And for our final (optional) prompt, I’d like you to take your cue from Borges, and write a poem that engages with a strange and fascinating fact. It could be an odd piece of history, an unusual bit of art trivia, or something just plain weird. While I cannot vouch for the actual accuracy of any of the facts presented at the links above (or any other facts you might use as inspiration!), I can tell you that there are definitely some poetic ideas here, just waiting for someone to use them.And for our final (optional) prompt, I’d like you to take your cue from Borges, and write a poem that engages with a strange and fascinating fact. It could be an odd piece of history, an unusual bit of art trivia, or something just plain weird. While I cannot vouch for the actual accuracy of any of the facts presented at the links above (or any other facts you might use as inspiration!), I can tell you that there are definitely some poetic ideas here, just waiting for someone to use them.
It had been a long and hard day
He had used all his charm to convince them
But it seemed they needed some more convincing
He paced up and down
His mind on the development of the last few weeks
It was early 1815
Napoleon was not given to ruminations
He was a man of action
But coming back to power after abdication
Required all his cunning and planning.
The parleys had been long and tiring
To clear his head, he decided to step into the woods
As he went deeper, he began to feel his mind clear up
Thinking of future strategy he walked on
Oblivious to his surroundings
Suddenly he heard scampering behind
Startled he turned, to find a pack of wild rabbits
He increased his pace and they seemed to do so too
He started running and they followed him too
Emitting bark like sounds
More than a dozen of rabbits
Baring their teeth as they chased him
Finally they caught up with him
And were biting his heels and legs
He took his revolver out and fired two shots
In panic and flustered he climbed a tree to save himself
Panting to catch his breath, he looked down after a while
The rabbits were nowhere to be seen.
Waiting for some more time
He gingerly got down
And with his heart beating very fast
He tried very quietly to make his way home.
He could not rid the disturbing image
Of the pack of rabbits attacking him.
It continued to haunt him day and night.
He had nightmares and his hands had a tremor
And that is the astonishing reason ladies and gentlemen
Why he lost the battle of Waterloo.
Stop the din in my head
Stop the clamouring
The constant hammering
Can’t you come one by one
Why do so many of you come all at once
You hound me in my sleep too
I often wake up with a start
Sweating and clammy
Specially the dark ones
Depressing me beyond words
You cloud my clarity
And blanket all light
Pushing me in a limbo
Give me some peace
A few moments of blankness
Where I could immerse in nothingness
And come out clean
Remove your tentacles
Suffocating me no end
They choke all the happy ones
Driving them far away
From where they never return
I am left shivering
Even at high noon
My spine turning into an icicle
Ready to snap anytime
Please go away
Let me cleanse my body and soul
In the heat of the moonlight
And air all crevices and nooks
Remove all cobwebs
Maybe happy thoughts will then
Decide to reside.
The assistant director let out an exasperated sigh
The ageing ex superstar was at it again.
The costume for the day was not to her liking
She had thrown a tantrum yet again.
Stomping off in anger
She had disappeared in her vanity van.
The director was at tether’s end
He was answerable to the producer too.
If the supporting cast was going to trouble this way
He wondered what starry tantrum the main cast would throw?
And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always). Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on the Plath Poetry Project’s calendar. Simply pick a poem from the calendar, and then write a poem that responds or engages with your chosen Plath poem in some way.
She released the balloons one by one
Watching as they lazily drifted away
They remained adrift to mislead her
Maybe they had a destination in mind
But for now seemed directionless
They had been begging her for release
Straining at their strings
Bobbing up and down
Trying to please her
She was sad to see them go
At the same time happy for them
She watched under the scorching moonlight
Till she could see no more.
Rivulets of tears coursed down her chubby cheeks
As she doubled up with laughter, one could hear her shrieks.
As her dad tossed her in the air once again
She tried to stop laughing, in vain.
Finally he set her gently down
Unshed tears in his eyes brown.
She crawled happily towards her mom
Her flippers flapping on the ground.
Too young to realise her own affliction
She couldn’t understand their desperation.
Phocomelia syndrome was the cause of their grief
Their little one would never get relief.
And now for our prompt (optional, as always). Following the suggestion of our craft resource, we challenge you today to draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard.
That morning when he was getting ready for the expedition, inexplicably, his mind was flooded with his father’s memories. His archaeological expeditions meant the world to him. Yet he felt restless. Pensively he checked his camera while sipping his coffee. His wife’s tea was getting cold. She too was a renowned archaeologist. He called out to her, as he sat sorting the postcards to be sent to the children. His father’s countenance continued to haunt him. He remembered the last time they had met. No words had been exchanged. The chasm between them too deep to be bridged by words. And then it was too late. He always carried his father’s hat with him, for some semblance of closeness. Agitated by the memory of those bourbon eyes staring at him, he knew what he had to do. He picked the phone to make a call. They were going home.
As he packed his bags he glanced around
His son pretended to play with a toy
Not meeting his eyes
His daughter had shut herself in her room
No amount of cajoling was of any use.
His wife was busy ironing his uniform
Her forced smile unsuccessfully hiding her tears.
Every time he went out to sea, the same scene played out
They didn’t like his being away
And always were resentful of his absence.
His family also knew sailing was not just his bread and butter
But also put the jam on the table.
Along with his clothes he always took with him
A framed picture of them all
Some novels to read, some music to listen to
But the most notable was the small pocketbook
Which was more precious for him than any other treasure.
In it was encased the first milk tooth of his daughter
Along with it was a lock of hair of his son
Above all the dried petals of the first flower his wife had ever given.
With these kept close to his heart
He knew no storm, no accident could ever him harm
He called out once more to them
And they all gathered round him
As he hugged them tight he knew they were his talisman.