Everyday Poetry

Normality Day 30: it's the last day of the NaPoWriMo challenge, because it actually takes place in April which has only 30 days. Instead of a farewell theme, this year the challenge is to write a poem about something that returns. Each day of the pandemic I tell myself this: After each crisis, personal, local or universal, Whichever form it takes - Health or relationship breakdowns, Floods, fire, even pandemics - Eventually things get back to normal. One day, maybe not soon, but not too far distant We'll get up in the morning And not have to remind ourselves That things have changed, of this week's rules. We'll go about our life in the old way: Meet up with family, with friends, Hug them without wanting to never let them go, Share a meal, a cup of coffee, a pint, Go shopping without queuing outside, And get cross when we have to wait, Keep appointments to have our hair cut, our teeth checked, Work out at the gym, swim in a public pool, Meet in gr

Eyes Day 29: once again I'm going away from the NaPoWriMo prompt which is to write a paean to a pet.  Having already written a eulogy for each of my cats I'm taking inspiration instead from the daily prompt from the Isolation Gallery, a wonderful Facebook group where members share images and words on the theme of the day.  Today's theme is: eyes., and this just wrote itself! Two things on which I heavily rely My left, and to a lesser extent, right eye. Sketching, cooking, writing, reading, Painting, sewing, walking, weeding, All compromised by their constant weeping, Itching, soreness, incessant seeping. Oh the comfort of a moist heat mask! Ten minutes of peace which soon flash past Then massage, wipes, and two eye drops Fingers crossed the irritation stops. Blepheratis is such a curse But going blind would be so much worse. © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved  

Rooms Day 28: describe a bedroom from your past.  I've written a few poems about my childhood recently so I  decided to leap forward a few years and write about the room I was assigned for my first year at Lancaster University. 1975 And my six by fifteen foot room In the Halls of Residence In the northernmost tip of campus In that chosen, northern university Became my first slice of independence, A refuge from the strangeness outside. My room sat facing inwards Its scenic view the central oak tree; Its practical view the porter's lodge Affording me a few minutes warning, of visitors In search of tea and toast and conversation. In this long corridor of hidden strangers Each dark stained plywood door was quickly decorated, Emblazoned with self proclaiming individuality: Comic postcards, artwork, political posters - This is my name, this is who I am. Inside, the narrow single bed, desk and chair Could be moved, within limits To transform the padded window

 Armchair Review Day 27: ' write a poem in the form of a review, but not a review of a book or a movie or a restaurant. Instead, I challenge you to write a poetic review of something that isn’t normally reviewed. For example, your mother-in-law, the moon, or the year 2020.' I've had enough of coronavirus poems so here's my review of the armchair I sit in during the day; in fact I'm sitting in it as I write!   I've come to know this able supporter well  Solid, dependable, always there for me.  Way past its prime, it nevertheless retains a welcoming air Allowing, indeed encouraging me To sit in its company for as long as I need, or longer.      Some may judge its bamboo construction outmoded Yet consider how trendily sustainable this material has become Its use trumpeted for everything from socks to toilet paper; I feel this chair has much more to give.  This morning as I shift and fidget trying out this word and that, Its valiant but now slightly

Picture postcard Day 26: an interesting idea today - answer a set of questions and base a poem on your answers.  The questions included weather, flora, childhood dreams,  view on the street, newspaper headlines, fears, letters etc.  This is where they led me. The sun is shining on our patch of the world Highlighting every leaf in our garden, Bleaching the grain on the deckboards, Gilding the stones in the wall. Childhood dreams of living in the country Came true for us a decade and a half ago Now wildflower weeds litter the street And graffiti hasn't made it out of town. We each have our urban hometown memories, Our reasons to relocate to this view, outside this window, We know how lucky we are. Far away from virus hotspots With garden and woods to keep us sane We can make the most of lockdown - Asymptomatic strangers our only fear. Friends and family write: we're ok, we're well, we're fine Putting our minds at rest. I send postcards to my urban

