NaPoWriMo 5 2018

Today's prompt, courtesy of Real Toads in Imaginary Gardens is to do with weather.

Halfway around the world,
morning becomes yesterday's afternoon,
winter to summer,
Wombat State Forest exchanged
for Stonehenge in rain.

The women invoking Earth, Air and Fire:
serious, focussed, full of intent
to make this a peak holy experience.
Aussies all, chilled in the English dawn,
that we can't see anyway
because grey cloud lets down grey rain
onto grey bluestone,
brown ground.
I laugh, a crazy woman
for I am the Water quarter,
and it invokes me
down my neck,
into my boots,
inside my glasses,
a torrent cheerfully washing me clean
of any illusions that I am in charge.
"Water, well, here it is!" I shout,
to the disgust of all
who have come for this moment
inside the stone circle.
They stretch their senses to the limits
to feel whatever the sarsens have for them,
while I bend at the waist
(creating a waterfall off my rain-hat)
and lick the nearest standing stone.
It tastes of moss and the past.


Thankyou to anyone who is reading this poem. I didn't realise how difficult DreamWidth made it to comment if you weren't a member. Sorry. But rest assured that I'm reading your work (inbetween madly proofing my new book of short stories, and preparing for its launch in May), if you're with Real Toads. Thanks again.

NaPoWriMo Day 6 2018

Madly catching up on prompts from the Real Toads mob. Day 6: Today, let’s travel back in time, to feudal times in China, which began with the Xia dynasty in 2070 B.C., ending with the Revolution of 1911. In those times, girls and women, whose feet were usually bound, were oppressed, often living circumscribed lives of isolation.
In the Hunan province, peasant women developed a secret language of female writing, called nu shu. A young girl was matched with a lifelong best friend, or soul sister, called her laotang, with whom she communicated by letter.
Sometimes these messages were inscribed on fans, which were passed back and forth. It was not until the 1960’s that this secret language of women drew the interest of the authorities and scholars.
The story of one of these captivating relationships is told in the book by Lisa See, and the film Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.
Our exercise is to write a poem in the voice of another: in this case, the voice of a woman living in feudal times, addressing her laotang,
Or,
Write from the point of view of any living creature. The canvas is wide. Amaze me!

Sister, across the valley,
sister across the river,
sisters all spread through the land,
I write this in secret,
so that when the townsmen come for me
they won't think to burn the wooden stakes
that hold up my runner beans.
I will be gone to the stake,
to the wooden door laden with stones,
the ducking stool and the ice-riddled pond.
They know of me,
but none of you.
They will burn my broom,
but it has new straw.
Find the old in with the goat;
you will know it by touch.
It will sing to your fingers.
My shadow book is scratched
onto stones beneath the oak.
My cat is in the forest,
but comes to the sound of spoon on dish.
Find them, sisters,
find them, keep them.
Keep yourselves safe.
Burn these stakes to be sure.
Stay silent, as I will be
after today.


Many thanks to those reading, even if DreamWidth makes it difficult to comment. Be assured that I'm reading your poetry, inbetween madly proof reading my new book, and preparing not only for the launch, but travel shortly afterwards. Thankyou, Toads.

NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 7

This prompt is a photo: Self Portrait by El Lizzitzky

Hand to eye coordination develops in the young.
I watch my grandchildren conquer catching a ball,
picking up toys, then spoons, then grains of rice,
willing their hands to push a pencil
where they want it to go.

A newer skill of my own:
point my index finger,
and will myself to see
light stream forth.
I turn in a circle.
The energy spreads out, above, below
until I am within an egg.
None of flesh shall pass here,
as I work a sigil into being.
The power of my hands to create,
the power of my eyes to see
what is unseen,
the power of my mind to hold it all.

My granddaughter grabs an egg-shaped crayon
made for her little hand,
and dashes it on paper.
Her own sigils,
telling the world she is here
in colour and depth.

We make our magic
with mind, eye, and hand.

NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 8

Rhyme scheme: a, b, c, d, e, f, g, f.

Rhyme... ugh. Well, okay.

Making Magic Anywhere

Herbs to strengthen, boost, clear:
into the tea egg, into the cup.
Colour comes to the boiling water.
I stir counter-clockwise
to follow the sun's path.
Later, herbs into the garden bed
with the wish to bless and nourish.
My vegetables blessed, and well fed.


Thanks to any Real Toads reading. I'm sorry DreamWidth makes it so darned difficult to comment if you're not a member. I am reading your poems, inbetween madly proof reading my new book, and preparing for its launch.
4 stanzas? No hope. I'm thankful I got this skerrick.