I only ever write about magic in poetry,
on the page is where it can find a home.
Because the magical, mysterious happenings of the
They are filled with endless realities, not infinite, possibilities are cut
like the end of a black cat's tail.
But my tale, did begin with some magic --
a miracle child, born when no one quite expected it,
living on a tank of hopes and beliefs which my father
went round the hospital, collecting in a jar.
The teddy bear next to me sang me a lullably of two withes:
Jaadu and Junoon*
together, they soared through the night sky,
sprinkling madness into the dreams of adults and children everywhere.
And last night, I had a dream that I was Harry Potter.
I was dueling Draco Malfoy; we had to beat the record of 172
hits made at a target by Lucius Malfoy.
Draco ended up falling off the stage.
I made 870 hits.
But then the teddy bear woke me up,
Jaadu is a Hindi word meaning magic.
Junoon is an Urdu wor meaning madness.
Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something mysterious and spooky! Your poem could be about something that is mysterious and spooky in a bad way (like a witch), or mysterious and spooky in a good way (possibly also like a witch? It depends on the witch, I guess!) Or just the everyday, mysterious, spooky quality of being alive.
Hey guys! So whilst the weather in London has been getting better, I’ve been ill! (Yay (!) ) I’m not quite up to writing a full blog post, but like I said at the beginning of the year, I am putting out a new post on Sundays no matter what! So, here’s a little haiku about being ill. Enjoy! 🤒🤒🤒🤒
The house was as it always was; the concoctions of must and chipping paint gave it its usual pungent smell, while the ever-expanding cobwebs decorated the plain walls nicely. Like the residents, the spiders themselves were scarcely seen, however, meaning that the space between the walls were often left blank. An empty home was a strange sight indeed. No family, no dining table, no white picket fence here.
New week, new poems! The writing prompt for today is:
A very small object
Priyanka means ‘beautiful’,
in a language I can call my own,
it is fun to curl next to my Culture at night,
to be able to call it home.
Many people envy that,
they do not have such a Bubble,
maybe it is because they must find their culture,
in other people’s rubble.
The roof of the house only came crashing down,
I tell them,
because one of your ancestors wanted Greed.
They wanted more than they could bargain for,
and so their limits they did exceed.
Their house grew and grew until it could fit no more,
whilst people of my culture,
were left to wash the floors.
Now, my home is beautiful,
with bright colours and small trinkets,
it has been enhanced.
Perhaps that is why the Names that live here,
are more freely able to dance.
This poem was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 12, Poem #6]
This was originally meant to be posted yesterday, but my internet crashed 😦
I thought it was appropriate on Remembrance Day, to write a poem around that theme.
If I am to remember,
what does that truly mean?
Does it mean to remember the guns fired,
to watch the scarlet blood gleam,
or to touch the spirits who are still alive today,
and hold them in high esteem?
If I am to remember,
what am I to forget?
For it is difficult to say I am sorry,
when we have never met.
If the poppy grows in barren lands,
where do memories grow?
The brain does not work like a field,
but poppies don’t either, I bet.
Where does Time go when it comes home,
made old by rust and regret?
This was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 11, Poem #5]
The new poems will be based on the Savannah Brown prompts which she gave in the description her write with me video. If you’d like to check them out they’re here.
The first prompt is:
Listen to the quiet voice
When Time fades, and the clocks melt away,
I want to be right where I am now,
not beside another name, place or day.
together but alone, is how it’s best,
together is where we shall be,
isolated from the rest.
this feeling is our home,
that we have built from the ground up,
the foundations run smoothly,
even if they took long to put up.
within this house is where we shall remain,
listening to the quiet of our voices,
sheltered from all the rain.
This poem was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 9, Poem #3]