poems written = 25
poems written per day = 2.0833
poems remaining = 50
poems remaining = 50
required poems per day = 2.7778
12 November 2011
75PoWriMo - XXV
on seeing soweto kinch
for all the technical equipment
the loops and the laptop and the ipad
the delay and the videos clips sent
the moments i felt i had
the most powerful connections
with the message of the music
were the sections
when he didn't use it
just three guys on a stage
symbiotically engaged
catching grooves and letting fly
licks and time went speeding by
simply drums and bass and sax
and the way they interact
saxophone and bass and drums
a toal greater than the sum
drums and horn and double bass
not a quaver out of place
and once they'd really hit their stride
just hold on and enjoy the ride
for all the technical equipment
the loops and the laptop and the ipad
the delay and the videos clips sent
the moments i felt i had
the most powerful connections
with the message of the music
were the sections
when he didn't use it
just three guys on a stage
symbiotically engaged
catching grooves and letting fly
licks and time went speeding by
simply drums and bass and sax
and the way they interact
saxophone and bass and drums
a toal greater than the sum
drums and horn and double bass
not a quaver out of place
and once they'd really hit their stride
just hold on and enjoy the ride
75PoWriMo - XXIV
soon
i keep telling myself
she'll be home soon
to prevent my doubting brain
conjuring the scenarios
spinning the tales
pointing out the possibilities
running me through all the ways
she might not
what would i do then?
what would i do then?
i would ...
well, i would ...
ummm
she'll be home soon
i keep telling myself
she'll be home soon
to prevent my doubting brain
conjuring the scenarios
spinning the tales
pointing out the possibilities
running me through all the ways
she might not
what would i do then?
what would i do then?
i would ...
well, i would ...
ummm
she'll be home soon
75PoWriMo - XXIII
solo
the worst guitar
solos occur
when the words run
out of ideas
and someone needs
to fill up some
time
the best guitar
solos occur
when the ideas
run out of words
and someone needs
to empty their
soul
the worst guitar
solos occur
when the words run
out of ideas
and someone needs
to fill up some
time
the best guitar
solos occur
when the ideas
run out of words
and someone needs
to empty their
soul
11 November 2011
Stats - Day 11
poems written = 22
poems written per day = 2
poems remaining = 53
poems remaining = 53
required poems per day = 2.7895
75PoWriMo - XXII
blot
small-child crafted
domestic rorschach test
a blob of blue tack
a splash of spilled yoghurt
a stain of mysterious provenance
i believe i see
resignation
small-child crafted
domestic rorschach test
a blob of blue tack
a splash of spilled yoghurt
a stain of mysterious provenance
i believe i see
resignation
75PoWriMo - XXI
truth will out
decorate your face with tears
for beauty shines when truth appears
punctuate your speech with sighs
to give respite from all the lies
you hang your head each time you nod
repeatedly betray your fraud
although you're clearly smiling hard
it causes cracks in your facade
75PoWriMo - XX
please keep your domestic domestic
the air becomes somehow viscous
even amid the bustle the silence
between them is an imposing clamour
she develops a new fascination
with the ingredients
of her chocolate breakfast
and each time she can no longer resist
shooting him loaded, angry glances
she tries to disguise this reflex
by pretending to be fussing with her hair
he cycles through a choreographed pattern
staring blankly at the dust
shaking his hanging head
in an approximation of disbelief
pleading silently for attention
trying to calculate how long it takes
to be forgiven
the air becomes somehow viscous
even amid the bustle the silence
between them is an imposing clamour
she develops a new fascination
with the ingredients
of her chocolate breakfast
and each time she can no longer resist
shooting him loaded, angry glances
she tries to disguise this reflex
by pretending to be fussing with her hair
he cycles through a choreographed pattern
staring blankly at the dust
shaking his hanging head
in an approximation of disbelief
pleading silently for attention
trying to calculate how long it takes
to be forgiven
75PoWriMo - XIX
a ight of fancy
there was a gerbil in a cage
who tired of running in a wheel
to burn off the impotent rage
imprisoned creatures always feel
with freedom in such short supply
determined he would learn to fly
but lacking opposable thumbs
and the required dexterity
to construct wings from chewing gum
and feathers (like mythology)
he realised that to increase his
odds he'd need telekinesis
trial one was to move some sawdust
a task that he achieved with ease
(though cynics argue it was more just
