An emotionally and physically exhausting day, so just a little haiku this time:

Clearing the house out
Your life bagged and boxed then gone.
Nothing left to say

I mean, to understand what a poet is, when it comes down to it – does it have to do with persona? With casual confidence? Can you teach a person to be reckless? Do you ever wonder if you will find the words? Do you lie awake fearful of failure? Counting the successes. Wondering what they mean. Are we the same thing? How can we be? Do you ever wonder if the words are your own? How do you become secure in your own thoughts? What does one do to achieve that?

Today’s prompt was to write a poem which incorporated the following: addresses a person directly, includes a made up word, an odd or unusual simile, a statement of ‘fact’ and an anachronism.

It didn’t happen as it’s written, you know.

They’ll tell it like I was overcome by a

raw hunger, a fever impossible

to ignore.  Curiosity: another so called gift

from a so called god, along with guile

and cunning.  What you might also call

intelligence, in a forgiving mood.

They also say they made

me beautiful. Maybe they did.  I was like

sunlight on a prison door. Like the

promise of a sealed jar.

It was quite a thing, the box.

I defy you not to want to take a peek.  But

a wrapped present is often better than

an opened one. 

In the end it was the tedium that

got me.  I’d been brought to him like

a poisoned deliveroo, a trap, a bored plot

device.  I’d rattle about the nest

drinking lattes with the wives, while my

goddish husband ineptly bestowed his

powers upon the world.  All the while

Zeus’s gift glinted at me from the shelf.

What would you have done? 

When the world’s evils came spilling out,

came washing over me like a flushed toilet –

the plagues, the wars, Love Island – I just

stood there and took it. 

Nothing to be done.

And right at the end – when the shower

had reduced to a trickle – there it was.

Shiny, like a marble.  The smallest crumb.

Hope.

I picked it up and held it to the light.

That’s how Pandora brought hope to the

world.  They leave that bit out.

This is a self portrait.

My skin is Irish pink, the colour

of Marie Rose sauce from a jar

at a family buffet.  My skin is

flecked with red, the same red

as the blood that seeped from me

on the day my Mum began to die.

My skin is the cracked shell of

a hard boiled egg at a family

buffet.  My skin is soft like

an acrylic jumper.

This is a self portrait.

My arms are the stiff mechanism

of an old clock.  My arms poke out

from the folds of a dress like

the shy person in the corridor

at the school disco. My arms were

strong once, and they carried

children.  My arms no longer have

the strength to hold themselves.

This is a self portrait.

My eyes are the blue of the Irish Sea

reflecting a northern sky.  They’re

reading something which might be

a poem.  My eyes shrink beneath

treated glass which pinches my face

– thinning, distorting, stretching.

My irises retreat before

stringy blood vessels, pink like

tinned salmon at a family buffet.

My eyes are the same Irish blue as my

Dad and my son’s. 

This is a self portrait.

This is a woman standing naked in

front of a mirror

wondering how to draw herself.

I took your rose today.  A small part

of me wondering if I should – it still

feels like a theft.  I worry about

doing wrong by you.  The usual

mother’s day self-reproach.  I never

felt a gift was right for you, so

instead you’d come here for food –

you were tiny inside your big blue

anorak – you’d make yourself even

smaller if you could. Never wanted

to put anybody out.  But you were

never a nuisance, Mum. 

I’ve planted the rose in my garden.

I hope it survives – I don’t have your

skill.  I took some primroses too.

The flowers remind me of you – they’re

strong and self supporting but even so,

they need some care.

They don’t ask for help.

I miss you.

NaPoWriMo is round the corner again and I can’t wait! As usual I’ll be posting my offerings on Facebook and here.

I’ve been immersed in writing the second Afterwards novel so the poetry has taken a backseat, but I’m looking forward to getting stuck in, in April. Watch this space!