Move on #Napowrimo #2

Move On

Life is too short and so

to save time,

to be efficient,

einstein

 

I wear an Einstein wardrobe;

white blouse,

black jeans,

boots,

yet

 

flamboyant colour

when a kaleidoscope of colour

flounces before me, I envy

the flamboyance,

briefly.

I indulge in the dream of being

free to reside in sparkling rainbows

simply dancing, with no destination

kicking away scrumpled up “to-do” lists

tossed aside with abandon.

 

einsteins wardrobe.jpg

 

The moment passes.

I console myself;

a books beauty is held on the inside.

I move on.

 

 

This poem was strangely influenced by  an article by Julie Marie Wade, Wednesday, March 18, 2015:  article

“Put a Dog in There: Poetry and the Power of Concrete Nouns”

used as a Napowrimo craft resource. In her essay she discusses the power of including nouns.

 

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We interrupt this blog to give you…. #Napowrimo 2018 #1 Threadbare

I’m falling behind rapidly on Napowrimo 2018… which may be a small mercy to my blog readers… however, onwards and upwards… here we go on the catch up…

My first poem of April was inspired by Write Out Loud Stockport’s prompt “Threads”. Although completely unrelated to #napowrimo’s prompts, it’s a chance to get something down on paper and make a start;

Threadbare

biscuit tin photos

Each family member spins a yarn.

Tales told over years are

embellished with brass buttons and ribbon strands.

Sepia memories kept in a Jubilee biscuit tin

are brought out and closely studied

with moist eyes.

 

buttons and ribbons

Though charity shop clothes were worn

until the cuffs frayed,

troubles were patched at the elbows

and spare buttons found, amongst the treasure

in the old treacle tin,

which sat next to bundled knitting needles

best china

 

and china cups, saved for best ”

in case the Queen should come”.

 

 

 

grandma sewing

 

A thimble was all that was needed to protect

the seamstress, until the day she laid down

her work and found rest;

leaving her children and theirs, to pick up

the thread and embroider their own stories,

to pick up the shears and cut their own cloth,

each stitch a priceless and unique addition.

 

 

 

 

A Muggle’s Spell

Yesterday, at Harry Potter Day held, at Stockport War Memorial Art Gallery, I promised the spell-writing children that I would create a spell poem from the unique ingredients they conjured up. Here it is in all it’s glory;

 

A Muggle Spell

by Nicola Hulme

hogwarts

 

A muddle of magical muggles,

A sensational spectacular scene,

Wizarding costumes everywhere

An incredible Hogwarts dream.

Quill-Paper-and-Wax

 

Unique ingredients invented,

Imaginations running wild

Spells cast on the unwitting

By a most innocent looking child.

potion

 

Heads were filled with potions,

Hands quilled beautiful lines.

It warmed the heart to see their smiles

Though mischief was on their mind …

 

Here’s a list; a bizarre selection

of the ingredients captured that day,

a spell written to bond and bind them

for good or evil, who can say?

Into the cauldron

 

Into the cauldron dark and deep

Add a snore from a big sleep.

Add the wing from a hippogriff

This will make the mixture stiff!

Hippogriff-5e

 

Two purple ants, two Muggle eyes

Fan the flames until bubbles rise.

Killer’s blood, just a drop,

Add a teaspoon of troll snot!

Spider eyes and Hagrid’s beard

beard-hagrid

 

 

 

 

 

 

For a potion wild and weird.

A feather from a phoenix wing

Spit from snake, keep stirring!

dragon claw

 

Nails from a dragon’s toes

(You might want to hold your nose)

Finally a giggle of newt’s laughter

To give us the spell that we are after….

 

 

Ingredients provided by the children of Hogwarts Stockport

on Harry Potter Day 11th February, 2018

The Sycamore Prince

Slender branches silhouette

beneath his golden crown.

Sparks thrown out by the silver sun

ignite his flaming hues.

The autumnal prince towers above

ethereal mists, caught between earth and sky.

In a final flourish, passionate embers

of saffron and copper smoulder.

Only to cool as the light fades

and chill winds blow.

Each yellow fingered leaf, I mourn

as it falls and returns to it’s roots.

I will his warming glow to remain

to comfort my spirits during

November’s nip and winters depths.

Knowing my protests cannot halt

ruthless frosts from calling “time”.

November 2017

Medieval Marginalia

Napowrimo Challenge Day 24

I initially struggled with this prompt, but once I’d found an angle, it became much easier to write.

