Okay, so maybe not tomorrow (sorry about that), but here it is. That's the end of NaPoWriMo for this year. Once again I somehow managed to get to the end of April without the poems turning into a stream of incomprehensible free verse.
How do I think it went this year? Mostly the poems turned out okay. I'm thankful that this year I didn't have to rely on my old tropes as much (the tigers, anthropomorphic animals playing musical instruments, or the rolling fields of Frynwys) and tried new things. The month started on a good note with a poem about a confused cuckoo at Easter, and then a poem about poetic structure followed, which is probably my favourite one out of this year's bunch. I hadn't attempted a poem about writing a poem before, so it was nice to set out what my creative writing tutors taught me in verse.
Otherwise, this year's NaPoWriMo was fairly similar to last year's. The usual subjects appeared in the form of animals, the natural world, allusions to music and so on, and of course the tiger came back to finish the month off. There haven't been many breaks from what I usually write about, but I think I made up for it by trying new things with poetic form. Also I should probably do more of the site's prompts next year because I'm certain I didn't try enough of them this time. Still, on the whole this year's NaPoWriMo has been mostly a success.
If you stuck with it to the end I hope you enjoyed the poetic chaos. In regards to what's coming up, I have the next installment of Frynwys Features nearly ready to go, my analysis of Harry Baker's 'Paper People' and a couple of new poems as always, so look out for those over the next few weeks. And the best bit of is, we're just in time for the start of summer.
Goodbye NaPoWriMo 2018, and have a great summer everyone!
Showing posts with label napowrimo 2018. Show all posts
Showing posts with label napowrimo 2018. Show all posts
Wednesday, 2 May 2018
Monday, 30 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #30: Spectre of Bali
Even the smallest member
of the family stands tall.
The Queen of Bali,
of the mangroves and the grasslands,
she prowled the dense jungles,
sending deer and birds fleeing,
shrinking from her shadow,
as fierce and revered
as her Indian brothers.
Those from across the sea
came seeking her,
to pay her homage
with steel and lead,
with the teeth of snap-traps
and bullets to the skull.
Every part of her had use,
to the visitors and her neighbours.
Her teeth and claws warded off evil,
her skin adorned the hunters' den,
her whiskers made the sharpest poison.
Such reverence and torment
scattered her to the winds of history.
A museum forms her tomb,
her bones laid in state,
her skin with the stripes faded,
her skull with the bullet hole
decorating her forehead.
Out in the mangroves
the deer sometimes cower
at a passing feline shadow,
a spectre
from the forests of yesterday.
(So ladies and gentlemen, that's it. NaPoWriMo is over for another year. To anyone who's followed my journey through the challenge this year, thanks for sticking around and I'm pleased that we got through it again this year. To my fellow poets who took on the challenge this year, well done for sticking with it to the end! I'll have my full thoughts on how I think it went this time out tomorrow at the latest. Thanks once again, and until next year, goodbye NaPoWriMo!)
of the family stands tall.
The Queen of Bali,
of the mangroves and the grasslands,
she prowled the dense jungles,
sending deer and birds fleeing,
shrinking from her shadow,
as fierce and revered
as her Indian brothers.
Those from across the sea
came seeking her,
to pay her homage
with steel and lead,
with the teeth of snap-traps
and bullets to the skull.
Every part of her had use,
to the visitors and her neighbours.
Her teeth and claws warded off evil,
her skin adorned the hunters' den,
her whiskers made the sharpest poison.
Such reverence and torment
scattered her to the winds of history.
A museum forms her tomb,
her bones laid in state,
her skin with the stripes faded,
her skull with the bullet hole
decorating her forehead.
Out in the mangroves
the deer sometimes cower
at a passing feline shadow,
a spectre
from the forests of yesterday.
(So ladies and gentlemen, that's it. NaPoWriMo is over for another year. To anyone who's followed my journey through the challenge this year, thanks for sticking around and I'm pleased that we got through it again this year. To my fellow poets who took on the challenge this year, well done for sticking with it to the end! I'll have my full thoughts on how I think it went this time out tomorrow at the latest. Thanks once again, and until next year, goodbye NaPoWriMo!)
Sunday, 29 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #29: Mesozoic Summer
In the Mesozoic forests
the summer lingers all year.
Ferns and conifers lush
and dripping with moisture,
the effect of a greenhouse planet.
The kings of the earth roam
unfettered.
Pteosaurus, leather-winged
masters of the sky
dart above the canopy
snatching dragonflies.
