Categories
NaPoWriMo

2


DAMAGED MINTED HEART

widow’s dreams

on sale

hunters awake

now

[Take the Bold words and joined it with title, in the beginning or in the end–your choice, to get another line, and place it as per your choice in this poem.]



ON

Bread

Ant

[Put the ON as per your choice]


Note: Title itself also a poem. Your choice the way you want to perceive it.

The arts are done by the poet.


Written for National/Global Poem Writing Month Day 30

Prompt:

And last but not least, now for our final (but still optional) prompt for this year! I’d like you to try your hand at a minimalist poem.

Categories
NaPoWriMo

Arya

Deep in the north she stand tall, with a smirk on her lips.

Short her stature but still she stand tall and smiling amongst the ashes.

Standing short is easy, not the tall that too with courage.

In the halls, she had danced with needle as her father watched.

She had seen the pigeons fly as the executioner’s sword pinked

With the blood of their father, and heard her sister screaming.

She was naive; lost kid in the wood not knowing where to go.

She was a boy; list of names in her mind, in her dreams

Dreaming to put the Needle into the hearts who hurt her house.

She had came close to deaths more than once; more than anyone else.

She had seen the Young Wolf riding dead on the horse.

Leaving her protector to die, she had been dead for a long time.

Serving the god of the death, serving the man without a face;

Roaming the city of free men as hawker selling oysters;

Surviving the city as the beggar, blind and aimless, asking for alms.

She had smiled at the play, and she cried at the play saving her target.

Without face the travel she had taken long ago, with face she’s at home.

He had gifted him the dagger that he had hold on his father throat;

He passed it onto her just casually as the reunion gift

But, purpose deep buried in; a wry and dry smile he had.

She is the protector; as she slit the throat of the little finger.

Standing beside her sister she stands tall as the blood spilled out

On the floor of the hall-court;

She became the elder not her Lady sister that moment.

She was a kid; runnin’ and sneakin’ to catch on the march

Of the King of the seven realms with his legitimate family.

She is a lady; as the dragons flew over her home

And their Mother and their Brother marched in.

She is a lover; the night was long; all the warriors and knights sitting

Around the fire in the hall, and meditating in the squire’s song,

She need to be loved, and was loved by the Bull, son of King

Echoing his father’s wish to her father on his last visit to her home.

The army marched into her home; she faced the death again.

She fought; she bleed; she fight in with the warriors

Killing more than a few.

Red Priestess’ prophecy comes to be true before the long night conclude.

She was a wind; as she passed on the guards to reach the King.

She is a tall woman; dipping the dagger as the King hold her to kill.

Deep in the North, Arya Stark stand tall,

Though she’s still small Lady Stark;

Smiling at her brother who seems to knew of this conclusion b’fore.

The army shattered and turned to ashes; leaving the death to be death.

The warriors and knights relieved; sun rises at the horizon of Winterfell.

Arya Stark stand tall deep in the North under the weirwood tree.


Written for National/Global Poem Writing Month Day 29

Prompt:

And now for our penultimate (optional) prompt! The poet William Wordsworth once said that “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” For Wordsworth, a poem was the calm after the storm – an opportunity to remember and summon up emotion, but at a time and place that allowed the poet to calmly review, direct and control those feelings. A somewhat similar concept is expressed through the tradition of philosophically-inclined poems explicitly labeled as “meditations,” – like Robert Hass’s “Meditation at Lagunitas,” the charming Frank O’Hara prose poem, “Meditations in an Emergency,” or Charles Baudelaire’s “Meditation.”

Today, I’d like to challenge you to blend these concepts into your own work, by producing a poem that meditates, from a position of tranquility, on an emotion you have felt powerfully. You might try including a dramatic, declarative statement, like Hass’s “All the new thinking is about loss,” or O’Hara’s “It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so.” Or, like, Baudelaire, you might try addressing your feeling directly, as if it were a person you could talk to. 


Categories
NaPoWriMo

Thoughts Need to be Microwaved

Somewhere the atom has been split opened.

Somewhere the police chasing the thieve on foot.

Somewhere the leaves are falling.

What’re are you looking at?

These are the thoughts one of which is needed to pick to start.

Like the leftovers from the noon and from the day before

Need to be microwaved

In other words, the sentences and its thoughts need to be get warmed.

Maybe I should look on something else not these sentenced thoughts.

Words?

Words–

Summer chiaroscuro divorce lust win poem muse war global warming–

These are words, mere words; meanings and their usage depends on me.

What’re you looking from me?

Are you imaging a slump me, giving you words and thoughts

to present your audience.

Then wait for a few minutes,

I need a cup of coffee b’fore I dress you up for your next show.

Epic sonnet villanelle prose-poem confessional (caesura)

cup of coffee


Written for Day 28 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.

Prompt:

And now for our daily (optional) prompt. As you may have guessed, today I’d like to challenge you to try your hand at a meta-poem of your own.

Categories
NaPoWriMo

Witch and Memories

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel, Juliet says.

She smiled to put off the mascara; eyes needs to be wrinkled.

She let her hair rolled down; touching her hips; grey they are.

Audry whispers now is the time that face should form another.


She looked at the mirror; she smiled, softly at first then wryly.

She looked into her eyes in the high-powered bulb at the head.

Blue they are; the lips which are fantasy to many, men and women,

Dark red, Portia comment though coral is far more red than her lips’ red.


The time was long ago when she was the face of the plays;

She was Ophelia, she was Lady Macbeth, she was the Lady Shakespeare

As they used to call her. So should the lines of life that life repair,

Desdemona asks from the mirror; it was she at twenty, two score years ago.


The bell rang; she put out her teeth into the glass and mumbled,

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, the eldest witch smiled back at her.


Written for

Written for Day 27 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.

Prompt:

I’d like to challenge you to “remix” a Shakespearean sonnet. You can pick a line you like and use it as the genesis for a new poem. Or make a “word bank” out of a sonnet, and try to build a new poem using the same words (or mostly the same words) as are in the poem. Or you could try to write a new poem that expresses the same idea as one of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Categories
NaPoWriMo

Shallow (A Journey to Affection)

Beginning with love, we journey to affection.

The dreams we hold are scattered in the breeze.

The dreams we hold are scattered in the breeze

That brushes our naked body entwined in each other.

Entwined in each other’s arm we lie there in the pale darkness,

The street-light yellow painting the wall golden.

The street-light yellow painting the wall golden,

When I delved inside you and you hold me tight.

The dreams that we treasured gets scattered in the breeze.

Beginning with love, we travel to affection.

Your body is a wonderland that I want to hold on,

I want to hold back the lips which I know not possible.

I thus go back to love returning from affection,

Few months remain there when I can hold onto you

When I want to.

Beginning with love, we journey to affection

And every night I goes back to the wonderland,

When the street-light yellow paint the wall golden

And the wind breezes into darkness.

Returning to the wonderland, I hold onto you

And you hold onto me as my chin rest on your forehead.

Beginning with love, we journey to the affection

Scattering our longs and dreams into each other bodies, naked.


Written for Day 26 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.

Prompt:

Today’s (optional) prompt is centered around repetition. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that uses repetition. You can repeat a word, or phrase. You can even repeat an image, perhaps slightly changing or enlarging it from stanza to stanza, to alter its meaning. There are (perhaps paradoxically) infinite possibilities in repetition.