Day 13 NaPoWriMo Ghazal about Books

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a ghazal. I am not sure I ever wrote one of these before. Like some other poets I know, I’m not entirely sure how you know when you’ve done it successfully. But here goes anyway!

New Books

Books credit: LollyKnit

Why Libraries Are Important on Friday April 13th

It’s my birthday, give me poetry books
I’ll spend my day reading poetry books

Children learn grammar in their grade school books
Mothers writing payments from their cheque books

People playing games in their crossword books
Chefs making meals from big cookery books

Priests reciting psalms from their black prayer books
Kids memorize from catechism books

Gardeners design from their landscape books
Accountants record in their ledger books

Teenagers reveal in diary books
People seek solutions in self-help books

Borrowed wisdom found in library books
Experiments in sound in music books

Everywhere you look you can find more books
Carol’s ghazal says it’s all about books.

Carol A. Stephen
April 13, 2012

Day 12 NaPoWriMo A homophonic poem

The 12th prompt is to “translate” a poem from another language, only on the basis of sound. I haven’t done much in the way of editing, except perhaps to remove the total disconnections of some lines, to rather make it seem like it flows, even if it doesn’t. Of course, as a first draft, I may severely alter it later on!

A second try at this. This time I chose a German poem. While I did study some German that was, oh, something like 45 years ago, so most of it is long gone. I tried to find a totally foreign language, but Arabic was beyond my abilities. Since I live in Canada where French is the other official language, I am reasonably familiar with the Latin based languages. And in fact I have studied those too, although many years ago as well. Wherever I encountered a word that I knew, I made an effort to go strictly by sound.

Upsetting

Found in a mine in stasis
answers in the slag locked leaves
answers clean green work
still hope springs and the young

thus we give answers
and yet strike without
these cursive stamps, strike
with clear outcomes

found in a mine over the wire
smuggled, fluted
it smacks us in the nose,
as we gaze, why bother them?

months and months
a fluid agent
a random mudhole
at random
this site

Carol A. Stephen
April 12, 2012

Day 11 NaPoWriMo Poem Using the Senses

Quaternary clay in Estonia.

clay Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For this prompt, I went back to a poem from January when I tried pottery for the first time. The first poem described how I adjusted to the idea that sticky fingers were not necessarily a bad thing, and on how the clay felt as I worked it. This time, I tried to bring in all 5 senses, as the prompt asked.

Fingers Learning to Mold Clay

the first touch sticky, resistant
as fingers hesitate to work the clay.
but the brick is cool and moist, faint-scented
the smell of clean earth. It waits
to be poked, prodded, pounded and flattened.

Hands begin to work, ears tuning to
the soft squish of clay whispering secrets
to striations on the mold that
birthmarks its flattened face.

As I watch, it shape-shifts, sharp corners
soften and round. How quickly it dries,
figures formed from rolled clay fingers
now reluctant to join themselves to plate.
I lick my fingers, the taste like dry earth
and salt, a hint of cool spring rain.
The clay softens and seals, no longer brick.
Three penguins cluster there upon
a textured earthen plate.

Carol A. Stephen
April 11, 2012

Carol A. Stephen

Day 10 NaPoWriMo Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Woods?

Footbridge over the stream. Deep in the woods ...

Deep in the woods (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Today, the prompt is to use a first line from someone else’s poem and write your own poem from there. I found a poem by Tim Prior in CV2 Winter 2012 that I had dogeared for future reference. This was not quite the poem I was intending to write using his poem as inspiration. At least, not at the time I dogeared it. But here is what came when I started to write.

Who’s Afraid in the Big Bad Woods?

What do you fear in the woods
when the trees fold their branches around you
closing out the sky, when the sun no longer
warms you with her soft touch and the path
twists again and again till you’re confused,
and have lost your way?

Is it the sound of reeds drumming on hollow logs,
hoofbeats of horses that galloped these woods until
their riders were never seen again? Is it the warping
of the light, how it filters through leaves, the distortion
of time and place, or the fear of darkness at the end of day
the path no longer seen?

Is it the heartbeat pounding in your chest,
choking out each breath as you climb the same hill
for the third time in an hour? Is it the chiming of a distant
steeple, heard but not seen, its song sung in a minor key,
a dissonance falling harshly on the ear, as it announces
the lateness of the hour

Is it the stories remembered from childhood,
a girl in a red cloak, a clever wolf, a horseman
riding headless at midnight, banshees and children
who meet  old women with ovens and appetites,
and you—you  have come to these woods, forgetting
your pocketful of crumbs?

Carol A. Stephen
April 10, 2012