April Ninth: NaPoWriMo: An Ode to My Kitchen Knife: The Blunted Blade

Our prompt for today (optional, as always) takes its inspiration from Pablo Neruda, the Chilean-born poet and Nobel Prize Winner. While he is most famous in the English-speaking world for his collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, he also wrote more than two hundred odes, and had a penchant for writing sometimes-long poems of appreciation for very common or mundane things. You can read English translations of “Ode to the Dictionary” at the bottom of this page, “Ode to My Socks” here, and “Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market” here.

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own ode celebrating an everyday object.

I pick: Kitchen Knife.

In the quiet hum of everyday life's refrain,
We find solace in the mundane's gentle reign,
A kitchen knife, once sharp and keen,
Now dulled by time, yet steadfast, serene.

Within my kitchen's heart, it resides,
A loyal companion, where memories abide.
Each day it dances, slicing with grace,
An unspoken artist in its sacred space.

But as the years weave their silent song,
Its edge, once sharp, starts to belong
To a realm of weariness, a journey trod,
Like a traveler weathered by time's façade.

Oh, kitchen knife, bearer of tales untold,
Your bluntness echoes life's stories, bold.
With every cut, a piece of edge lost,
A reflection of the paths we've crossed.

Your worn handle, a testament true,
To the hands that wield, the tasks they pursue.
Each scar on your blade, a narrative unfurled,
Of flavors savored, of a world twirled.

Let's raise a toast to this humble guide,
Nurturer of flavors, in you we confide.
Though your edge may wane, your spirit's song,
Like poetry, timeless, forever strong.

O kitchen knife, dulled yet bright,
A symbol of resilience in fading light,
Your bluntness mirrors life's refrain,
A reminder of strength amidst the mundane.

In your sheath, you rest, serene and still,
Awaiting the touch that ignites the thrill,
Of slicing through doubts, fears, and woe,
To find solace in the ebb and flow.

So here's to you, companion dear,
In your bluntness, life's echoes clear.
For in your dulled edge, we find our own,
A testament to how we've grown.

- Oizys.

April Eight: NaPoWriMo: Forbidden Encounter — Lovemoth

Finally, our (optional) prompt for the day takes its inspiration from Laura Foley’s poem “Year End.” Today, we challenge you to write a poem that centers around an encounter or relationship between two people (or things) that shouldn’t really have ever met – whether due to time, space, age, the differences in their nature, or for any other reason.

In the tapestry of fate’s cruel design,
A love story shrouded in darkness and dread,
In the depths of a forsaken land,
Where shadows dance in wicked delight,
Two souls entwined where none should align,
A tragic tale that Fatewrathius had silently led,
An impossible union in the dead of night.

Through hatred's veil and heartache's coughs,
They journeyed together on paths mostly known to woe,
Their worlds collide with a deafening clash,
Adulthood facing off against innocence pure,
In a world where love was forbidden to grow,
Their essence intertwined in a cruel, dark flash,
Their bond tested by Chaosmorpher's icy throne.

But even amidst the darkness deep,
A flicker of hope began to ignite,
One bore the mark of chaos and despair,
Other radiated shiny cun untouched by time,
In their arms, secrets found their keep,
As they embraced in defiance of night.

So let them whisper tales untold,
Of a love that defied all laws set by man,
One pair eyes held the depth of human pain,
While the other sparkled with untold mare's nest bright,
In a realm where darkness controlled,
Their forbidden encounter forever began.

The air crackled with tension as they drew near,
A collision of desires echoing through the void,
In this twisted waltz, where danger was clear,
Their hearts intertwined but forever annoyed.

- Oizys.

After writing this, I remembered this quote I had saved long time ago:   

I write about love like I know it so well, but to be honest, love and I have never officially met. (source: secretlywanderlust)

April 8, 2024 - Cringosity and the Chasm

April 6th and 7th went by seamlessly, according to the standards I had set to my life and yet there was a hole drilled in my middle. I woke up this morning and fell into that hole of desolation with the gravitational force of my existence. Anyway here is a poem I wrote when I was 13 (or, I was already 14...? I don't remember well but all I know is, it was Valentine's Day and my grandmother was dying). and had just discovered my "boyfriend" was not exactly my "boyfriend". Don't proceed if you do not wish to get slapped by a bag of cringe coins that will devolve the entire human race by a smidgen.

