Nagging Muses

Daily Poem #3. What do you mean it's late?

2011-04-10T06:28:00.000-07:00

I need to stop writing poems that I can't actually publish. It's great stress relief, but not so good for actually keeping up with poetry months.

Sadly I've been a bit uninspired, otherwise. And by uninspired I mean that my brain feels like a sponge that's been wrung out and wrung out till all the soap is gone and the fabric's coming apart and damnit, now we have to get a new one and there are still so many dishes to wash. That's a bit of a questionable metaphor, but I'll leave it and move on before I forget what my original point was.

Carrie Etter blogged a couple of excellent links to resources for National Poetry Writing Month. They're like soap to my chafing brain. I'm using one right now: #1 on the list here, which involves taking words from the nearest book and building a poem up around them. (Goodness knows why I didn't think of that. When Livejournal wakes up from its latest round of politically-induced death throes, I might run a few searches there for prompt-giving communities.)

Right now, the nearest book was Fever Dream by Preston and Child.

Fever Dream is... well, it was recommended to me as God's gift to fine literature, but I feel like I've been lied to a little. For a taster -- and let your eyes glaze over if I've told you this anecdote three times already -- there's a completely serious scene in which the two main characters are driving through the skeletal wood to a mansion that's all creepy towers and spiked iron railings... and then the building is silhouetted from behind by spectral yellow lightning. Then later in the chapter, they're in one of the towers and it happens again. It's extra spooky!

It goes without saying that I'm enjoying the book immensely.

Anyway, there was supposed to be a poem involved in this post somewhere. Let's get to it: a piece of verse employing seven words from page 29 of Fever Dream by Preston and Child. I'd like to work on it some more, because at the moment it's clumsy as hell, but it can sit as a placeholder until I have time to actually do so.

-

Romero's Hunting Trophies

The zebra appeared, its mane in a twist,
Whinnying loudly and smelling of rot.
Whoever had killed it was no taxidermist
And probably asked for whatever he got.

Maurice ducked his head, looked down at his gun.
A stuffed buffalo made a great hiding-spot,
But sooner or later he'd just have to run -
He'd brought the thing down with the last of his shot.

He'd fought off a lion! Maurice would be damned
If he could be killed by some glorified horse.
Crack-crack went the hooves, as each of them slammed
The chestnut headboards on the ground with great force.

The moment it came within reach, he leaped -
And swung his gun on a zebra's-headward course.
The animal crumpled and finally slept,
And Maurice stamped on it, his breathing quite hoarse.

He glanced round the room, at carcasses piled:
A dusty hippo, and a rhino, and more.
Still mounted: a tiger's head that slyly smiled.
Next moment, he heard a loud growl at the door.

Daily Poem #2: Writing At Six AM.

2011-04-02T09:23:00.000-07:00

This is not the
get up early, productive
productive time.
This is the
why did I stay up this
sucks time, the brains
just aren’t moving through my thought
time. This is the slow
slow time that never moves
slowly enough to be enough.
This is the twelve noon deadline
shit why did I leave it so
late time, the never again,
again time, this is the coffee
and headaches and sick in your stomach
again time, the still not
connecting thoughts
well time. This is also
sadly the everyone knows time,
the hour of I’m the only one
who was ever this
slow

It's National Poetry Month! (Daily Poem #1)

2011-04-01T01:59:00.000-07:00

People are writing a poem a day. I think this is the point at which I throw up my hands, drag this blog out of its neglected state and use it as a dumping ground for my own entries. I reserve the right to conflate "poetry" and "flash fiction" like a dirty cheater.

Let's do this thing.

-

Dusty plates and bowls; cups with sugar scabbing at the bottom; predictably, flies. A line of ants making use of all this crap. A pair of eyes: unpredictably, dry. And a note apologising to the stranger who'll have to clean up.

Notes.

2010-01-27T09:00:00.000-08:00

Why haven't I posted any January updates? Because I want to submit a few poems to magazines, and I'm not sure whether I'll be able to do that if those same poems are sitting here for anyone to read. Hold tight while I investigate that.

In the meantime, you know what is awesome? These things are awesome. They're poetry magazines, and they're taking submissions. (This paragraph and the last may potentially be related.)

Magma Poetry
"Contributions are now being accepted for Magma 47, edited by Annie Freud with Roberta James. Poems are accepted on any subject but the editors particularly invite poems on the theme ‘The devil and all his works’. The deadline is 28th February."

Succour Magazine
"Condition 1: All submissions should be written on Saturday February 6th, 2010.
Condition 2: What you write should not be an attempt to execute an idea – for a story, for a poem, etc – that has previously occurred to you. Rather, we would prefer you to write whatever happens to come into your head at that particular time."

Stride Magazine
"The editor, Rupert Loydell, welcomes submissions of 4 or 5 poems, prose poems, reviews or articles."

Poets, you know what you have to do.

Reminder of Life

2009-12-27T07:32:00.000-08:00

That crab made of stone
that's watching him from the shoreless desert
probably thinks he's crazy.

