Today’s prompt asked writers to “to use a long poem by James Schuyler as a guidepost for your poem.” You can see Schuyler’s lengthy ‘Hymn to Life’ if you copy the link below:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/32568/hymn-to-life

My own response to his poem follows:

This year’s garden

A lone yellow poppy stands tall and straight in the garden, defying climate and soil quality

To add a splash of colour amidst the endless green of grass and weeds – seeds that we bought at

A car boot sale, in tiny white paper packets, sellotaped together. I remember it well:

The hopeful scattering in October – too late really for anything to take root and grow;

And yet here it is, surprising us all with its defiant optimism. The rest of the flowers are

Still noted by their absence: the spot in the quadrant my husband dug out –

Backbreaking work and laced with angst and trauma – “Bloody next-door’s cat’s decided it’s

An all-day buffet!” – was a blaze of riotous colour by June last year: scarlet geraniums

Dropping blood red petals; white and yellow nicotiana thrusting star-shaped faces above

The cluster of low-lying foliage as if asserting its right to a position in the flower bed.

And the tubs! The velvety purple narcissus trumpets clashed boldly with splashes of yellow

And scarlet – “Only £5.99 from Home Bargains!” – with here and there a solitary gerbera

Springing up silently with ninja-like stealth. How did it get there? We’ll never know.

Summer danced through our garden, even in August: the shop-bought plants and rogue

Interlopers eloping together to scatter their children in places we’d never dreamed of.

Is Nature now secretly working in collusion with other, darker forces? Was she

Jealous of the man-made paradise, the heady mixture of colours and sizes and shapes?

The bees and butterflies that made this garden their holiday destination of choice

Don’t seem to have rebooked for this year: instead, silence looms, and with it a wistful sense of

Absence. Spring has either disappeared or not yet arrived: she is capricious, giving no warning of

When she can be expected – no doubt, she will stroll up in June, claiming to have been buying

Shoes. But then I realise she has already been and gone, the globules of jelly floating in the fish

Pond a testimony to her cunning ways – no doubt, in three months’ time, the water will teem

With wiggling tadpoles – hundreds of embryo frogs swimming for survival; and at least some of

Them should make it to adulthood without being eaten by something else – a heron, maybe, like

The one that polished off an entire pond full of carp when my mother wasn’t looking – at least,

She claims she saw a heron, but no one else did, and it’s true she fed my children fish and chips

For tea that very evening. Still. Sunlight dapples the grass, shafts of light bouncing off the

Variegated green surface – perhaps a sign of hope.

Late in posting again due to family time in the evening. Day 24’s challenge was to write about a fruit, so I tried to get into the mindset of a banana. I will leave it to you to judge how successful I’ve been …

Bananas are slippery customers:

They’re the ninjas of the fruit world,

Deceptively unassuming in their virulent yellow;

Curved like old men with bent backs –

But unzip their skin and peel it off

Like a diver shedding his neoprene suit

And you’ll find the true core:

A pale, creamy fruit, packed with hidden seeds,

Bursting with potassium and rich in starch.

It’s a berry in disguise – an identity so secret

Most people have no idea of the truth.

It projects a façade of foolishness –

We say crazy people are ‘bananas’ –

But it sneakily waits on stairs or in passageways,

Just hoping to make people slip.

I’m a little late in posting yesterday’s poem which “ask[ed me] to write a poem about a particular letter of the alphabet”. It got me thinking about the difference between capital letters and lower case letters, and the different personalities that letters would have, depending on whether they are ‘big’ or ‘small’.

Capital A overbrims with confidence,

pushing its way to the front of the alphabet,

reaching up tall, aiming for

excellence and asserting

its authority.

It’s always the Answer, never the

Question.

Those with A-type personalities

are driven and focused,

and far more likely

to suffer stress or a

heart attack.

Lower case a creeps around in

humility,

its comfortingly round shape

in stark contrast to its big brother’s

sharp, straight lines.

Squint, and you might mistake it

for little e or little o.

It’s quiet and unassuming,

yet it can change the meaning of

words:

atypical,

amorphous,

amoral.

Big or small,

without it, there would be

no achievement,

no attainment

and no

apple pie.

Today’s prompt was to “engage with different languages and cultures through the lens of proverbs and idiomatic phrases.” We were asked to look at proverbs from other cultures and use these as the basis of a poem. I found a phrase I loved to describe someone who’s too full of himself and so that’s what my (short) poem focuses on today.

The Ego

He’s ripping clouds with his nose

Strolling through life, looking down on the world

He’s too big for his boots

But too small minded to care –

Does he know he’s just

A jackdaw among peacocks?

