Tag Archives: NaPoWriMo

101/1001 (5)

22 Apr

Task-wise, it’s been a quiet week.  Some things go up by themselves, like stats and comments.  Some things I’m working on, like reading a book.  Some things I need help with, like more suggestions of tasks for my list – but please, people: no more vegetables.

I did complete a task – I can now upload photos from the camera to the computer.  I’m rather proud of that one, given my techneptitude.

That’s five tasks of forty-nine (needs to be 101) completed in four weeks.  Not bad going.

2/101

I have visited several new blogs in the past month, many because of Napowrimo.  I forgot to record details, however, so the tally is officially only two.  Perhaps ‘improve my organisational skills’ should be added to my list.

54/101

I wrote twenty poems last week.  That takes me over half way and I still have two and a half years to go; I may need to re-think that task.

Pretty dull, I’m afraid. 

Task no. 50: Live a more interesting life.

The good news is that Sarsm, whose idea this all was, has possibly persuaded another two people to join us.  Yay!  Another sixteen and we can start our own cult.

Go and check her progress – she’s panicking; it’s hilarious.

101/1001 (3)

8 Apr
Jeanie in the Radiator

I hope to get this update in under the wire.  I’ve had a busy day and you’ll hear about some of it tomorrow.

I haven’t done much on my list but I did

Hug a stranger.

I did that tonight; well, she hugged me, but in the nicest way.  I’ll tell you more tomorrow.

Colour my hair.

A wash-in-wash-out shampoo but it’s the bravest I’ve been with my hair since 2003. 

18/101 new poems.

I wrote sixteen this week – hooray for Napowrimo! You can check them out at Imnotaverse

I Really Wasn’t Intending To Blog Today

20 Sep

Honest; I swear.  But then I got the email to say the readwritepoem anthology for napowrimo has gone live and it looks so good I had to share it.  Find it here.  I’m on page 20 (or 34-35 if you use the bottom bit).  It’s well worth a look – where else can you read a whole book of great poetry for free?

As I am already here, I might as well share this poem for Writer’s IslandWe were asked to use this visual prompt:

Vane Kosturanov: FISHERMAN   You can check out the artist here; I didn’t know of him until yesterday but I love his work.

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A WAG’s Tale
WAGs: collective noun for wives & girlfriends of sportsmen; it originated in British tabloid newspapers
*
Fish sits in his bowl.
Mouth opens.  Wide.  He swims side to side.
Feed me, he says. 
Feed me today.
Feed me.  Feed me.  Feed me again.
Fish is a bully; he feeds on her guilt.
He swims round his fake castle, fake flowers, fake lake.
Left side right side front side back side.
Forever the same view, same home, same space.
Feed me, he says; feed me again.
Fish is a parasite.  Fish is bored.  Fish is alone.
Fish must wait for his manna from woman.

WAG waits in her opulent home.
Mouth opens wide, her yawns become sighs.
Need me, fame says. 
Need me today.
Need me.  Need me.  Need me again.
Paparazzi are bullies; they feed on her gilt.
She swans round her fake castle, fake marriage, fake love.
In Hello magazine she glows as she shows off her home
(secreting the fee for an uncertain future; she has hate expectations).
Need me, fame says.  Need me again.
Fame is a fiend; it tires of her, even as she waits in her manor
for the rich man who made her his woman.

 

 

  

 

I Am Still The Pigeon

26 May

I got two pieces of good news yesterday: I passed my interview and I start my work placement on Monday; and I won £100 worth of shopping.   I am a little relieved about the interview because it could all have gone horribly wrong: I went to freshen up beforehand and there was an incident in the public toilet.  I can’t give you details because I have embarrassed my sons enough and Tory Boy is still hoping for a career in public service; it all worked out for the best in the end, is all I can say.

The competition was run by my landlord, Stockport Homes.  A woman phoned to say I had won for this area in their ‘shop local’ competition.  I had to say in 100 words why I use my local shopping centre in Castle Street; it was part of the ‘use them or lose them’ campaign, as independents are being squeezed out by big business.   Think about it: you can buy your groceries, your furniture, your clothes, your pet needs, your insurance, your lunch, and pretty soon your bank services from Tesco; and you can get it cheaper than any single shop can offer you.  Sounds good, but will you think that when the next general election is sponsored by Asda?  The candidates will have to start the day with a group hug and a yoghurt.  Makes me queasy just thinking about hugs that early in the morning.

I have to spend the money in the local shops and claim it back.  I’m not sure how it will work because the lady promised to send me an email with the details and I’m still waiting.  Could it be cat-and-mouse, Stockport Homes style?  We promise you something great – money, a kitchen – and then you never hear from us again.

It is ages since I last won anything.  At least I do occasionally win stuff: the poor Hub has only ever won one competition, and that because the odds were stacked in his favour.  He put petrol in the car one day and went to pay for it, when he noticed a sign above a box inviting him to put his name in for the chance of winning an England shirt; the date showed it was the last day of the competition.  As he dropped his entry form in the attendant said, ‘You’ll probably win that.’  ‘Really?’ the Hub replied.  ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘You’re the only person who’s entered.’

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I still miss napowrimo so I am going to take part in some weekly poetry prompt exercises.  This first one is from http://rallentanda.blogspot.com/ We have to write a poem inspired by Feet Beneath The Table  by Charles Blackman, 1956.

\Here’s mine:

Feet Beneath The Table by Charles Blackman, 1956

Alice – louche, right-eyed and pushy.
Nailed by the artist.
There are no shivarees at this party.

Carroll quivers in his grave, unveiled
to 21st Century eyes as
Charles Dodgson, paedophile.

Truth huddles, sad, like long-held pain.

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‘Shivaree’ was yesterday’s Word of the Day from Dictionary.com and I just had to use it: 

1. A mock serenade with kettles, pans, horns, and other noisemakers given for a newly married couple.
2. An elaborate, noisy celebration.

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This prompt is from http://writersisland.wordpress.com/  We have to write about an imaginary friend.  My poem is based on something that happened with my boys when they were younger; I have to find a better title:

A Tale Of Friends And Brothers

Two brothers, eleven and six.
Six – being six – had John
and Michael living in his head.
John and Michael and Six
were inseparable until the day
Eleven – being eleven – ate John.
Six wailed; Mother bellowed,
‘Eleven, sick him up at once!’
Eleven feigned retching.
John was returned
to his rightful mind.

 

 

Pardon My French

19 May

I’ve been updating my poem folder this morning after last month’s writing orgy and I came across one that I didn’t publish for napowrimo:
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The Heralding Smell

Flies alight on dog

shite.  Their mess is everywhere:

spring is in the air.
*
*
Apologies for swearing; it’s not something I normally do now that I have learned to ignore my husband’s one or two hundred imperfections; but it seriously annoys me when I have to clean my dog and my shoes after walking him.  I pick up my own poo; why can’t other people do the same? 

This is a recurring theme in my life.  Just yesterday, a little girl spotted the plastic bone on Toby’s lead that holds the poo bags and she told me I was ‘a good lady.’  I think I am; in this instance, anyway.  I don’t know how dog owners can be so lazy; it’s disgusting.  I lost count of the times that Spud would toddle beside me when I took Tory Boy to school, then topple over into a steaming pile of irresponsibility.  Fortunately, there was a large bin on the way so I was able to strip off his keks and chuck them in.  Not so bad in summer, but his little legs turned blue in winter.  In case you think I’m cruel, I always had his pram and blanket with me but he would not get in and covered up.  That child loved to walk everywhere.  At less than two years old he spent fourteen hours in Blackpool on a family day trip and we used his pram to carry the junk people always buy/win in seaside resorts because he refused to be wheeled.  Except for one larcenous half-hour at the fun fair: we walked through the shop, looking at tat, and it was only when we got back to the car that we discovered he had snaffled three sticks of rock from one of the low shelves.  He did a similar thing in Mothercare when he was eighteen months old, but that time it was a pack of plastic ducks for his bath.  I’m raising a villain.

It is at this point that you must leave a comment telling me what a great mother I am, in spite of my reprobate offspring; I read this quote from Trackle the other day: Everyone needs recognition for his accomplishments, but few people make the need known quite as clearly as the little boy who said to his father: “Let’s play darts. I’ll throw and you say ‘Wonderful!’

 

Feeling Good

12 May

I got an email this morning to say I have had two poems accepted by Four and Twenty, an American ezine. Their requirements are for poems no longer than four lines and/or twenty words – right up my street. I would share the poems here but Four and Twenty now have first publication rights so I will have to wait until the end of July.

After napowrimo I really miss having a poem a day to post and I have been told that I should carry on doing it to up my stats, so here is a bit of fun for you:

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21st Century Marriage

Two minds with but one

single thought: can I have a

fling and not get caught?

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I’b Godd A Code

30 Apr

You bay hab sub trouble understanding be today; I’m fud ob a code.  I hate habbing a code.  By face leaks, by eye is swoden shut, I can’t sleed and I cough so buch I need reinforced bloobers.   If I eber see dat man again, I may hab to kid him. 

I followed Viv’s excellent advice (see comments) and kicked the Hub out of bed in the middle of the night to make me a hot toddy.  He is a master at the art of mixing alcohol and hot water, and it’s one of the reasons I won’t let him escape.  I am seriously sleep deprived this week, in spite of the revivifying properties of rum and lemon, and I am a little disappointed that the mucus wouldn’t let a poem in for the penultimate day of napowrimo. The prompt was to write about something in the news, but yesterday was a slow news day, if I remember correctly: nothing going on but a little political fallout from the most inept politician of a generation; and in the evening, just three blokes chatting about what they’re going to be doing next Friday.   However, writing poems about events in the news is one of my favourite things to do, so I have a few that I have written over the years to share with you.

The first one was originally a series of senryu that I wrote as events occurred; once Mr Blair resigned, I thought they would work better as an overview of his time in office.  Apologies to my non-UK resident readers, who may not understand the references or the reason for the invective.  Also, apologies to those who may have seen some of them before because they have already been posted on my blog (I’m not too worried, though, as I only had three readers when I started).

Ha!  Talk about a Freudian slip – I accidentally left out the ‘s’ when I typed ‘Mr Blair resigned'; look what’s left: ‘Mr Blair reigned.’

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Lies, Damned Lies and New Labour

The Blair Which? Project,
One: EC or not EC? 
Was it a question?

The Blair Which? Project,
Two: To bomb or not to bomb? 
Iraq’s the question.

The Blair Which? Project,
Three: To loot or not to loot? 
Why, without question.

The Blair Which? Project,
On Going: To freely duck
each awkward question.

Blair’s Bonus Project,
Ongoing: To harass the
usurping PM.

Coda  

Prime Minister Brown’s
Day: so many decisions,
so little spine.

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 This one refers to the huge row over MP expenses.

Parliament Fiddles as Britain Burns

Marx is writhing in his grave:
Government is the
odium of the masses.

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 Michael Jackson Died

Troubled man.  Childhood
fame is not worth the gravestone
it is written on.

 

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An Explanation For The 1000 Students Taking The 2009 Politics Exam Who Complained That It Was Unfair Because They Didn’t Know The Meaning Of The Word ‘Despotic’

Despot
Pol Pot
Bad lot

P.S.

Future of Britain:
Worrying

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Good News 

Idi Amin’s dead.
Enough said.

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Today is the last day of nablopomo (National Blog Posting Month).  I succeeded in writing a post a day but failed miserably in the task of commenting on at least ten other  nablopomo posts; but I did squeeze in a few posts on the theme, ‘BIG’.  I failed because I was overtaken by my enthusiasm for napowrimo.

Sadly, today is also the last day of napowrimo.  I won’t be posting a daily poem anymore, though I will revert to my habit of posting an occasional one as the mood takes me.  I have thoroughly enjoyed the challenge of having to write a poem a  day.  I’m not sure I succeeded, but it was fun trying.  I would like to thank everyone who commented on my poems and the rest of my regular audience who don’t care much for poetry but tolerated it anyway.  I would also like to thank my husband my children my dead mum my dead dad my deceased nans my dog my dead cats (3) my time in South Africa awful as I sometimes found it cheese & onion crisps chocolate (love you forever, darling) BGT this country’s ridiculous government toilets bees You Tube snoring Shakespeare Mango Groove my determined to help me get a job Launch Pad tutor and the town of Stockport.  Sorry if I missed anyone out.

Determined to stick to the principle of writing and posting the poem on the same day at least one more time, I cobbled together this from the final prompt, ‘free day,’ as in, write whatever you like; you’re on your own now, dear. 

Just when I think my South African collection is finally complete, up pops another prompt to remind me that I really ought to see a therapist to get my time in South Africa out of my system once and for all: for me, the word ‘free’ always conjures the image of the first free and fair South African election, in which the Hub and I queued for twelve hours to vote – bizarrely, one of my happiest memories.  Tory Boy was also there but Spud Bud was two years and one drunken night away (just kidding, sweetie pie, honest). 

It is actually called ‘1994’ but the underline cuts it in half.  I typed the number out for the blog and I’m thinking of keeping it because I like it’s Orwellian overtone.

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Nineteen-Ninety-Four

Free at last!
Free at last:
random deaths;
the odd bomb blast.
Carjack, rape,
home invasion –
all in the name
of emancipation.
Burglar bars,
security gates,
armed response…
…packing crates.
Free at last.
Free at last.
South Africa -
I’m free at last.

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