Trying to find Borges 30.4.2018 – NaPoWriMo

I’m not at all familiar with Borges but I gave it a go on a few things that came to me. But, as always, I stand to be corrected. He doesn’t seem to go by the maxim, “All poets are Cretans.” I don’t either but I wear the hat when it fits. Having had a repeat dream last night which was weird this was what I started with. Early in the evening, I dreamed my dead brother and his wife were having a big sale to get rid of pure rubbish. I woke, went back to sleep and then dreamed a similar dream. The basics were the same but the background and people totally different.

 

The Decider

“But broken images of nights treasure”

 

Take your time, the broken images may come together again.

But it is unlikely they will be the same.

Each night puts a new face on what the broken image might be.

You are always asking questions.

You are always asking us to ask questions.

You never say this history might be personal.

You also wrote, “The door does the choosing, not the man.”

Do we get to choose which images of nights’ treasure are the broken pieces, especially if we have already fitted them back together again?

I believe that’s all been decided a long time ago.

I’m trying to keep up with the categorical and the uncategorical.

I tried to keep to what seemed a rule: one thought, one line.

 

Benita Kape © 30.4.2018

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And for our final (optional) prompt, I’d like you to take your cue from Borges, and write a poem that engages with a strange and fascinating fact. It could be an odd piece of history, an unusual bit of art trivia, or something just plain weird. While I cannot vouch for the actual accuracy of any of the facts presented at the links above (or any other facts you might use as inspiration!), I can tell you that there are definitely some poetic ideas here, just waiting for someone to use them.

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Nail Air and Bone: Day 29.4.2018 NaPoWriMo – nearly there April.

window seat

 

Sylvia Plath wrote a poem about cutting off the tip of her thumb and that poem appears in Ariel. I’ve used the style she used for that poem. My poem may seem long but the stanzas are very short; the best way to write such an incident.  I titled my ‘thumb’ poem “Your Baby Thumb”. Not the kind of poem one expects to write for a three-year-old. There was no hinge by which the lid, when raised, would stay up of its own accord. Plus such lids are a hefty weight to come down on a little thumb resting on an opposite ledge. Another reason I called my poem “Your Baby Thumb” is because this thumb never gained its full adult length. I’ve seen some weird analysis of Plath’s poem, which incidentally is named “Cut”. None of that there here. Straight forward narrative is what I’ve gone for.

 

Your Baby Thumb

for: Sue

 

A child at play

a window seat lid

a slam, a scream.

 

No blood!

My own body

seems bereft of it too.

 

Look. This is what

you will see.

A mother’s quick searching

 

for a nobble of flesh;

among the boxes and books

in the cavern of a window seat.

 

Wrapped in clean cloth

a small hand

all that is left

 

above the top knuckle

of the child’s right thumb

is nail, air and bone.

 

And it was

never straight to A&E

first the GP

 

quick examination

and his nurse’s phone call

for a taxi.

 

Limp child in my arms —

through  tears

I stand on the edge

 

of the footpath

troubled I’d not found

that bulb of missing thumb half

 

but I’d had

no time to lose.

Kindness now pushes

 

it’s face

in my direction;

a stranger on the street.

 

Could she help?

Thank you, thank you

I explained as the taxi arrived.

 

I seem like

the child now

fainted away.

 

My child rushed

to theatre;

and what remains

 

of that small thumb

is stitched to the padding

in the palm of her hand

 

under her third finger.

It was Christmas

and our little girl

 

hospitalized,

thumb to palm stitched.

We visited.

 

Few children in the ward

that week,

but there was our

 

little accident prone,

survivor  daughter

defending herself

 

bashing any boy

who caused

her annoyance

 

with –

You guessed it!

Her roundly bandaged arm.

 

Whack, whack.

 

The tiny bulb

of dying thumb

was found.

 

Oh Sylvia.

 

I would never

let you write

about that.

 

Benita Kape © 29.4.2018

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And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always). Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on the Plath Poetry Project’s calendar. Simply pick a poem from the calendar, and then write a poem that responds or engages with your chosen Plath poem in some way.

Happy writing!

 

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Caption: prose poem edited – postcard 28/29.4.2018

postcard 4.jpg Warming Up

Warming Up To Meet You

 Dear my good friend,

Girls, what were you walking into so generously and bursting with fun? Warming!  A caption flows following a period of war: their giggles framed as a preparation of some importance

You were warming up for families come together again after the war to end all wars. And, this is how, in such circumstances, you begin: a new sense of freedom infectious. A time capsule, unique and tender don’t you think?

With hindsight we feel that sense of sadness which will have been worn on those young shoulders; this capsule of time replaced as the beach belles move on into the fifties where a small revolution would come to hand.