Coelurus, quick-footed, shrewd,
the nightmare of mammals
cowering under the leaf litter,
while a bullish Stegosuaurs
crashes through the underbrush,
its psychedelic plates
pulsating against the green.
Out on the plains, giants assert
their presence without effort.
Diplodocus steps shake the earth,
dainty heads on preposterous necks,
tails swishing like gargantuan eels.
They scan the forest edge for enemies,
the packs of therepods
lusting after the potential
of such a gigantic feast.
(This is a poem I've thought for a while about doing, and now I think I've found the right way to do it. Hard to believe I started twenty nine days ago but it seems we've gotten through NaPoWriMo for another year. Only one more to go, so I'll see you tomorrow when we're finishing NaPoWriMo in style!)
the summer lingers all year.
Ferns and conifers lush
and dripping with moisture,
the effect of a greenhouse planet.
The kings of the earth roam
unfettered.
Pteosaurus, leather-winged
masters of the sky
dart above the canopy
snatching dragonflies.
Coelurus, quick-footed, shrewd,
the nightmare of mammals
cowering under the leaf litter,
while a bullish Stegosuaurs
crashes through the underbrush,
its psychedelic plates
pulsating against the green.
Out on the plains, giants assert
their presence without effort.
Diplodocus steps shake the earth,
dainty heads on preposterous necks,
tails swishing like gargantuan eels.
They scan the forest edge for enemies,
the packs of therepods
lusting after the potential
of such a gigantic feast.
(This is a poem I've thought for a while about doing, and now I think I've found the right way to do it. Hard to believe I started twenty nine days ago but it seems we've gotten through NaPoWriMo for another year. Only one more to go, so I'll see you tomorrow when we're finishing NaPoWriMo in style!)
Saturday, 28 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #28: Railbound Vision
The glass of a carriage window,
granting views of the passing countryside,
a blurred tapestry morphing
into cold concrete and metal
of the rain-drenched cityscape.
Many hours are passed
staring through this window,
the fields, trees and rivers
blending into daydreams
of snapshots from the past
and hopes for the future,
a crystal ball looking both ways.
Then the monotone announcer
tells no one in particular
that the train will be arriving at...
And the kaleidoscope vision
dissipates.
granting views of the passing countryside,
a blurred tapestry morphing
into cold concrete and metal
of the rain-drenched cityscape.
Many hours are passed
staring through this window,
the fields, trees and rivers
blending into daydreams
of snapshots from the past
and hopes for the future,
a crystal ball looking both ways.
Then the monotone announcer
tells no one in particular
that the train will be arriving at...
And the kaleidoscope vision
dissipates.
Friday, 27 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #27: Acacia Siesta
The savannah simmers in the heat of midday.
A single impala wanders the plains
keeping one eye fixed on a nearby tree,
the danger underneath it not hard to see.
Six lions rest in the acacia's shade,
the pride male watching the grassland haze.
All of this he fought for and won by force,
a cycle of violence runs it usual course.
The cats sleep easy with their hunger sated.
A night comes the hunt for which they've waited.
The buffalo huddle close, but they're unprepared,
the lions attack what no one else dares.
A single impala wanders the plains
keeping one eye fixed on a nearby tree,
the danger underneath it not hard to see.
Six lions rest in the acacia's shade,
the pride male watching the grassland haze.
All of this he fought for and won by force,
a cycle of violence runs it usual course.
The cats sleep easy with their hunger sated.
A night comes the hunt for which they've waited.
The buffalo huddle close, but they're unprepared,
the lions attack what no one else dares.
Thursday, 26 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #26: Whitewall
Sitting in a whitewall room,
designed for your comfort,
to help you unwind,
also to assure anyone
looking through the online prism
that this room
is a quality place
to spend a few nights.
The blankness of the paint
sterilises the mind,
and the best hope of sanity
lies beyond the window pane,
yet all you can see is the rain.
The walls scream in silence
for a splash of splendour,
just a dash of colour
to give them some way
of expressing themselves,
yet the whitewall smothers the
into brushstroke uniformity.
designed for your comfort,
to help you unwind,
also to assure anyone
looking through the online prism
that this room
is a quality place
to spend a few nights.
The blankness of the paint
sterilises the mind,
and the best hope of sanity
lies beyond the window pane,
yet all you can see is the rain.
The walls scream in silence
for a splash of splendour,
just a dash of colour
to give them some way
of expressing themselves,
yet the whitewall smothers the
into brushstroke uniformity.
Wednesday, 25 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #25: Hornet Warning
Caution: Do Not Disturb This Hornet Nest.