Be more cat Day 25: I didn't like this day's prompt so I went back to an earlier one I'd skipped - write a poem based on the translation of a foreign idiom. In French they say 'donner sa langue au chat" - literally 'give one's tongue to the cat' meaning 'give up'. This little piece of whimsy is the result. I've given my tongue to the cat Can she get you to see commonsense? I've tried to suggest this and that But I'm being ignored, and I'm tense. Let's see what she has to say Now it's no longer just meow and purr She listened to me nag you all day Will she argue with me or concur? "You know Chris" she says with a smile, "You always overthink everything, Try to chill out once in a while Be more cat, and more accepting." She's probably right,  I do try To fix others' problems, it's true, I swallow my words with a sigh I give up! Well, wouldn't you? © Copyright 20

Strawberries Day 24: write a poem about a particular fruit. We're growing strawberries on a bigger scale for the first time this year - up to now I've grown half a dozen  plants in a patio pot and the birds have pinched most of them.  It's turned out to be quite a bit more work, what with weeding, netting and watering,  but we're looking forward to a good crop to reward all our effort. Springtime, and three rows of heritage strawberries Fill our planter with circles of jagged darkgreen leaves, Shading their clusters of tiny, hard, yellow bud-balls Waiting patiently for long summer days to turn them rosy. A few delicate white flowers dance, calling out for pollination But now their bed lies covered with a netting arch, To save them from birds with keener senses than ours, Who would pre-empt our harvest, given half a chance. This bed lies full of promise, full of memories of other times When as a child I would search through the mass of leaves To find the h

The universe vibrating Day 23:  write a poem about a particular letter of the alphabet, or perhaps, the letters that form a short word.   Doesn’t “S” look sneaky and snakelike? And “W” clearly doesn’t know where it’s going! Think  about the shape of the letter(s), and use that as the take-off point for your poem. My chosen word represents the sound of the universe vibrating. It's a very short word,  so I thought I'd add a description of the physical side of creating the sound which is very much a part of the experience.  Nos trils flare wide, breath rushes deep inside,   Abdomen tenses, the body stilled in a delicious pause, Lips form the perfect circle As air releases out through the windpipe  As slowly and as evenly as possible: O -  on and on the sound vibrates around  M- moves it up and down, lips tingle, breath becomes ragged. The  body vibrates in synch with the world Energy concentrated in a single word.  © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Res

Whetstone As children we used to be taken to visit our grandparents in Enfield, North London, but not very often as it was quite a long way to travel back in the 60s. Grandad was a bit of a scary figure, having once thrown his dinner across the room in a fit of temper, so not really the affectionate sort! But he was the only grandad we had, and I do have one fond memory of him. In the lean-to shed Squeezed into the space between backdoor And tiny paved square of garden My grandad had his workshop. Most times we visited he sat in the back room, Ensconced on his corner next to the telly, Shouting at us to be quiet - Football or darts more important than us kids. But once, unexpectedly allowed into his sanctuary I breathed in the smell of curled wood shavings, Engine oil from his youngest sons' motorbike parts, Saw shelves with jar lids screwed to the underside The jars full of screws and nails, in strict size order, The shelf tops stacked high with green and gold, D

Mark making Day 21:  Find a poem in a language that you don’t know, and perform a “homophonic translation” on it - try to translate the poem simply based on how it sounds. Interesting idea,  frustrating in practice!  The poem i choose referred several times to 'vinger' and 'maerk'. Here's what emerged from the gobbledygook - pure fantasy although I'd like to have been able to see the imagined canvass! The poem which inspired it follows below. At the easel I raise my arms Poised like a conductor in the pause before the first note,  Then leave a mark, a blurry smut Daring to be careless, carefree,  Fuzzy fingerprints all over the canvas Bare-fingered smears,  Smudged charcoal from the fire Ochres and umbers from the earth. I dare to let go, make violent streaks Freed from the precision of a brush  This feels elemental, a release,  A return to a time before I cared so much About capturing a likeness.  © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Re