Today’s prompt was to “Find a poem in a language that you don’t know, and perform a “homophonic translation” on it.” In other words, you write a ‘translation’ based on the way the words sound. I’ve chosen a Welsh poem – my knowledge of Welsh is very limited (I know ten or twelve words), but I think the language has a lovely, lilting rhythm to it and so I’ve chosen a poem by Menna Elfyn, a Welsh poet, playwright, columnist and editor who writes in Welsh. I hope she isn’t too offended by my translation.

Cerdd garegog (Menna Elfyn

Carreg ddrws dy fodolaeth,
Sy’n llechen lan y bore

Maen ar gronglwyd f’enaid,
Un cam wrth fur cariad
Sy raid. Un syml, sownd.

Wnes i ddim deall helfa
Pobl am risial, neu glap aur,
Na deiamwnt. Dim ond

Diolch am y meini mewn llaw,
Meini mellt weithiau o’r awyr,
Maen sugn., dwy long mewn harbwr,

Maen tynnu atat synnwyr
A’r maen hir mewn oes o raean
Fe dreigla, heb fwsogli.

Maen hogi fy ymennydd
Meini cellt, yn mynnu tanchwa
Dan feinwe’n chwarel grai.

Maen ar faen yn gerrig milltir
Y cerddaf atynt yn llawen,
Gan delori fel clap y cerrig

Without looking at the original meaning, this is what the sounds suggest to me:

Mountain Poem

The mountain draws its followers

Since the time the earth bore it

*

Mine was the idea for the journey

A precious idea for my darling

Or so they said. Simple. Sound.

*

When I think I need help –

Pebbles are rising, never clapping anyone

Nor diamonds. Diamonds.

*

Thankful am I for my many laws

My melting weather over awe

My sun, day long, my harbour

*

My tiny attack of sun

In my hair, my eyes, o rain

For dry glass has followed

*

My hug for the many

Myself and many tankards

Then finally quarrels grew

*

My fine and gentle army

I serve a tint and thaw

Going delirious, feeling claps and cheers

And then, it’s only fair to the poet to add a ‘proper’ translation of her work – especially since I have more than a slight suspicion that mine is definitely not what she was trying to say:

STONE POEM

The doorstep of your existence
is the morning’s clean slate,

a stone on my soul’s roof-hurdle,
a single necessary step
by love’s wall. Simple, stable.

I’ve never understood why people hunt
for crystal, or a lump of gold,
or a diamond. I’m simply

grateful for the stones at hand,
meteorites from the sky at times,
the magnet that holds two ships in harbour,

the loadstone of sensibility,
and the long stone that in an age of gravel
rolls, and gathers no moss,

the whetstone of my brain,
flints demanding an explosion
beneath the tissue, a fresh quarry.

Stone upon stone. Milestones
I walk towards happily,
chirping like a stonechat.

The prompt today was to “write a poem about a handmade or homemade gift that you have received.” Straightaway, that got me thinking about an eleven year old girl I taught several years ago who made me her own version of a friendship bracelet. I don’t know where she is now or what she’s doing, but I hope she’s still channelling her creativity.

The Gift

She was a challenging pupil.

Casey hung around the classroom at break

and lunchtimes, pestering the teachers and

making herself a general nuisance.

She loved colouring and was my friend for

life when I gave her an unwanted puzzle book

that had belonged to my own children. 

Little by little, she began to open up, telling me

about her uncle who lived in America and was a

Country and Western singer. I didn’t know

whether or not to believe her. There was something quite

endearing after a while about the way she latched

onto anyone who was kind to her, and I began to

look out for her tousled blonde hair and thick, unflattering

glasses with something akin to anticipation.

“This is for you, Miss,” she said one lunchtime,

handing me a small package wrapped in hand

drawn paper and fastened with a rubber band.

I opened it gingerly, not sure what to expect, and

realised straight away how hard she must have worked,

painstakingly threading hundreds of coloured rubber bands,

fashioning them into a beautiful bracelet.

“Look,” she said, pointing out my initials. The vivid pinks

and yellows stood out against an intricate pattern of oranges,

greens and blues.

“I just wanted to say thanks,” she said, “for listening to me, Miss.”

The smile she gave me then was the greatest gift of all.                   

Today’s prompt was to write a poem based on a “walking archive.” For those of you (like me) who’ve never heard that phrase before, it refers to going on a walk and gathering up interesting things, such as a flower, a strange piece of bark, or a rock, which become your “walking archive” – the physical instantiation of your walk. The blog suggested that anyone unable to get out of the house for a walk (as many of us now are) could create a “walking archive” by wandering around your own home and gathering knick-knacks, family photos, maybe a strange spice or kitchen gadget you never use, then laying them out on a tray table, like museum specimens, and letting the group of materials inspire your poem.

This got me thinking: what if someone pre-Covid 19 went for a daily walk and was reminded of someone significant in everything that formed the “walking archive”? And how would that change once lockdown commenced and the “walking archive” that reminded her of someone special was a very different set of things that were encountered? I keep thinking of T S Eliot’s line in ‘The love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’ – “And I have measured out my life with coffee spoons” – and wondering what we all “measure out our lives with”. These two ideas inspired the following poem.

