Warm Up to NaPoWriMo 2018 – 31.3.2018

NaPoWriMo 2018 image

Write a poem of love for an object.


A   Cake   or   a Sandwich


Cups lose their handles.

A disc round and shiny:

it being battered carries

no sound resounding and

nothing there to attract me

I could perhaps say.


It speaks to the pragmatic;

and why not the sentimentality of years,

so long in the past but the first

memories are those most remembered.

Like how difficult it was, that small plate

to dislodge, from a Christmas stocking

reluctant to spill its contents. It stays with me

that sharp eager battle and always since then

we have been friends.


How easy the cup, lodged penultimate

in the stocking’s heel, and lastly

the orange; the gift of one item of fruit

such a luxury, so that I set it aside for later.

Turned then to that weak handled cup

and it’s accompanying saucer which

to me in those most meagre of years

was awesome.


But the most cherished remains the bread

and butter plate. The set of three made of tin.

First to go was the cup and then perhaps

the saucer was used for the cats and their food:

both now lost. But the plate, small as plates go,

has remained useful. It keeps company with

my flour sifter; its own stand upon, and that too

is about to be replaced. But the little plate

goes on and on. I, who am not much of

a cook, have had much joy and use of it. We

long gave up hope of its ever holding for me

a cake or a sandwich , my little tin plate and me.

It is sweet and it is useful as it is.


Benita Kape © 31.3.2018



You might call it messing about. I call it another experiment

Pen and Patterns Typed Up

(the second third fourth draft)


I am writing in my diary

or notebook and now

I am judicious with a word or two

so that I find myself struggling

while I hold a pen, not a smartphone,

which anyway I do not own. But I’m

familiar enough with technology,

the internet and word doc, to find I’m

myself responding in automatic world

correction mode. My expectation of a

(phantom) auto-correct would likely

lessen diminish if I take myself

out of that world and compose

with pen alone.


I like the pen, a tool that respects any

additions, or striking out, though the full

wretched (thinking)  process is left (entirely)

in my hands. (Oh, never say inadequate the pen.)

Thankfully, over the years, these (repairs)

are becoming less which  is no more than

I would hope; usually, a word (or phrase) left out

so that the marginalia extends (and those words

not required! Well it’s six of one, half a dozen

of the other. Sometimes almost another stanza added.)


An honesty of the first draft,

a beauty in such mistakes as I make.

There is, I suppose a pattern to them.


(Would it, I ask myself, be more

appropriate that for this copy

(into word doc) I should then

have selected something like

Segoe Script)


Benita Kape © 21.3.2018


I’m  world  etc   =  first draft deleted words


(phantom)  (thinking)  (entirely)   etc   = second, third or fourth draft words or phrases deleted or (added)




Experimental Entirely

way   my   pay


herstory economic

back to sideways

got it I

says he when

if ever could be


grow up babies

me mother

me for in stand

story the way in don’t

get it I good


don’t some

don’t one

wont many

wo wo will woman

foot other the on boot


misplaced words

right to left

do cultures some


years hundred

one another not

around things

turn to time


Benita H. Kape © 20.3.2018



Road sign



There are times when I have company

on my drives to the Green Waste depot.

If I’d been alone today, it would not have

been so god-damn embarrassing, but with

company, on board, I silently and soundly

wished myself elsewhere. First up at a

roundabout I was cautioned;     loudly, I

might add, by the party on board. STOP!

STOP! STOP! Which thankfully we did

as I pressed madly on the brake. The car I’d

not seen approaching on my right, stopped

too and then proceed through. We carried on

and going  down the long-straight by the golf

course I said wondering aloud, “Thought

there was a speed increase sign along here.”

Which, there was. That too had initially

missed my driver scrutiny.


I say with no shame that I let the other party

take over the driving on the way home. Clive

James, another poet, a very good poet, but

one who tells us he is a poor driver and once

suffered a lecture from his daughter which

resulted in his never driving again. (I don’t

think my driving is that bad, though I’d

very much like to equal Clive’s skill

with poetry.) As to his driving I won’t quite

put myself in that category though I’ll admit

I had been neglectful of symptoms —

things not too clear  which was telling me

something. Keep my pre-diabetic count under

control. Greens, fresh beautiful vegetables,

greens will be on my dinner plate tonight,

and every night in the weeks ahead.

Nothing will go to waste. I pray I’ve not

left it too late. It is said that such things

are reversible, and I know for a fact

they are, have been for me when I am

dedicated. Should I slip back into an

overkill of sugar and carbs I’ll remind myself

of the miserable day I made these mistakes

with no slow process, but in an instant

wallop!        Mortality reminders hit us

many times and in so many different ways.


Benita. H. Kape © 13.3.2018