Something they will call the New Look. Though as hemlines got longer (Caption appro: the proper hemline is 2 inches below the cellulite) the swimwear would lift and alter in shape. But let me not get ahead of myself, and the girls. Until then, fashion suffered those uninspiring designs, fabrics like jersey (wool) that would sag and pull out of shape.

Someone somewhere was about to make new inventions. The new decade of nylons and lastex, acetate: fabrics to firm and hold, the employ of boning in swimwear. (Now that wasn’t exactly freedom.) And there were paddings and ruching (still a favourite for the cover up of folds, both flesh and fabric.) For the very bold, bikinis. There were piping and polka dots and removable straps. Princess Lines and panties.

N.B. Dear friend,

And it all comes around again. What fell out of fashion comes back in. Only the caption remains out of date. This is not on my bucket list, nor yours I would think. How can I dissuade my eager daughter from setting up this online outdated fashion business, a mistake as she seeks ‘in’? Could you replicate this card to her minus a paragraph or two? Thank you.

Benita Kape © 28.4.2018

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This was Day 28 prompt

And now for our prompt (optional, as always). Following the suggestion of our craft resource, we challenge you today to draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard. If you need some inspiration, why not check out some images of vintage postcards? I’m particularly fond of this one.

Happy writing!

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Prose Poem – Caption: 28.4.2018 – NaPoWriMo

postcard 4.jpg Warming Up

Caption: Warming Up to Meet You Here

Since that strange mention of temperature, who would have guessed these were belles on a beach? And though it is strange that it is framed as a preparation of some import they pull it off: that new sense of freedom and they draw us marvellously into the fun. It is only with hindsight we feel a sense of sadness; know these beach belles have yet to move on to the fifties. They were warming up for families together again after a major war. And this is how, in such circumstances, they begin.  Oh, how fashion suffered then; uninspiring designs, fabrics like jersey (wool) that would sag and pull out of shape when it got wet.

Someone somewhere is about to make new inventions. The new decade of nylons and lastex, acetate: fabrics to firm and hold, the employ of boning in swimwear. (Now that wasn’t exactly freedom.) And there were paddings and ruching (still a favourite for the cover-up of folds: flesh or fabric.) For the very bold, bikinis. There were pipings and polka dots and removable straps. Princess Line and Panties.

And it all comes around again. What fell out of fashion comes back in. Only the caption remains out of date.

Benita Kape © 28.4.2018

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And now for our prompt (optional, as always). Following the suggestion of our craft resource, we challenge you today to draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard. If you need some inspiration, why not check out some images of vintage postcards? I’m particularly fond of this one.

Happy writing!

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Today’s Game 27.4.2018

The Charioteer

 

It was the thing, maybe least

to our notice, which caught my eye;

upper floating pupils of the Sphinx

on the left.

 

(I’m not good at this game.)

 

I do all I can to put aside all the –

in your face – Princely come-ons.

How annoying to always have a sword

close to hand! But, I like the honest eyes

of the sphinx I’ve already mentioned.

The heavy breasts of the other held

an honesty too.

 

Oh, please don’t make me

make a choice, one or the other.

They both seem so human.

It’s neither of them who

seeks an answer to the question;

to which shoulder will the Charioteer

raise his hand?  Whichever one;

one thing is certain. I am the

only one here who can make

that move. And so the game

was played.

 

Benita Kape © 28.4.2018

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And now for today’s (optional) prompt. Following Lauren Hunter’s practice of relying on tarot cards to generate ideas for poems, we challenge you to pick a card (any card) from this online guide to the tarot, and then to write a poem inspired either by the card or by the images or ideas that are associated with it.

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Double trouble – Day 26.4.2018

 

The Bay 1

 

My Senses; My Dreams

 

My dreams are the expression

of things I have experienced

nothing is new; often recent.

What remains or is renewed

again and again; is what I have

seen and loved.

 

Like the ocean visited yesterday.

I see waves gentle to my toes. Here

in my dream I smell the ocean;

I smell small fish and large

and the seaweed which has

its own happy spot down

the coast. I go there sometimes

to gather it, take it home for

the garden. I sense its richness

as I touch its slimy goodness.

I taste where my next meal

is coming from. This time

the land, the garden I spoke of.

Tomatoes, so rich from barrels

of seaweed sprinkled;  a rich tea

of seaweed. I imagine I hear

the roses thanking me too. A

brush of a velvet petal to thank me.

Now we are back in the garden

hear the birds sing, hear the birds.

I heard them double, sensing they

too had been tickled by velvet,

rose petals touching my dreams.

 

I hear them as I heard other birds

Dipping and diving over those

seaweed beds. No wonder that

now in my dream I have become

a mermaid for the night. I see

the waves tickle her toes. I am

two things at once, seeing,

smelling, touching, tasting. I hear

both of us, the world of my

day and night.