shifted sideways by a breeze
such killjoys are never impressed)
he moved on to a second test
concentrating all the steel
contained in his small rodent brain
he slowly raised that cursed wheel
and gently placed it down again
then raised it higher, swirled it round
and hurled it crashing to the ground
whilst clearly an impressive gift
and therapeutic to destroy
he couldn't work out how to lift
himself aloft whatever ploy
or scheme he'd dream up or propound
he couldn't get up off the ground
until he climbed the rusty bars
up to the ceiling of his prison
(which might to you not seem that far
but from his point of view he'd risen
higher than he'd been before)
he slowly opened up his paw
he gave a squeal, he held his breath
he braced for the impending pain
he strained each braincell he possessed
the dreaded impact never came
he simply hovered in midair
and wondered where to go from there
cautiously round his cage he flew
gained confidence as time went by
and once he'd done a lap or two
he started dreaming of the sky
though he lost some of zeal in
crashing hard into the ceiling
by practising it every day
the gerbil became quite adept
at flying but could find no way
to leave the cage where he was kept
no matter which way out he tried
he was enclosed on all six sides
you may well be wondering why
i told this tale, so i'll supply
the moral: never learn to fly
for even though i'm well aware
you may make a few people stare
it just won't get you anywhere
there was a gerbil in a cage
who tired of running in a wheel
to burn off the impotent rage
imprisoned creatures always feel
with freedom in such short supply
determined he would learn to fly
but lacking opposable thumbs
and the required dexterity
to construct wings from chewing gum
and feathers (like mythology)
he realised that to increase his
odds he'd need telekinesis
trial one was to move some sawdust
a task that he achieved with ease
(though cynics argue it was more just
shifted sideways by a breeze
such killjoys are never impressed)
he moved on to a second test
concentrating all the steel
contained in his small rodent brain
he slowly raised that cursed wheel
and gently placed it down again
then raised it higher, swirled it round
and hurled it crashing to the ground
whilst clearly an impressive gift
and therapeutic to destroy
he couldn't work out how to lift
himself aloft whatever ploy
or scheme he'd dream up or propound
he couldn't get up off the ground
until he climbed the rusty bars
up to the ceiling of his prison
(which might to you not seem that far
but from his point of view he'd risen
higher than he'd been before)
he slowly opened up his paw
he gave a squeal, he held his breath
he braced for the impending pain
he strained each braincell he possessed
the dreaded impact never came
he simply hovered in midair
and wondered where to go from there
cautiously round his cage he flew
gained confidence as time went by
and once he'd done a lap or two
he started dreaming of the sky
though he lost some of zeal in
crashing hard into the ceiling
by practising it every day
the gerbil became quite adept
at flying but could find no way
to leave the cage where he was kept
no matter which way out he tried
he was enclosed on all six sides
you may well be wondering why
i told this tale, so i'll supply
the moral: never learn to fly
for even though i'm well aware
you may make a few people stare
it just won't get you anywhere
10 November 2011
Stats - Day 10
poems written = 18
poems written per day = 1.8
poems remaining = 57
poems remaining = 57
required poems per day = 2.85
75PoWriMo - XVIII
no
a man came up to me in the street
and asked if i had a light
i said no
a man came up to me in the street
and asked if i could spare any change
i said no
a man came up to me in the street
and asked if i knew the way
to foxly road
i said no
a man came up to me in the street
and asked if i was looking at his bird
i said no
a man came up to me in the street
and asked if i knew where i was going
i said
physically, immediately: yes
spiritually, eternally: yes
in all other figurative senses: no
a man came up to me in the street
and asked if i had a light
i said no
a man came up to me in the street
and asked if i could spare any change
i said no
a man came up to me in the street
and asked if i knew the way
to foxly road
i said no
a man came up to me in the street
and asked if i was looking at his bird
i said no
a man came up to me in the street
and asked if i knew where i was going
i said
physically, immediately: yes
spiritually, eternally: yes
in all other figurative senses: no
75PoWriMo - XVII
the fragile nature of reality
conditioned by the fiction
of the all-pervasive themes
that the media try to feed you
in repeated tropic scenes
there's a doubt that's breaking out
over how everything seems
i spend hours thinking how as
