NaPoWriMo #15 – Contortionist

NaPoWriMo 2019
I've often found myself contorting,
squeezing into other peoples' boxes.
Maybe it's because I'm small.
I can fit into places easily.
But my stomach hangs over my legs,
petruding over the line.
Stuffing never helps.
Hiding can often reveal more than
what was
hidden.
So I stopped contorting.

NaPoWriMo #7 – Damehood

NaPoWriMo 2019, Poetry

Hello all! Apologies for having been gone for so long, the last two weeks of university were crazy busy! But also, I’ve been feeling quite anxious about writing recently. Not sure why exactly, but I think I can boil it down to more attention being given to my writing. I’m flattered that there’s been an increase recently in people who enjoy my art and are willing to even publish me or follow my blog, and I thank you deeply for that! But as a naturally anxious person, I equate more attention to more scrutiny which means I end up slipping into avoidance behaviour. Writers block on top of this also hasn’t been helping me at all, lol. Let me know if you guys feel this way too in the comments below – let’s chat! ๐Ÿ™‚

So today, I’ve decided to return and challenge myself with NaPoWriMo! For those of you who don’t know NaPoWriMo is National Poetry Writing Month, so every month in April you write a poem, which is what I’m going to be doing for the rest of the month.

Tongue

free verse, Poetry, Small Poems

Yay! Double digits – 10 poems in ๐Ÿ™‚

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.

Culture

Poetry

New week, new poems! The writing prompt for today is:

A very small object


Culture

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]

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]

Drury Lane

Poetry

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


Drury Lane

Name here,
Sign here, sigh there,
Wear and tear of the town,
causes tearing of hair, baby
cries —

–closed eyes.
Lullabies sung,
Tumbling now
that standing up has come,
Standing on your own two cold feet,
good bye —

–I smell,
the Muffin Man,
hungry as I run to
Drury Lane, a girl or
a boy or something else holds me,

my body,
isn’t what it
was, I can’t run,
but I can sleep now forever,
with
closed eyes.

 


This was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017, [Day 2, Writing Prompt #83]