The Prompt: 

Write a poem of ekphrasis — that is, a poem inspired by a work of art…base your poem on a very particular kind of art – the marginalia of medieval manuscripts. Here you’ll find some characteristic images of rabbits hunting wolves, people sitting on nests of eggs, dogs studiously reading books, and birds wearing snail shells. What can I say? It must have gotten quite boring copying out manuscripts all day, so the monks made their own fun. Hopefully, the detritus of their daydreams will inspire you as well!

My Response:

 

Hollow

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A young boy, bent and twisted

over a dimly lit desk, peers at the page.

The candle flickers.

Stiff with cold, his bones ache

from long diligent hours, transcribing reverent texts.

His repetitive days pass in silent gloom.

His quill scratches hairy parchment with thin ink.

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Original thoughts are not required,

Nor dreams or ambition.

Bound by his vow of celibacy,

he will never know the passion of young love.

Hunger and starvation pains his body, pains his soul.

Neglect and lack of sustenance drive him

to the point of defacing the page

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with subversive medieval marginalia.

Supressed dreams, desires and anger merge

revealing his inner torment.

Offensive images of vulgarity spill out onto the page.

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He longs to run away from the sordid squalor,

from the dark, cold and damp monastery.

To stretch his legs, straighten his back,

feel sun on his face as he runs into the arms

of one who smiles and cares.

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The monastic life drives him away

rather than draws him nearer to God.

 Are the words he pens so hollow?

 

Rainbow Child

Napowrimo Day 19

The Prompt:

Write a poem that recounts a creation myth. It doesn’t have to be an existing creation myth, or even recount how all of creation came to be. It could be, for example, your own take on the creation of ball-point pens, or the discovery of knitting. Your myth can be as big or small as you would like, as serious or silly as you make it.

My Response:

Rainbow Child

 

sunbeams in misty forest

In leafy forest glade,

amongst meadow flowers fair,

heady floral fragrance

hung heavily in the air.

Still, she sat in zenful peace,

as daydreams drifted by.

A breeze blew the tallest leaves

and whispered softest sighs.

blog12

With eyes closed, she observed

a world of scents and sounds.

Then she pushed each thought out

until silent mind was found.

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Maiden so serene and soft,

in state of inner calm,

exhaled long, stretched aloft

her slender ivory arms.

With slight move, turned her face

to the golden orb on high.

Reaching with delicate grace

plucked insight from the sky.

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Again she reached, caught more;

glints of wisdom and of truth.

Pulled each near her fairy form,

where they glowed, brightest hues.

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Nimble fingers worked thereon,

wove gems into ribbon tails.

Multitudes of colours shone

as fluttering bright yacht sails.

Her fingers worked into night.

Ribbons stretched to the stars.

Weaving kindness, peace and grace

into finest work of art.

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The Gods saw the modesty

of this gifted fairy child,

whose work simple honesty,

from a soul so meek and mild.

They raised her up to heaven.

Forever she will remain.

Her ribbons stretch across the sky

when sunlight meets the rain.

bee

Soft Slumber

Napowrimo Day 16

The Prompt: 

Write a nocturne. In music, a nocturne is a composition meant to be played at night, usually for piano, and with a tender and melancholy sort of sound. Your nocturne should aim to translate this sensibility into poetic form!

My Response:

Soft Slumber

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Night lead me by the hand

as we climb a twinkling staircase of stars.

Darkness cover me. Tuck me in.

Place a goodnight kiss on my forehead.

Shadows close my heavy eyes.

Guide me into sleep.

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Dreams waltz with me

across an endless sky of velvet black.

Stillness soothe my mind.

Sing me a lullaby of moonlit melody.

Softness sway my soul.

Rock me gently with your sympathetic lilt.

blog7

Peacefulness rise and fall

with every breath, as I slip deeper

into restful slumber.

 

Blood, blood everywhere!

With a slightly gothic twist, here is my response to the Napowrimo challenge on Day 11

The Prompt: the Bop. The invention of poet Afaa Michael Weaver, the Bop is a kind of combination sonnet + song. Like a Shakespearan sonnet, it introduces, discusses, and then solves (or fails to solve) a problem. Like a song, it relies on refrains and repetition. In the basic Bop poem, a six-line stanza introduces the problem, and is followed by a one-line refrain. The next, eight-line stanza discusses and develops the problem, and is again followed by the one-line refrain. Then, another six-line stanza resolves or concludes the problem, and is again followed by the refrain.

blog7

Midday Feast

It’s 11 am and I can’t sleep.