Contains Vicious Warrior Insects
Liable To Sting You To Death.
Orange, Yellow and Black Markings
Are Outline To Help
If You Ignore This First Warning.
Do Not Mix With Bees
Unless You Wish To Provide
A Giant Hornet Buffet.
(Today's poem comes from the daily prompt on the NaPoWriMo website, which asks participants to write a poem in the style of a warning label to myself. Since giant hornets are warning labels in and of themselves, I'm not sure how helpful this poem will be in helping people to avoid them, but we can hope. Now with five poems to go we're finally near the finish line. See you tomorrow with the next poem!)
Contains Vicious Warrior Insects
Liable To Sting You To Death.
Orange, Yellow and Black Markings
Are Outline To Help
If You Ignore This First Warning.
Do Not Mix With Bees
Unless You Wish To Provide
A Giant Hornet Buffet.
(Today's poem comes from the daily prompt on the NaPoWriMo website, which asks participants to write a poem in the style of a warning label to myself. Since giant hornets are warning labels in and of themselves, I'm not sure how helpful this poem will be in helping people to avoid them, but we can hope. Now with five poems to go we're finally near the finish line. See you tomorrow with the next poem!)
Tuesday, 24 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #24: Chilling on the Water
They know a lot them ducks,
about where it's best to retire
when the need for rest takes over.
A mallard, who works every day
on the weir-torn river in town,
dabbles on an oval lake
designed by gardeners
imitating nature's haphazard
perfection.
He mingles with the swans and geese,
scoffs at the moorhens
as they patrol the reed.
The moorhens return the gesture.
His family sit on the banks,
five fuzzy brown ducklings
and their speckled mother.
The ducklings learn to swim
in an uncertain straight line,
the first of many lessons
while their father tries to sleep
on the water, and is dive-bombed
over and over by a hooligan chaffinch.
At day's end, they sit and watch
the swans argue over who shall chase
an unsuspecting coot.
about where it's best to retire
when the need for rest takes over.
A mallard, who works every day
on the weir-torn river in town,
dabbles on an oval lake
designed by gardeners
imitating nature's haphazard
perfection.
He mingles with the swans and geese,
scoffs at the moorhens
as they patrol the reed.
The moorhens return the gesture.
His family sit on the banks,
five fuzzy brown ducklings
and their speckled mother.
The ducklings learn to swim
in an uncertain straight line,
the first of many lessons
while their father tries to sleep
on the water, and is dive-bombed
over and over by a hooligan chaffinch.
At day's end, they sit and watch
the swans argue over who shall chase
an unsuspecting coot.
Monday, 23 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #23: Madness and Rage
Is it anger? Is it ineptitude?
Is it unpreparedness?
Is it all of the above?
Rage, a force from the unknown,
arrives unbidden,
devastates all before it
when let loose.
Madness feeds Rage,
nurtures it like rain
on a wilting dandelion,
till it bursts forth
and blooms
into a frothing cataclysm.
Is it unpreparedness?
Is it all of the above?
Rage, a force from the unknown,
arrives unbidden,
devastates all before it
when let loose.
Madness feeds Rage,
nurtures it like rain
on a wilting dandelion,
till it bursts forth
and blooms
into a frothing cataclysm.
Sunday, 22 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #22: The House with No Name
It sits on the hill
as an empty skeleton,
its residents vanished,
the mortgage no more,
who knows if it ever had one?
Now it's a monument
to something unknown and untold,
a vestige
from when trams
rolled up and down
the coal-choked hills.
The decrepit door
allows whispers
to cross the silent threshold.
The tumbledown walls
long surrendered to the moss.
Somewhere in that ruin
the chipping of pickaxes
resonates in the dark.
as an empty skeleton,
its residents vanished,
the mortgage no more,
who knows if it ever had one?
Now it's a monument
to something unknown and untold,
a vestige
from when trams
rolled up and down
the coal-choked hills.
The decrepit door
allows whispers
to cross the silent threshold.
The tumbledown walls
long surrendered to the moss.
Somewhere in that ruin
the chipping of pickaxes
resonates in the dark.
Saturday, 21 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #21: Battle
Every once in a while the fields rumble
when cuirasses and greaves clatter on the march
and sword and shield rattle in unision
while a robin sings his tune in the thickets,
unaware of the great king's defiant speech,
fuel for the brave and the petrified
should there be any breaks in the line
when the enemy advances in formation
like driver ants marching in a column,
arrows buttering up their impeding obstacle
before steel rings against steel
and dying scream blends with battle cry.
when cuirasses and greaves clatter on the march
and sword and shield rattle in unision
while a robin sings his tune in the thickets,
unaware of the great king's defiant speech,
fuel for the brave and the petrified
should there be any breaks in the line
when the enemy advances in formation
like driver ants marching in a column,
arrows buttering up their impeding obstacle
before steel rings against steel
and dying scream blends with battle cry.
