NaPoWriMo 2013, Day #10 – Unlove Poem called ‘I Need You’

The prompt for Day 10 was:

“Many of us have read and even written love poems. But have you written an un-love poem?

You Fit Into Me

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

–Margaret Atwood

An un-love poem isn’t a poem of hate, exactly — that might be a bit too shrill or boring. It’s more like a poem of sarcastic dislike. This is a good time to get in a good dig at people who chew with their mouth open, or always take the last oreo. If there’s no person you feel comfortable un-loving, maybe there’s a phenomenon? Like squirrels that eat your tomatoes. (I have many, many bitter feelings about tomato-eating squirrels). There’s lots of ways to go with this one, and lots of room for humor and surprise as well. Happy writing!”

One of my favourite love poems/songs of all time is this one by John Hegley, so I thought I’d do one with the same title but going in the opposite direction.

I Need You

I need you like a camel needs a coat.
I need you like a whale needs a boat.
I need you like a singer needs a strep throat.

I need you like a robber needs a chase.
I need you like an agoraphobic needs space.

I need you like a spaceman needs a jigsaw.

I need you like a zoo needs a chicken.
I need you like an ear needs flicking.

I need you like Genghis Khan needed a girlfriend that was after some monogamous love.

I need you like an ice cream needs a bee,
I need you like Ray Winstone needs green tea,
I need you like a hippo needs a wet wipe to freshen up.

Like teenagers need acne, I need you…ooh yes I do.

Like an ice cream van needs fruit,
like a rock band needs a flute,
like humans need to know when they’re going to die,
like horror films need a black guy.

I need you like a melon needs a straw,
I need you like a felon needs a law-book for light reading.

I need you like Snow White needed those Dwarves, just to make housework.

I need you like dogs need deckchairs.
I need you like men need neck hairs.
I need you like a fillet steak needs something else on the plate before it can participate
in what you might describe as a decent meal.

I need you like a filofax needs love.
I need you like like Michael Jackson needed his other glove
if he hadn’t lost it like so many of us’ve.

NaPoWriMo 2013, Day #09 – Detective/Noir

The prompt for Day 09 was:

“I’m a sucker for a good mystery novel, especially the hard-boiled noir novels of the thirties and forties. There’s always a two-timing blonde, a city that keeps its secrets, and stuck in the middle, a man who just can’t help but rabbit after truth. Today I challenge you write a poem inspired by noir — it could be in the voice of a detective, or unravel a mystery, or just describe the long shadows of the skyscrapers in the ever-swirling smog. After all, “you know how to write a poem, don’t you, Steve? You just pick up a pen and you write.”“

The Death of Mr Noir

I was called to the murder of a Mr Noir, a rich gentleman who lived on the outskirts of Paris.
It was cold, it was raining, it was Monday.
The gates were open on my approach,
and skidmarks were left in the gravel by the escape car.

I gathered Mr Noir’s close friends and asked them if they had seen anything suspicious.
None had.
I began my investigation.

Mr Noir had died three days ago.
He was found in his library, with bruises and cuts on his head, arms and torso.
There had clearly been a struggle; candlesticks had fallen off a nearby mantelpiece,
rope curtain-tiebacks had fallen from the nearby window,
and fingerprint-bruises were dotted all over Mr Noir’s body; someone had tried to restrain him.

The murder weapon appeared to have been a flat, blunt object.
Under the long curtains nearby, I found a piece of lead piping.
It was bent in the middle, having clearly sustained a large amount of force and resistance.
I guessed the resistance was Mr Noir’s head.

I took in each of Mr Noir’s close friends for questioning;
A professor of economics from the nearby university,
A maid that worked in the mansion,
A female philosophy student,
An ex-Army veteran,
An actress,
and the Parish Priest.

As soon as I met her, I knew it was her.
The actress.
She had a real fancy story of where she was on the night of the murder,
including where she was and what she was doing during every minute of the evening.
But I knew.
I examined her house for evidence, and I found what I was looking for.
In her dustbin, a cream dress stained with Mr Noir’s blood.
No wonder she had chosen her specific stage name.
Miss Scarlet.

