It's National Poetry Day in the UK today, Thursday 7th October 2010, and the theme is 'Home'.
We looked at this theme from a different point of view in Where Home is so today, let's write about what home really is for us, now, right at this moment.
Is it a place, a person, a feeling, a memory, an animal, a dream, a bowl of porridge, a tree, a book? The list is endless, and we could spend days, weeks and months making notes and working on drafts. But...
...the challenge is to write something today, to contribute to National Poetry Day, and post it today. Of course these will be early drafts and should not be scrutinised with a critical eye. And they won't be. But they will be evidence of our desire to write and be part of a wider writing community.
So post away, as many as you want. Let's celebrate!
L x
16 comments:
Home.
A dream,
a fantasy of wish and want,
a triumph of optimism;
home.
I live here, in easy breathing,
ducking responsibility
like an unwanted witch;
home.
Home is the quietude
the field hospital
of retreat
as the battle rages
and the scars repair.
The front door is uninviting
with handle on the inside,
a drawbridge away
from reality.
The living room is rarely cleaned
and smells of kindness
with a tinge of yesterday.
The stairs are an ascent
like the electric brae
defying gravity.
The bedroom womb:
inviting.
Home is the bedclothes
stretched up to the nose
on a frosty night;
there is no central heating.
Home is for me,
I’ll invite you in
on condition.
Hi Keith! You beat me to it : ) Thanks for posting. Here's one from me, which I think is about home:
Home
When my mother calls
there’s a small fissure in time
when I see her standing
by the glass phone table fixed
to the wall at the bottom of the stairs
holding the receiver
of the cream finger-dial phone
against her ear. Hello.
The past closes over so quickly.
Late September
Lurking in our porch, a stack of wood
waits - a tell tale sign of what is to come
now branches, no longer festooned
with blossom, now bear the weight
of full ripened apples. Crane-flies appear
hovering wantonly by the door.
The groaning engine of a distant tractor
gathers harvest and at night,
badgers feast on fallen hazelnuts.
Soon we will arrive home beneath
starry skies, our cold hands bundling logs
inside for their promise of warmth. We will
be creatures seeking comfort, as outside
clouds gather and wind chases falling leaves
across a soggy lawn.
Our home
The garden was bare when we arrived
and now it flourishes and overspills –
trees are heavy with fruit, hedges full grown
and borders swathes of autumn colour.
Digging here, we find remnants:
the small dinosaur he once held now lays
beneath a holly tree, the skeleton of a frame
they climbed, deserted. Once they made
pies from leaves and twigs, mashed apples
observed ants. Now, I pace its boundaries
grateful for all this fruitfulness.
Home.
A warming heart,
a blazing hearth,
a smoothie drink,
a soothing bath.
The outside sleeps.
My silence speaks.
I've known for weeks
which floorboard creaks.
In these four walls
my life unfurls,
like the brush you
left, full of curls.
My hope stirs with
the post box swings.
Please God it's you,
when the bell rings.
Jiggedy-Jig
I hardly notice the scent anymore,
old incense, laundry and dog's feet
and carpets that badly need replacing,
walls grey and fade from daily use.
In the study I open the window
for fresh air to replace the stale computer hum
and shift another stack of books
that form a pile of 'to be read'
if I ever have the time.
Dogs bound to greet me at the door
Jack with his world-wise face
and salt-and-pepper hair to match my own;
Trickster with her almost-talking
where-have-you-been? and big old Bear
who muscles in for fuss and an I've missed-you-mum.'
I flop on the sofa and attempt to pet all three,
one eye on my inbox but desperate
for a cup of tea,
Rooms backlit with maternal longing,
memories zipped into every corner,
cupboards once choc a bloc
with childhood.
The dog's bark echoes in the hall.
A swing tilts on frayed ropes. Grass thrived where the wicket once stood.
Bald balls nestle in the undergrowth.
Tennis racquets warp snapped strings.
Sheets lie fallow on the shelves
waiting for their next unfurling,
peffed up pillows pert against the headboards,
for adult heads to dent them like a dish
by those
who no longer call it home.
Just a weekend break.
Clematis
Our front porch has clematis clinging to brick work.
This big guy tells us we should not shirk
our efforts to grow, whilst our neighbour agrees
in principle, he’s unwilling to coff up the fees.
The guy across the road hates ‘em all
and number 34’s is deemed far too tall.
There are so many shades now - pink orange and blue
It’s difficult to remember which one of them’s true.
Number 93 thinks his are better than ours,
he grows them in lines like wonky prison bars.
The family in our semi prays they won’t wilt
and the girl in the corner grows hers wearing a kilt.