Friday, 20 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #20: Moonlight Chase
Howling on the wind,
the settlers shiver at the sound.
The great hunters of the woods
gather on this moonlit night.
The elder wolves know the ritual,
passed down through the ages
from one pack leader to the next,
scouring the frozen forest for prey.
The settlers seek comfort
in preemptive solutions
and set out with spear and flame
to drive their monsters out.
They come for the pack that night
but the wolves melt into the trees,
shades as old as the winter chill
and man's eternal, abstract foe.
the settlers shiver at the sound.
The great hunters of the woods
gather on this moonlit night.
The elder wolves know the ritual,
passed down through the ages
from one pack leader to the next,
scouring the frozen forest for prey.
The settlers seek comfort
in preemptive solutions
and set out with spear and flame
to drive their monsters out.
They come for the pack that night
but the wolves melt into the trees,
shades as old as the winter chill
and man's eternal, abstract foe.
Thursday, 19 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #19: Sunshine Garden
The sunshine outside the window,
the trees growing new leaves,
the grass growing taller.
The puddle at the bottom
of the garden drying up,
sparrows and blackbirds
darting through the branches.
Somewhere in the distance
someone hammers nails
into a fence, the latest
apprentice carpenter
to appear in the village.
(Today's poem is inspired by the daily prompt from the NaPoWriMo website, which today was to write a paragraph describing a story, the scene outside your window or directions from place to place, and then either erase words to create a poem or use some of the words to form a new poem. I took this prompt and used it to describe what my garden in Frynwys looks like in the current weather.)
the trees growing new leaves,
the grass growing taller.
The puddle at the bottom
of the garden drying up,
sparrows and blackbirds
darting through the branches.
Somewhere in the distance
someone hammers nails
into a fence, the latest
apprentice carpenter
to appear in the village.
(Today's poem is inspired by the daily prompt from the NaPoWriMo website, which today was to write a paragraph describing a story, the scene outside your window or directions from place to place, and then either erase words to create a poem or use some of the words to form a new poem. I took this prompt and used it to describe what my garden in Frynwys looks like in the current weather.)
Wednesday, 18 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #18: Agama
The old agama lizard stretches
on the ground under his rock,
his smouldering red scales
morph into freezing blue
as they descend from head to tail.
A curious flash of colour
in the grassland greens and yellows,
the agama crawls onto his throne,
a dot amidst the flat vastness
with a perfect panoramic view.
Very few animals visit him.
The crew of vultures overhead
seem confused by his patterns,
and a passing serval with radar ears
only gives him a passing glance.
Such are the days for the old agama,
to sit and be marvelled at
by his numerous neighbours
like a gem in a reptilian jewellers,
watching the herds follow the rain.
on the ground under his rock,
his smouldering red scales
morph into freezing blue
as they descend from head to tail.
A curious flash of colour
in the grassland greens and yellows,
the agama crawls onto his throne,
a dot amidst the flat vastness
with a perfect panoramic view.
Very few animals visit him.
The crew of vultures overhead
seem confused by his patterns,
and a passing serval with radar ears
only gives him a passing glance.
Such are the days for the old agama,
to sit and be marvelled at
by his numerous neighbours
like a gem in a reptilian jewellers,
watching the herds follow the rain.
Tuesday, 17 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #17: Cold Blooded Beat
Midday sun
bathes a rock,
like an oasis,
a daily fuel stop
for sluggish snakes
and sleepwalking lizards.
The cold
festers at night,
their blood
permeated with it,
so they sit
on the rocks
facing the glare,
wait for the heat
to rise and ferment,
all the while
their ancient hearts
thump, thump, thump
like starting engines
under simmering skin
and emerald scales.
bathes a rock,
like an oasis,
a daily fuel stop
for sluggish snakes
and sleepwalking lizards.
The cold
festers at night,
their blood
permeated with it,
so they sit
on the rocks
facing the glare,
wait for the heat
to rise and ferment,
all the while
their ancient hearts
thump, thump, thump
like starting engines
under simmering skin
and emerald scales.
Monday, 16 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #16: Urban Dweller
A furnace of concrete, petrol and cash,
city stream from the boiling streets
float above the blank-faced office towers.
