You seem to understand my questions, but your answers make no sense to me. That’s typical of life, isn’t it?
― Alasdair Gray
Welcome to this week’s Poetry 1o1 Rehab Prompt.
My prompt this week is PLACE.
Once again, I skate on thin ice, writing (perhaps) from the view of a pigeon, or (mibby) the observer of a pigeon, once (or twice) removed.
So, this week, write a poem to describe what it means to have a place that makes you feel safe, or a place that once did, and does nae longer.
And in doing so, show us your place, and space.
A space, and place,
in which he,
became,
so easily, dis-placed
and,
(mibby) re-placed
even, before
he, (ever) knew, his
place.
No,
grace.
Deep,
space.
No,
trace.
That face,
re-membered up,
above, in
that
(elevated) place, a
cheery,
wave, from that
(terrace), and
walking away,
thinking that place
was a good
place.
To be.
A pigeon, sitting,
on
a lamp post.
poetry | 101 | rehab | place
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Welcome to this week’s Poetry 1o1 Rehab Prompt. The first of 2016.
My prompt this week is FEM.
I have tried, and, perhaps in doing so, skated on thin ice, to write from a perspective different than my own. I may, or may not, have achieved that. No doubt, I will find out soon enough.
So, this week, write a poem to describe what it means to be feminine, in your world, or in some other (part of the) world; or, take a different spin from the post and write about something from the perspective of another person, or, if the fancy takes you, something not even human.
And in doing so. Show no mercy.
I am.
Like you.
I am.
I have two legs, two arms,
two eyes.
A brain (with two sides),
just like you.
(more)
I want, and need,
like you, more than,
you.
I can do, all you can,
and more.
(than you can)
I am,
woman.
I can.
I do.
I need,
no rescue.
(by you)
I need.
No.
Mercy.
I am,
human
(and you?)
poetry | 101 | rehab | fem
You can link to your post in response to today’s prompt by leaving a comment on my post and / or by clicking on the poetry | 101 | badge below and leaving a link.
And you can also tag your post with Poetry 101 Rehab so that it shows up in the WordPress Reader.
Please feel free to copy and paste the badge across to your own post and your own site 🙂
This is my response to the prompt for Day Eight of the WordPress Writing 101 Poetry course. And, as the prompt is, err, amazingly, my very own prompt, I’m interrupting your enjoyment (momentarily) so that I can thank Ben Huberman for inviting me to contribute today, even though there are so many better qualified poets out there. By which I mean, those of you who can actually, you know, write, uh, poetry. You know who you are.
More to the point, thank you to all who have taken the trouble to find your way to my post!
< gratuitous plug >
The photo, by the way, was shot by me in the dark interior of the BIGZ building in Belgrade. If you’d like to find out more, or failing that, see what I saw, feel free to visit belgradestreets and check out bigz graffiti or all that jazz or even broken, and then book a flight to Belgrade, and then, why not pop into a bookstore and take a look at my book! 😉
< / gratuitous plug >
And hey, if you need more Poetry when this is all over, why not make a note to join Poetry 101 Rehab every Monday?
< graffiti >
in your face
it’s my freakin’ space
my only
place
< / graffiti >
so out of order
blood splattered border
couldn’t be (more) bored(er)
< graffiti >
i don’t freakin’
care
how you fare or (even)
if you
care
< / graffiti >
it’s my
way
to
get
< / even >
writing 101 | poetry | eight | seconds | prompt by me (in’em) 😉
Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge? Are you open to sharing your dark side? Then read on.
Do you have a dark side?
Or, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so, join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.
Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday
Share your dark side?
I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.
dark | side | thursday | thirty
He turned away, from the dark, rain lashed window.
Walked across his cold, empty, single room. Taking care not to trip on the cable that snaked across the perfectly laid out grey stone tiles. Selected a sparkling shot glass from the shelf of the kitchen cabinet, laid it on the pristine work surface. He opened the fridge door, it creaked, he knew, he needed to get it fixed. Took out the bottle, that still, after all this time, lay waiting in the shelf tucked inside the door, flipped the metal clasp that held it closed, poured the clear, slick, liquid into the shot glass. To the brim.
Taking the glass in his left hand, he walked back past the glowing screen, back to the window. He looked up at the towering chimney in the dark night, lifted the glass to his mouth, closed his eyes, the liquid slid down his throat, warming, burning. And as it did, he remembered, although, he knew, it was pointless to do so.
He turned, and, in a rage, hurled the shot glass savagely across the room. It stopped, when it hit the wall, at the back of the kitchen area, shattering and smothering the floor with sharp shards that would, he knew, slice into his bare feet.
Ignoring the fallout from his senseless rage, for now, he returned to his desk, turned to the low cabinet that contained what little possessions he had. Kneeling down, he opened the door, took out a large white envelope. Placing it on his desk, he took another shot glass, feeling the shards, that covered the floor, press into the naked soles of his feet, he tipped what remained in the open bottle into the shot glass, drained it in one long swallow, sat down at his desk once more, and opened the envelope.
He reached inside, and took out four sheets of paper, papers folded, and long ago abandoned.
He pushed his Mac out of the way. Spread the papers on the desk.
Each one was a painting, crude, simple, and yet powerful. Each one told a story, a piece of the puzzle, concealed in watercolours, created, he was sure, with passion, and then forsaken. But, he had not forgotten them. He remembered, the moment he had been given them, the artist, perhaps uncaring in the moment, had handed them over, not caring, unwitting, what might be their fate.
Fruit trees lining the banks of a patch of water; a bridge crossing untroubled blue waters; a ballerina in a bright blue dress, arms akimbo leaping against a yellow background. And last, that face, the face that had started it all.
It’s face.
A shiver ran slowly down his spine as that rendering stared back at him. He took the envelope and stuffed the paintings back inside, except that which bore the face. The pain seared again, shooting pains up his arm, into his shoulder.
Gasping for breath, he reached out for the painting that bore that terrible face.
The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.
seconds are infinitesimal counting down seconds out but wait stop all the clocks what the hell is time anyway roll back the clock fast forward freeze frame pause seconds out
game >
< over
writing 101 | poetry | four | seconds | prompt by rosemawrites
Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge? Are you open to sharing your dark side? Then read on.
Do you have a dark side?
Or, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so, join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.
Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday
Share your dark side?
I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.
dark | side | thursday | twentynine
And so, the dance, started again.
He typed, enjoying the gentle click, click, click as the square, black plastic buttons, with glowing white characters, gently depressed under his flying fingers. His wrist resting on the clean aluminium skin of the machine on which he was writing. The screen glowing white, nothing to see but the words appearing, one after the other, in the old school font that was a soft spot of his. When he did this, he felt at home, comforted somehow. For now.
And by his side, the battered old journal, bound tight, its secrets still shut away inside a leather thong. The leather, a base and wanton challenge to the gleaming aluminium usurper.
He looked up from the shallow laminated wooden desk on which he was typing. His eyes, distracted for a moment by the red woven plaid thrown over the sofa, looked towards the windows. Distracted by memories, and almost memories, of things that had happened, that were going to happen, and those that didn’t. His view of the empty industrial landscape outside interrupted by the thin plastic gauze that had been applied to the window, ostensibly in the interests of privacy. A wry almost smile formed on his lips. The rain forever lashing against the windows, a susurration of sensation that stealthily stole his attention.
He remembered the origin of the man in black. The one who always wore black, the man in the song. The Byronic anti-hero. The song inspired by pictures on a domed roof. In the entrance hall of a municipal station that had been in a state of constant renovation. Until the time came for it to finish. In another world.
He continued to type.
The words kept appearing. He had no idea how or why. Pretty much how he felt about it all. Type. And see.
The man in black, his narrator, had travelled far, in a circle. And yet, only now had his journey really started. He knew that many many roads lay ahead of him, roads covered in ice and snow, roads ahead that held promise. And he knew that promise, that fake premise, would be his undoing.
He thought of her, the woman that had been the nemesis of his man in black. The conflicting and contrasting emotions, the walk in the soft light that led to that terrible hole in the ground. The loss and despair. The search, the seeking, and the resolution.
The cold clinical way in which the man in black and that woman had been conjoined in a convergence of chaos in a white tiled hospital room.
Images of that square, empty of people, the tower, the climb to the top. The despair.
He stood up. The keyboard stilled for a moment. He looked through the rain, at the chimney stack, a relic of times gone by. Industrial, and fanciful.
The rain smeared across the dirty exterior of the window.
And a tear spilled from his eye as he remembered. It all.
The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.
andy townend 