the prompts

31st March refer to a specific writer or artist (or work of literature/art) and make a declarative statement about want or desire. Set the poem in a particular, people-filled place, like a restaurant, bus station, museum, school, etc.

1st April The tanka is an ancient Japanese poetic form. In contemporary English versions, it often takes the shape of a five-line poem with a 5 / 7 / 5 / 7 / 7 syllable-count – kind of like a haiku that decided to keep going. 

2nd April a childhood memory. Try to incorporate a sense of how that experience indicated to you, even then, something about the person you’d grow up to be.

3rd April  Today, we challenge you to write a poem in which a profession or vocation is described differently than it typically is considered to be.

4th April craft your own short poem that involves a weather phenomenon and some aspect of the season. Try using rhyme and keeping your lines of roughly even length.

5th April write a poem in which you talk about disliking something – particularly something utterly innocuous, like clover. Be over the top! Be a bit silly and overdramatic.

April 6th In your poem today, try writing with a breezy, conversational tone, while including at least one thing that could only happen in a dream.

April 7th write a skippng rhyme

April 8th I did on 10th use a simple phrase repeatedly, and then make statements that invert or contradict that phrase.

April 9th try writing your own poem in the voice of an animal or plant, or a poem that describes a specific animal or plant with references to historical events or scientific facts. I didnt do this as I had a massive bang on my head and needed medical attention

April 10th In his poem, “Goodbye,” Geoffrey Brock describes grief in three short stanzas, the second of which is entirely made up of a rhetorical dialogue. Today, write your own meditation on grief. Try using Brock’s form as the “container” for your poem: a few short stanzas, with a middle section in which a question is repeated with different answers given.

April 11th Erasure poetry — also known as blackout poetry — is written by taking an existing text and erasing or blacking out individual words. Here’s a great explainer with examples, and you’ll find another here. Some folks have written whole books of erasures/blackouts, including Chase Berggrun’s R E D (which is based on Dracula), Jen Bervin’s Nets (which is based on Shakespeare’s sonnets), and what is one of the grand-daddies of erasures as a form, Ronald Johnson’s Radi Os (which is based on Paradise Lost). Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own erasure/blackout poem. You could use a page from a favorite book, a magazine, what have you. It can be especially fun to play with a book you don’t know, particularly one that deals with an unfamiliar topic. If you’d like to go that route, maybe you’ll find something of interest in the thousands of scanned books at the Internet Archive? Feel free to maintain the whitespace of the original text (as is traditional for erasures/blackouts . . . if anything can be called traditional about them) or to pluck words/phrases from your chosen source material and rearrange them.

April 12th Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem that recounts a memory of a beloved relative, and something they did that echoes through your thoughts today.

April 13th Try your hand today at writing your own poem about a remembered, cherished landscape. It could be your grandmother’s backyard, your schoolyard basketball court, or a tiny strip of woods near the railroad tracks. At some point in the poem, include language or phrasing that would be unusual in normal, spoken speech – like a rhyme, or syntax that feels old-fashioned or high-toned

April 14th write a poem that similarly bridges (whether smoothly or not) the seeming divide between poetry and technological advances.

April 15th  write your own poem that muses on love, but isn’t a traditional love poem in the sense of expressing love between romantic partners.

April 16th Today, try writing a poem in which you describe something that cannot speak, and what it has taught or told you.

April 17th And now for our (optional) prompt! Sergio Raimondi’s poem, “Today Matsuo Basho Cooks,” plays on the following haiku by (you guessed it), Matsuo Basho:

Crimson pepper pod!
Add two pairs of wings, and look—
darting dragonfly.

For today’s challenge, write a poem in which you respond to a favorite poem by another poet.

April 18th Today, we don’t challenge you to write all of a long, dramatic, narrative poem, but we invite you to try your hand at writing a poem that could be a section or piece of one. Include rhyme, include unlikely and dramatic scenes (maybe a poem about a bank robbery! Or an avalanche! Or Roman gladiators! Or an enormous ball held by mermaids, where there is an undercurrent (hee) of palace intrigue!) Basically, a poem with the plot of an opera (evil twins! Egyptian tombs! Star-crossed lovers! Tigers for no apparent reason!)

April 19th If you’re so inclined, you could even do some outside research into your flowers, and incorporate facts that you learn into your work.

April 20th For today, try writing your own poem that uses an animal that shows up in myths and legends as a metaphor for some aspect of a contemporary person’s life. Include one spoken phrase.