 

Benita Kape © 26.4.2018

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And now for our prompt (optional as always). Taking our cue from today’s craft resource, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses. Try to be as concrete and exact as possible with the “feel” of what the poem invites the reader to see, smell, touch, taste and hear.

Happy writing!

 

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At 25 Days – 25.4.2018

WARNING LABEL  –  at 25 Days

This woman is the couplet she writes,

Sonnet she sings or acrostics activated

 

Weaver of words coming with a warning

Acrostic poems on her radar, she’ll never be remedied

Rondels arouse her irrationally

Nonets make her nervous and nickered, she has cutting edges

Inverted refrains, her change of heart, the warnings grow huge

Newsworthy warnings, twenty-five days’ worth

Gargantuan the warning;  Gra Reformata a new form she found

 

The real warning:  this woman doesn’t get out of bed until noon.

And on the 25th day, she blames poetry.

 

Benita Kape © 25/4.2018

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And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always). Today, we challenge you to write a poem that takes the form of a warning label . . . for yourself! (Mine definitely includes the statement: “Do Not Feed More Than Four Cookies Per Hour.”

Happy writing!

 

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ANZAC DAY – An elegy extra for April 25.4.2018

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As I publish this it is early on the morning of ANZAC and in an hour or so hundred upon thousands of people in NewZealand and Australia, as far as the peninsular in Gallipoli and later in London they will gather to remember with sadness the men and women of all the overseas wars our personnel have served in. We will remember them.

My Uncle Paul, my godfather, served and suffered but came home to us the loving man he had always been. God Bless you, my beloved  Uncle. Benno in the poem is my father.

 

Dear Brother Benno

to:  Uncle Paul

 

My father, eleven years of age at the time, Paul

was twenty-three. A postcard from France, 1916.

 

Received mail from home some time ago.

Enquires of Benno new teacher, better

than the old                                And, I say

Benno have you grown any more since I saw

you last, or are you still as small as ever. Give

my best love to Mother and Father. I remain

your loving brother.

 

A curly letter  M – addressed to Mr Benno,

squeezed beneath which he wrote. I also received

a letter from Linda. Can you tell them that.

Again no question mark appears, though all

available space is used, taking care to show only

the face he most dearly wishes his family to see.

 

Turn the postcard over and on it embroidered

 

‘Greetings from the trenches’

 

Conservation work is needed here with flimsy

fabric and cardboard lifting. But in this small

card you confirmed us in the family of ANZAC.

You remain for me a hero, the kindest of men

and of the suffering you never spoke. I often held

the hands that from the outbreak of yet another war

never ceased to shake. For how long then could you

continue at your trade of carpentry? An old man

before your time. And, when yet another war began

in 1939 Benno, by then, soldiering in the Homeguard,

because he too past a prime for warring as Paul had done

in World War One: four long years Egypt, France, Gallipoli.

 

Benita H. Kape © 27.10.2013

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Elegy (2) NaPoWriMo – 24.4.2018

Elegy (2)

After Twenty-four Years

 

You were so tired. I’ve never

seen rain like it when you went.

How often does it happen? The

undertaker had to take you

back. We would wait, and

tempers would flair before

the morning when finally we

laid you to rest beside Dad.

That waiting was such a shame.

I’ll bet it was the worst night

you’d ever,

or ever will have.

 

One thing I’m sure of:

the next morning it was you

who determined the weather.

In your slight, gentle Scots brogue

you put things in motion. You’d

had enough.

 

Last evening, I’d done my best,

singing as the hearse moved

not to the graveside, but back

up the street. I’d failed. So,

as I remember it; at the quiet

graveside that morning, only

the minister’s blessings. All

else was whispers. I heard

your fading voice in the wind.

From you, I’d learned forgiveness.

Others had too, and others had not.

 

Benita Kape © 24.4.2018

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Today for NaPoWriMo we have for our suggested prompt Elegy.

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Sweet As – phrases local (NZ) – 23.4.2018

Things I Hear Every Day

(This one’s is for Peter Gordon

who said I wasn’t to use Maori

unless I understood the words used.

Ka pai, nephew.)

 

Sweet As,         the day’s going well

Can’t you tell

Sweet As

 

Ka pai                         in the same frame

Sweet As                      for those bi-lingual

 

Ka Pai            (idiomatically – been a naughty boy!)  serve him right

                        to be hoped he won’t make

                        the same mistake again     Sweet As

 

I’m a box of fluffies      Sweet As

 

Crash Here     Sweet As           a good night’s sleep

 

Git Y’ laughin’ gear ‘round that           think mouth around this

 

Wachit Mate   Watch it, friend! Mind how you go!

 

See Ya Later    which, of course, I may not

                        or it’s to be hoped so

 

Sweet As

 

Tu Meke (Two MeKee)

Sweet As          awesome, good job

 

Tu Meke,  too much,       Sweets As

 

Benita Kape (c) 24.4.2018

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