I’ve tossed and turned for hours.

My stomach growls, gurgles, groans.

It pleads with me, begs me to feed the need.

I’m coffin bound, I can’t roam around.

In this light how do I find my next victim?

Blood, Blood everywhere and not a drop to drink.

blog6

I could bang on the wood, yell for help,

In the hope the prey comes to me.

As they enter the gloom, a quick puncture wound

I can almost taste them now.

Perhaps I can find a cover, to shield my skin

venture out in the midday sun?

Sneak up from behind, grab a quick bite.

Oh for a pint or two! Right now a kitten would do!

Blood, Blood everywhere and not a drop to drink.

blog3

But I have no cover, nothing I can use

So I lie prostrate in this box.

Its 2017, you would think I would learn

To prepare for this eventuality.

But I am a man. I don’t have a plan.

I shall just have to wither away, until dark marks the end of day.

Blood, Blood everywhere and not a drop to drink.

 

The Best of Times

Written with an aching heart, here is my response to Napowrimo’s challenge for Day 10.

The Prompt: Write a poem that is a portrait of someone important to you. It doesn’t need to focus so much on what a person looks (or looked) like, as what they are or were.

My response:

The Best Of Times

We talked for hours by the fireside

of Keats and poetic greats.

We waxed lyrical of literary works,

swapped recommendations, compared texts.

You lent me dusty old books,

from your bowing bookshelves.

They smelt of aged paper, slightly musty and damp.

Some had prices pencilled on the inside cover

or dedications marking occasions.

They were charity shop treasures you’d unearthed.

We shared sadness as we wondered how works of art and genius

could be so casually tossed aside to charity bags.

We laughed until tears rolled, when the actor who played leading role

in a beloved film escaped us.

“It was errrr… now then… blast it… I know this…

he was also in… no, no, no…

the one with the actress, who was married to…” and it went on.

These conversations were more frequent

as your memory faded,

but we laughed all the same until we recalled the names.

We agreed on Wuthering Heights and Olivier

being best cast in the role

but disagreed on your love of Laurel and Hardy,

It amazed me how you belly laughed

as you watched their slapstick humour.

You bought me a box set of Doris Day

though your pension funds were running out.

No-one else in the world knew or understood

my passion for her voice

Our talks were exclusive.

We’d be enrapt until it went dark outside and I had to leave.

They were the greatest times.

Who would have thought whilst generations apart,

we could have been best friends and soul mates?

Now all I have is a box of your books,

which were handed to me when you died.

I cried because they had been hastily thrown together

without any conscious choice.

Just a random after thought, of “She may like some.”

There are some old poetry collections.

Opening them, I found notes made on strips of paper,

which bookmarked the pages

and an old lottery ticket.

Some poems were starred and I knew before looking,

I’d find stars next to The Highwayman and The Oxen.

I hope you have found new friends to discuss with,

Until we meet again.

Fortuitous Festive Feast

When does prose become prose poetry or vice versa? Where is the line drawn between prose poetry and free verse? Does any of this matter? Perhaps the poets out there can enlighten me?

I’m classing my response to today’s Napowrimo challenge as an artistic expression, free from limitations, simply so I can complete the challenge on a day where I’m over-stretched…sorry!

Day 7: Write a poem on luck or fortuitousness

My response:

Fortuitous Festive Feast

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We saw it at the same time.

Halted our march through the grimy slush.

Our toes pinched with cold.

Mum stooped down,

Quickly picking up

the bunched and crumpled papers.

We stood to one side,

letting the throng of shoppers pass.

We waited. We watched.

Time ticked by. Busy bodies bustled by;

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a constant stream of upturned collars,

chins tucked in, heads down,

red noses glowing in the fading light.

Clouds of breath rose in the icy air.

Confident no-one was looking

for a lost bundle, we slid

into a small side street.

Huddled together, mum drew out

the tightly wrapped notes.

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Ghostly white, trembling fingers

unfolded the green notes, one by one.

It was Christmas Eve,

The cupboards at home bare.

Now we held enough money

To buy Christmas dinner, pudding

and still have some left over.

Mum stifled a laugh.

The Christmas lights swaying

in the bitter wind,

looked brighter, prettier

but not as pretty as

mum’s tear filled eyes.

She looked up to the sky,

said a silent prayer

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then grabbed my hand

dragging me, running, skipping

back to the market to buy

our fortuitous festive feast.