sure as i am i exist
i could peel away, revealing
something realer i had missed
it feels as though the set-up's over
and i'm waiting for the twist
conditioned by the fiction
of the all-pervasive themes
that the media try to feed you
in repeated tropic scenes
there's a doubt that's breaking out
over how everything seems
i spend hours thinking how as
sure as i am i exist
i could peel away, revealing
something realer i had missed
it feels as though the set-up's over
and i'm waiting for the twist
9 November 2011
Stats - Day 9
poems written = 16
poems written per day = 1.7778
poems remaining = 59
poems remaining = 59
required poems per day = 2.8095
75PoWriMo - XVI
in the end
when i die
i would like all the people
who love me
to mourn for a moment
the briefest of bereavements
and then get on with
living happily
when i die
i would like all the people
who never loved me
to mourn their mistake
to realise retrospectively
to wish they had the chance
to start over with me
and then get on with
living better
when i die
i would like all the people
who love me
to mourn for a moment
the briefest of bereavements
and then get on with
living happily
when i die
i would like all the people
who never loved me
to mourn their mistake
to realise retrospectively
to wish they had the chance
to start over with me
and then get on with
living better
75PoWriMo - XV
to the cheap looking girl in the cheap looking clothes
when i think of the far-eastern factory worker
hunched over a needle,
calloused fingers flying
when i think of the thousands of miles travelled
by laden container ships
over ocean expanses
when i think of the false-smiled shop staff
whose rights are casually eroded
whilst their souls are gently crushed
when i think of all the effort
the world has gone to
in order for you
to look
that
bad
i want to hold you up
and scream into the ears
of the public consciousness
was it worth it?
was it worth it?
was it really worth it?
really?
when i think of the far-eastern factory worker
hunched over a needle,
calloused fingers flying
when i think of the thousands of miles travelled
by laden container ships
over ocean expanses
when i think of the false-smiled shop staff
whose rights are casually eroded
whilst their souls are gently crushed
when i think of all the effort
the world has gone to
in order for you
to look
that
bad
i want to hold you up
and scream into the ears
of the public consciousness
was it worth it?
was it worth it?
was it really worth it?
really?
75PoWriMo - XIV
transpontine panorama
rose-tinted skies
turning towerblocks
into crisp dark rectangles
sharp, silent silhouettes
adding a brutal elegance
to my transpontine homeland
constructs of definition
surrounded by trees
whose semi-shed shabbiness
lends a scruffy softening
to the sunset skyline
rose-tinted skies
turning towerblocks
into crisp dark rectangles
sharp, silent silhouettes
adding a brutal elegance
to my transpontine homeland
constructs of definition
surrounded by trees
whose semi-shed shabbiness
lends a scruffy softening
to the sunset skyline
8 November 2011
Stats - Day 8
poems written = 13
poems written per day = 1.625
poems remaining = 62
poems remaining = 62
required poems per day = 2.8182
75PoWriMo - XIII
unfinished patchwork
i make so many promises
to myself but i break them all
the path i plot is littered
strewn with scraps of every plan
that has failed to reach fruition
that i've had to let fall
as i'm struggling to juggle
i don't know how it began
but i can't work out how to end it
as it continues to snowball
knitted from frayed scraps of thread
unravel me if you can
i make so many promises
to myself but i break them all
the path i plot is littered
strewn with scraps of every plan
that has failed to reach fruition
that i've had to let fall
as i'm struggling to juggle
i don't know how it began
but i can't work out how to end it
as it continues to snowball
knitted from frayed scraps of thread
unravel me if you can
75PoWriMo - XII
another fellow passenger
there is only one other
notebook
visible in this train carriage
whose owner
is copying into it
data
from a blackberry
before
inputten them
into an iphone
there is only one other
notebook
visible in this train carriage
whose owner
is copying into it
data
from a blackberry
before
inputten them
into an iphone
75PoWriMo - XI
a fellow passenger
i'm trying to read your wrist
without you seeing me seeing
as your billowing cuffs expose
runic inked transliteration
each clench of your fist
stretching skin and skewing
as you fingers close
i believe you spelled "transition"
i'm trying to read your wrist
without you seeing me seeing
as your billowing cuffs expose
runic inked transliteration
each clench of your fist
stretching skin and skewing
as you fingers close
i believe you spelled "transition"
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