There was a young man named Cam O’Flage
Went swimming one day, down at the plage
He drank so much booze
He left on a cruise
And changed his name, to Master Farage
wordpress writing 101 | poetry | camouflage | prompt by Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
cause we need a little controversy
’cause it feels so empty
– lyrics from without me, eminem
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) 😉
and when we reach that point, all we can do is quietly accept the fact
― haruki murakami, kafka on the shore
monsieur B. de’Velo
last seen, in a moment of passion
missing in action
most likely, inaction
no longer, in fashion
monsieur B. de’Velo
if you have seen him, or
are otherwise
cognisant of, his
(dis)position
reply, on a postcard
your cheque’s in
the post
your reward, in
heaven
just like
monsieur B. de’Velo
writing 101 poetry | seven | beloved | prompt by Vijaya Sundaram
“the most idiotically useless phrase in a beginner’s French textbook”
– Life Magazine, 1958
Poetry 101 Rehab was initially created for those who missed the creative writing challenge of the Writing 201 Poetry course run by the Daily Post.
How does it work?
Feel free to answer the prompt, twist it or ignore it; write a poem of your own or share a poem by another author. Write about your inspiration, your creative process or other poetry related thoughts, but this is in no way obligatory. Nothing is obligatory in this challenge. The idea is to get together, talk poetry and enjoy.
How can you take part?
Anyone can take part, anytime you want. Publish your poetry post and add a link to it by clicking on the Poetry 101 Rehab badge below or share your link in a comment. Use the tag Poetry 101 Rehab, so we can find each other in the Reader.
I will be your host, and I’m here to reply to your comments, read your poetry, like and comment. While this post is the starting point for this week’s challenge, do visit fellow poets in the link-up and chat to them on their blogs!
The prompt for this week is FALLACY.
it’s self evident to me
(and my little
pet flea)
that
the world is flat
as flat as the mat
on which
sat (Schrodinger’s)
cat
as flat as la plume
de ma tante
on which
(i imagine), she
(repeatedly)
sat
as flat as the gnat
swatted dead
with just
one swipe
of my hat
some say it is round
but what
do they know
they’ll all come
around
soon enough
to my
way of thinking
or i’ll eat my hat
so that’s
that
This week’s prompt is also my rambling, and (unusually) whimsical, response to the prompt for Day 6 of the WordPress Writing 101 Poetry .
What will your take on the keyword FALLACY be?
Write about it in a poetry post and share your link in the comments section of this post and / or by clicking on the Poetry 101 Badge above.
writing 101 poetry | six | fallacy | prompt by jason preu
fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes
you are free
― jim morrison
freedom
in whose name?
freedom
to maim and shame?
freedom
in whose name?
freedom
to put to the flame?
freedom
in whose name?
freedom
it’s a crying shame
to know what we do in ‘their’
name
.
writing 101 | poetry | five | freedom | prompt by impossiblebebong
“the text has disappeared under the interpretation”
― friedrich nietzsche, beyond good and evil
Stormtrooper One: the force is strong in this one
Stormtrooper Two: there must be some mistake, we can’t delay, it’s all going wrong
Stormtrooper One: no need t’rush, the one in black will go down first
Stormtrooper Two: but the one in black has C & (i) d’A, the wrong way round
Stormtrooper One: och aye, I canna stan’ t any more
Exit stage left
a tongue in cheek 😉 post for weekly photo challenge – oops!
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.
thirty | fiftytwo
once a man, like the sea I raged,
once a woman, like the earth I gave
lyrics from the cinema show, seconds out, genesis
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
< Sleep Awake >
Which is real?
Maybe you feel,
awake when you sleep?
Maybe you sleep,
when you are awake?
Which is real?
The sleeping you,
or the waking you?
And how, do you,
know?
< /Sleep Awake >
writing 101 | poetry | three | sleep | prompt by Rohit Pandey
andy townend 