I promised myself to write a poem (at least one) every day during the month my MS is in quarantine. I need to keep those fingers nimble, eh?

And, for accountability, I'll post my daily poems in this thread. They don't have to be good. It would, of course, be nice if they were, but they can also be absolute rubbish. The only requirement is that I write them, and post them here.

Here's today's poem. Just a Four And Twenty, created using the cut-up technique. I thought it best to give myself an easy start, but I do intend to write at least one villanelle too. Probably near the end of my month.


manuscript

the smooth lack of tears
may approach extreme proportions
of labour and hardship
weighed in gold

lockdown

today the air is cleaner
the streets quieter
and my mind calmer

hinterland

tiny cottage
fridge filled with food
comfy bed

hot tea, steam rises
in cold air, apple pie scent
tickles my nostrils

Did a second one today. An American Paragraph.

the street I used to walk is longer now the trees no longer blossom
black muddy puddles stare at me, disdain dripping from cold ghoulish eyes
from grey skies drizzle tears in dreary succession soaking through my clothes
I cycle on, skin wet and clammy, my sight obscured, cursing the wind

Another American Paragraph

I went to recycle some cardboard boxes at the underground bin
when I scraped my knuckles on the doorpost, I hardly even noticed
the tickling sensation of blood on skin failed to trigger the alarm
a lone droplet of blood on the kitchen floor delivered the message

portal

more majestic than
its neighbours
the tree's song invites
the travellers

displaced
a triolet

in a bed that's not my own
stuck in a smelly room
I cannot find my mobile phone

here in this bed that's not my own
I feel lost and alone
devoured by a sense of doom

because this bed is not my own
here in this stinking room

caffeine

you wake too early, dreaming of coffee
stumble into the kitchen to brew fresh coffee

sat at your desk, the morning sun 
hurts your eyes as he drinks his coffee

screen flashes on, and you start working
fuelling your brain with another coffee

blue screen of death, control alt del
ad infinitum, wait, drink more coffee

play your piano, Dan, and sing,
dona nobis pacem, no need for coffee

autumn

the rain
a slow drizzle
from grey skies all day long
I'm on the couch sipping spiced wine
tonight

stay inside

outside is the rain
and the leaves are falling
but my couch is inviting
and the chocolate hot

the leaves are falling
but my music is soothing
the chocolate hot
and laced with rum

when my music is soothing
cake fresh from the oven
and laced with rum
I'm happy inside

cake fresh from the oven
smells like heaven
I stay happy inside
and outside is the rain

Yup, thats right.  I too make mistakes, as has just been proven.  Were only human, after all.  Especially when only quickly skimming an internet post.

Dan, I hope you'll join us for NaPoWriMo in April. 30 days of madness.  So far it seems Gyppo, Indar, and I are the ones who contribute the most here but it's a wild ride at TTB.

I hope more will join us like Mark, Vienna, Biola, Laura, Chickie-poo...  :D
I would love to see everyone here get more involved.

By the way, Displaced spoke to me. It reminded me of sleeping at a dear friend's house a few times last summer. He has a lovely home, is a lovely person, but his cigarette smoking does me in. He doesn't smoke in the room I stayed in but the smell lingers on everything. I was glad for the shelter of his home, and a safe place to lay my head just the same.


All about me aside, I think the poem is well done.

~Deb

Deb, you triggered a memory.

=====

Redolent

I bought a book about palmistry,
a fairly ancient book.
Black and white line drawings
showing different hands.
None quite like mine.
Thick coarse paper.

It sat on a rack outside the shop
and, as ancient books sometimes do,
it called to me as I passed.

I opened it at a few random pages,
noticed the 'foxed' edges
and a few handwritten notes
from the previous owner,
In erasable pencil,
so not total vandalism.

Fifteen minutes later I went inside,
to the familiar antiquarian book smell
and paid for it.

"I knew you'd be in,"
said the store owner.
A wizened little fellow,
cloned in bookshops worldwide.

I'd been home less than an hour
before the tobacco smell emerged.
Previously hidden by the outdoor cold,
and diesel fumes from the road,
but now released in my warm office.

Rolling slowly through my home,
slipping from room to room
like mist across an open field.

Good quality pipe tobacco I'd say,
not cheap ready-mades,
but still unwelcome in my home.
But I didn't want to dump the book.

So it hung on a string,
pages partially opened
and occasionally shuffled,
in my garage for several months.

Now, rehabilitated, it's indoors,
on the shelf where it belongs.
No clean paperback reprint available,
probably never will be.
And there are still faint traces
of wherever it lived before.
But these I can live with.

Gyppo

I just took a trip down your poem a day page for the first time today and enjoyed the insight into someone else's effort to stay calm ;D Love the blue screen of death. I think it was last year during NaPo a participant (Marcel) wrote a triolet a day and it is now a published book. I join Deb in urging you to join the effort this year. It's right around the corner