Into the Eyes of Plenty and Splendour

Into the Eyes of Plenty and Splendour

Mother made all of our clothes,
so I’ve never been a caricature
of high fashion. I was cloaked
from an early age in good sense,
courage, and honour. But just
for that one day, she and I
turned from such mighty virtues,

our noses sharp as an autumn
evening as we poked them
into long-necked scented bottles,
and cherished tints and powders
in faint colours of fleshy dust.
We stopped for lunch, paused
for the sake of good digestion,
and watched as the hands
of the clock coveted our day.

 

 
Found and Remixed text from my personal journal and “Bleak House” by Charles Dickens, pages 293-295. “Bleak House” is in public domain at Project Gutenberg. Image from Unsplash: CC-00

More Stone Nail Soup

Those Backstreets

it was like
those rambling narratives,
those adventures
in blackened air
with episodic backstreets
to corrupt the nights
nefariously unfolding
on to the streets.
those sooty accounts
of nightlife thick
as a potter’s hand –
so nocturnal picaresque
that enclaves turned
fluid as gender
on a spurious
moral map.

 

 

Written for Miz Quickly’s Stone Nail Soup. Text found and remixed from The Public Domain Review and image (cc-0) archive.org

Inspired by “Clouds”

Set Against Water

frozen,
half frozen,
into a bubble
congealed
with
lightning.
striketh.

 

Inspired by Found Poetry Review and JF Ptak Science Books Quick Post on “Clouds”, and written for Miz Quickly’s Stone Nail Soup prompt.  Note: “Found” text is from JF Ptak Science Books, Quick Post from “A Vapour Ascendeth from Water (1726)”, Gutenberg Project, and the poem “Clouds”.

 

Writing Dreams for Margo

The Wind was a Gallop

Oh to the worse
that warning rang,
a rise
toward our rattling leap.
We thought our frolic our pattering feet,
and so we chased the wind
into a galloping dance.
We sang a chorus with tolling bells,
ran with summer
and turned a billow roar.
We were our
dizziest days
grasping at balustrades,
and we toppled
and tumbled,
tipped ourselves
out of youthful dreams
into a streaming
swarm.

 

 

Inspired and remixed from a poem by Victor Hugo, “The Djinns” (“Murs, ville et port”) Written for Margo’s Summer Dreams prompt

Poetry Chain Day 1: Found Prose

Dancing with a Curiosity

The day is all alive – like a fair, and the windows have something new to stare at — summoning their gaze inward for a time, their skittling eyes tracking me like white gloves across dustiness. And I am dancing with a curiosity. Dancing, dancing, sweeping moments of love and loss under cover of night, and I belong to no one — and everyone. I dance to remnants of music, whispers at every turn. Everyone dances to their own tune; that song that keeps playing in your head.

 

 

Found and remixed text From: Dickens, Charles. “Bleak House, of 265-267” iBooks Store: https://itun.es/gb/BnmVD.l

 

 

HWWP 5.1 Assignment – The Turn

This week’s assignment for How Writers Write Poems is the Turn: Write a poem featuring a major turn in logic, situation, or voice.

Timeless

The brick wall
by the milking shed is old.
Older than anyone’s
memory goes.
And ferns sprout
between the gnawed bricks,
like ledges of wild eyebrows,
all that green growing
without direction or restriction.
And the sun rises over
that wall in the morning.
Slowly. Slow
as the neighbour’s
green-eyed cat
when its name is called.
Everything
moves at its own pace here.

 
 

inspired and remixed from “Bleak House,” by Charles Dickens.

The Scent of Light

The Scent of Light

The power is gone. Again.
I’m muttering after candles,
scented,
scented, too many
scented.
Candlelight is a gauze
in this spectral darkness,
and the air stiff
enough to snuff-out a flame.
Scents, breathless rose
and beige wilderness,
a perishing smell,
greasy, ropey with ash
from the hearth with its low
glowing coals strangling red
like a famine’s ache, and I sit
in a tall-back chair
with patches on its cushion,
and its stripe ticking leaking
like a stuffed trout,
and how did people sit
in such gloom
and foul air, and spend
their eyes reading by candlelight.
The scent from the candles
grows sickly – my head aches.
I rattle windows open
to darkness and light rain
and faint wind, and watch
as one flame after
the other flickers,
recoils,
dies,
smokes,
droops to darkness, and then
the room is blind again.

 

 

Remixed from Charles Dickens “Bleak House” and my diary from March 1991

Poetic Asides: Found Crafts

Found Crafts

crafty crook
and clever cunning
crafty pots,
quilting, sewing –
skilful, dexterous,
what we’re making
crafty, craftsy,
tinker, showing –
crafting classes,
workshops, patterns
arts and fabrics,
paper sticking –
stockists, lockets,
jewellery making
crafty kits, paint
brushes, glueing

 
 

This collection of words are all found on Bing when searching for “Crafty”. Remixed.
written for Poetic Asides: http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/wednesday-poetry-prompts-304

Found Prose Poetry: Writing in Gutters

ladiesInA_Boat

Prose: Writing in Gutters

I was a habitual reader during those nights, the ones when I couldn’t sleep, and I’d write notes in the gutter of each bound page of whatever book I read. In pencil, mostly. Pencilled thoughts I knew I’d forget the next day, and so, I began a diary of those first emigrated months that in hindsight were not the glaring personal loss that I felt so severely. It was late autumn, and there was a final hum of bees and chatter of birds before migration, and long handwritten letters home that never came to the point, and I learned to use a fork and table-knife as a European does, my mother winced in my dereliction of table manners, and train rides that I found unreasonably relaxing to the point of sleeping beyond the approach of my station, bonfires and smoke that scented the air and turned the sunset the colour of brass, and there were shirehorses with muddies legs, and church bells, and the milkman’s cart rattling me awake at daybreak, the postman whistling tunes that always ran too quickly across my ear. And each day was another diversion, and it seemed that time was a mental condition – one of those conditions you don’t mention, better to say nothing about. Time was ripe, and it was never an intrusion. And when all the white space on pages filled with my thoughts, I stopped. Like a last gasp before walking across hot white sand.

 

 
All text sourced and remixed from the TextClock which draws text from the Project Gutenberg ebooks: 2 May 2015 at 14:51

Moonbeams Dancing

Just for the fun of it, this is an example of Erasure Poetry. This is a page of text where the image is layered with only a selected few words showing through. The original text is from Victor Hugo’s collection of poems  “1888“. More examples of the fun at Found Poetry Review can be seen at my profile page The Found Poetry Review’s PoMoSco Challenge. Wander around and enjoy the fun.

clickClick6

Vengeance on Winter’s Wind

medieval

Vengeance on Winter’s Wind

They came breathless
as the wind of winter,
raised up on ashes
of bitter haste. On horse,
by armour, with lance
and sword, they came

by thousands, led by one.
An oath to take their land
by strength, by faith,
and devour refuge
as vengeance pure.
Scorch the earth,

they said, set light
the sky as they rode
that eternal host
and immortal war.
And they pierced the stars,
avaunt, the invisible night.

 

Found and remixed from pages 18-23
King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table by Lord Knowles

Well Stuck in a Mood

ManMood

Well Stuck in a Mood

I’ve yet to see that man smile, a face
set like thick-sawn wood, and he moves
only rarely so as to not appear dead.

Everything in this portmanteau town
is one of two things – either alive or dead,
and yet it’s said he’s never happier in life

than when he’s well stuck in a mood.
But I believe it’s a universal feeling
among us all, although none look worse

for knowing it. This slight village, this
country-errand is a cobbled secret way
when you’re found so newly arrived.

 

 

Inspired by Charles Dickens, Three Ghost Stories

The Human’s Race and B-Roads

dirtRoadSussex

The Humans’ Race and B-Roads

The sky is flat today, crushed

and beaten boldest blue, and clouds

by spadefuls exquisitely-turned

 

in chiselled weather. I pick my way

on polished roads, icy transparent

blue veins reflecting direction.

 

Ethereal maps without origin or end,

and it matters not which way I choose,

not when you live on an island.

 

 

 

Inspired by Martin Chuzzlewit

By Charles Dickens