Everyday Poetry

Land of plenty My mum was a feeder Showing her love through food, Tables were packed solid Everything you could possibly want,  and more. "Help yourself,  don't be shy" "Have another,  it'll only go to waste" My poor aunt,  hectored every Sunday Until she had that second helping of dessert. Was it the shortages in the war, and after That made her anxious we weren't full? "Better to have too much than too little" She hated the thought of being found wanting. Often now when I remember her I picture her in the kitchen Stirring a pan of minced meat stew In a thick fug of onions, carrots and gravy, Patiently skimming off the scum Before dropping in the fluffy dumplings. Or rubbing margarine into flour to top a last minute crumble, "Silly to let our apples go to waste". When I was good she let me have the cream off the top of the milk, Mended sadness or pain with a biscuit Celebrated success with a special meal. ...

Autumn The competition this month (closing date in November) is to write a poem about autumn,  avoiding the usual clichés.  So far I've come up with this,  which is far from competition standard,  but was a pleasant day dream for me this morning.  My red-headed,  red-wellied grandchild Kicks through the leaves stacked high under the trees, Blown into drifts by the park warden. Shrieking with delight as they fly Up into the air,  her face,  her hair. She screeches,  and runs, Scrunching their brittle dryness under her feet Towards puddles specially made for splashing. She turns and giggles,  holds out her arms Urging me to abandon my caution My worries about the wet and rotting leaves Dirt and hidden mess, To live in the moment To revel in the earthy smells,  the crisp sounds of autumn To let go,  and be a child once more. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Trigger Another Writing Magazine challenge: imagine finding an item in a charity shop that is clearly a holiday souvenir.  20 minutes. Passing time,  rootling through the shelves in a charity shop I spot you - an ugly piece of china With the name of a seaside town in distinctive script. How did you get here,  so far from the sea? Were the memories too faded,  or too painful, Were you an unwanted gift from a dutiful aunt? You sit in my hand,  small but weighty As a rush of memories engulfs me: Hot summer sand between my toes, waves lapping at my ankles Shells plundered and kept as treasure Seagulls wheeling above me in the sea breeze Saucy postcards greedily devoured, but never bought Shillings in a juke box proclaiming my identity Chips out of the bag,  fizzy pop, sticks of rock,  candy floss. I place you back on the shelf And take my memories outside. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

The book group trip to Bristol Inspired by reading Birdcage Walk by Helen Dunmore,  our book group decided to go on a summer outing to Bristol to find the places mentioned in the book.  As expected it turned into the usual mix of talking,  laughing and eating! A thoroughly enjoyable time was had by all.  The song by Fiddler's Dram came to by way of inspiration for this poem. Didn't we have a lovely time the day we went to Bristol Eight of us came,  to get on the train,  and battle with the ticket machine Then on to a bus,  for some with a pass,  group ticket for the youngest We chatted away,  with so much to say,   as the day sped past. Do you recall the thrill of it all,  as we went to Primrose Café Sarnies all round,  except those who found,  the sweet things irresistible Then off to the shop,  while some had to stop, to answer the call of nature Laughing away,  we made the most of our stay, ...

Twilight The second exercise in the August Writing Magazine was to write a twenty line free verse poem on the theme of twilight.  I started off capturing the physical qualities of that time of day, and how it would affect someone sitting looking out of a window at the dimming light.  It then struck me that it could be likened to the twilight of a life, starting out bright and busy and fading to a dimmer,  more peaceful existence.   not a new idea,  but hopefully not too much of a cliché.  The subject of the poem became an old lady - not me yet!  Free verse has no rhyme or metre,  but my poem fell into five verses., the first four quite hypnotic, the last fracturing the mood and returning to the present. Twilight Sitting by the window, early evening, She knits for her grandson, Looking past the view Remembering her life. Smiling at the fierce frenzy of motherhood The anxious intensity of each moment, Long past,  devolved to ...

Parenting One of the exercises in my writing magazine this month is to write a short poem on the theme of birdsong,  using any rhyme scheme. I took my notebook outside for inspiration,  and the dominant bird noise I could hear was the shriek of a juvenile buzzard.  I've ended up with the rhyme scheme of a a b b a which is commonly associated with the limerick (!) and a rather satisfying slant rhyme to bring it to an end. Parenting Overhead a lone buzzard flies In circles, away from dependent cries, The morning's thick and sluggish heat Pierced by the juvenile's insistent shriek. It searches for prey,  to stop the noise. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Mirror cinquain I find this an easier format as there is more space to express an idea in ten lines than five! The format is 2,4,6,8,2,2,8,6,4,2 syllables to each successive line. This poem was inspired by the sight of drizzle collecting on a cobweb hanging in an open window, and gently shaking as I used my exercise bike.  Fine rain Shivers softly On the broken cobweb Like pearls on an antique necklace Admired, Borrowed, Worn like a magic talisman To her first autumn ball By a nervous Young girl. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved