Golden

Day 8: today's prompt is called the “Twenty Little Poetry Projects,” and was originally developed by Jim Simmerman. And here are the twenty little projects themselves — the challenge is to use them all in one poem:

1.  Begin the poem with a metaphor.

2. Say something specific but utterly preposterous.

3. Use at least one image for each of the five senses, either in succession or scattered randomly throughout the poem.

4. Use one example of synesthesia (mixing the senses).

5. Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.

6. Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.

7. Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.

8. Use a word (slang?) you’ve never seen in a poem.

9. Use an example of false cause-effect logic.

10. Use a piece of talk you’ve actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don’t understand).

11. Create a metaphor using the following construction: “The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun) . . .”

12. Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities.

13. Make the persona or character in the poem do something he or she could not do in “real life.”

14. Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person.

15. Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction.

16. Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective.

17. Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but that finally makes no sense.

18. Use a phrase from a language other than English.

19. Make a non-human object say or do something human (personification).

20. Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement, but that “echoes” an image from earlier in the poem.

Gosh! That sounds fun for a day when I've got a lot of time,  unlike today... but I've had a quick attempt and ticked off most of the list.

He was an open book, read up to page 64.

Grizzled, smelling vaguely of fish scales,  

With a soft Midlands accent when excited,

A self assured manner, a gentle touch,

And a taste his wife couldn't get enough of. 

Phil's favourite place to fish was Harescombe

The bright flash of happiness in each week,

The buzz of competition cutting through

The slow repetitious predictability of retirement,

Pumping the blood more swiftly through his veins. 

Today would be his chance to achieve a personal best. 

He'd brought the usual coffee to his wife before leaving

Waking her so she could wish him 'good luck and safe journey'.

The sun was just rising over the hills, all was set for a bostin day. 

On his return his wife asked how he'd done, 

Expecting to congratulate, or commiserate,

Never dreaming of what he'd say next. 

"The fish were leaping out of the water into my net

Like they were escaping a boiling lake.

Each golden carp looked gratefully into my eyes 

Before gasping 'Xie Xie', as if I was their saviour."

A case of sitting too long in the sun? Perhaps.

Early onset dementia? Only time would tell. 

All his wife could think of to say was:

"But did you win?"

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