Everyday Poetry

Day 3: today's prompt features a poem by Frank O'Hara, a founding member of the New York School of poets who I've come across recently in my OU course.   His poem “ Why I Am Not a Painter ” is pretty characteristic, with dialogue and a playfully offhand tone. The  challenge is to write a poem  obliquely explaining why I am a poet and not some other kind of artist.  I see things differently sometimes,  The light and shape and connections emanating from an object, an event,  Feel the need to capture it, hold it safe in my failing, fading memory, Seek out the perfect form for each word, line, pause, repetition, To bridge the space between how I see what you may see As you stand next to me, reading these words. A photographer sees the light and shade, the drama in a moment, Picks the angle, depth of field, exposure; An artist chooses how much to include, what can be ignored, Which medium to best express the beauty of their image; A songwriter finds the essence ...

Day 2:  write a poem that directly addresses someone, and that includes a made-up word, an odd/unusual simile, a statement of “fact,” and something that seems out of place in time. My statement of "fact" is my admonishment to children that they need to toughen up - an attitude that is definitely out of place in this age of child-led, soft parenting.   You children, With skin so thin the pain inside Presses hard against its translucency Like fish under a frozen lake, Learn to shrug your shoulders, Deflecting perceived hurts From your heart, down, down, To where your feet Stand poised to trample them. Learn the lesson of centuries Of those who suffered just like you, Who grew a personal armour  To keep the pain outside. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

And so it begins! Napowrimo 2025 starts today with a corker of a prompt: to  take inspiration from  this  glossary of art terminology , and write a poem that uses a new-to-you word.  I've chosen the word 'calotype' which is a photographic process invented in 1841 and was the first time a stable negative image could be fixed and then contact printed. The glossary explains:  " The process involves exposing a sheet of sensitized paper in the camera then developing, fixing, and washing it.  Though calotypes are soft and hazy, with visible paper fibers, the invention revolutionized image-making by making it possible to produce multiple prints from one negative image." This seems like an appropriate metaphor for the process of fixing an idea into a poem!  (How I'm going to fit Napowrimo poems in with my upcoming trip to WiFi-less Lundy and OU assignments remains to be seen,  but I'm determined to give it a try!) Calotype An image floats hazy, undefined,...

Another sonnet, this time made from sayings,  proverbs and clichés. I'm not sure it works particularly well,  but it was fun to do.   They tell me,  for winter most birds fly south,  A bird in the hand's worth two in the bush,  To never look a gift horse in the mouth, But I wonder, did shove really come from push? They tell me many hands can make light work,  While too many cooks will spoil the broth,  They say once bitten, twice shy (what a berk) So why does the flame still attract the moth? I've heard good things come to those that wait Though camels can't pass through a needle's eye,  A black cat may have an effect on your fate Either good or bad - but no-one knows why.  These sayings can make life more easy to bear,  A trouble is halved when that trouble you share.  © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

This week we're looking at sonnets and variations on them.  This exercise gave us the end rhymes for a sonnet and asked us to write the rest.  I've chosen to stick to the traditional iambic pentameter rhythm,  but have ignored the idea of using the form to shape an argument.  The last two lines provide the traditional summing up.   It might seem odd that we decide to ring to book more time upon another boat, but this will be a very different thing to cruising on a liner. We will float, gently moving past the shore, the breeze in our hair, sun on our faces, seeking the shade when warmth begins to heat and burn our skin, avoiding leather-look to stay peach-skin suede. If time allows, we'll stop at some new beach,  admire the way the sea and sky merge blue with blue,  the horizon always out of reach,  I'll dance,  far too timid to dive with you.  The sun,  the sea,  rum punch,  a reggae band -  a potent drug. I...

More memories of childhood and teenaged holidays in Woolacombe. For this one I had to make up a new rhyme scheme - can you work it out? Play acting Days of playing on golden sands Slurping ice-cream as it melts, Skin sore and red, then turning tan, Swimming, shrieking in roaring waves. Exploring dark and dingy caves Undiscovered since time began, Since iron-age, bronze-age, Picts or Celts, All fresh unearthed by our young hands. Building sandy graves on grassy dunes Daring each other to stare at boys Drinking fizzy drinks instead of squash Posing and pouting, feeling cool. Those boys never noticed us – life is cruel - Gauche incomers, perhaps thought posh; We left the beach behind us with our toys, Bidding goodbye to lazy, sunny afternoons. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved