Day Thirty – Bottom to top poem

Okay so the final (awwww!) challenge is to write a poem from the bottom to the top. New one for me.
I would like to say thank you again to those who have bothered to follow my progress, have dipped in once or twice or stumbled across one of my poems by accident. These poems are something akin to workshop poems, because of the prompt and time restraints, so a wee bit different to what I would choose to write.
Nevertheless I have really enjoyed the challenge this year and I have surprised myself with some of my responses. It has certainly sometimes been tricky – wouldn’t be a challenge if it was easy!

For all of you who have completed this challenge as well, or just managed a few poems, I say – Yay!!! Go us!!! Congratulations to everyone and I hope you keep your writing going, I am genuinely going to try.
Today I thought that, in the spirit of the thing, I should begin with the end. To try and order things a bit I decided (albeit randomly) to stick with a two-word line length. Go figure!

It’s been
a blast!
Poems pulled,
like teeth,
from nowhere.
Meanwhile, everywhere,
the past
echoes around
virtual spaces,
resonating clearly.
Our words
are merely
vessels, conduits,
for our
imperfect perceptions.
May dawns,
striding athletically
towards a
new beginning,
while we
(the writers)
limp slowly
to a
joyful and
very satisfying


Day Twenty Nine – review poem

Penultimate (yes, it is a great word) day! What will I do with myself in May???
Ooh does that count as my poem? Nice try but suppose I should show willing. Especially as this gets me up to date – yippee!
Now I’ve just seen that it’s Poetry in Your Pocket Day tomorrow – I shall have to take a couple into work and bother people with them randomly.
Okay, so finally got there. I have just read The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton, following all the hype. Found it hard to get into at first but then it grew on me, though it was not the kind of novel I would tend to choose, so I thought it would be interesting to have a go at a review of it for this prompt.

The Miniaturist
A parallel life plays out
in miniature,
each piece placed
as fate dictates.
Loves, lies and death
prowl the shadows,
whisper hedonistic hymns
to the faithful.
Angry cries at night,
icy mists, denial.
One damned soul
broken, hope gone
summoned by
the sirens’ song.


Day Twenty Eight – Bridges

Trying to catch up with myself before the end of the challenge. Although I love water and bridges I found myself stumped again, so thought it could be time for an acrostic!

Barely there, a charcoal smudge
Reflected dimly on the sluggish surface.
In times of spate it seems to swell,
Digging deep against the savage flow;
Gradually reappearing, as floods recede.
Eddies now ripple meekly round stone abutments,
Solid and soaring.


Day Twenty Three – pot luck poem (hurrah, I caught up!!!)

Was inspired by the clerihew prompt, so wrote one for Sir Terry Wogan, which (as I found out on catchup) he read at the end of his Sunday show on BBC Radio 2. That’s two poems read out on national radio during the challenge – wowser!!
Anyway, back to the mental block. Finally got past it but once again it’s quite a depressing and odd read. Here’s hoping for a more cheery end to the challenge.


Apparently it was three clubs,
though I can’t remember a third.
We got thrown out of the first,
because of my dancing
and that lairy guy.
Left me with a bruise on my thigh.

The second was totally dead,
I do remember that,
so we did tequila shots,
proper outdid that hen night
that kept looking over.
I’ve got a cut over my left eye.

The third, well, was there a third?
Can’t have been much cop
if I can’t remember, can it?
My clothes are in a right state
and I’ve lost my shoes.
Think I need to be sick.


Day Twenty Seven – Hay (na) ku

Still stuck on day twenty three, but vowing to catch up before the end.
I love vegetarian cookery, so thought I would use that passion for this one.


dry fried,
release their magic.

diced small,
softened in oil.

sliced thinly –
added to pan.

chopped vegetables
absorb the flavours.

boil quickly,
season to taste.

chick peas,
to add texture.

till soft,
finish with coriander.


Day Twenty Six – persona poem

I still have to get my head round day twenty three, hopefully catch up tomorrow night, so I’m just moving on for now. Think I will try and keep this one fairly short if I can, too! Not sure where this one came from.

Gone Fishing
I like the peace and quiet,
that’s the long and short of it.
A special sort of silence,
proper thinking time.
And you have to know your stuff,
it’s not pot luck.
You have to pick just the right spot,
knot, line, weight, depth, bait.
Some things you can’t learn, you just feel:
where to place the float, when to strike,
the play of the line on the reel.
That’s what sorts the wheat from the chaff,
the weekender from the angler.


Day Twenty Four – parody/satire

Oh dear, this hasn’t turned out like I expected! I was going to do a light-hearted little thing but for some reason I came up with the idea of using Elizabeth Barrett Browning and it all went downhill from there!!!
I really tend to struggle with form so why I went for a sonnet is anyone’s guess. Sadly it’s not biting or witty or even mildly amusing, more depressing. Ah well, it’s maybe more of an updating, and I’m fiddling no more!

Do I still love you? That’s a valid point.
I thought I loved the very bones of you,
That we were soul mates, lovers through and through.
Complacency can leave a fatal taint

That grows and spreads quite inexorably
Until it’s shadow dims the brightest light.
We didn’t even care enough to fight
for the love that we once held so dearly.

I did love you, but somehow passion died,
Leaving a tiny bruise upon my heart.
I said I loved you, but you knew I lied
My answer, then, you’ve known it from the start.

If we can’t feel anything, side by side,
let’s hope we find some happiness apart.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806 – 1861
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.