"We are a collision that was never meant to occur.
I despise your temples, they are too seductive.
I don't need to work, I just need someone to worship.
I want you to see me right now, but you are kilometers, kilometers away.
I took the steps hoping for you at the door waiting for me with a jug of tea.
You used to be my favourite sample, you used to be the place I went home to.
One last touch was never enough, every street becomes a past polaroid of us together.
I trace our steps lingering mist, while you have dissipated the cobblestones of our time.
You are the only one who knows, I am not okay without you.
I'd write all my time to you, I'd rename all my past for you.
Your memories will return to dust, when my bones rebuild themselves.
Did you know? Abraham left Isaac for God?
We'll soar to lavender fields, where life's more than toil and fray.
Mr. Postman knocked today; room service for one, a solitary stay.
He is the one I long to be, because he has all the letters to your reach your doorstep.

We are a story that was never meant to be.
Poets are pretenders but I am a nostalgic devotee.
Is this thing on yet? Does this thing rhyme yet?
This is the line I'd delete if there was a button for that.
Romance is not a race, yet we are all the rats who are left behind.
Will you cancel your plans for me, to eat lotus seeds by the beach?
I feel spinning planets around my head while all your messages go to my junkmail folder.
You are the white dwarf I have molded into a diamond in the sky, disdainful yet luminous.
I recall your heartbeats with the memory of your wrists while all your visits went unmanned.
I'd like to see you at my fashion show, etch a smile on your face even when your grief pours onto your shoes.
One strike won't keep me away for life, we live in glass houses afraid they'll break.
Wear your sunday best for the shrine hopping, this is the memory I will never bury.
Nobody sees the trouble I've been through, the brown box on the highest shelf.
We shared a drink over my patterned grandma quilt, lies shrivel up when it comes to you.
Mr. Postman stopped by today; front row seats to the disaster show, eagerly awaited.
He is the one I long to be, because he has all the letters to your reach your doorstep."

Reading back on that poem from my 13-year-old self feels like stumbling upon a buried treasure chest filled with embarrassing relics that was meant to dissipate with time. The cringe-inducing journey down memory lane, but there's a strange comfort in revisiting the melodramatic musings of my teenage years. In retrospect, it's chucklingly sad how I thought my world was ending over what now seems like trivial teenage drama. And, I kept going on. I still wrote in my diary, miserably passed my exams, and half-leggedly finished my sleep. But in that moment, every word felt like a dagger to the heart. Amidst the cringe, there's an underscoring of innocence and intensity of teendom. It's a reminder of how deeply we can feel things at that age, even if those feelings may seem exaggerated or misplaced in hindsight. And, this sad monster named Nostalgrox comforts the adult me. Pats my head, runs its fingers through my crony hair and tells me to keep going. It chokes my body in its arms, under its foaming mouth while it regurgitates my past to forcefeed me the wisdom of this hole. The rock-bottom is an absolute, pants-on-fire mirage. It's hard, cold and unyielding. I prefer this chasm, it has a soft ground and I have absolutely all the time in the world to dig, let the dirt bathe me, let the roots choke my wrists to spasm my heatbeats. And, I am sure, somewhere in the quiet trenches, I will find solace in altering my pasts by sowing seeds of delusion and pies where possibilities stretch out like endless constellations in the night sky.

As I close the pages of my teenage diary, I can't help but feel comfortable at the absurdity of it all. Life moves on, and so do we, leaving behind a trail of embarrassing poems and awkward memories. And maybe, just maybe, that's part of what makes it all so grotesquely human. Finding comfort from past's rot to escape present's turmoil.

- Oizys.

April Seventh: NaPoWriMo: Wish You Were Here

And last but not least, we’re taking it easy with today’s (optional) prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem titled “Wish You Were Here” that takes its inspiration from the idea of a postcard. Consistent with the abbreviated format of a postcard, your poem should be short, and should play with the idea of travel, distance, or sightseeing. If you’re having trouble getting started, perhaps you’ll find some inspiration in these images of vintage postcards.

Wish you were here,
Amidst this tranquil scene.

