Everyday Poetry

I've found a couple more poems that I wrote a week or so ago and forgot to post on here.  This one is a 'found' poem - a strangely satisfying concept where you take written phrases found around you and link them together in a new way. Not surprisingly the phrases that jumped out at me from various magazines on the coffee table were on the theme of travel. Each stanza consists of individual phrases from each magazine, and as is the etiquette in these matters I have credited the sources to the right of its first phrase. Travel Broadens the Mind, a Found Poem  In a unique and friendly atmosphere                                                 Dil Raj takeaway menu Discover authentic flavour Served straight from the cooking range To enhance both dishes and y...

Today's exercise was to write a poem where the speaker is under the influence of a specific emotion, showing the emotion solely through the use of imagery. My granddaughter had a meltdown yesterday, so this was perhaps an obvious scene to try to capture, and in so doing, try to understand her a little bit more. Tsunami   The world shrinks to the size of her table, a drawing gone wrong and the world is ending, its betrayal leading her to the edge of a precipice alone, exposed, hiding the way back to normality.   She shrieks Aaaaaah! Aaaaaah! Tears rise like an incipient tsunami on the cusp of wreaking chaos; she rocks to hold the breach at bay.   They gather around her, asking their questions, but how can she know what the answers are; how can she tell if those arms which reach to hold her tight will soothe or suffocate?   All she knows is this enveloping black sickness, this stabbing need for her mother, far away in the weekday h...

An odd one - written in the form of a list, which comes across as a bit Donna Ashworth-y. Transformational Theory     It has to be the right moment, no point starting too soon.        ii.             Be ready for when you feel ready. Act on that impulse, no excuses.      iii.             Take it steady, there’s no rush, no race to the finish line.      iv.             Don’t worry of no-one notices you taking the first step -        v.             No-one needs cheerleaders. Or detractors.      vi.             Know why. The real reason.   The one you engrave on your heart. ...

This emerged from an exercise on writing a poem to a recipe - begin with a metaphor, use a piece of slang, include one image for each of the senses etc. As soon as I included the words of an old friend, it could only go one way.    Loosely Woven   Friendship is a kick to the heart.    “I loves you I do” she always said After a few too many ciders.   She was a freewheeling limpet, suckered on strong, Tasting of friendship, sounding like velvet, A beautiful Crystal Tips, the best chocolate in the box.   But my last day in Bristol we more or less knew The miles between us would sigh and weep thorns, While speed-racing time would sever our bond.   “This is gonna take a bit of getting used to But I know what’s right for you”: The gift of an album one last reminder.   Our ties were loosely woven of jute rather than silk, The Cadbury’s Bunny stayed stuck fast, in the past. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Righ...

I very rarely write prose poems - they are a weird halfway house between poetry and prose, genres which I prefer to keep quite separate.  However, my course is exploring lots of different experimental poetry, including the prose poem. Uley Bury Its circumnavigation drew me every Sunday, filling in lonely hours while he was fishing.  I could see his lake from the south-east corner, but that wasn’t the point; it was the retracing of steps made throughout the seasons, warm, dry, cool, cold, wet. And the treading in the footsteps of those who built the fort with their iron age tools, my footsteps beating out the rhythm of spades throwing up ramparts, axes chopping down trees for their walls, hammers building stalls to house their beasts in times of siege. Always my feet led me round counter-clockwise, my head filling with words, tumbling around to the insistent rhythm of my boots. Words chose themselves, formed lines, rearranged themselves, were spoken aloud, joined others unt...

I've had my grandchildren round today,  and as always my enjoyment is tainted with irritation at the noise, the mess, the sheer range of emotions they experience and engender in me! I go through the day conflicted - one side of me enjoying the invention behind the chaos,  another part of me in constant apology for the disruption they carry in their wake.   Surviving the whirlwind I love them, of course there's no question. I do. Who doesn't love their grandchildren,  Their idiosyncrasies, their noisy exuberance, Their tender emotions so close under the skin? Why do you avoid having them come to your house, then, Why do your nerves jangle at their noise, Why do you look forward to the silence when they've gone? I love the way they live fully in the moment Building castles out of bamboo canes, Mining the cardboard put out for recycling, My gift of empty jute potato sacks a treasure. Why do you worry about the mess they make, then, Why worry their noise is disturbi...