Broken heart Day 20:  write a poem about a handmade or homemade gift that you have received.  In my box of Christmas tree decorations Lies a damaged resin heart Impressed with the baby  handprint Of my first grandchild -  A gift from my thoughtful daughter-in-law  In less complicated times.  Six years later, the marriage lies broken, Over, bar the shouting, Children caught in the crossfire,  In their naive innocence Begging them to make up and be friends.  I cannot throw it out This bright red cut out with its jaunty bow This tiny crisscrossed hand  So full of promise for the future. © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

 Crawley Woods Day 19: write a poem based on a walking archive - things you gather on a walk.  A lovely idea,  but rather than collect stones, leaves or whatever, I decided instead to bring back images to share with you. Walk with me through Crawley Woods Along paths of spongy beech mast, Of dried earth and quarried stone, Dappled with shade from this luminous green canopy.  Take the lower path, skirting the fields Where curious cattle lazily graze.  See the swathes of bluebells rising up the banks Crowding out wild garlic, celandine, More wildflowers than I know how to name. Climb the stile, the portal between woodland and meadow Enter the sunlit open space, Keeping to the narrow well trodden path Winding its way through a blaze of buttercups. Turn and absorb the wide open valley  Before d ucking under the encroaching branches To find the stile back into the cool darkness. Walk up along a rising path into the heart of the wood Where the dim sunlight struggles to

These little things Day 18: an ode to life's small pleasures. I thought of how much pleasure I get from our garden, and simply listed three small things which stimulate each of the senses. This is one which would definitely benefit from more work - but I need to get out in the garden! The first green shoots pushing through crumbly soil The freshness of white daisies standing proud in the grass The blowsy pink blossom announcing it's spring. The plop of a surfacing fish when we scatter their food The echoing chimes as the breeze passes through The robin's melody as he waits for fork-turned grubs. The sweetness of brushed mint as I walk down the steps The evocative, nostalgic tang of freshly mown grass The musty fug lurking beneath the compost bin lid. The sensuous savour of a fig clinging to my tongue The sharp sweetness of crushed mint steeped in gin The illicit burst of flavour from tomatoes fresh off the vine. The rough wooden handrails helping me up a

Whispering grass Day 17:  move backwards in time away from such modern contrivances as podcasts and write a poem that features forgotten technology .  A late 60s afternoon, two sisters With nothing to do but get up to mischief. The radiogram beckoned us f rom its corner, Its stiff lid hinged open, to reveal  The turntable with its central spindle The three-speed turntable dial. So far, so familiar -  We used it to play the vinyl '45s, Top twenty hits bought with our own pocket money From the back of the ironmonger's in town. But, we were drawn to the ancient, off limits '78s Nestled in their brown paper covers Each missing middle circle revealing the artist's name: Glen Miller, Jim Reeves, The Inkspots. We checked the coast was clear Laid out the heavy black circles On the swirly lounge carpet t o get a better look.   We didn't consider the dangers Could not forsee the point of no return,  The brittle crack and shatter Of decades old shellac