The air is crisp and fresh,
Filled with the sweet scent of pine,
And the sound of birdsong.

The lake, so secluded,
Its glassy surface, reflective,
Shimmering in the sunlight.

The surrounding woods,
The canopy cradling heaven,
Casting long shadows across the water.

The verdant valley,
Grabs your neck to take a pause,
And inhale the moment.

The lush greenery,
Washing over peace and serenity,
Cleansing itself all over you.

The mountains stand tall,
Jagged peaks piercing the sky,
Sheltering serenity upon your soul.

The crystal-clear rivers with gentle currents,
Meander through your feet,
While reflecting the azure sky above.

The warmth of the sunlight,
Filtering through the leaves,
Deepening the stirrings in the soul.

The gentle rustle of the breeze,
Slapping your face,
As the evening blurs.

I write to you from a distant shore,
Where nature's embrace feels like a dream.

And, with each passing vista,
I find myself missing you, more than you know.

Do you remember the days of yore?
When we'd yearn for adventure under the sky?

Now as I wander, my heart holds dear,
The memories of us, together, near.

Yet as I scribble these lines so clear,
I realize it's not just you I hold dear.

For in every journey, in each unknown place,
I'm writing to the person I used to chase.

I randomly came across this post where this person suggests they write a letter to themselves, from every where they travel to! And, this inspired me to craft this poem. Also, here's another postcard treat for any reader here.

I made a postcard on Canva and the last four couplets to it. Let me know if you all like it.

- Oizys.

An edited version where the above piece is broken into two separated poems as suggested by Elizabeth Boquet (use the 9 tercets as a poem alone, and use the rest in a separate poem.)

Part 1: Premise - Prelude to Paradise

The air is crisp and fresh,
Filled with the sweet scent of pine,
And the sound of birdsong.

The lake, so secluded,
Its glassy surface, reflective,
Shimmering in the sunlight.

The surrounding woods,
The canopy cradling heaven,
Casting long shadows across the water.

The verdant valley,
Grabs your neck to take a pause,
And inhale the moment.

The lush greenery,
Washing over peace and serenity,
Cleansing itself all over you.

The mountains stand tall,
Jagged peaks piercing the sky,
Sheltering serenity upon your soul.

The crystal-clear rivers with gentle currents,
Meander through your feet,
While reflecting the azure sky above.

The warmth of the sunlight,
Filtering through the leaves,
Deepening the stirrings in the soul.

The gentle rustle of the breeze,
Slapping your face,
As the evening blurs.

Part 2: Postcard - Ponderings to P.

I write to you from a distant shore,
Where nature's embrace feels like a dream.

And, with each passing vista,
I find myself missing you, more than you know.

Do you remember the days of yore?
When we'd yearn for adventure under the sky?

Now as I wander, my heart holds dear,
The memories of us, together, near.

Yet as I scribble these lines so clear,
I realize it's not just you I hold dear.

For in every journey, in each unknown place,
I'm writing to the person I used to chase.

- Oizys.

April Sixth: NaPoWriMo: Wisdom in the Weird?

And now for our (optional) prompt. Today’s we’d like to challenge you to write a poem rooted in “weird wisdom,” by which we mean something objectively odd that someone told you once, and that has stuck with you ever since. Need an example? Check out Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “Making a Fist.”

Moments of failure feel
Like reality stumbling onto me,
While the world moves forward
And I shuffle into my past.
They creep into my hands slowly,
And burst inside my mouth suddenly.
My fingers shiver and cramp,
My mouth foaming with desperation.
My knuckles cringe,
My throat shuts.
Ungrappled opportunities slip from my shaking hand,
Self-doubt and the weight of will melt bitterly on my tongue.
Weak fingers stroke a weak throat.
I try to remember the prayer, but it is too foggy.
I try to recall the words of wisdom, but they are too woolly.
What was it..?
Ignorance is bliss?

- Oizys.

April Fifth: NaPoWriMo: The Lament of the Spatula, the Notebook, the Ice Pick

Now, let’s get to our optional prompt! Today we’d like you to start by taking a look at Alicia Ostriker’s poem, “The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog.” Now try your hand at writing your own poem about how a pair or trio very different things would perceive of a blessing or, alternatively, how these very different things would think of something else (luck, grief, happiness, etc).