Before and After

Before isolation, you were

the bluebell in the park –

exotic but still familiar;

the soft downy feather

of the baby bird;

the smooth, polished pebble

lying by the side of the stream.

I still see you on my daily

peregrinations, but now you are

the countless cups of coffee

that keep me going;

the hours spent staring

out of my window;

and the endless rooms

that are empty without you.

Today has been chosen as a day to write an ode, so I have channelled John Keats and written a pretentious ode to my bath.

Ode to a Bath (with apologies to John Keats)

Thou still unravish’d bath of bubbles deep,

Thou watery womb with scent that cannot hide,

Filled with Lush fumes that beckon me to sleep

As ‘neath thy Lethe waters I do slide:

What mysteries lie within thy panelled shape,

Or underneath the foaming, steaming heat

Of this, my answer to the calmest sea?

In thee my body finds its true escape –

Was ever relaxation thus as sweet,

Or time more precious than hours spent in thee?

A book, a glass of wine and Radio Four –

Slight luxuries these, but in my bath they all

Conspire to lift my soul and make me more

Than thankful for each blessing – large or small.

An hour to spend in blissful solitude

Without the sight of others or their noise;

No need for manners, airs or even clothes,

For nakedness in thee is never rude.

An hour in thee is filled with deepest joys:

My fondness for thee ever daily grows.

Today’s challenge carries more than a hint of nostalgia: I was asked to write a poem that features forgotten technology. My brother (older than me by 11 months) owned one of the first computer games available in the UK: it was a little box that plugged into the TV monitor and the game consisted of a little dot that represented a ball and a slightly bigger mark that represented a player or a bat, depending on which game you had chosen. Ping pong had the smallest ‘bat’ – a dot roughly twice as big as the ball; or there was tennis, played with a larger ‘bat’; or squash – where two players took turns to hit the ‘ball’ at a line halfway down the screen (there was no middle line for ping pong or tennis); or squash practice, which was just you hitting the ‘ball’ at the central line yourself. Football (or soccer, for anyone American who may be reading this) was the same as tennis – except you had lines at each end of the screen representing the ‘goals’. At the time, we thought this was the height of technology, yet in real terms, all we were doing was simply watching a dot being pinged from one side of the screen to the other.

Fifty Years Apart

Sophisticated graphics

roll across the screen – a

whole story played out

in virtual reality.

Bip! Bip! Bip!

A tiny bat and

even smaller ball

ping across the screen –

the minuscule cursor

denoting whether

the game is

tennis, football or squash.

You approach your

rival, your sword swinging and

your moves already predetermined

by a joystick.

Bip! Bip! Bip!

The dot skitters across

the screen, and you wonder if,

one day, computer games like this

will still exist.

Today’s challenge was to “to write a poem of over-the-top compliments. Pick a person, place, or thing you love, and praise it in the most effusive way you can. Go for broke with metaphors, similes, and more.” It took me a while to think who I should take as the subject for such fulsome praise – after all, the English are known for their reserve – but that set me to thinking about how I would respond to this if I were American. (Apologies now if I offend anyone from the other side of the pond.) It also made me think about a certain president and how (according to the British news reports) he seems to think that he is single-handedly fighting the Corona virus whilst the rest of the world watches in stunned admiration. So … that led me to thinking, what does Mr Trump think when he looks in the mirror each morning? Does he tell himself he’s wonderful? (That confidence has to come from somewhere.) Thinking about (my perception of) the current American president was my inspiration for the following poem:

Trump It To The World

You’re the best Godiva truffles; you’re a Häagen-Daaz ice-cream;

You’re my one true ray of sunshine and the moonlight’s silver beam;

You’re my daytime inspiration and my every waking dream –

That’s what you are.

You’re my Concorde flight of fancy; you’re my own secluded beach;

You’re the best expensive aftershave; my perfect golden peach;

You’re my melodious songbird; you’re the night owl’s fearsome screech –

That’s what you are.

You’re a ten thousand piece puzzle with no picture on the box;

You’re every last enigma that the CIA unlocks;

You’re the iceberg under water or the shoreline’s hidden rocks –

That’s what you are.

You’re more dangerous than a lion or a tiger or a bear;

You’re the ultimate assassin and the king without a care;

You’re the archetypal killer, full of pluck and nerve and dare –

That’s what you are.

You’re the man the ladies dream of and the one men want to be;

You’re the ruler of the western world – its land, its sky and sea;

You’re the creamer in the coffee and the lemon in the tea –

That’s what you are.

You’re the reflection in my mirror that I gaze at every day;

You’re like a god to many – to you the peasants pray;

You’re more than just the president of the good old USA –

Trump: that’s who you are.