Summer dreaming Day 16: I don't fancy today's prompt to write a poem of over the top compliments, so here's one I wrote a couple of days ago, whilst enjoying the sun.  There's something quite wonderful a bout an afternoon doze Reclined in a deckchair as you feel your eyes close Sounds take you away from your cares, and they seem To become the soundtrack of a summer daydream........ The chimes wake me softly as they capture the breeze My skin's cooling down, the sun's dipped behind trees, It's time to wake up, leave daydreams behind But I'll leave the chair there for tomorrow's nap time.  © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Take This Day 15:  write a poem inspired by your favorite kind of music. Here's what sprang to mind, w ith thanks to Take That for (most of) the words. Take me back to where it all began:  I saw you standing, I saw you dancing The music made us feel good The volume was rising The world came alive. When you held me close inside your arms  Learning how to dance the rain, The night was ours. You saved my soul. We're only people But you and me we can light up the world, You're all that matters to me. We're going to live for these days, while The future is ours to find.  © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Where does it come from? Day 14: t hink about your own inspirations and forebears (whether literary or otherwise). Specifically, write a poem that deals with the poems, poets, and other people who inspired you to write poems.  At the age of ten,  my teacher,  Name forgotten, sorry Miss, Did something new and unexpected. We should write a poem  About any animal - we could choose.  I wasn't worried,   I was 'good at creative writing' This should be easy.  A few long moments followed, Weighing up this and that Then a flash of inspiration struck: I wrote my first poem ever, about Going back to school after illness. I didn't consider it was wrong To ignore her direct instruction. I was off on a flight of fancy Half based on my memories Half driven by each word on the page As it poured from my pen, Pages and pages flowed direct from my heart. When I finished I was anxious - I was used to doing what I'd been told. Luckily for me she was a good t

Forbidden fruit Day 13:  There’s a pithy phrase attributed to T.S. Eliot: “Good poets borrow; great poets  steal."  Today's challenge is to  write a non-apology for the things you’ve stolen in your life. This has turned into more of a confession!  It began with Rich Tea biscuits Taken in secret from the green barrel On my auntie's dining room sideboard, The grown ups talking endlessly About nothing, in the front room. There was an art to it - the lid popped gently As its vacuum seal was broken. The biscuits could knock against each other,  Or the sides of the tin, i f I wasn't careful. The slow crunch of the first tentative bite Then careful chewing, swallowing, Brushing away telltale crumbs from mouth and jumper,  The silent replacement of the lid, The nonchalant return a few moments later,  All added to the exhilaration.  All my life I've craved biscuits Those small round crunchy parcels of joy, Off limits to someone 'always on a diet&#

Rollercoaster Day 12: write a triolet.  I usually like the strict repetition and rhyme of these, but really wasn't in the mood this morning to compose anything.  Then I had some good news which prompted this. Today's been a rollercoaster, I've been up and I've been down, I've got tied up in knots, trying to do the right thing - My dilemma made harder by the rules of lockdown. Today's been a rollercoaster, I've been up and I've been down I felt doomed to descend into madness or meltdown When a phone call with good news made my heart sing! Today's been a rollercoaster, I've been up and I've been down But I'm no longer in knots, trying to do the right thing. © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Bouquet Day 11 challenge: write a poem based on the Victorian language of flowers.  For some reason I thought I'd do it in the form of a Victorian greeting card, which is harder than you'd think! If I could, I'd send you flowers To brighten up your day To say hang in there, don't be sad, My love in a big bouquet. For hope in times of adversity I'd choose chrysanthemum And partner it with celandine To promise you joys to come. I'd send patience in ox eye daises To persuade you this can't last And to aid your perseverance I'd add canary grass. I'd gather Christmas roses To chase your fears away Sweet William, pinks, black poplar To inspire you to be brave. The bouquet would be a jumble But I hope the message clear The flowers will give you comfort Since I cannot be near. © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Coronavirus routine Day 10: write a hay(na)ku - a variant on the haiku. A hay(na)ku consists of a three-line stanza, where the first line has one word, the second line has two words, and the third line has three words. You can write just one, or chain several together into a longer poem. Each Day remains Full of promise  All Shared with My favourite person.  Mornings Begin later But always well.  Challenges To ease Creeping lockdown monotony: NaPoWriMo Isolation gallery 'Life is good'. Afternoons Stretch out In the sunshine Evenings Relax gently Into sofa cuddles. Lockdown - Another day Spent saving lives.  © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Slow journey home Day 9:    write a “concrete” poem – a poem in which the lines and words are organized to take a shape that reflects in some way the theme of the poem. I made a very simple one of these while on the fated cruise in March/ April this year.  It may be simple but it was a pain to type it out on the page!                                           on                                       board                                         this                                        boat                                         we                                        bob                                         we                                        float                  here on the sea, you and me               slowly sailing,  patience failing,              back to our home, on salty foam                 willing each long day to pass                            until we're home                                  safe at last © Copyright 2020. Chris Aug