The inspector from the council is coming around
to make sure its roots are legally sound.
Its all beyond me as I am a simple gnome,
it’s just a plant on brickwork attached to my home.
Anticipation of a place created just for us
You could tell who it belonged to
From the color of the tile, to the furniture selection
Even the smallest detail a different scent of candle in each room
It all reflected us
Now after less than a decade
It feels different
It is as though the guts were ripped out for the second time
Except this time, they were not replaced with open free flowing space
Or painstakingly laid walls in different shades of the earth
This time there is just years
Of heartbreak, tears, rebellion
And resentment that stands higher than any of the structure bearing walls
It is not a home anymore
It is just a shelter
Keeping us protected from the elements outside
All the while, the harm is coming from within
It is a thing of drywall, nails and concrete
Cold and disappointing
So different from the unconditional loyalty,
The protection and the devotion that was silently promised
When the sweat, blood and tears of joy were so carefully
Put into its creation.
Paula Agli-Jones
Home of the Brave
Ferns and creepers rustled softly
as the jungle’s breath
gently tousled the hair
of the hanging man,
witnessed in silence below
in a muddy foxhole
by a silent soldier peering
over the tufted lip
into painful moonlight
at another man on a cross
naked.
The crucified one hung
in wordless agony,
seeking egress down
a road of sorrow
in the province of pain,
a blood rainbow shining
behind his wounds;
sunset orange, salsa yellow,
and red flames, all twisted
into an undulating dancing fury.
Thick rusty spikes had pierced
each hand, and the flesh had
split open like a gash in a gourd;
another spike was driven through
his left knee as his right leg dangled
like a broken mast kissed by lightning.
He would not let loose of life
even though it raced ahead
of him in the steamy canopy.
The soldier had watched
for more than a day, but dared
not cross the killing ground
between them, fifty lethal yards
of chopped elephant grass,
thistles, sunflowers, and mud--
until he could watch no longer,
and sliced open the stillness
with the crack of gunfire,
and the clink of cartridges hitting
the ground as his M-16 spoke,
“Go home, brother, your mother is weeping,”
punctuating the message
with searing words of lead--
leaving the soldier trembling
with the miracle of liberation,
witnessing the last flicker of pain
rushing from the other;
one long shiver, one exhalation,
and then freedom; sanctuary.
The soldier heard the wailing,
the crescendo of death on the wing,
but did not recognize his own screaming
as his tears created a clean spot
down the dirt on his cheeks,
as he heard the blood birds shriek,
and the night become full
of their flapping.
Glenn Buttkus October 7, 2010
Thanks so much for posting your poems! Moving, thoughtful, funny and a wonderful celebration of National Poetry Day.
Another prompt will follow after the weekend.
L x
Down Home With "W"
1.
I do so enjoy reading this blog site,
while sitting here so lonely on my ranch.
No one visits me now.
No one tells me what to do.
So I just count my money and drink Lone Star
and daydream that I am still
the most powerful man on the planet.
.......George W. Bush, Jr.
2.
I painted you last week, there in Texas,
bent over nude, riding a wild pig,
with a dildoo shoved up your rectum,
with your mom riding an armadillo,
and your dad riding your wife,
with very tall elephants in the back ground,
one of them carrying Osama Bin Laden,
with berka-wearing topless women running backwards,
and several clock faces weeping,
with oil wells spouting blood,
with a blizzard of green backs whipping up
from the great fence in the south,
with a rattlesnake wearing a Stetson
dangling from your right hand,
and a severed gas pump handle
dangling from your left hand,
you wearing a fez with golden tassels,
and three one-legged Iraq veterans chasing after
your caravan of shame, with an alligator holding
your flight suit in its mouth,
and a knot of fire ants waving small American flags.
I call it "Fun With the Bush's".
.........Salvador Dali
Glenn Buttkus October 2010
That's a riot Glenn. All it misses is a 'burning Bush'and a voice from the ether saying 'I'm sorry this one WAS a mistake'.
Dali would really appreciate this, I'm sure!
A combination of the 5 line exercise and ‘Home’ theme……..
Home
Isn’t here.
Where are you?
Wherever you are
is the home of my heart.
Come home.
It isn’t here.
Wherever you are, it is.
Homing in
My heart beckons
And beats into empty space.
Homing in
My radar heart
Hears your echoing absence
Across empty space and time
And skips its beat.
@ eachpeachpearplum - thank you so much for adding your poem to the National Poetry Day prompt. 'Come home' has to be one of the most simple yet heart-tugging expressions in our language.
L x
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