Everyday Poetry

Tomorrow is the official start of NaPoWriMo, and I'll be attempting to write a poem every day for the 30 days of April. As a warm up there is an extra prompt: write about a fun fact. I looked up various fun facts but something wasn't quite right.  Perhaps I should just wait for tomorrow! Vacuum As soon as I settle down All those abstract ideas,  Meaningful thoughts,   Things I deem worth recording Are sucked out the window  To escape across the fields,  And disappear down the valley, Leaving me with a blank brain And an empty white page For company.  © Copyright 2023. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Since the age of ten I've been made aware of my need to lose weight, whether for health, vanity or societal reasons.  Since then I've been on an exhausting cycle of restriction and bingeing - I have a terrible relationship to food! I've recently realised that any form of restriction always ends in rebellion, so am trying to be more neutral about food. I have a long journey ahead before I reach any form of self acceptance, but I do have hope of a way out of this self destructive cycle, as this poem shows.  If you're interested,  it was prompted by the podcast  https://open.spotify.com/episode/1M0OdCqx8l1YP1gmCIrLGh   Eight hastily eaten chocolate biscuits down,  Feeling sick, guilty, and a whole bellyfull of shame, I finally tune into that saved podcast Hoping to learn how to stop this constant pushing Of comfort into my needy mouth. Ten minutes in, I'm in tears of recognition.  This woman knows.  She's been there.  Found a way out of her pers...

First day back at art group for about 3 months and I had a little bit of time at the end when I didn't want to do any more to my picture. So I wrote this.  That moment  when you know it's done, that any more dabs, strokes, pencil marks, outlines,  would not improve what's on the page,  but would blur, overwork,  simply spoil all your effort, and you have to be strong,  and stop. © Copyright 2023. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

We live in a weaver's cottage built in the 1760s from poor quality sandstone. We've come to accept the lack of foundations and persistent cracking between its original stone-built footprint and the twentieth century extension. But there is one issue that keeps on reminding us all is not fixed - every couple of years we have to spend time and effort on the kitchen stairs.  In our absence the wall has bubbled, Flaking paint once more sprinkles the stairs.  Each time we pass the accusing blisters We try not to notice, to acknowledge our neglect.  This wall has been demanding our attention, And our cash, since we assumed its care, Diagnosed as damp at the foot of the stairs, Creeping up from the foundation-less floor Creeping down from the porous stones round the front door.  We've lavished it with attention, tried hard to sort it out, It’s been re-mortared with lime, reluctantly plastered,  Painted with clay paint to let it breathe; But still the damp bubbles throu...