Fractals

2009-12-09T07:50:00.000-08:00

and whenever you call me I hear a bell,
and whenever you touch me I lose a year,
and whenever you kiss me I see a flame,
and whenever you fuck me I cry a prayer,
and whenever you leave me I break a bone,
and whenever you shun me I leave a scar,
and whenever you need me it starts again,

Marian's Hobby

2009-12-06T07:28:00.000-08:00

Marian held shears in her left hand, and the glass-eyed body of a mallard in her right. The mallard was mournful. Its downy wings were rigid and its stiff beak was open in one silent endless quack.

Marian stood, holding these things, in front of her workbench. Her workbench was very useful. It held a sewing kit with needles and strong thread; a plush, fluffy mallard with a smile on its decapitated face; and a storybook about a duck who was happy all day long.

Testing Twitterfeed: A Haiku

2009-12-05T08:07:00.000-08:00

I have never found
that a new technology
works without a test.

I'm attempting to bend Twitterfeed to my will so that it'll automatically link this blog's entries on my Twitter and Facebook page. I do believe that it's all set up, so all I have to do now is cross my fingers and wait.

Then again, technology hates me and wants me to suffer, so it might not go as smoothly as all that.

News: Interview with Elizabeth Jane, winner of the 2009 Bristol Short Story Prize

2009-12-03T04:16:00.001-08:00

This one isn't a poem, folks, and it isn't posted on some obscure student blog. This is fame at last.

So there's a rather fascinating woman by the name of Elizabeth Jane, who blogs here. She recently won the Bristol Short Story Prize with her snapshot of a girl's experiences during the Second World War. The people behind the competition were looking for someone to interview her. I was the person who jumped up and down yelling "pick me!".

Was I nervous? Very. Was I going to let an opportunity like that go flying past? Aw hell naw.

So here is the article in all its glory! First thing of mine that's been published since that poetry contest when I was in secondary school. My pride is tangible. You should imagine this whole post said in the tone of a father showing off his newborn baby.

The title ("Elizabeth Jane talks about...") kind of looks like it's the first paragraph, not sure what happened there. Note to self: to avoid confusion, make titles shorter than paragraphs...

What Happened When I Ran Away

2009-11-20T01:56:00.000-08:00

When I got to the edge of the desert, I saw the distended belly of the sun flopping huge over the landscape, chasing the shadows out of their holes to squat behind the stones.

You told me, "You know, if I throw one of these stones, I can hit the sun and it'll pop and fart away like a balloon."

It was as if the desert heard you, and hushed, and the insects stopped mating to see what would happen.

When I got to the edge of the desert, I saw a carpet of beetles, as black and shiny as the inside of a bucket. I threw water on them to get them away from my shoes.

You told me, "I did it. I did it! I killed the sun with my sling."

It was as if you didn't realise that night had come and the moon was laughing.

Desertification

2009-11-02T02:43:00.001-08:00

The men on horseback lift their spears so that the points are those of a compass.

The lion, which is North, watches them sardonically. Its coat is burnt golden by the rock and sand, but its eyes are the green of the sea: deep and wise, calm and violent.

The men on their horses rush towards the heaped gold.

The lion does not make a sound. That moaning you hear is the people.

The lion opens its jaws that are redder than the sun at night, and breathes on the men on horseback. Like the sand they are scattered, and when at last they come to rest they find that they are changed. Their feet are burnt brown and orange by the rock and sand, and their eyes are the white of bleached skulls, and blind.

Why I Crash Cars

2009-11-02T02:38:00.000-08:00

Killing a man is like crashing a car.
Pick one with a sleek body;
hood not too low;
strutting like a deer;
out for a spin.

Acceleration = exhilaration.
No-one sees you break the law
speed limit
bones.

Tyres
scream
and the wreck leaks viscous fluid.

When you walk away
your feet won't touch the ground.

Explain Yourself

2009-11-02T01:52:00.000-08:00

Was it easy to close the door?
Was it easy to hang up your hero hat,
to let the portcullis fall on your life, fly away?
Your stranger’s face laughing
at jokes we’ve forgotten,
in dozens of photos -
but just passing through
like a shadow on all of our faces?

Just a stop-off
on your way to something
clearly more important
than us.

Was it easy to seal off the door
of the car?
Stab your key in the silent ignition
and drive? To a street, to a wood, I don’t know –
to a park where you once loaned a ring to a girl,
I don’t know –

Was it easy to pipe – or to waft – or to
Only you know – and you planned – from exhaust into window to mouth and to heart –
Did it hurt?
Tell me –
Was it more easy than making a life?

The Promise

2009-10-22T02:19:00.000-07:00

I'll be the rock beneath your house,
The pedestal on which you stand;
I'll lead you from the desert bleak
Into a fertile, greener land.
The shadows cannot touch you now.
Don't be a martyr to your fear
When - even if you cannot see -
I will be there to guide you, dear.

International Flavour

2009-10-22T02:17:00.000-07:00

I'm something of a traveller
(Though I don't like to boast),
And I've heard accents in far more
Variety than most.
The French guffaw, the US twang,
The English cockney slur;
I've heard the world so far and fast
That it's become a blur.
But sadly, in my line of work,
We don't get so much choice,
Since when we start to get stuck in
They all scream in one voice.