My work was finished.
It was Miss Scarlet, in the library, with the lead piping.

My friend checked the cards in a small, black plastic wallet.
I was right.
I had won.
I love Cluedo.

NaPoWriMo 2013, Day #08 – The Louis Prima Ottava Rima

The prompt for Day 08 was:

“Because it’s the 8th, I thought we might try writing in ottava rima — an Italian form that, in English, usually takes the form of an eight-line stanza of iambic pentameter, with a rhyme scheme of a-b-a-b-a-b-c-c. The most famous poem in English that uses the ottava rima form is probably Byron’s Don Juan. If you haven’t read it, it’s wickedly funny! It’s really amazing how contemporary Byron’s language is — it’s like he’s your mean-girl friend just gossiping at you in verse. But unlike Byron, you don’t have to write an entire epic in ottava rima! Just eight lines will do for now. Happy writing!”

Here goes. It’s a bit odd.

The Louis Prima Ottava Rima

Prima’s the King of the Swingers, you know,
and also the jungle’s own V.I.P.
He asked for fire. I had to tell him, “No!
Fire is danger, please listen to me.”
He got upset and said I had to go.
He went and climbed to the top of his tree.
I shouted, “What else could I oobee do?!
King Louie, I don’t wanna be like you!”

NaPoWriMo 2013, Day #07 – Humpty Dumpty’s Fate(s)

The prompt for Day 07 was:

“I challenge you to write a poem in which each line except the last takes the form of a single, declarative sentence. Then, the final line should take the form of a question. With any luck, this will result in poems that have a sort of driving, reportorial tone, but with a powerful rhetorical finish. Let’s hope so, anyway!”

I didn’t exactly stick to the prompt. Sorry.

Humpty Dumpty’s Fate(s)

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
The King dipped his Soldiers into the goo,
and said, “That was delightful. Would you try some too?”

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the King’s soldiers, who’d gradually ambled,
said “Sorry, can’t help. Poor Dumpty is scrambled”.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Little old Humpty was not full of brains.
There was just white and yolk in his scattered remains.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
I don’t understand how an egg learns to climb,
when they’re all round and limbless. Not robust like I’m.

NaPoWriMo 2013, Day #06 – Valediction

The prompt for Day 06 of NaPoWriMo was:

“This might seem like a bit of a downer, but I challenge you to write a valediction. This is a poem of farewell. Perhaps the most famous one is John Donne’s A Valediction Forbidding Mourning, which turns the act of saying good-bye into a very tender love poem. But your poem could say “good-bye” (and maybe good riddance!) to anything or anyone. A good-bye to winter might be in order, for example. Or good-bye to the week-old easter eggs in your refrigerator. Light or serious, long or short, it’s up to you!”

Farewell, Welfare

We know you’re feeling hungry.
We know you’re sleeping rough.
But the country’s in recession,
and we haven’t got enough.

We know you’ve lost your house, Sir.
We know you need to sleep.
But we need to pay for Trident
and it isn’t coming cheap.

We know you’ve got no money.
We know you need to eat.
But I’m sure there is a food bank
just up off Market Street.

We know that you’ve got nothing.
You had none; now have less.
But funerals are costly things,
even for a Baroness.

NaPoWriMo 2013, Day #05 – Cinquains

The prompt for Day 05 was:

“Because I am a rather obvious person at heart, I challenge you to write a cinquain on this, the fifth day of NaPoWriMo. A cinquain is a poem that employs stanzas with five lines. Each line has a certain number of accented or stressed syllables, and a certain number of overall syllables per line. In the “American” cinquain, a form invented by a woman with the highly unfortunate name of Adelaide Crapsey, the number of stresses per line is 1-2-3-4-1, and the number of syllables is 2-4-6-8-2. So the first line would have two syllables, one stressed and one unstressed. The second line would have four syllables, two of which are stressed, and so on. This kind of accent/syllabic verse can be a bit frustrating at first, but it’s useful for learning to sharpen up your language!

