Everyday Poetry

I'm beginning to question everything I write! The latest dictat is 'Show,  don't tell.'  Put enough detail in to make it vivid, but leave out details you don't need.  How much is enough? How much, too much? Our assignment is to write about a location, and place a character there, who may know the place well, or not at all. So here's one about a scary evening walk when I was on holiday with my Scottish relatives when I was a child.  I've never liked walking in the dark,  even as an adult.  The darkness between the Scots pines bleeds   onto the needle covered path,      monochromed by moonlight.  "Let's take a left then right,      left then right,       see where it takes us."  My uncle and older sister are in on the joke,    are fearless in the absence of daylight.        I follow them, gullible, trusting. A long way from home, we'd made our way    from the s...

Poem 3! My brain is about to implode. Write about something that happened in your childhood, in 12 -15 lines. In 1968 Hornchurch held a country dancing festival,  where dozens of schools all got together on one afternoon to dance en masse. We rehearsed for weeks,  and I still remember it with great fondness.   On a wide expanse of tarmac, an excitable mass of eleven year olds In tidy groups of eight, rigged out in a Londoners' idea of country dress - Homemade dirndl skirts, gypsy blouses, kerchiefs round necks and trouser legs - Wait, poised for a crackling accordian to blare from rigged up speakers. We stand to attention, bow to our partners, perform the well-rehearsed steps Drummed into us over a term of PE lessons. Facing these mysterious boys We grip their sweaty, still unfamiliar hands, to circle left, circle right,  Promenade, dosey doh, form circles, squares, dance under archways of arms, Peeling off to meet up again with relieved, side-eyed smiles. ...

The second activity comes hot on the heels of the first.  Pick an activity you do every day and describe it via at least 3 of the senses. Include any images which come to mind as you describe the action.  Each morning brings a choice. Dressed, hair combed, earrings hooked, left then right,  Which scent to flavour this day? Four identical glass cylinders stand tall Distinguished only by their name in plain red font, Their contents vodka clear, through pale yellow, to amber. Mykonos, with its sharp sea tang,     a freshness of raspberries floats over amber, patchouli.       A Grecian goddess, barefoot on a beach.  Marseille, deep and sensual,     the allure of orange blossom, bergamot and rose.       A mademoiselle strutting down the Champs d'Elysee. Sienna, romantic, feminine,    a mellow melee of grapefruit, violet, musk, and vanilla.       A woodland sprite, dancing in the darkness ...

My first writing activity for the OU course asks us to pick 3 things on our table and write a poem about them,  of at least 20 lines.  Sounds like my kind of poem, but of course,  now I'm worrying if it will be good enough!  My table wears a cloth of woven blue roses, It wears my heart upon its sleeve.  Two foil and plastic blister packs in plain sight, Within easy reach of the drinks coaster. Each sheet of fourteen sterile compartments Has seven empty, seven still waiting, Their brittle rattle a reminder of ageing, Of a body no longer up to muster, up to snuff. One swimsuit, barely two years old, Its bright pink stripes once dazzling Now faded from twice-weekly use, Hangs drying over the dining chair back, Each strap hooked carelessly over the chair arms, Recovering after its last half-mile. One diary, A5, cloth bound in Liberty print, A week to a view, a poem on each facing page. A thing of both usefulness and beauty Keeping the nerves of this new phase at bay...

Although expected, given the results of recent blood tests, this morning's consultation with my doctor brought a shock. I'm only just over the threshold for diabetes,  but it seems the current approach is to shock you into action - they call you by the name of the condition - you don't have diabetes, you are now diabetic - and you are put on medication in the hope that in 6 months time you'll once more be back on the safer side of the threshold.   It seemed appropriate to revisit the poem Good News (about my Achilles tendonopathy) to reflect on the other side of the coin. That moment When they tell you the bad news And realisation hits with a punch to the gut And frail hope vanishes with the doctor's words, And the weight of the burden of worry You've been denying was there Shooing it away each time it appeared  Suddenly settles with a thump, As panic gives way to sadness,   And thoughts scatter, like shards of ice. © Copyright 2024. Chris Auger. All Rights...

A limerick, written for the Uley Show Competition. I'm not expecting this one to go down so well!  The bulge in St Giles' Church wall Is twice as broad as it's tall It's the souls pressing out,  You can hear them all shout, If you walk past alone, at nightfall.  © Copyright 2024. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

I've written this 'almost sonnet' for the Uley Village Show,  in the hopes that it might flatter the judges into giving me a good placing!  Nestled in a valley, between two ancient towns, Lies a sleepy old village cars pass through too fast, Residents give thanks that the ups and the downs Of its once busy wool trade lie far in the past. Its gently rolling hillsides, flanked by trees Lure walkers with footpaths, through woods, across streams, The climb up the Bury makes the others a breeze, The view always worth it, the stuff of dreams. The heart of the village is a true wonderland, The houses glow golden, whether brick-built or stone,  A medley of shapes, from the small to the grand, Stone walls bulge proudly as if pregnant, overblown. With a shop, doctors, brewery, Old Crown pub, Café, church, school, Prema centre for the arts,  There's a lot going on in a wide range of clubs, With the village hall sited at the community's heart. And despite being built on a weari...

One of the prompts in August's Writing Magazine is a list of words.  The word 'obscured' leapt out at me,  as I've found it hard to find the right word a couple of times recently.  Twice today my brain has let me down.   I've lost a word, floundered around it,  Nibbled close, couldn't immediately find it.  The first, you asked of me, having just lost it yourself Midway through an explanation:  The word for a set of rules a club might use. I kept thinking 'constituency', knowing it was wrong,  Discarding it, for it to reappear again and again, With fuzzy edges as if it was hiding what I needed  Behind its teasing shape. Minutes later I shouted "Constitution" - pumping my fist in triumph. The second, I sat staring at a tree in a pot,  A wedding gift from friends; it's name escaped me.  I knew it well, its leaves I use to flavour stews, pickles. An edible relative of the laurel, begins with a B.  Bee, baa, I try to jog my mem...

These were a favourite when I was a kid, known by us in the 60s simply as cheesecakes, before the biscuit and mousse kind were even dreamed of. Perhaps that's why they're now known as London cheesecakes.  Juicy fat squiggles of coconut,  Set deep into thick white icing, Tempted me as a child. I'd pick them off one by one,  Eating those delicious 'worms' first,  Licking off any icing left behind,  Then biting into the pastry base, It's delicious hit of frangipane -  A taste as familiar as its name unknown - Set off by the sweetness of strawberry jam.  Of all the treats in the baker's shop These were the ones I coveted most, Eating my fill before my time in London Disappeared into my memories.   © Copyright 2024. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

It's not just Proust who can have a vivid "Proustian moment". The memory of reading on the floor while my mum did the ironing has stayed with me for 60 years!  These wintry afternoons, shut in against the wet, Darkness held at bay by soft electric light, Take me back to the iron's hiss and pop, its bang and swish As it smoothes my father's shirts, our school uniforms; Back to the forest of chair legs rising up around me, To the smell of the scratchy wool, slightly dusty, carpet,  The comfortable scorch of the open fire against my cheeks, As I lay, chin in hands, propped up on elbows, Lost in pages held between red and yellow hard covers, Living a life of adventure with Robin of Sherwood, Or swashbuckling with the Knights of the Round Table. © Copyright 2024. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved