Poetry in a unique community – 27

poetry take away.jpg

We are rooted in the heart of our community,
connected with our history,
of what was created here before us.
We are finding that which feeds us.

Our branches reach out for one another
father to son, daughter to mother,
misters and missus and not specific,
middle aged, younger and older,
all standing strong, shoulder to shoulder.

Together we are sowing seeds,
like a forest of magnificent trees,
like leaves floating on the breeze,
Each one of us is a unique story,
together we are Community.

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Poisoned Apples – #Napowrimo 26

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Since the dawn of man,
the apple has been eaten,
divested from the garden,
ingested with poison,
turned into a tool of wickedness
and sweet hot apple pie.

Five black magical seeds
hidden in white flesh,
wrapped tightly in red skin
as if to hold the magic in.
From blossom to fullness
the apple inspired.

The first fruit taken by woman
twisted into a chewed core
of what she was before
the pomegranate transformed,
forever more to be
grossly misappropriated.

The gravity of the situation
should not be understated,
this rose tinted fall of man,
ripened full to fall again,
Seeding in Issac Newton,
a scientist of notable influence,
universal gravitation and a deeper
understanding of planetary motion.

But for one time in our history
when the apple was overrated.
Saint Steve had just one job,
to bring the apple to a mob
of hungry eyes, seeking evolution
to feed those idle minds.

Man, still looking to be free
from the boundary of a garden,
still hungry for more, took a bite
and thought they were enlightened.
Instant answers, faking knowledge,
with 1000 songs in every pocket.

Now we know how far tradition went,
by the lives that were spent
in slavery, producing icons
of poison or liberation,
good or evil, manipulation
for generations to pin hope upon.

An uprising of some faith or other,
people could globally get together
and network to unpick, to overthrow
the wickedness in their pockets.
Searching thousands of poisoned lies,
for a good old recipe for apple pie.

Now these apples didn’t lie rotting,
or seeding a new generation of life.
These apples were worshiped in temples
of profit, mimicking divine connection,
and rather than getting to the core,
promoted self-ejection from the garden.

The ancient temples fell to ruin, the world
was choked with plastic boxes and cartons
that would never decompose. They remained
with all the data, so we could finally know
why the world fell, and all the people left
their apple icons to litter the global garden.

Psychic Remnants – #Napowrimo 25

 

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I wonder if some memories remain
in the space that they were made,
echoes of distant times
residing after we have left the place.

Ghosts in the atmosphere
of who we once were,
while we are still living,
could a part of us still be there?

In northwest London,
a brand new 70’s construction
on the fourth floor, the middle block,
the hallway smelled of fresh emulsion.

A child, just seven years old,
wilful, uncontrolled,
sent to her room
red faced and scolded.

Her sister was out,
her mum was shouting
as she climbed the stairs,
13 of them, she was counting.

From under her sister’s bed,
where she ran and hid
among dusty sweet wrappers,
her still shallow breath!

Just imagine staying there forever,
among the lost treasures,
of childhood fantasy,
and living on displeasure.

And discarded mouldy snacks,
shifting right into the back,
disappearing into nothingness,
so there would be nothing to smack.

Is she still there,
now the tower blocks have fallen
into shallow gentrification,
memory of a girl suspended, high in the air
of frightened anticipation?

Demons in the Margin – #Napowrimo 24

images

It’s sometimes dull to be a monk,
So I’m going to draw some demons,
Doodle dragons, then a drunk,
dirty pictures of the heathens.

 
I’ll draw a goat with a fish tail,
Then I will turn it all about,
A hare can ride upon a snail
Set off to hunt the hounds.

Behind my quiet dedication,
No-one thinks it is a sin,
For wicked illuminations,
To live in the margins.

I’ll have the figures farting filigree,
And since no-one seems to mind.
I’ll hide my devils in the detail,
No-one reads between the lines.

 

#Napowrimo 22

Space holding page for epic earth poem that will take longer than a day to put together – (yes I know that’s the point but I don’t care) anyhow, no spoilers … this is the prompt, iambic pentametre takes a bit of tme to get right and with it being Shakespear’s birthday tomorrow and St Georges day, there’s a lot to say about land use and immigration – William really would shake a spear at the way the world has turned … back to the word wrestling …

da dum da dum da dum da dum da dum … one soft, one hard, the words to march along.

Happy Earth Day, all, and happy twenty-second day of NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo!

Our featured participant today is Arash’s Poetry, where the overheard poem for Day 21 is a wonderful rendering of speech in a busy cafe.

Our interview today is with Kyle Dargan. Originally from New Jersey, Dargan now lives in Washington, DC, where he directs the creative writing program at American University. He is the author of four books of poetry that explore the intersection of the personal and the political, with a twist of science fiction. You can learn more about Dargan and find some of his poems here, and find an additional poem here.

Last but not least, here is our prompt for the day (optional, as always). In honor of Earth Day, I’d like to challenge you to write a georgic. The original georgic poem was written by Virgil, and while it was ostensibly a practical and instructional guide regarding agricultural concerns, it also offers political commentary on the use of land in the wake of war. The georgic was revived by British poets in the eighteenth century, when the use of land was changing both due to the increased use of enlightenment farming techniques and due to political realignments such as the union of England, Scotland, and Wales.

Your Georgic could be a simple set of instructions on how to grow or care for something, but it could also incorporate larger themes as to how land should be used (or not used), or for what purposes.

Happy writing!

Overheard at the White Spring – #Napowrimo 21

“Gerroff my leyline,”
he shouted
in a spectacular display
of anger.
He scared the tourists,
expectation
of sacred space crumbled,
dissolved
as chalk in water.
Wild
as a hedge monkey,
ready
to chase off the war drums,
yesterday
he hummed a sweet tune,
harmony
through cider rouged smiles,
happy
as a boar in springtime.
Today
he is protector of dragon lines,
he hates
the sacred space full
of ceremony and nakedness,
today
he is blessed, magnificent,
unbridled.
“Gerrof my leyline!”