Here’s an example to get you going:

Deep Winter

At night
when I drive home
in snow like falling ice,
the crystal air becomes a road
of stars.

— Elizabeth Bodien“

I wrote two silly cinquains, and here they are:

Snow

Snowing
in mid-April,
I look up at the sky.
Crazy weather, I think. At least
school’s off.

Christmas

Christmas,
fam’ly over.
Crackers pulled, jokes performed.
I have never felt quite so full.
Pudding?

NaPoWriMo 2013, Day #04 – Iain M. Banks Spaceships

The prompt for Day 04 was the following:

“Recently, I read an articleabout the Scottish science fiction writer Iain M. Banks. His books often have spaceships in them. And those spaceships have extremely odd, poetic names. Like:

Prosthetic Conscience

Irregular Apocalypse

Unfortunate Conflict of Interest

Gunboat Diplomat

Very Little Gravitas Indeed

A Series of Unlikely Explanations

Just Another Victim of the Ambient Morality

Jaundiced Outlook

Frank Exchange of Views

Lightly Seared on the Reality Grill

Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

Abundance of Onslaught

Refreshingly Unconcerned With the Vulgar Exigencies of Veracity

A Fine Disregard For Awkward Facts

There’s a whole twitter account devoted to tweeting Iain-M-Banks-like names for spaceships. So your challenge for today is to write a poem with a title drawn from one of these spaceship names. Feel free to pick a genuine Banks, like the ones listed above, or to take one from the twitter. And if you think of your own Banks-like spaceship name title, feel free to use that! The poet Barbara Guest wrote an essay warning poets about starting from the title, but while I’ve found that a wonderful poem usually finds its right title, I’ve also found that the right title can easily lead to a wonderful poem!

Happy writing!“

I found this one unbelievably tricky, so I opted for ‘Frank Exchange of Views’ and tried something silly.

Frank Exchange of Views

There once was an old man called Frank
who was on the Titanic when it sank.
Said the man to the crew,
“What a lovely view…
Oh my! There’s a hole in the flank.”

NaPoWriMo 2013, Day #03 – Sea Shanty

The prompt for Day 03 was the following:

“I challenge you to write a sea shanty (or shantey, or chanty, or chantey — there’s a good deal of disagreement regarding the spelling!). Anyway, these are poems in the forms of songs, strongly rhymed and rhythmic, that sailors might sing while hauling on ropes and performing other sea-going labors. Probably the two most famous sea shanties are What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor? and Blow the Man Down. And what should your poem be about? Well, I suppose it could be about anything, although some nautical phrases tossed into the chorus would be good for keeping the sea in your shanty. Haul away, boys, haul away!”

It’s not much of a shanty, but as a Pirate would say, Arrrrrrrrr well!

My Brother Is A Pirate

My Brother is a Pirate!
It’s awful news for Mum.
My brother’s only five years old;
he’s started drinking rum.

My Brother is a Pirate!
His Roger’s getting Jolly.
He part-exchanged the family cat
to buy his Parrot, Polly.

My Brother is a Pirate!
He sold the family car.
He bought a boat and pirate coat,
he’s practicing his ‘Garrrr!’

My Brother is a Pirate!
He’s gathering a crew.
So far he’s just recruited me…
we may need more than two.

My Brother’s not a Pirate.
Mother feels less strife.
It’s much less noise now both her boys
have left the Pirate life.

NaPoWriMo 2013, Day #02 – Lies

This is for the second day of National Poetry Writing Month, an annual challenge to write a poem a day throughout April. Last year this fell on the month leading up to my Dissertation hand-in during my final year of uni, this year it falls towards the end of my year of teacher training!

Day #02. The prompt was as follows:

“Today’s prompt is drawn from an idea that Kelsey Howard gave me — that of a poem that tells a lie. I think you could have a poem that’s all lies (that could be very funny — full of things like “the sun is the size of a nickel”) or a poem that steadily builds to telling one big whopper. I can imagine these being very poignant, or very much like goofy shaggy-dog stories. I suppose it all comes down to what you want to lie about!”

