Day 8 | #NaPoWriMo | Punctual Poem. Praise the Lord.

This is the earliest I've posted for a while. Thank the Lord. This intro is brief. I need to get to it because I have lines to learn for the Grey Matters scratch tomorrow (I still have that comp, if you want it). Pressure does wonderful things because this poem was out and finished hella quick. 

I started and (sort of) finished this on my journey home. Tweaked for sense, of course.

Enjoy.

Ankh

I want to write a poem about your necklace
and how it stood for eternal life.

I'm trying to see what book you're reading.
I see the word Spirit on the cover,

and want to ask you which half of your family is black
and where the black side is from
and which part you want to grant eternal life.

I want to compliment your hair
and your skin
and your hands.
The right corner of your mouth tenses
to what is almost a smile then resets.

I'm certain you know I've been staring.
I see the whites of your eyes in the corner of mine.
I guess from your ankh
and your book
that my black isn't why you are vigilant,
so I'm left with hair and my stature,
and I hope you're not uncomfortable.

I hope you know I'm writing about the necklace on your chest,
and not about you
or your hair
or your skin
or your hands
or your mouth.

You close the book and hold it to yourself
with the cover out as you rest your eyes.
I wonder whether you are pushing me away
or inviting me to ask.

The title is Of Water And The Spirit 
the subtitle mentions ritual,
and initiation and African shaman.
And I think about baptism, and where the title is from,
and what you would say
if I asked you
about the book or the necklace on your chest - 
and what we'd have in common.
I'd like to think
at least as much as the cross and the ankh.
And I think of this distance as the gap
and the gap as a keyhole.

And as you fall asleep, you jolt your head upright.

I want to catch you on my shoulder
and ask about your day
or the book
whilst staring at our hands.

And in case you find this somehow
and remember, I hope
this doesn't make you uncomfortable. I hope
you know this isn't about you
or the gap
or your hands
or "us"
because there is no us - 
it's not even about asking. 
It's about initiation and your book
and life.

I want to ask about the necklace on your chest.

Day 4 | #NaPoWriMo | Glowth & Beauty

So Twitter recently made me aware that #NaPoWriMo is also known as #GloPoWriMo (Global Poetry Writing Month, I presume). It never occurred to me that this challenge was a thing beyond the UK. Heck, I'm still yet to be convinced that this is a thing for anyone outside London's circle of mad poets.*

It's interesting. Other than sounding like a hashtag for seasonal Instagram fitness break selfie series featuring avocado-based vegan gluten-free health food snacks, of course.

But that said, maybe it isn't so far away from what myself and other poets are up to with blogs and tweets and open-mic preamble publicising this challenge. For various reasons, we want our work on ourselves and our craft this month to be [more] public. In some sense, it's like the Insanity of poetry: we're looking to push harder and Dig Deeper (hold tight Shaun T). We are putting ourselves under immense creative pressure, with fixed daily milestones to hit, under the guidance of a rigorous programme tailored to individual needs goals in order to sharpen our creative endurance, galvanising our connections, driving ourselves and one another forward to becoming the best shape we can be.

Maybe these reasons are just mine. But on a weekly basis, I'm reminded of the transformative power of creativity and poetry in my life and those of others. After much reflection and a recent birthday, I've chosen to act on my resolutions and turn 2017 into the Year of the Glo-Up. Avelino said "2016 is the rise of the lyricist"; Boiler Room confirmed that in October. Now having risen, we must shine. 

*I mean that in all senses but the ableist one.

Enough from me.

Enjoy.

BEAUTIFUL THINGS

You never saw beauty in yourself
because beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
so it became infallible
unless the beholder was you -
in which case, it was irredeemably flawed,
your irises were funfair mirrors warping what was natural and balanced in it’s own right.
It is no wonder, then, why you are always fat
and fat is wrong
and dark is serious and heavy and raw.

This is why you ask to be read late at night and known only with the lights off
and you keep your reader’s hands away from the softer parts of your form,
or where your creases are a bit too deep for you
- or even where bone is a little too close to skin.

My dear
Who told you beauty was in perfection? Or perfection in symmetry
or that perfection was a spotless sun?

But you’ve stopped listening to me
when I tell you how these palms love the balance of your form.

It’s why I’ve stopped laughing at your jokes.
When shade is now your only reprieve, it is no wonder that you dream of shadows.

Day 2 | #NaPoWriMo | WAY TOO CLOSE!!

I didn't post yesterday's poem until well into the night and said I would do better today. 

Well, I cut it WAY TOO FINE and I was wrong. If I'm honest, I spent too much time procrastinating until daybreak. Then I procrastinated more after waking. I also found my earlier drafts today too problematic to post in first draft form (essentially all NaPoWriMo poems are first drafts) without rethinking and editing. Time was not on my side, as you can tell, because I'd betrayed and misused it, and took it for granted. I'm going to be honest here: this whole introductions is a way for me to ease into the flow of writing because something needs to come out finished. Lesson for Day 2: practice the lessons you learned the day before. Don't be like me, fam. Also, don't make promises or oaths or swear - just keep them. Chances are you're promising or swearing because you know your word cannot be trusted - either by others or yourself. Both of these need addressing.

SKRR! BREAKING NEWS: Whilst writing this, Laurie requested I write either:

• "[a] Poem about me and my crushes" or

• on "romantic terminology".

I'll do this, then. This one's for you, Laurie.

On romantic terminology

i refuse to fall in love. i tell myself i will walk
into it straight-backed, with a map and then call
myself a maverick because to crush is to make yourself a bleeding apple
and your heart resemble a peach
or an ass
or a peachy ass.
but because i am upright
my head is always above my heart.

but in a sense, would i not be head over heels
anyway? since my heart is in the middle of my body? 

(afterall i will walk
not crawl on my belly like a snake) 

but then so is the ass,
and an upturned bum is what a heart looks like
to people in love.

and on that note, i guess
i won't be in love, per se,
when it happens. love will live in me,
i hope. because the heart has chambers,
and the brain has pathways. when i walk
into love, i hope it will be on her pathways,
and they'll be corridors to her chest.
but not strictly so.

but it means i have to find them first. maybe
i need a new map. but i haven't found the entrance yet. maybe
one day
love will find me
lost outside her window
looking for her pathways. or
one day,
i hope, she will walk mine,
too.