Today's prompt's inspiration was taken from my kitchen. Three objects I saw. Stirring tale of kitchen mementos.

In the dimly lit kitchen,
Where shadows scratch walls
Like memories seeking solace of past,
A lone figure stands amidst the remnants of fading will.

The spatula rests awkwardly against the worn countertop,
Its once gleaming surface,
Now dulled by the weight of countless meals prepared with obligation and desperation.
Its edges, once sharp and precise,
Now bear the scars of battles fought
And lost in the relentless war against time and helplessness.

Beside it lies the notebook,
Its pages yellowed with age and turmeric,
And fragile with the weight of recurrent stories and forgotten dreams.
Each scribble upon its surface whispers of hopes dashed and aspirations undone,
A silent evidence to the cruelty of time and the frailty of human existence.
Within its weathered confines lie the echoes of a soul laid bare,
Seeking solace amidst the chaos of life's relentless march.

And then there is the ice pick,
A cruel reminder of the chill that grips the heart in moments of despair.
Its jagged edges glint in the faint light,
A stark contrast to the warmth that once filled this sacred space.
In its cold embrace lies the promise of oblivion, 
A fleeting respite from the pain that threatens to consume all that remains.

As she stands amidst these relics of a kichten left behind, 
A sense of longing washes over her like a wave crashing upon the shore.
Memories swirl around her like ghosts in the night,
Whispering secrets long forgotten and truths carved open.
In this quiet moment of reflection,
She finds herself lost amidst the fragments of a past she can never transpose,
Yearning for a sense that now eludes her grasp.

And so she sits down,
Trapped between the echoes of what once was
And the harsh reality of what is to come,
her heart heavy with the weight of a hundred sorrows.
In this fleeting moment of rotting sadness and choking nostalgia,
She finds herself longing for the warmth of the sun upon her skin,
And the promise of a different dawn on the horizon.

But for now,
She remains rooted in the darkness,
Haunted by the ghosts of past inactions and piercing regret,
The vivid banality and throttling certainty of what lies ahead.

- Oizys.

April Fourth: NaPoWriMo: The Whisper of the Dancing Forest

Our (optional) prompt for the day challenges you to write a poem in which you take your title or some language/ideas from The Strangest Things in the World. First published in 1958, the book gives shortish descriptions of odd natural phenomena, and is notable for both its author’s turn of phrase and intermittently dubious facts. Perhaps you will be inspired by the “The Self-Perpetuating Sponge” or “The World’s Biggest Sneeze.” Or maybe the quirky descriptions of luminous plants, monstrous bears, or the language of ravens will give you inspiration.

In the depths of Russia, where whispers roam,
Where trees sway and spirits find their home,
There lies a place of mystic lore,
Where the dance of the forest does adore.

A phenomenon, strange and true,
Where trees waltz in a mystical brew,
Their roots intertwined in a rhythmic trance,
In a dance that defies all earthly stance.

The Dancing Forest, they call it so,
Where the ground beneath seems to glow,
As if the earth itself joins the fray,
In this waltz that lasts night and day.

No one knows why they dance so grand,
In a land where nature's hand
Paints wonders beyond human ken,
In the secret glades of this hidden den.

Some say it's the spirits of old,
Tales from folklore, mysteries untold,
Guiding the trees in their graceful glide,
As they dance with the wind, side by side.

Others claim it's the earth's own song,
A melody ancient, profound, and long,
Echoing through the roots and leaves,
As the forest whirls and weaves.

But whatever the reason, it remains unknown,
In the heart of the forest, where secrets are sown,
Where the dance of the Dancing Forest unfurls,
In a symphony of nature, for the world to behold.

The idea I took from "The Strangest Things in the World" is the phenomenon known as the Dancing Forest, which is said to exist in Kaliningrad Oblast, Russia. This strange natural occurrence involves a forest where the trees appear to be dancing due to their uniquely twisted and contorted shapes. While the exact cause of this phenomenon remains unknown, it is believed to be a combination of environmental factors such as wind patterns, soil composition, and possibly even the presence of underlying permafrost.