So, basically lies, lies, lies. I chose to do a diary of the Boy who cried ‘Wolf!’.

The Boy Who Cried Zwölf

Today began like any other;
buttered crumpets made by mother,
cup of English Breakfast tea
and Orange Juice for Vitamin C.

I waved my dear old Mum goodbye,
and headed off to work nearby.
Work’s been pretty slow this year;
it’s pretty rare a wolf comes near.

I found my field, took my seat
and…guess who, at that point, I meet;
my dear friend Hans (a German boy)
who just turned twelve (much to his joy).

He joined me in my watch for Wolf
and shared his thoughts on turning ‘zwölf’.
I stopped him. “What does this ‘zwölf’ mean?”
He said, “It’s one less than thirteen”.

“So twelve?”, (to clarify) I state.
“Correct!”, he said, glad to translate.
“Zwölf!”, I shouted. ”Zwölf! Zwölf! Zwölf!”
(By now, I’d lost all care for Wolf).

I used to think Deutsch was absurd,
but now I’d found my favourite word.
I shouted it upon that hill -
but what comes next makes me feel ill…

I turned and, much to my surprise,
the townspeople had heard my cries
and there they gathered, beside the wall,
responding to my misheard call.

They’d all brought weapons – killing machines -
to blow Old Wolf to smithereens.
I quickly helped them understand
that Wolfy hadn’t crossed our land.

Instead, it had been Hans and I
just having fun while time passed by.
The townspeople were not forgiving
(a pity, as it cost me living…)

They all went home and left me there,
to keep the livestock in my care.
Almost an hour or so went by,
and then…shock! horror! “Wooooooooolllllllllffffffff!”, I cry.

And (worst of all) it was more than one;
TWELVE wolves had joined the hill I’m on.
(The irony’s not lost on me,
that zwölf wolf was my company!)

One wolf is fine; it kills a sheep,
and drags it to the forest deep.
Once there, it feasts upon the ewe
and then returns for number two.

Our field had eleven sheep
(I’d counted, and avoided sleep!),
so twelve wolves made me nervous, see;
I knew the twelfth would come for me.

I ran as fast as my legs could,
the wolf caught up and bit me good.
In half an hour, wolf ate me all
and no townsperson heard my call.

A final question I’ll provide:
how did I write this if I died?
The answer: (Now I can confide)
This all is fiction. Yes, I lied.

NaPoWriMo 2013, Day #01 – Stolen First Lines

Hello! So National Poetry Writing Month (or NaPoWriMo) 2013 officially started again on April the 1st. Each day, like last year, there will be a prompt to write a poem, and hundreds of people across the globe challenge themselves to create a poem a day for the month of April. It is not too late to start, so feel free to join me on this poetic quest. If you would rather sit back and watch, that is fine too. Here goes…

Day #01. The prompt was as follows:

“Write a poem that has the same first line as another poem. You can use a favourite poem, pick up a random book of poetry and get a first line that way, or perhaps use one of the following:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

She walks in beauty, like the night

Slowly, silently, now the moon

anyone lived in a pretty how town“

I opted for the first line of a poem called ‘Ettykett’, written by John Rice. The first line is simply…”My mother knew a lot about manners, she said you should never slurp”. Let’s see how we get on.

Family Manners

My mother knew a lot about manners,
she said you should never slurp;
don’t play with your food -
it’s awfully rude -
and nip to the bathroom to burp.

My father knew less about manners,
he ate with his hands every day;
for pasties or stew,
his two hands would do,
and a small belch or two was okay.

With their contrasting views on politeness,
their marriage was over quite soon.
Mum divorced politely,
doing everything rightly,
and wished Dad a ‘Good afternoon’.

I guess the moral of this story
is to make sure your manners are equal;
with too much of a gap
(like my Mama and Pap),
your story will just be a sequel.