To dwell on the hectic trading streets,
the city denizen must be astute,
as sharp as a swallow
at the turn of the season.
Sidestepping slow shoppers,
snapping up cut-price showstoppers,
drinking at the trendiest coffee shops
because all their friends go to them,
the watering holes of hollow insight
and futile strategies for the future
along with some rest from the tide.
Dodging traffic when crossing the road,
catching buses and trains on the go,
working indoors in the heat of day,
at the end of a chain of production,
heading finished articles to satisfy
the insatiable yet indecisive demand,
then walking home under the orange glare
when the street lights come out to play.
city stream from the boiling streets
float above the blank-faced office towers.
To dwell on the hectic trading streets,
the city denizen must be astute,
as sharp as a swallow
at the turn of the season.
Sidestepping slow shoppers,
snapping up cut-price showstoppers,
drinking at the trendiest coffee shops
because all their friends go to them,
the watering holes of hollow insight
and futile strategies for the future
along with some rest from the tide.
Dodging traffic when crossing the road,
catching buses and trains on the go,
working indoors in the heat of day,
at the end of a chain of production,
heading finished articles to satisfy
the insatiable yet indecisive demand,
then walking home under the orange glare
when the street lights come out to play.
Sunday, 15 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #15: Overgrown
In a jungle of a garden,
with a shed constricted by ivy,
a patio draped in moss,
a lawn resembling a green porcupine,
a lost fox makes its den
in what was a compost heap,
much to the dismay
of the resident slow-worm.
He tried to evict his housemate
but his size did not help matters.
To this day no one knows
if he moved out or not.
Still the garden grow,s
still the fox's abode,
till gardeners arrive, tools in hand,
to break the ivy's hold.
with a shed constricted by ivy,
a patio draped in moss,
a lawn resembling a green porcupine,
a lost fox makes its den
in what was a compost heap,
much to the dismay
of the resident slow-worm.
He tried to evict his housemate
but his size did not help matters.
To this day no one knows
if he moved out or not.
Still the garden grow,s
still the fox's abode,
till gardeners arrive, tools in hand,
to break the ivy's hold.
Saturday, 14 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #14: Sparrowhawk
A silhouette
amorphous,
from a distance
resembles its prey.
In the branches
a silent jet fighter,
songbirds beware
of lethal eyes
and the talons
which follow them.
amorphous,
from a distance
resembles its prey.
In the branches
a silent jet fighter,
songbirds beware
of lethal eyes
and the talons
which follow them.
Friday, 13 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #13: The Waking Weta
In the hollowed-out trunk
of a long dead tree,
the dead frost of winter
makes the old bark freeze.
A weta, king of crickets,
lets the frost take hold.
Sleeping, frozen in state,
a guest of the cold.
Spring disperses winter,
frees the weta's jaws.
Awake with new hunger,
time to hunt once more.
of a long dead tree,
the dead frost of winter
makes the old bark freeze.
A weta, king of crickets,
lets the frost take hold.
Sleeping, frozen in state,
a guest of the cold.
Spring disperses winter,
frees the weta's jaws.
Awake with new hunger,
time to hunt once more.
Thursday, 12 April 2018
NaPoWriMo #12: Freedom and Reunion
The free circus tiger lives in the Sal forest, cloaked in a veil of thickets. He is used to the distant burble of jeep engines carrying visitors into his domain, yet when one stops in front of him as he rests under the shadow of a ghost tree, he sees a face emerge from the formless mists of the past, one which broke the collar and wrecked the chain.
The big cat runs
an old friend now tangible,
danger approaching.
(Yes, it's the return of the tiger poem, surprisingly one of the main staples of Tiger Verse. Today's poem is partially inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo website to write a haibun poem - a Japanese form utilising a combination of prose and haiku. I'd also like to give a shout-out to fellow NaPoWriMoist Sam Allen for reminding me of these prompts as I had forgotten about them of late. You can check out Sam's own haibun poem here. Almost half way now, see you with the next poem!)
The big cat runs
an old friend now tangible,
danger approaching.
(Yes, it's the return of the tiger poem, surprisingly one of the main staples of Tiger Verse. Today's poem is partially inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo website to write a haibun poem - a Japanese form utilising a combination of prose and haiku. I'd also like to give a shout-out to fellow NaPoWriMoist Sam Allen for reminding me of these prompts as I had forgotten about them of late. You can check out Sam's own haibun poem here. Almost half way now, see you with the next poem!)
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