This week I'm learning about the New York School of poets, who became prominent in the 1950s and 60s.  The first exercise we are given is to write a poem of 15-25 lines in the style of Frank O’Hara’s poem 'The Day Lady Died' - an elegy to Billie Holiday.  O'Hara's poem reminds me a bit of ABBA's song 'The Day before You Came' in that it details all the mindless things he did before he learnt the news of Holiday's death. Mine may be more ABBA than New York School. Pivot Waking at eight in a cooling bed, covers casually thrown back on your side, the sounds and smell of coffee being made downstairs making me smile. Pale denim jeans, red sweatshirt, creased from their casting off  and heedless hours on bamboo floorboards overnight are pulled on:  no-one but us will see the creases, no-one but me will care. Slice after slice of seeded wholemeal toast disappear, thickly covered  with butter from our white china dish with the two silhouetted black cats, the...

This came with a rush this morning, prompted no doubt by a conversation with my daughter about my ex-husband's imminent 70th birthday, and reading a poem which ended with a reference to Bob Dylan, taking me back to another life. Songs are like Tattoos  We moved a lot back then, rising up the property ladder from ex-council to 4-bed detached. Each move saw the ritual  of setting up the stereo, balancing the speakers. We moved from vinyl to CDs, but always the strains of Blue echoed in an unpacked room. This house has been home now, for twenty years. My new life has shed the stereo, the CD player, we now stream whatever we fancy. But still, on days when I find myself alone,  with the quiet creating an empty space to fill in, I sometimes find myself asking: "Alexa, play Joni Mitchell's Blue". © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Today's exercise is all about titles and opening lines, which should be about drawing readers in. We were given 3 possible titles, none of which inspired me, and 3 possible opening lines, one of which did.  Forgotten Dreams I spent two years not looking Beyond blinkers, self-imposed. I was busy mending bridges, Papering over deepening cracks, Hypnotising myself into believing  My path was right for me. Six days of summer is all it took To cast off my blinkers, to look beyond, To reach for the gift of possibility. Sometimes cracks burst through  No matter how determinedly papered over. Sometimes fate demands to throw the dice To remind you who's in charge. Sometimes forgotten dreams find you, Especially when you're not looking.

Yesterday's exercise was to take a poem I'd written in the third person, and rewrite it in the first, adopting the persona of the new speaker. I took a poem I'd written in 2018 about a cat called Kelly, who I took in when a neighbour had a baby. Kelly was a feisty feline, quick to lash out and hard to love. This poem tries to work out why she was like she was. Scaredy Cat They call me Kelly. They call me vicious. They never keep me long. I've never had a chance To settle in a place I feel safe, To learn each new way of living. Freed from my box I hiss, arch my back, Unsheathe my claws, let out a caterwaul, Dart under chairs, hide on top of a cupboard. They look nice. They look calm. They offer me treats. Speak to me low and slow. Is it safe to trust them? I've been wrong before. I'll stay on my guard. Maybe, if things stay calm, If I'm not passed along again like an unwanted parcel, I might learn to trust, rub against a leg, allow a stroke, or two. Strictly ...

I'm back on poetry again on my OU course - hurrah! I've missed it.  Our first exercise is to imagine ourselves into a fictional character,  and to write 5 verses of 5 lines on specified subjects eg what do their hands look like,  what will they be doing tomorrow.  Then rearrange the verses until they make better sense.   I chose Alice in Wonderland, and placed her on a beach, pondering how it feels to be small,  and then tall. My nails are small again today,  Nails like tiny pink clamshells Caught on the fronds of my fingertips,  With that slight, salt smell of the waves.  It must have come from the walrus.  My dress is drowning me in monstrous folds,  Flapping around my shrunken body, Trapping dwindled arms and legs inside. Like an over ambitious hermit crab I dare not seek one smaller. I'll need it when I grow. Is it better being small, neat, petite, trim, Delighting in the world's hidden details? Or standing tall, revelling ...