The carping wind moaned on and on badgering the beetle brown old bungalow rattling its ratty-tatty rear bay windows it whooshed then wailed then whined scaring the decaying soffit into submission danced like dervish amongst the debris then losing steam, skulked in a corner of the crumbling cellar.
Written for dVerse poetics. Today’s host, Sarah wants us to have fun with animal verbs.
Turbid thoughts taint decisions undermining clarity and cogent concepts moot matters mar the mindscape ululating notions create commotion leaving the brain too befuddled to tie all the unravelled loose ends.
Written for David’s W3 to yours truly’s prompt to write an acrostic poem on the following.
On a typical misty morning when the hush is broken by the birds leaving their nests the elderly woman in an inexpensive apparel takes her daily route the prickly cactus, the malicious ants no deterrent buckets balanced on her frail shoulders she is on her same daily run no complain, no regret she knows not life outside her village accepting with equanimity the lot handed to her.
The smell of a roti off the hot girdle is earthy; neither sweet nor salty yet the speckled and puffed up phulka, with just a smear of ghee is humble and grand at the same time readily becoming a base to dal, gosht or aloo gobhi none of which would taste as good without it whether paratha, poori, roomali roti or tandoori roti its ubiquitous presence cannot be denied quit roti – says everyone – banish it from your diet but I don’t have gluten allergy – I protest carbs and gluten are not cool these days – I am reminded as I look dolefully at the roti on my plate it winks at me, asking – can you live without me?
I remember as a child watching my mother knead the dough handing me a sticky ball and it was my playdough to be fashioned in any shape while she instilled in me a respect for the golden grains for it is the food of the rich as well as the poor drenched in ghee or with a sprinkle of salt this satiater of hunger cannot be robbed of its importance by fancy, ever so new-fangled diets.
For today’s challenge write your own two-part poem that focuses on a food or type of meal. At some point in the poem, describe the food or meal as if it were a specific kind of person. Give the food/meal at least one line of spoken dialogue.
*roti – Indian flatbread cooked on a griddle.
Phulka – puffed up roti (synonym of roti)
Paratha – shallow fried stuffed roti
Poori – deep fried, puffed roti
Roomali roti – a very thin soft roti eaten with kebabs
Tandoori roti – roti made in clay oven.
Dal – lentil or any other legume curry
Gosht – mutton curry
Aloo gobhi – potato and cauliflower dry preparation with spices.
Fame lands me in a pickle on a surface slippery with slime once I slip still try a second time the one-eyed crow smirks ironically can see no farmer’s corn in disdain it flies past I choke on the pickle and gag!
For today’s prompt we are asked to find an Emily Dickinson poem – preferably one we have never previously read – and take out all the dashes and line breaks. Make it just one big block of prose. Now, rebreak the lines. Add words where we want. Take out some words. Make our own poem out of it.
Pebbles of memories perturb my placid life some like bullets tear my heart asunder some pass by with nary a ripple the fragrance of fuchsia flips a familiar switch banished phases from the past parade in my present I taste the tangerine tartness of love the mellifluous melody of memories sweet
pulled out of the hypnotic hole of hopelessness I am at Barcelona and can hear Maira say, “Si solo fuera cierto*, dear Tippy” the younger me would have responded, “saun rabb di**”! she was so lit she put the sun to shame and her smile is still emblazoned on this wrecked heart
Tripping on reminiscences I trace her name with shaky fingers as I watch her favourite nimbostratus clouds I want to wipe away all her traces but the moon she had pocketed that last meeting saunters by every day, wearing her fragrance I die every night only to be resurrected by the sun.
For today’s prompt:
1. Begin the poem with a metaphor.
2. Say something specific but utterly preposterous.
3. Use at least one image for each of the five senses, either in succession or scattered randomly throughout the poem.
4. Use one example of synesthesia (mixing the senses).
5. Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.
6. Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.
7. Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.
8. Use a word (slang?) you’ve never seen in a poem.
9. Use an example of false cause-effect logic.
10. Use a piece of talk you’ve actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don’t understand).
11. Create a metaphor using the following construction: “The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun) . . .”
12. Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities.
13. Make the persona or character in the poem do something he or she could not do in “real life.”
14. Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person.
15. Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction.
16. Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective.
17. Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but that finally makes no sense.
18. Use a phrase from a language other than English.
19. Make a non-human object say or do something human (personification).
20. Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement, but that “echoes” an image from earlier in the poem.
I don’t know how many points I have included, once I started, I let it take its own course.
*Si solo fuera cierto is Spanish and means if only it was true.
**saun rabb di is Punjabi and means I swear by God.
As thoughts unspool they fall in a tangled heap ideas float like jumbled strands my mind’s fingers flail and fail in trying to spin an engaging yarn fleet footed word flee hurriedly I am left fumbling.
The prompt (optional, as always) for the first day of Na/GloPoWriMo is to write a poem based on a book cover. Take a look through Public Domain Review’s article on “The Art of Book Covers.” With any luck, one or more of these will catch your fancy, and open your mind to some poetic insights.
I am the frightener of your monsters the listener of your rants and outbursts the keeper of all your secrets the soaker of your silently falling tears the generator of festooneddreams the slayer of occasional nightmares
You are the master of mercurial moods a purveyor of puerile pranks a dictator of directionless diktats a lounger lazing languidly a hugger, a dreamer, a procastinator
But there can be no denying whether I am dressed in crisp cottons or silky softness I am the best bedmate you can ever have!
Written for David’s W3 where David is the POW himself. He has asked us to write a poem from the perspective of an inanimate household object, using personification.