The Poetry Marathon

Prompt Fourteen – Text Prompt

Redacting is the act of censoring or obscuring part of a text. Sometimes it is done by the author themselves, and more often it is done by someone else.

I want you to write a poem and then during or after writing the poem choose at least one, or ideally five or more words to redact from the poem. How is the poem changed by this simple act? This is not the same as a “black out” or erasure poem”. The words you are using are your own, and well over 50% of them should be visible.

When writing on physical paper, you can do this easily with a marker, ideally a black sharpie. If you are writing your poem in a Word document, you can use the highlight feature and set the highlight colour to black, this creates a black box over the word or words. Or you can just write the word redacted in place of the word you wanted to use.

Redaction, not reduction

A strange new style to use.

I take on the REDACT, cannot refuse.

I continue to cruise,

bleary eyed, weary sighs

Demanding the REDACT of my muse

I stare at the blank screen.

There’s nothing to lose,

Go on, redact away!

But first, say what you need to say.

At this REDACT hour

When even hardened nightclubbers

Have lain down to rest.

We soldier on.

Rolling stiff shoulders on.

Propping each other up

on REDACT.

But then, all it took,

was a generous REDACT

from a fellow writer.

Her words were different,

But what she was really saying

‘Go on, continue playing’.

We can do this – REDACT on!

Prompt Thirteen – Text Prompt

Describe your profession through a funny/humorous poem.

Aye, Write!

A Fighter?

No no, a writer. I write.

You what?

I write, you know? Words? Pens? Paper?

Well, I never. You write for a living?

Not much of a living out of it, but yes, I write.

So, is your handwriting great then?

No no, I write stories, you know.

Oh aye, sure you do. Tell me another one.

Truly, I write poems, stories, articles, novels.

And you do this… because…?

Well, because I want to.

Why?

Oh hell, because that’s what I do.

Like a dancer dances, a singer sings, a doctor…

A doctor cures people. What do you do?

I can cure people too.

My words can shock you out of stupor.

They can turn black and white into colour.

They can thrill the chill ill out of you.

They can make you weep at the beauty of the wild.

Or notice the innocence of a child.

They can turn the ignorant into a saint.

We are the ones who can paint

new futures for mankind,

but not leave history behind.

Come to me when you’re lonely and sad,

I promise I’ll have words to heal.

Bring your bitter heart to me,

I can help to make it feel.

But, what if they don’t?

What if I like my phone better

than your poetry or your letter?

Well, then I will have to eat my words, wont I?

Prompt for Hour Twelve – Text Prompt

Closets are a big deal inside a house, but also metaphorically. One can be in the closet, or come out of it, for example, But they are also places of safety and joy for small children, or where a monster is lurking, depending on the small child, and/or time of day.

There are very few poems about closets, but this is your chance to write one about the closet, metaphorical or physical or both.

The Stuff of her Life

After a year passed by, of your passing on.

(both of you passing on)

I steeled myself to open her steel almirah.

Expecting dusty sarees and musty smells,

expecting my heart to squeeze

the grief out of my eyes.

Oh, but I had to smile.

She was a hoarder, that one, your wife.

The things she had clung to, the stuff of her life.

There were letters you had written her,

all through the almost-sixty years of marriage.

I put them away, for your grand daughter

to find in my closet, after I am gone.

(Poor thing, what will she do with them?)

I found one you had written to the 18-year-old me.

(How did Ma have it?)

A dashing dude, dad, you could’ve done better,

It was incredibly dull, that letter.

I remembered well that strange last line.

“Don’t forget to drink Horlicks, hope all is fine?”

Well, what do you know father?

I have decided to obey you, almost forty years later.

I now drink Horlicks daily; it helps me sleep.

Thanks for the advice, I will not weep.

Prompt eleven – Text Prompt
“Extraordinary in Ordinary”- pick an ordinary object and make it extraordinary. You can do it by giving it some special attributes or a different background and story.

The Handkerchief

Almost redundant these days

This humble square of cotton

Had many uses and ways

To give its user superpowers.

I remember my mother lay one out daily.

Along with his watch and wallet,

Washed, ironed, folded neatly

It nestled in her husband’s pocket all day.

Unlike its more modern cousin, the tissue

It was never disposed of.

Retired and repurposed as cheese cloths

Then a third life as dusters for dressing tables.

It was brought out multiple times.

To wipe our tears, to banish our fears

To mop up blood from skinned knees

To wave at school matches while the crowd cheers.

My sister’s dollies wore hanky sarees

And were tucked in at night under hanky sheets

Our fevers were frightened away by

Hankies soaked in ice and Old Spice

In temples he covered his own head with it,

Wiped wet foreheads in the searing heat

Shoes were polished with this trusted square

Belts, caps, and his Vespa seat.

The park bench got dusted before Ma sat down

Her lipstick and kajal stains on it

They went to posh parties and

Smuggled sandwiches back in them as treats

Bring back this old hero I say,

Let the modern man be King for a day.

Prompt Ten – Text Prompt

The first three words of your title should be “what is love”. That can be your whole title, in and of itself, probably followed by a question mark, or you can add more context onto the title before proceeding to the poem itself.