I know why the caged bird sings Day 8: begin a poem with a line taken from another poet. What better in these days of lockdown than a line from Maya Angelou? I know why the caged bird sings With a heart fit to burst With emotions it cannot express With desires it cannot complete With dreams it cannot realise. It sings of the family it cannot embrace It sings of the friends it cannot meet It sings of the places it cannot reach It sings of the freedom beyond its bars. It sings in hope of a day to come It sings of the day when the bars are gone It sings of the joy waiting to be sung When confinement is left far behind. © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Vandals  Day 7: a poem based on a news article.  I first heard this story on 1 April and assumed it was an April fool's prank., but since then the story has appeared in various national newspapers and on the BBC news - so it must be true! The Llandudno police have turned goatherds To round up the new gang in town Down from the Orme on a spree. A herd of feral goats: long haired, long horned Evil smelling vandals out for a laugh, Flashing their wicked grins and devil eyes, Clattering their hooves on the pavement As they face the coppers down. You can't really blame them. Eager to escape the nannies and kids, Tired of the same view, day after day, The same heathland grass and gorse, Of keeping their distance from invading walkers, They've turned the tables. Unaware and unconcerned That those hiding inside are in lockdown, They strut along deserted streets, Claiming the town as their own, Replacing cliff ledges with garden walls Wildflowers with ten

The Kiss Today's NaPoWriMo challenge is to write an ekphrastic poem - one inspired by a work of art - from the point of view of its subject.  I've chosen The Kiss by Klimt, and  whilst I'm pleased a chose a light hearted approach after yesterday's depressing poem,  I hope I've not spoilt it for anyone! I was all of a flutter when Klimt came round, Asking me to to sit for his new painting. I'd always fancied myself as a model So when he said I'd be naked Under a sumptuous golden gown, surrounded by flowers I thought, here's your chance girl and agreed on the spot. But that wasn't the best of it: I'd be posing with a man, the gorgeous bloke down the hall And what's more - we'd be kissing! I thought all my Sundays had come at once. On the day of the sitting I showered and preened, Brushed my hair till it cascaded down my back in a river Made my face up, turned up at the studio my very best self. Adonis was already there, s

Statistics,  damned statistics Day 4 of the NaPoWriMo challenge is a big challenge. Create a poem using as many of the "twenty little poetry projects" originally developed by Jim Simmerman. There are too many to list but if you're interested,  you can find them at http://blogs.umb.edu/ntrefonides001/2018/01/26/automation-of-twenty-little-poetry-projects-by-jim-simmerman/.  I managed to fit in 5 out of the twenty, but in the end they became irrelevant as the poem took its own direction. The daily stats are a marshy bog In which I briefly stay afloat Before sinking into utter incomprehension, My only reassurance - the newsreader Seems as swamped as I am. Numbers follow numbers (all bad) Each day is deja vu: more deaths, In hospitals, in care homes More shortages of PPE. Each day the stats keep coming, Relentless, baffling, heartbreaking: Each number a person taken too early, Dying alone, their family grieving. This cannot go on. One day we'll hear

Self reliance Day 4: a poem based on an image from a dream Last night I found myself lost, in endless streets Filled with people who knew where they were going Full of purpose, busy, bustling, confident. Each time I asked them where to go I met blank looks, shaken heads, cold shoulders. At last I found a friend, a known dear face to guide me Through the indifferent throng, to safe familiarity. Awake, I'm chastened. I don't need a dream to teach me I rely too much on others,  always happy to defer Instead of finding my own way, making a decision. And yet, maybe I need a nudge in the right direction, Maybe it is time for change. © Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved