On meeting my idols

Personal Blog

If there was one word I could use to describe my experience of last night it would be humanising.

Seeing Phil Kaye and Sarah Kay perform at EartH was quite possibly the best night of my life. I felt present, I felt grateful, I felt at peace, but I still cried so many tears.

Old Man

Poetry, Small Poems
Sometimes I like to compare myself to an old man.
Note how I did not say old woman – for old women have a
special quality to them
which old men do not:
you can see it if you brush away the dust,
buried inside them is a treasure
chest where
pearls of wisdom remain.

Game

free verse, Poetry

Unfortunately, this is my last poem for this month. I’ve recently been really annoyed at the mistreatment of women in our society, which for some reason still exists in the 21st century, and so this is kind of just a splurge of all my thoughts.

the L illusion

Poetry

Today’s Savannah Brown writing prompt is:

How would someone else do it?


the L illusion

I have noted in these past few nights,
that Confidence is not found in the usual places;
it is not found inside another person
between cracks and small openings,
between the rust and rubble of
someone’s dampened heart,
or broken art,
but rather among
Ls:

leather, lipstick and lingerie

— and no, I don’t list these because I am an object,
but rather because I am creating one.

I am creating the L illusion,
the mathematical formula for Confidence,
the concocted potion in a witch’s pot,
as my hot, boiling broth of
newly found esteem,
spills over the edges,
rising in steam,
and falling onto the floor
only to be caught in my palms.

I take a sip of the potion.
The formula flashes before my eyes:

leather jacket + red lipstick + lingerie = the L illusion,
of confidence.

 


This poem was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 13, Poem #7]

Remember

Poetry

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.


Remember

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]

Quiet voice

Poetry

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


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]

Quill | Writing Prompt Passage

Poetry

WRITING PROMPT #70

Write a poem or story in eleven lines or less. Write it as if you were writing a photograph. You can make the moment personal or choose to write from fiction. What was that moment like, the second your firstborn child came from his mother? Describe the moment you heard terrible news. Or Goldilocks, when she first woke to find herself surrounded by three grizzlies. Let images take the place of feeling. Let the atmosphere set the tone. I know I say that a lot, but I mean it EVERY TIME.


 

She ran the quill’s feather through her fingers, with each stroke an old thought arrived and vanished. These thoughts fluttered around in her head, like a million different birds all singing different tunes to tell things to one another in secret codes. How was she to decipher their songs? A neatly bound book fell under her gaze; it had been placed at an angle on the left side of her father’s desk. Her fingers abandoned the quill and reached for the volume. And so, with a new play-thing in her hands arrived a new thought — should she be doing this? Perhaps her father was right, women were not suited for the life of a novelist. Thinking this, she opened the front cover of the novel, and inside read: ‘Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen’. This, she thought, is whom I aspire to be. She immediately relinquished the songs of the birds, and instead listened to the quiet, dipping back into her mind and her quill into her ink, writing fervently.

 


This was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017, [Day 6, Writing Prompt #70]

Faces | Writing Prompt Passage

Poetry

WRITING PROMPT #74


“Why are we not permitted to show our faces in the picture , Mama?,” Charlotte asked, staring down at the photograph in her hands. The whole prospect of one picture alone to represent three young ladies in the newspaper seemed so obscure to the girl, that she had initially refused to be part of it at all; but her Mama had insisted, and so she did.

“Men shall often find one’s body more agreeable than one’s face,” Mama answered sharply, “can you not see that is why I have dressed you in the finest silk dresses you own?”.

With her nose held high in the air, so as to maintain decorum, Mama sauntered over to her grand mirror, her favourite part of her bedroom. It had been bought for her as a gift by her husband, as had the house her and her daughters now lived in. Many hours had passed in front of its golden frame, preparing herself for her husband or local balls. Time had withered her patience and she prepared as such for no one but herself anymore, and her three daughters. Now, in her corset and petticoat, she placed the photo on the bed beside her and began adorning her face with powder.

Her youngest daughter, grabbed it and exclaimed, “No rouge, no curls! No man shall ever send us prospects of marriage.”

She turned to her mother.
“Mama! What were you thinking?”

“Hush now, Anne! Your father payed a large amount of money to get that photograph taken, and we shall be rewarded for our efforts, I guarantee.”

A book snapped shut to Mama’s left.

“Then perhaps a woman shall send us a marriage proposal,” Emily began, “and I shall be so very pleased if that were to happen instead.”

 


This poem was written during National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 3]