Everyday Poetry

After posting on my Instagram page (@chris.auger.370.poetry) about having writer's block, this came to me in the gym this morning,  thinking about what each person's motivation  might be. Chasing dreams Training for a marathon  training for a park run getting out of the house getting an hour's rest from the kids shaping a toned beach body shaping up against low mood fitting back into those perfect jeans fighting back against old age looking for admiring glances looking to be Insta ready feeling muscles working hard feeling anxieties slipping away we're all strengthening, flexing, pushing, we're all chasing our own dreams. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

I haven't written any poems for quite a while,  resting after the intensity of the OU course in Creative Writing, and this year's Napowrimo which seemed to have sucked me dry.  But this morning a painting of Acker Bilk by my friend Jocelyn Gilfoyle prompted a memory of my Dad, which needed to be recorded.  He had a great love of instrumental music especially brass bands, which were unappealing to me as a child - after the first few tracks I'd usually had enough.  But I loved the novelty of him coaxing music out of his cornet, just by pursing his lips and blowing,  It only came out at Christmas, The scuffed black case with its puffy silk lining, The tarnished brass cornet nestled safe inside. Each year his girls would ask him to play His party piece at the family gathering, Amazed that his puckered lips could draw  Sweet notes from this unassuming instrument. He'd always start with an apology for being rusty, But once the first few wavering notes were tested...

Day 30: ' write a poem that describes different times in which you’ve heard the same band or piece of music across your lifetime.' I've chosen to write about the music of Ian Dury and the Blockheads, as I was a big fan back in the 70s.   Reasons to be cheerful Bootlegs tapes were the best we could get Back in the dissaffected punk rock days Of penniless rebellion.  Played loud and proud To shock, offend, we relished each  double entendre As Dury hit us over and over with his rhythm stick.  Blink of an eye, and they're hidden Behind New Wave CDs at the back of an MFI rack, Safe from prying eyes and sticky fingers,  To save the embarrassment of innocent questions About sex and drugs, and rock and roll.  Yesterday, driving home to the 'Sounds of the Seventies' Whispering Bob is featuring the Blockheads, Revealing a poignancy long forgotten  As Dury croons about his Old Man,  Elegizes Sweet Gene Vincent.  © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All R...

Day 29: ' write a poem that takes its inspiration from the life of a musician, poet, or other artist.'   I've chosen to write about Maya Angelou, whose poems and sexy vocal growl I find really mesmerising. She truly was a phenomenon - known primarily as a poet, writer and activist, she was also an educator, actress, singer and dancer. During her lifetime she was awarded the National Medal of Arts by President Clinton, the Presidential Medal of Freedom by President Obama, and over 50 honorary degrees.  All this despite a deprived background where she was the victim of child abuse.  Phenomenal Woman            "A wise woman wishes to be no- one's enemy; a wise woman refuses to be anyone's                   victim." Maya Angelou . Her voice rises  an unstoppable force from the depths of her subterranean growl to the soaring flight of the freed bird, teaching us all to walk with diamonds...

Day 28: " Music features heavily in human rituals and celebrations. We play music at parties; we play it in parades, and at weddings. In her poem,  OBIT [Music] , Victoria Chang describes the role that music played in her mother’s funeral. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event of some kind." Falmouth Funeral Blues Don't ask me what hymns were chosen, What I sang, in my triple forked grief.   All I remember is the rawness of silent tears Shed at the hollow words I could not believe When they spoke of the better place; Her loss of the years she should have lived; T he new hole at the heart of our family. Those hymns with their empty promises  were endured. Comfort came f rom the love, and the sorrow, Reverberating round the packed church, Every pew full, with more standing round the edges, Bearing witness to the woman I knew only as Mum. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Day 27: " W.H. Auden’s “ Musée des Beaux Arts ” takes its inspiration from a very particular painting: Breughel’s “ Landscape with the Fall of Icarus .” Today we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem that describes a detail in a  painting, and that begins, like Auden’s poem, with a grand, declarative statement." I'm sitting in my conservatory looking not at a painting but at a mosaic of a dog made from broken crockery:  Cleo Mussi, A-Z Handbook, Pp is for Pat a Pet.  I've had it since my Aunty Gladys passed away and left me a little money, and it always brings a smile to my face.   The hand that feeds She knew what she was doing Gathering discarded plates and bowls,  Selecting their colour and pattern Smashing them into sharp shards,  Long and pointy like the dog's bared teeth As it nears the hand that feeds it treats.  Yes the dog is bug-eyed, his nails extend Wide from all four paws, but he's rendered In pale creams, soft browns and gre...