What is Love without Regret

Oh, to walk with you again

Walk along as you talk along

Non-stop chatter, pitter-patter

Small sticky paw in mine

Compact perfect body, so fine

Walk along as you skip along

Hop, dance, jump, run, actually

Never just walk. And non-stop talk.

Oh, to buy you that dress

That shiny, spangly, jingly jangly one

I said no, it was too tacky

You nodded, agreed, yucky!

But your eyes were sad, I was a bad

Mother.

I could have bought it.

I should have bought it.

Oh, to have you look at me like that again.

As if I were your hero.

There was none other

Better than your mother.

But you know better now,

And I know you don’t forget

All the above

What is Love – without regret.

Prompt for Hour Nine

Text Prompt:

Below is a list of ten words. Please pick at least five of them to use in your poem. If you want to use all ten, please do so.

Beet, jacket, tremor, bayou, elbow, lightbulb, cinnamon, bucket, elk, carport

Goodbye Joe

‘Mummy, what’s a bayou?’

Struggling to get his elbow

into his school jacket sleeve

she said she didn’t know.

‘Mummy,’ he said, with the familiar

tremor back in his voice.

‘You said you knew everything.’

She had no choice.

Seizing a lightbulb moment,

she led him into the carport

switched on the stereo in the car

‘You’ll find out on the way, sport.’

Found what she was looking for

And soon they were singing along

To the Carpenters, mother and son

Jambalaya – what a song.

Prompt 8 = Image

The African Sky

Lying flat on our backs under the Milky Way

Half asleep, I hear you say,

‘Can anything be vaster than this sky?’

We looked up together, hands clasped tight.

At the open, silken, endless, night

Where diamonds fly to after they die.

Our campfire crackles and casts a glow

on eager faces, sleepy a while ago

Its light vying with the brightness above.

‘It’s our very own canopy,’ I said

As I nestled back against his head

And the African Sky blessed our love.

Prompt Seven – Text Prompt:

The viator is a poetic form invented by Robin Skelton

It’s a pretty simple form where the first line is used again as refrain in the second line of the second stanza, and the third line of the third stanza, and so on and so forth depending on how many stanzas you include.

The last line of the final stanza must be the refrain, so you start and end on it.

Shoo! Scat! Go Away! Please?

Shoo! Scat! Go Away! Please?

I need other ideas today.

Can’t write about you all the time,

so go, let me get on with my day.

You’re invading my head, intruding my space.

Shoo! Scat! Go Away! Please?

Go back to your frames hung on the wall,

be my muse, not an annoying tease.

I’ve written so much on you two already you know,

you mustn’t get quite so needy.

Shoo! Scat! Go Away! Please?

Who would think parents were so greedy.

Your dying was not all that happened to me,

The grief has ebbed, my life has ease.

I’m ready to write on other themes now,

Shoo! Scat! Go Away! Please?

Prompt for Hour Six – Text Prompt

The earth is actually flat, you look over the edge and what do you see? Describe it.

Conversations with God

Should have been the stuff of nightmarish fright.

But strangely it wasn’t, it felt right,

as I stepped up to the edge of the night.

To the very last ledge of light.

Below the beyond, it was Bright.

And white. And White. White.

‘Are you God,’ I asked?

Aware that this was not the time to rhyme.

I knew the light; I lit it every morning.

Lighted my lamp, daily.

Cleansed. After my shower.

Tense. I did nothing, said nothing,

till I lit my little diya

and prayed for the day ahead.

‘We meet every morning,’ said the light.

Shame floods my blood,

my prayers were nought but greed.

Negotiations. Wants. Needs.

‘You get the plumber to fix the leak today, God

and I promise to write 2000 words.’

‘You get her an A in biology, God

and I promise to let her party with friends this weekend.’

And more recently,

‘You make my Ma better, God

and I promise to give up CandyCrush forever.’

‘Can we talk now, please God?’

I whispered. I Prayed. We Talked.

And talked, as the ground beneath me

swelled and curved and rolled

back to Life. As I wakened.

Prompt for Hour Five

Text Prompt: Write a mystery poem. The crime could be real or imagined. The poem could be clue based or narrative. The details are up to you.

So Close

‘Oi, Oi, what do we have here,’

Deep breathy voice behind me, quite clear

as I picked up the pace, not looking back for fear.

It was dark, and my phone was deader than

the summer, which had given way to winter.

Bypassing autumn completely.

But I stray, had been a long day and I was on my way

Home.

Keep walking, don’t talk to strangers.

Don’t flirt with dangers,

I said to self as I had said many times

many years ago, to growing children.

Avoiding wet slippery leaves

I considered breaking into a trot.

Though, obviously not.

It had been four decades since I last trotted.

I thought I saw a van drawing abreast.

Imagination, pictures in my mind, a Netflix fest.

Me shoved into van, driven away to warehouse,

Shackled and left to rot… I began to trot.

‘But who would want to kidnap you,’

The smarter side of my brain taunted?

Who would want a fat, funny, female in her fifties?

Tap on my shoulder, my shriek made the van drive faster

till I saw the red taillights disappear round the corner.

‘Madam,’ said Mr OiOi.

Older than me. Fatter than me. Out of trotter than me.

‘Madam,’ you left your scarf in the train.

Handing it to me along with my sanity.