collision was the best change for the pedestrian –

or so she would soon tell her friend.

 

But she’d have to wait before she could tell her friend

because she was still soaring high above the vehicle 

in a display that was anything but pedestrian 

and the onlookers caught her intoxication

and word spread throughout the neighbourhood

of the woman floating just outside Chaser’s Bar & Grill.

 

So much changed that day at Chaser’s Bar & Grill 

(300 block W. Gorham St.). Soon the long-suffering friend

peeled her bleeding pal off the car’s hood

and had her transferred to an ambulance

which took her to the hospital to sit out her intoxication.

Paramedics saw to the injuries sustained by the pedestrian.

 

The neighbourhood could now rest easy at Chaser’s Bar & Grill.

Our drunken friend was issued a citation for intoxication 

and “Sudden Pedestrian Movement” due to her running into traffic.


Fourteener: Ode to a Banana I Found in the Grass at Donegall Quay

While walking calmly by the quay, I saw a strange display:

A ripe banana lying there with no sign of dismay.

It lay so sweetly in the grass, just basking in the light,

I had to ponder what events could lead to this delight.

Oh, sunshine fruit! Your life has changed! How startling it must be

To now be lying in the shade far from your mother tree!

Your freedom has come at a price – you’re stranded in the leaves,

Your skin is quickly ageing from the sunlight it receives!

But though you know your fate is sealed, you do not whinge or cry.

You take the punches meekly as the days are passing by.

As time ticks on and seasons change, this feeling, too, will pass.

We’re not so different after all, banana in the grass.

And now, for our optional prompt! Today I challenge you to write a fourteener. Fourteeners can be have any number of lines, but each line should have fourteen syllables. Traditionally, each line consisted of seven iambic feet (i.e., an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable, times seven), but non-iambic fourteeners also exist. The fourteener was popular in 16th and 17th century England, where it was particular common in ballads, but it also is the form in which “Casey at the Bat” is written. The form is versatile enough to encompass any subject matter, but as the example of “Casey at the Bat” shows us, it is particularly useful in narrative poetry, due to the long line and the step-like sense of progression created by the iambs. (NaPoWriMo.net)

This one’s more than a little silly,but I definitely had fun with it!

Starry Night

– And when the sun went down
and daylight ceased to warm our terracotta rooves,
in dribs and drabs, the people returned to their rooms
and left Sol Invictus to sink into the ground.

I lingered, bidding Sol stay a little longer
but he did not hear, and continued his slow retreat
through trees and hedges. It was only when I turned to leave
that the true lights of the sky began their song:

Tiny suns in hard-to-reach places
lit up the sky in a twinkling gleam
above the city and surrounding places,
painting swirls and smudges of yellow and cream.
Were it not for the nip of the wind on my face,
I would have stayed there, to think or to dream.


Today, I challenge you to take your gaze upward, and write a poem about the stars. You may find inspiration in this website that lists constellations, while also providing information on the myths associated with each one, as well as other salient information. Your poem could be informed by those myths or historical details, by the shapes or names of the constellations, or by childhood memories of seeing them. Any form or style will do. (NaPoWriMo.net)

Today’s poem is a little pithy for my liking, but it is 23:10 and I’ve sort of run out of time on this one! When I’ve cleaned and edited it up, it should be an ekphrastic poem based on Van Gogh’s “The Starry Night”. For now, though, this is the best I could do!

Happy writing! 🙂