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.
Yay! Double digits – 10 poems in 🙂
I think what I’ve gotten out of NaNoWriMo is realising that not all poems need to have a deep meaning behind them, and you can just write a poem for the sake of writing a poem. So, with that in mind, I chose to write this poem about how my taste in food has changed since I was a kid.
Wow, already more than two weeks in! For everyone doing NaNoWriMo, or trying to achieve any kind of goal this month — keep it up!! 🙂
It’s been a bit difficult to keep on top of things as a student, but being a student means you also move around a lot. I’m currently in London, and so this poem was inspired by things I’ve heard people say around me so far.
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
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,
This poem was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 13, Poem #7]
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]
WRITING EXERCISE #83
Today, one of my toddler daughters had the end of a stick in her mouth. I said, “Stop eating that stick! We don’t eat sticks, silly!” and my 4-year old daughter said, “Yeah, Lulu. If you eat sticks, you will get old.”
So let’s riff off that. Write a poem built out of four (or however many) cinquains that tell the story of someone getting old. Make sure one of the things that made them old was something they ate. Something they saw. Something they heard. Something they felt. A fragrance. Have the first line be the person’s name. If you want each cinquain to be about a different person, cool. Oh, and if you forgot what a cinquain was, here’s the format:
line 1 – 2 syllables
line 2 – 4 syllables
line 3 – 6 syllables
line 4 – 8 syllables
line 5 – 2 syllables
Sign here, sigh there,
Wear and tear of the town,
causes tearing of hair, baby
that standing up has come,
Standing on your own two cold feet,
good bye —
the Muffin Man,
hungry as I run to
Drury Lane, a girl or
a boy or something else holds me,
isn’t what it
was, I can’t run,
but I can sleep now forever,
This was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017, [Day 2, Writing Prompt #83]