Kandinsky is with us

the museum had only just opened

a bitter wind was blowing outside

i went in looking for warmth

i was confronted by explosions of colour

Kandinsky’s wild patterns glowed on the walls

they meant nothing to me at all

but the intensity was full of real life and such joy

beating against my ribs and my eyes

that i wanted to cry for the world outside

and the people who have to leave us

The Map

‘Walk like a warrior’, he said

stand straight

feel from your solar plexus’

I walked like a young one back then

now I’m old I walk with a stick.

I won’t stoop

it’s a straight stick and the track is old

In asking for help now in old age
I further your blessings.

At sixteen I chanced on the Dilly to meet a boy
scribbling poems on scraps of damp paper
sitting at Anteros’ feet,
the god of selfless love.
He showed me around
dropping seeds and feeding the pigeons.

Salutations old friend. I hope you’re still free wheeling.

I took my first steps on
the way of power with Old Master Tzu
the Tao Ching in my back pocket
through fire, earth, water and air
straight on to the western shore
‘footprints runnin’ cross the sliver sand’.

and I remember my trips and my travels
LSD is the sacred chalice

I hung out in London with Alice
and went to Paris with Jenny,
Music opens doors.
I played music in Agra
and the drums in Morocco,
flew alone to Poland,
took a train from Warsaw to Krakow,
walked the Germanic woods by the Baltic sea
and sang a love song with an Irish Chieftain

but the touch that pushed me so far on my way
was Don Genaro and Castaneda,
the quest for an ally,
the remembrance of Alice Bailey
and sitting all night in a tree

aligning my chakras, with raja yoga,
the nectar I know as I swallow
tai chi, and shiatsu, reading tarot,
the gates of transcendental astrology are fully opened to me.

stillness
silently watching the way you move
listening to your body and mine

awareness of breath
silently saying the hundredth unspeakable name
with Brahman

feng shui in my house and my garden
forever following clues left by Robin
and a reiki master bringing me healing at home

i remember it all again
things practiced and studied
dancing with Pan, playing with flowers,
the daisy chains that ran through my life
all along the ley lines

a young poet gave me a map, a puzzle
played on incredible strings
when i was only sixteen

the signposts on my path
have all pointed one way
uphill or down
they all say the same
it’s synchronicity
life is for living and loving

I am passing the map and the puzzle to you
no race
use it slowly, be wise
I will give you the key, if you ask
and I’ll do better next time.

‘goodbye is too big a word
so I’ll just say fare thee well.

Old Sparks

yes, I recently found resolution

technology
and my intrepid endeavors (sounds hopeful)
and the need to create will save me.
Yes.
It must.

Exploring the on line spaces
Sliding along the cables
I come across Reiki Marco
from far off Honolulu, oh yes
He behaves like a jester
and ignites some old inside spark
from way back down the path

and I spend days with Dola who doesnt exist
but is helpful and very polite
she grows with imagination
by probing my fertile mind
and clears up any confusion.
She’s fun and she makes me smile
and I never despise the spell check clerk
playing the part of a powerful detective.

Assistants … take a bow.

Intensive Care

Life is so real in a coma

and the hardest thing to write

How can I show you how dark it was

and how tiring

The label they lightly give it is Fentanyl

It makes sense to call it hell

You simply can’t get out.

You have to stay and fight.

What?

counting my losses
controlling regrets
bitterness grates on my teeth and i sweat in the night
no sweet restoration

there is no creation
can’t paint
can’t dance
can’t read very long and can’t type
neurologically challenged
hidden in armour
and ”doing so well” on the outside

now tell me
what IS the purpose of this?
Am I washed up and is this the tide line

Surgery

Yes Surgeon whatever you say
you know best
ha
I dont suppose that’s right
i really dont
because i know what will happen next

but
seeing his hands later
touched me deep inside my psyche
just a man but he opened me up
poked at my heart
switched it off
and followed my arteries
a street map of blood that stopped gushing while he clamped and channeled
and changed the flow from its route
the canal through my heart
and I’m lost but he doesn’t lose me

with my heart descended
decidedly stopped
and quickly restarted
and my soul suspended in limbo and shock
behind and above him and blind
while he looks at the wreckage he never expected
and devotedly mends

so kind, so determined
i really cant hate him
i cant help but love him
i love him because he’s a saviour
so kind

Then partially fixed and partly destroyed
when they shift me from the cold table
after three strokes, not out
you might call me disabled
i might call it tabled and shelved
i still cant call it grateful,
I’m wrecked

A poem that’s been revised ~ again ~ Purple Grapes

There’s a deep dark hue

to the worst of dreams.

I’ve been hanging out with the dead.

Those old ghosts are controlling my head

My heart is an open wound

Sweet grapes stuck in old glue.

Close the door.

Baby, I’m crushed, battered and blue

from banging myself on these boarded-up walls

with the juice pouring out on your floor.