The Poetry Marathon

Idealists know that the hero must win
And pessimists know that ideals are for fools
Suffering brings its own wisdom, of sorts,
But maturity comes when ideals are regained.

Fresh-faced and kind-hearted,
Flat-footed and dim,
Idealists know that the hero must win.

Betrayed and abandoned,
Shell-shocked and schooled,
And pessimists know that ideals are for fools.

Life-hardened, resilient,
In deeds and in thoughts.
Suffering brings its own wisdom, of sorts.

Come forth, sprout of kindness!
Feel joy and, yes, pain.
But maturity comes when ideals are regained.

Form: Cascade

Inspired by the dominant theme of the fantasy novel I should be writing this weekend. See, I am working on it after all.

An iamb is inherently a paradox of poetry
Transparently trochaic, it cannot contain itself. Poor thing, it is
Its own antithesis, and as such might be my spiritual synthesis
As I am, also, set against myself; depicting what I am not
Form fascinates me, yet I am myself most formlessly
Chaotic; cramming weeks of work, after delays, into mere days
I am the iamb, so much smaller than my ambition. Amen.

Form: Complex Alliterisen

Prompt: Write a poem that contains the refrain “I am” at least six times.

I ought to be writing my novel, so naturally I’ve signed up to a 24-hour poetry marathon. Because why not?

I think I need to write my own version of John Finnemore’s ‘Procrastination’ song, in which I list all the many and extremely necessary tasks I’ve been doing rather than work on my book. A book I very much want to write, but for some reason keep avoiding. Hmm, feelings to explore through poetry this weekend, perhaps?

Anyway, enough about that. I’m returning to the poetry marathon after a three-year break, and raring to go. It was encouraging to look back at some of my posts from previous years and realise that they were not completely awful. Not especially good, but better than my prose writing at the time. And due to get better, I hope.

Head all the way back
One last glimpse of grey daylight
Before starting work.

The Earth spins on
Around the Sun
The Moon comes up
Amongst the stars

Around the Sun
The planets sing,
Amongst the stars
They’re barely seen

The planets sing
Their wordless song
They’re barely seen
And seldom heard

Their wordless song
The Great Minds seek
And seldom heard
The children cry

The Great Minds seek.
The Moon comes up.
The children cry.
The Earth spins on.

I have a little handbag
That sits upon my knee
But inside it’s much bigger
Than a handbag ought to be

It takes in bottled water
By the litre. And the pens!
Hear them rattle in despair
Of ever being found again.

There’s mints and sticking plasters,
And a glasses-mending tool,
Nail files, clippers, stamps and tissues,
And a fan for staying cool.

Deep in its dark and endless
Hidden depths there may well be
An old three-volume novel,
“Title Pending”, by “L.P.”

So I pay no attention
To what the labels say;
I think my little handbag
Was made on Gallifrey,

Inside today: inside my house, inside my room, inside my bed, inside my head. This is the price for two consecutive days of activity. Behind the netting, an open window. Open curtains too, now that the glaring sun is in retreat. Air-holes made for this bug-in-a-jar. I can’t get out, but at least I won’t suffocate.

A second window is also open, not to give air, but something even more precious: human contact. This window takes my words and sends them out into the aether, returning with words from faceless, nameless fellow writers. We help each other with information and encouragement, and suddenly the jar doesn’t seem to matter so much.

Illness takes a toll
The bells mark off my sentence.
Warm days keep it short.

Takeaway for two – both me
Me-now, and me-at-midnight
With two poems due and food
My last defence against fatigue

Ordered online, between edits.
Delivered within the hour, hot
And fresh. Sometimes I love the internet.

Fairface longs to see the world
Childhood home lies at his back,
Bread and milk are all his pack.
Tests to face upon the road,

Old sage giving him advice.
Seeking shelter from the storm,
Here, a castle! Worn and old.
In a castle lives a hag,

Coarse her manners and her face
Fairface seeks the heart within
A curse revealed, at last undone,
Love and patience win the day.

From a short story I wrote many years ago, gender-flipping “Beauty and the Beast”.

Fat, white, female, cis, disabled,
Ace, brunette, short-sighted, labels
That describe what you can see;
None of them describing me.

Christian, signer, singer, writer
Chatty, cheerful, up-all-nighter,
Things I freely choose to be;
Still not quite describing me.

Label-space has narrow limits,
People cannot fit within it.
What is my identity?
Truly simple: I am me.