I Want To Eat Your Brain

2009-10-22T02:14:00.000-07:00

I want to give you lilies white
And roses glowing red,
And see the joy infuse your face
As I unzip your head.

I want to hold you close to me
Beneath the summer sun,
And feel its warmth as I relieve
You of your cerebrum.

I want to warm you with my arms
And kiss you in the rain;
I'll brave the winter storms with you
And then I'll eat your brain.

Rendezvous

2009-10-22T02:08:00.001-07:00

Steal away with me, fly from your grimy old bed;
Let my arm lift to steady your hesitant head.
Of all of your cousins prostrate in my sight,
Yours is the hand I have grasped for tonight.

You're quiet, demure as we pass through the street.
You lean on my arm as you shuffle your feet.
Then, down by the river, the moment just right,
I kiss your lips, cold with the dead of the night.

Our passion completed, I finally rise,
And lift you up gently, my delicate prize;
Sneak you to your home as the sky becomes light;
Retire to my bed to await the next night.

Accessory

2009-10-22T02:08:00.000-07:00

Out on your arm,
An accessory.
Broaden your smile:
I will polish it.
Quicken your step:
I'll put bounce in it.
Try me out. I will serve
Happily.

Worn on your finger;
Content to be.
Show me off, use me
To make you gleam.
That's what I'm here for,
Why I exist:
Shine for you, dangling
From your wrist.

Eternally

2009-10-22T01:51:00.000-07:00

Roses have a finite life:
They’ll wither at a glance.
Bluebirds, too, will flit away
If given half a chance.
The world, so used to suns that set,
May look on ours askance;
But take my hand, and through the dew
Eternally we’ll dance.

A Lover's Inventory

2009-10-22T01:46:00.000-07:00

Cotton wool to wrap you in,
A precious thing, in case it breaks—

A key to lock away the world,
To make up for my past mistakes—

An ear to which you will not lie,
Not compromise your perfect self—

A heart to overcome you well,
For you unlocked its joyful wealth.

Sycophantic Repetition

2009-10-21T10:53:00.000-07:00

Sycophantic repetition -
repetition - repetition -
Everything you say is stale with
sycophantic repetition -
unambition -
de-ignition -
you don't try to break tradition!
Both eyes full of all your shit,
you missed your chance to make contrition.

Here's what I think: you're asleep.
Shouldn't be a mental leap
to see that we are not your sheep.

Now that we show signs of thinking!,
you are left amazed and blinking.
Lifeboats gone, the rats are fleeing.
They can tell your ship is sinking.

If you want to hate me, fine.
Just know that you crossed the line
when you injured friends of mine.

Just a Phase

2009-10-21T10:40:00.000-07:00

‘Just a phase’. But I take issue
With this phrase. I’ll tell you why:
If a craze can last for this long,
All this praise be heaped upon her –
(Does it phase you? Won’t you tell me?) –
If she stays within my thoughts and
Builds a maze of grand emotion –
I’m amazed you dare to call it
‘Just a phase’, and I will miss you.

But Do You?

2009-10-21T10:38:00.000-07:00

Do you think I don’t know that machines need maintaining?

I—

Who balanced the spring, rediscovered the wheel?

You—

Are a beautiful piece, to align, to keep perfect, you see?

We—

Are a whole. If you grind to a halt, so do I - I’m afraid.

The Moth

2009-10-21T10:36:00.000-07:00

Sometime in the future, we
Might sit together, out till late
And see the ghostly moth of grey
Lent substance by the lamp, its mate.

Then, when we find the air too chill,
We'll seek a cosy room, where we
Might act the night-dance out again:
I'll flutter, and you'll brighten me.

Queens in Monochrome

2009-10-21T10:13:00.000-07:00

A girl’s in the street
and her hair’s in her eyes
and she’s throwing her stones at the lights.
She’s stupid and blind and she stands in the flames
and she laughs in the wintery nights.

She falls to the floor with a china-doll smile;
she’s turning her back on her fathers and all;
it’s fine, since their backs have been turned for a while.
She’s ever so clever, and ever so small.

Her left and her right are the bridges she’s burned;
Her road has no future to fear;
behind, good intentions are patchworks of glass
and above, pearly gates disappear.

She sees a way out. It’s been taken before
by the near and the dear and the damned.
But she’s lucky enough to knock twice on your door.
You offer your beautiful hand –

The girl is now dead. There’s no body to see
But a chrysalis – you showed her wings and she’s free
And the sniveling thing that you caught became me.

Beautiful Words

2009-10-21T09:47:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to fix some beautiful words on a string
(Chains are never for freedom);
Round your neck they will hang like a medal.

I'm trying to turn 'sweet sentiments' into a new and a fresh and a worth enough thing not to clash.
I'm seeing them all through a thousand bright lenses but still I can't get them quite right.
I need your better perspective.

It's practice:

I want to put beautiful words on a band and see it on your finger.
(They'll be picked out in topaz, sapphire, moissanite;
In dazzling colours like yours.)