NaPoWriMo 19

Two poems written, one redrafted, and almost all of my books marked for work. A very productive evening indeed. This is my nineteenth poem for National Poetry Writing Month, and brings me right back on schedule.

William Harvey
(an erasure poem adapted from Aubrey's Brief Lives*)

He made dissections of loss before a bullet
from a great gun made dead amongst the dead
men.

And he awoke upon himself for warmth
after high sun, or wind, had made his age
another thing.

And he would sit on the lead roof.

NaPoWriMo 16

This one may be a day late, but since the aim is to produce 30 poems in 30 days, I still have time to catch up. For those of you wondering why only a few poems have made it onto here, it's because I'm selfishly hoarding the rest, revealing only short samples on Facebook and Twitter.

Here's today's effort:

Damnito Memoriae

 They put their chisels to her name,
and in a chattering of bronze
on bronze, she turned to crumbs of stone.

The Nile yawned and stretched, spine-like,
as the nation woke from a dream
remembered in uneasy frescoes,

as a sentence with the nouns torn out.

NaPoWriMo day 14

I used Jo Bell's writing prompt today, which was to write a laudation telling everyone how great I am. It doesn't have a title yet, but here it is:

When the bad wolf burst a lung,
I whistled, and the brick house fell;
we ate ham for the next three days.

When I clap, there is thunder; when I shout,
the wind is torn in two.

When Armstrong landed on the moon,
he found me sat on a deckchair;
I offered him a cup of tea.

When I clap, there is thunder; when I shout,
the sun spits tongues of flame.

When Odysseus sailed past the sirens
with blood-stained rope around his chest,
I waved at him and kept on dancing.

When I clap, there is thunder; when I shout,
the tides stand still.

When Jesus walked upon the water,
I was doing handstands on the waves
and pulling faces at St. Peter.

When I clap, there is thunder; when I shout,
the constellations blink.

When I went to the crossroads one night,
the devil brought me his guitar
and asked me for an autograph.

When I clap, there is thunder; when I shout,
the old gods tremble.

When I whisper, there is silence; when I stop,
the poem ends.

For Mongo (NaPoWriMo day 9)

I was at Twycross zoo yesterday and saw a bald chimpanzee called Mongo. This poem was written with him and the other chimps in mind.

Bald, and stretched across the ledge like pink rope,
he tents his eyes in the crook of his arm.
Each movement is a little too familiar.

These chimps are us in our most honest moments:
the ones that always jump the last two steps;
the ones that give the cat a French accent;
the ones that pee with the door left open;
the ones that stick to the couch in their pants,
the TV loud, the window on the latch.