I chose this idea because it intrigued me about the mysterious and enchanting qualities often found in nature's oddities. The notion of a forest where trees seem to come alive and dance captured my imagination and created a huge scope of speculation about the hidden forces at play in the natural world. A great playground to fool around with imagery, metaphor and symbolism that lends itself well to my poetic exploration.

- Oizys.

April Third: NaPoWriMo: Liminal Labyrinth

Last but not least, here’s our prompt for the day – optional, as always. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a surreal prose poem. For inspiration, check out Franz Kafka’s collection of short parables (my favorite is “The Green Dragon”).

In the murky depths of twilight, where shadows dance with whispers, there exists a place unseen by mortal eyes. Here, in the realm of surreal whimsy, reality takes a curious turn, twisting and contorting like vines in a forgotten garden.

In this ethereal landscape, the moon hangs low, casting a pale glow upon the shifting sands of time. Creatures of myth and madness frolic in the moonlight, their forms ever-shifting and elusive to the grasp of understanding.

Behold, the sky is a canvas painted with dreams, where stars streak and swirl in intricate patterns known only to the cosmic weavers. Constellations morph and merge, telling tales of ancient gods and long-forgotten destinies.

Amidst the chaos, a lone figure wanders, a pilgrim in this land of phantoms. Their footsteps echo softly against the fabric of reality, leaving behind a trail of echoes that fade into the ether.

They traverse through forests of whispers, where trees murmur secrets in a language long forgotten by mortal tongues. Each leaf rustles with the breath of forgotten memories, a symphony of echoes from distant realms.

As the journey unfolds, the boundaries of time and space blur, merging into a singular, kaleidoscopic tapestry of existence. Past, present, and future converge in a cosmic dance, swirling together in an infinite loop of creation and destruction.

And so, in this surreal symphony of chaos and wonder, the pilgrim wanders on, ever-seeking, ever-searching for meaning amidst the madness. For in this realm of dreams and shadows, truth lies not in the answers, but in the questions that linger, unanswered, in the depths of the soul.

- Oizys.

April Second: NaPoWriMo: Echoes of Shared Laughter Across Life's Distance

Finally, here’s today’s optional prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a platonic love poem. In other words, a poem not about a romantic partner, but some other kind of love – your love for your sister, or a friend, or even your love for a really good Chicago deep dish pizza. The poem should be written directly to the object of your affections (like a letter is written to “you”), and should describe at least three memories of you engaging with that person/thing.

Remember how we'd laugh until tears streamed down our faces?
In the library, stifling giggles as we tried to study.
Late-night messages turned into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

You were my rock during those before-exam study-session jitters.
Your encouraging words pulling me through some of my toughest days.
That time you stayed up with me, helping me mend my will to continue.

Exploring the city streets, getting lost but finding our way back together.
All those music, all the talks about life under the glow of streetlights.
Walking that long path, pushing each other to keep going, reaching the summit together.

But life split us into different paths,
And now the echoes of our laughter seem distant,
Yet, your friendship remains etched in my heart,
Lingering nostalgia of our inseparable times has grown into a new organ in me.

- Oizys.
 

April First: NaPoWriMo: Lost in Vine's Lament

And now for our daily (and totally optional) prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write – without consulting the book – a poem that recounts the plot, or some portion of the plot, of a novel that you remember having liked but that you haven’t read in a long time.

In the shadow of the withering leaves of castor,
He sat with the grief of his father,
But for the city of God, he had a pit in his heart,
Indifferent to its fate, he chose to depart.

A worm creeps in slowly,
Attracted to the rot inside his heart,
Feasting on his bitterness and disdain,
As his indifference splits apart.

The loss of the sheltering vine,
And the anger of his father for his loss,
Yet, there was no sting of remorse,
But, only a distant look for the withering plant.

For in the crumbling of his indifference,
As the worm gnaws at his calloused soul,
Scavenging the possibility of making whole.
But all that seeped out was the wish to flee.

I read this book long time ago and it stayed with me. Recently, while reading a poem, it ignited the memories of the former book and that made me pen this poem to honor it. Can you guess which beloved book inspired this poetic retelling? Let your imagination wander through the verses and see if you can uncover the title hidden within the lines.

- Oizys.