April Thirteenth: NaPoWriMo: World of Wonder

Finally, our optional prompt for the day asks you to play with rhyme. Start by creating a “word bank” of ten simple words. They should only have one or two syllables apiece. Five should correspond to each of the five senses (i.e., one word that is a thing you can see, one word that is a type of sound, one word that is a thing you can taste, etc). Three more should be concrete nouns of whatever character you choose (i.e., “bridge,” “sun,” “airplane,” “cat”), and the last two should be verbs. Now, come up with rhymes for each of your ten words. (If you’re having trouble coming up with rhymes, the wonderful Rhymezone is at your service). Use your expanded word-bank, with rhymes, as the seeds for your poem. Your effort doesn’t actually have to rhyme in the sense of having each line end with a rhymed word, but try to use as much soundplay in your poem as possible.

1. Word Bank:

See: hole (in flour)
Sound: creak (slow heavy footsteps on cracking wood)
Taste: luscious (figs)
Touch: bed
Smell: acrid (burning dust)
Noun: book
Noun: ticker
Noun: chair
Verb: peel
Verb: sniff

2. Rhymes:

Hole: pole, stroll (pole in shower, stroll in bower)
Creak: peak, leek
Luscious: piceous,
Bed: bread, red
Acrid: kid, vivid
Book: look, hook
Ticker: liquor, bicker
Chair: bear, mare
Peel: conceal, reveal
Sniff: cliff, adrift

3. Seed Poem:

In a quaint old cottage nestled in the woods,
A hole in the flour, a sight for the scullery absurd,
The sound of slow heavy footsteps creaking on cracking wood,
understood, undeterred?

The taste of luscious figs, a delight to savor,
The touch of a soft bed, inviting and warm,
The acrid smell of burning dust, no favor
But still, in this place, there’s a certain flavour.

A book on the shelf, waiting to be read,
A ticker that ticks with a steady beat,
A chair by the fire, where thoughts are fed,
Peeling away layers, revealing something dread.

I sit and I sniff the air so unclear,
Wisting place of peace, with nothing to fear.

As I stroll through the bower, with a pole in hand,
I hear the creak of the trees, like a grind band,
The earthy scent of pine, like piceous and truth,
I reach for a moment, and gaseous, a muse come to.

On a bed of soft red, I rest my weary head,
The acrid smell of the fire, like a mare's comfort in dread,
I pick up the book, to escape from the din,
And lose myself in words, a world within.

The ticker on the wall, keeping time steady,
As I sit in my chair, thoughts running ready,
I peel back the layers, and reveal what’s inside,
A world of wonder, where hearts can confide.

I sniff the air, so sweet and divine,
In this place of solace, where all is fine.

The peak of the mountain, so high and steep,
A creak from the branches, where secrets keep,
The juicy dream of victory, so vivid and psyche,
I reach for the stars, in the dead of the night.

On a bread of today, I lay my tired soul,
The acrid smell of success, making me toll,
I look to the future, with hope and with sneer,
And relent the unknown, even with so fear.

The liquor in the glass, a taste of good plight,
As I sit in my chair, surrounded by piceous light,
I bicker and banter, with figments so dear,
As we laugh and we love, with nothing to fear.

I peel back the layers, and reveal what’s within,
A heart full of love, a soul free from sin.

In some world of wonder, where dreams take flight,
I sit by the cliff, staring into the night,
The sweet scent of freedom, so clear and adrift,
I close my eyes, and let my spirits lift.

So let me go on with all that's pure and right,
While dreams fall from sight, in the dead of night.

- Oizys.

April Twelfth: NaPoWriMo: The Tall Tale Teller

And last but not least, our optional prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that plays with the idea of a “tall tale.” American tall tales feature larger-than-life characters like Paul Bunyan (who is literally larger than life), Bulltop Stormalong (also gigantic), and Pecos Bill (apparently normal-sized, but he doesn’t let it slow him down). If you’d like to see a modern poetic take on the tall tale, try Jennifer L. Knox’s hilarious poem, “Burt Reynolds FAQ.” Your poem can revolve around a mythical character, one you make up entirely, or add fantastical elements into a real person’s biography.

In the cusp of a forgotten woods,
Where the shadows leered ancient secrets,
There lived a man of colossal stature,
Known far and wide as the Tall Tale Teller.

His origins shrouded in mystery,
Some said he was born from the murmurs of the wind,
Others claimed he was a lost prince turned hermit,
But all agreed he was a figure of wonder and wrath.

His limbs stretched like ancient trees,
His voice a deep rumble like thunder in the night,
And his eyes, oh his eyes, held the wisdom of ages past,
Glistening like ancient treasurebox in the darkness.

The Tall Tale Teller wandered the land,
Spreading his stories like seeds in fertile soil,
Each tale more fantastical than the last,
Each word a spell that captivated the listener's soul.

He spoke of dragons that danced in the sky,
Of mermaids who sang siren songs to lost sailors,
Of forests that whispered secrets to those who dared listen,
And of a world beyond our own, where magic and wonder reign supreme.

But beneath the grandeur of his tales,
Lurked a sadness that clung like mist to his every word,
For the Tall Tale Teller knew the weight of solitude,
The burden of being a myth in a world of cold reality.

He longed for connection, for a kindred spirit,
Someone who would listen not just to his stories,
But to the cries of his heart that whispered in the night,
A companion to share the burden of his loneliness.

And so he wandered, ever searching,
Through valleys and mountains, forests and seas,
Hoping to find that elusive soul who would see beyond the tall tales,
And into the heart of the man who spun them.

But as the years passed and the seasons changed,
The Tall Tale Teller's steps grew weary,
His voice grew hoarse from the weight of his stories,
And his eyes dimmed with the sorrow of unfulfilled longing.

Yet still he wandered, for to stop would be to lose himself,
To forget the magic that danced in his words,
To silence the stories that were his only solace,
And so he walked, a solitary figure in a world of noise and chaos.

And though his heart may ache with the weight of his solitude,
The Tall Tale Teller never gave in to despair,
For in his stories he found an affirmation to survive,
A connection to something greater than himself.

And so he roamed the land until the end of days,
A living legend, a myth made flesh,
A reminder that even in the darkest of nights,
A single voice can light the way to a brighter tomorrow.

- Oizys.

April Eleventh: NaPoWriMo: One-Liners

Finally, our optional prompt for the day honors the “ones” in the number 11. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write either a monostich, which is a one-line poem, or a poem made up of one-liner style jokes/sentiments. Need inspiration? Take a look at Joe Brainard’s poem “30 One-Liners” or Frank O’Hara’s “Lines for the Fortune Cookies.”

One-liners and poetry. Wow. Normally, I am an extremist when it comes to words. It's either throttling silence or a logorrheic dumpyard. I will use this ricocheting behavior to further this prompt.

Finding the balance between silence and speech,
A tightrope walk on the edge of expression's reach.

- Oizys.

I think I will use this post as a junkyard to post all one-liners that crosses my mind or I come across. I feel like it's a fun idea! A digital scrapyard of wit and whimsy.

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.